She sat in dull, grim silence the rest of the way home.
Hess was as good as his word. He walked her from the car up the steps, watched her open the front door, and nodded wearily as she stepped inside. “Lock it,’” he said. “And for God’s sake, go get some rest.’”
Michael was right there, warm and comforting, when she closed the door. He was holding his guitar by the neck, so he’d clearly been playing; his eyes were red-rimmed, his face tense. “Well?’” he asked.
“Hello, Claire, how are you?’” Claire asked the air. “No death threats, right? Thanks for going out in the dark to bargain with two of the scariest people on earth.’”
He at least had the good manners to look embarrassed about it. “Sorry. You okay?’”
“Duh. No fang marks, anyway.’” She shuddered. “I do not like those people.’”
“Vampires?’”
“Vampires.’”
“Technically, not people, but then, neither am I, now that I think about it. So never mind.’” Michael put an arm around her and steered her toward the living room, where he sat her down, put a blanket around her shoulders. “I’m guessing it didn’t go well.’”
“It didn’t go at all,’” she said. She’d been depressed on the ride home, but having to actually report on her failure was a whole new level of suck. “They’re not letting him go.’”
Michael didn’t say anything, but the light died in his eyes. He went down on one knee next to her and fussed with the blanket, tucking it tighter around her. “Claire. Are you okay? You’re shaking.’”
“They’re cold, you know,’” she said. “They make me cold, too.’”
He nodded slowly. “You did what you could. Rest.’”
“What about Eve? Is she still here?’”
He glanced up at the ceiling, as if he could see through it. Maybe he could. Claire really didn’t know what Michael could and couldn’t do; after all, he’d been dead a couple of times already. Wouldn’t do to underestimate somebody like that. “She’s asleep,’” he said. “I—talked to her. She understands. She won’t do anything stupid.’” He didn’t look at Claire when he said that, and she wondered what kind of talking that might have been.
Her mother had always said, when in doubt, ask. “Was it the kind of talk where you gave her something to live for? Like maybe, um, you?’”
“Did I—what the hell are you talking about?’”
“I just thought maybe you and her—’”
“Claire, Jesus!’” Michael said. She’d actually made him flinch. Wow. That was new. “You think banging me is going to make her forget about charging out to commit cold-blooded vampire slaying? I don’t know what kind of standards you have on sex, but those are pretty high. Besides, whatever’s between me and Eve—well, it’s between me and Eve.’” Until she tells me about it later, Claire thought. “Anyway, that’s not what I meant. I—persuaded her. That’s all.’”
Persuaded. Right. The mood Eve had been in when Claire left? Not too likely…
And then Claire remembered the voices whispering to her in the alley, and her blind, stupid assumption of safety leading her into danger. Could Michael do that? Would he?
“You didn’t—’” She touched her temple with one finger.
“What?’”
“Screw with her head? Like they can?’”
He didn’t answer. He fussed with the blanket around her shoulders some more, fetched her a pillow, and said, “Lie down. Rest. It’s only a couple of hours until dawn, and I’m going to need you.’”
“Oh, God, Michael, you didn’t. You didn’t! She’ll never forgive you!’”
“As long as she lives to hate me later,’” he said. “Rest. I mean it.’”
She didn’t intend to sleep; her brain was whirling like a tire rim scraping pavement, shooting off sparks in every direction. Lots of energy being expended, but she wasn’t going anywhere fast. Have to think of something. Have to…
Michael started playing, something soft that sounded melancholy, all in minor keys, and she felt herself begin to drift…
…and then, without any sense of going, she was gone.
The blanket around her smelled like Shane.
Claire burrowed deeper into its warmth, murmuring something that might have been his name as she woke; she felt good, relaxed, safe in his embrace. The way she’d been the other night when they’d spent it here on the couch, kissing…
All that faded fast when the events of the past day flooded back, stripping away the comfort and leaving her cold and scared. Claire sat up, clutching the blanket, and looked around. Michael’s guitar was back in its case, and the sun was over the horizon. So, he was gone again, and she and Eve…she and Eve were on their own.
“Right,’” she whispered. “Time to get to work.’” She still needed to find some kind of viable strategy to break Shane out of that cage on Founder’s Square. Which meant research…maybe Detective Hess could tell her something about how many guards there were, and where. Clearly, there was some kind of security process for keeping out the human losers like her, but any security could be broken, right? At least, that’s what she’d always heard. Maybe Eve knew something that could help.
If Eve wasn’t back on suicide watch this morning, anyway. Claire thought wistfully about a hot shower, decided maybe it could wait, and wandered into the kitchen to put on coffee. Eve wasn’t going to be happy, but she’d be even less happy without caffeine. Claire waited while the pot filled, then carried a black mug full of the stuff upstairs. The key to Eve’s door was hanging on a hook, with a note taped to it. Michael’s handwriting. It read, Don’t let her leave the house. By implication, of course, it meant Claire was supposed to stay here, too.
As if she could even think about doing that, with Shane’s last hours running out. And who knew what was happening to him out there? She thought about the cold fury in Oliver, the indifference in Amelie, her stomach twisting. She grabbed the key, turned it in the lock, and opened Eve’s bedroom door.
Eve was sitting, fully dressed and made-up in zombified glory, on the edge of her bed. She’d put her hair into two pigtails, one on each side, and she’d done her makeup with great care. She looked like a scary porcelain doll.
An angry scary porcelain doll. The kind that they made horror movies about, with stabby knives.
“Coffee?’” Claire asked weakly. Eve looked at her for a second, took the coffee, got up, and walked out of the bedroom toward the stairs. “Oh boy.’”
By the time Claire made it downstairs, Eve was standing in the middle of the living room, looking up at nothing. She’d put the coffee down, and her hands were on her hips. Claire paused, one hand still clutching the banister, and watched Eve turn a slow circle as if she was looking for something.
“I know you’re there, you coward,’” she said. “Now hear this, crazy supernatural boy. If you ever fuck with me again, I swear, I will walk out this door and never come back. You get me? One for yes, two for no.’”
He must have said yes, because some of the stiffness went out of Eve’s shoulders. She was still mad, though. “I don’t know what’s lower, you playing vamp tricks on me, or locking me in my room, but either way, you are so busted, man. Being dead can’t save you. When you get back tonight, I am completely kicking your ass.’”
“He was sorry,’” Claire said. She sat down on the first step as Eve turned a glare of righteous anger in her direction. “He knew you were going to be mad, but he couldn’t—he cares about you, Eve. He couldn’t just let you go out and get yourself killed.’”
“Last time I checked, I was over eighteen and nobody’s property!’” Eve yelled, and stomped her foot. “I don’t care if you’re sorry, Michael—you’re going to have to work really hard to make this up to me! Really hard!’”
Claire saw the breeze ruffle Eve’s hair. Eve closed her eyes for a second, swaying, mouth open in a round, red O.