Claire scraped her chair back, walked over to the cordless phone lying on the counter, and dialed from the business card still stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet. Four rings, and a cheerful voice answered on the other end and announced she’d reached Common Grounds. “Hi,’” Claire said. “Can I talk to Sam, please?’”
“Sam? Hold on.’” The phone clattered, and Claire could hear the buzz of activity in the background—milk being steamed, people chatting, the usual excitement of a busy coffee shop. She waited, jittering one leg impatiently, until the voice came back on the line. “Sorry,’” it said. “He’s not here tonight. I think he went to the party.’”
“The party?’”
“You know, the zombie frat party? Epsilon Epsilon Kappa? The Dead Girls’ Dance?’”
“Thanks,’” Claire said. She hung up and turned to face Michael and Eve, who were staring at her in outright surprise. She held up the phone. “The power of technology. Embrace it.’”
“You found him.’”
“Without going into Common Grounds,’” Claire pointed out. “He’s at a party on campus. The big frat thing. The one—’” She paused, felt a chill, then a rush of heat. “The one I was invited to. It was kind of a date. I was supposed to meet this boy there. Ian Jameson.’”
“Guess what?’” Eve said. “We’re both going. Time to put on the dead look, Claire.’”
“The—what?’”
Eve was looking at her critically while she munched her sandwich. “Size one, maybe two, right? I’ve got some things that would fit you.’”
“I’m not getting dressed up!’”
“I don’t make the rules, but everybody knows you don’t get into the Dead Girls’ Dance without making an effort. Besides, you’ll look way cute as a teeny little Goth girl.’”
Michael was frowning at them both now. “No,’” he said. “It’s too dangerous for you to be out at night without an escort.’”
“Well, we’re fresh out of escorts. I think Claire broke Detective Hess last night. And I’m not going to just sit and wait, Michael. You know that.’” Eve locked eyes with him, and softened as he reached across the table and took her hand. “No head stuff. You promised.’”
“I promised,’” he agreed. “Never happen again.’”
“Cute as you are when you worry, it’s a party—there are hundreds of people there. It’s safe enough.’” Eve held his gaze steadily. “Safer than Shane is, in that cage, waiting to die. Unless you’re giving up on him.’”
Michael let go of her hand and walked away. He stiff-armed his way out of the kitchen door.
“Guess not,’” Eve said softly. “Good. Claire. We need to find out what the timeline is. Whether they’ve moved it.’”
“I’ll do it,’” Claire said, and punched in the number from another card. It was Detective Hess’s private number, the one penciled in on the back, and it rang four times before he picked up. He sounded bleary and exhausted. “Sir? It’s Claire. Claire Danvers. I’m sorry to wake you—’”
“Not asleep,’” he said, and yawned. “Claire, whatever you’re thinking, don’t. Stay home, lock the doors, and keep your head down. I mean it.’”
“Yes, sir,’” she lied. “I just want to know—there was talk about moving up the—the execution?’”
“The mayor said no,’” Hess said. “Said he wanted due process, and called for Shane’s dad to give himself up. Looks like a Mexican standoff to me: he’s got Shane; Shane’s dad has Monica. Nobody wants to blink.’”
“How long…?’”
“Before sunrise. Five in the morning,’” Hess said. “It’ll all be over before dawn. For Monica, too, if Shane’s dad isn’t just bluffing.’”
“He’s not bluffing,’” Claire said numbly. “Oh God. That’s not much time.’”
“Better than what Oliver wanted. He wanted to do it at sunset tonight. The mayor backed him off, but only to the legal deadline. There won’t be any last-minute stays of execution.’” Hess shifted; his chair creaked. “Claire, you need to prepare yourself. There’s no miracle coming; nobody’s going to have a change of heart. He’s going to die. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.’”
She didn’t have the heart to argue with him, because she knew, deep down, that he was right. “Thank you,’” she whispered. “I have to go now.’”
“Claire. Don’t try. They’ll kill you.’”
“Good-bye, Detective.’”
She hung up, put the phone down on the counter, and braced herself with stiffened arms. When she looked up, Eve was watching her with bright, strange eyes.
“All right,’” Claire said. “If I have to be a zombie, I’ll be a zombie.’”
Eve smiled. “Cutest zombie ever.’”
Claire had never worn this much makeup in her life, not even at Halloween. “You wear this every day?’” she asked as Eve stepped back to look at her critically, makeup sponge still in hand. “It feels weird.’”
“You get used to it. Close your eyes. Powder time.’”
Claire obeyed, and felt the feathery touch of the powder brush as it glided over her face. She fought back an urge to sneeze.
“Okay. Now, eyes,’” Eve said. “Hold still.’”
It went on like that for a while, with Claire passively sitting and Eve working whatever dark magic she was working. Claire didn’t know. There was no mirror, and she was weirdly reluctant to see what was happening to her, anyway. It felt a little like she was losing herself, although that was stupid, right? How you looked wasn’t you. She’d always believed that, anyway.
Eve finally stepped back, studied her, and nodded. “Clothes,’” she said. Eve herself had put on a black corset thing, a tattered black skirt, and a necklace of skulls with matching earrings. Black lipstick. “Here you go.’”
Claire took off her blue jeans and T-shirt with great reluctance, then sat down to put on the black hose. They had white death’s-head symbols in a line, and she couldn’t figure out if they were supposed to go front or back. “Where do you find this stuff?’” she asked.
“Internet. Skulls go in the back.’”
After the adventure of the hose, the black leather skirt—knee-length, jingling with zippers and chains—seemed almost easy. Claire’s legs felt cold and exposed. She hadn’t been in a skirt in…when? Not since she was twelve, probably. She’d never liked them.
The top was a black net thing, stretchy and tight, see-through with a black skull and crossbones printed on it. “No way,’” she said. “It’s transparent!’”
“You wear it over a camisole, genius,’” Eve said, and tossed a black silky thing to her. Claire slipped it over her head, then fought her way into the clingy embrace of the skull shirt. “Watch the makeup!’” Eve warned. “Okay, you’re good. Excellent. Ready to take a look?’”
She wasn’t, but Eve didn’t seem to notice. She steered her into the bathroom, turned on the light, and put her arm around Claire. “Ta da!’” Eve said.
Oh my God, Claire thought. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
She looked like Eve’s skinny little sister. A dead-on junior freak in training.
Well, at least she’d blend in, and if anybody was looking for her, they’d never, ever recognize her. She wouldn’t recognize herself. And somehow she just knew there’d be pictures on the Internet later.
Claire sighed. “Let’s go.’”
Eve drove the black Cadillac onto campus and parked in the faculty lot—a blatant violation, but then, Eve didn’t give a crap about campus tickets, either. It was the closest parking to the frat house. So close, in fact, that Claire could see the lights blazing from every window, and hear the low thudding thump of the bass rattling through the car.
“Wow,’” Eve said. “They’ve gone all out this year. Good old EEK.’”
There was a graveyard around the house—tilting tombstones, big creepy-looking mausoleums, some decaying statues. There were also zombies—or, Claire guessed, party guests—lurching around and doing their best Night of the Living Dead parody for their friends’ cameras.