She looked way too calm. Oliver noticed it, too. “That wasn’t the only copy.”
“Digital age. It’s a sad, sad world, and it’s just full of downloadable copies.”
“You’re going to bring them all to me.”
“Duh, no,” Kim said, and closed up her phone. “I’m pretty sure I’m not. And I’m pretty sure you’re going to have to just get over it, because this is Amelie’s pet project. We didn’t even get that far, anyway. It’s not like you told me you collect Precious Moments figures or something embarrassing. Get over it.” She checked the big, clunky watch on her wrist, and rolled to her feet. “Whoops, time to go. I have rehearsal in half an hour. And hey, so do you, Mitch. No hard feelings, okay?”
Oliver said nothing. Kim shrugged and headed for the exit.
“I don’t like her,” Claire offered.
“At last, we have something in common,” Oliver said. “But she is right about one thing: I have to get to rehearsal.”
That sounded very—normal. More normal than most things Oliver said. Claire felt some of her tension slip away. “So how’s that going? The play thing?”
“I have no idea. I haven’t done a play in a hundred years, and the idea of Eve and Kim being our leading ladies doesn’t fill me with confidence.” That just dripped with sarcasm, and Claire winced a little.
“A hundred years. What was the last thing you performed?”
“Hamlet.”
Of course.
How rehearsal went Claire didn’t know; she headed for Common Grounds, where she was set to meet up with (ugh) Monica. At least it was profitable.
“Money up front,” she said, as she slid into the seat across from the mayor’s favorite—and only—sister. Monica had done something cute with her hair, and it framed her face in feathered curves. For once, she was alone; no sign of Gina and Jennifer, not even as coffee fetchers.
Monica sent Claire a dirty look, but she reached into her designer backpack, got out her designer wallet, and counted out fifty dollars that she shoved across the table. “Better be worth it,” she said. “I really hate this class.”
“Then drop it.”
“Can’t. It’s a core class for my major.”
“Which is?”
“Business.”
It figured. “So where do you want to start? What’s giving you the most trouble?”
“The teacher, since he keeps giving these stupid pop quizzes and I keep flunking them.” Monica dug in her backpack and tossed over three stapled tests, which were marked up in green—the teacher must have read somewhere that red made students nervous or something, but Claire thought that with this many marks, the color of the pen was the least of Monica’s problems.
“Wow,” she said, and flipped the pages. “So you really don’t get economics at all.”
“I didn’t pay fifty dollars for the pleasure of hearing you state the obvious,” Monica pointed out. “So yeah. Don’t get it, don’t really want to, but I need it. So give me my fifty bucks’ worth of a passing grade already.”
“Well—economics is really game theory, only with money.”
Monica just stared at her.
“That was going to be the simple version.”
“Give me my money back.”
Actually, Claire needed it—well, she needed to have had Monica pay it to her, really—so she came up with a few kind of cool explanations, showed Monica the way to memorize the formulas and when to use them . . . and before it was done, there were at least ten other students leaning in to listen and take notes at various points. That was cool, except that Monica kept demanding five bucks from each one of them, which meant that she got a free lesson.
Still, not a bad afternoon’s work. Claire finished feeling a little happier; teaching—even teaching Monica—always made her feel better.
She felt much better when she saw that Shane had come to walk her home.
“Hey,” he said as she fell in beside him. “Good day?”
She considered exactly how to answer that, and finally said, “Not bad.” Nobody had gotten killed so far. In Morganville, that was probably a good day. “Monica paid me fifty for a private lesson.” Shane held up his hand, and she jumped up to smack it without breaking stride. “And yours?”
“There was meat. I sliced it with a big, sharp knife. Very manly.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Of course you are. So, it’s our anniversary—”
“It’s not!”
“Well, I told Kim it was, and then I promised to take you out to a nice restaurant.”
“With tablecloths,” Claire agreed. “I distinctly remember tablecloths.”
“The point is, I’m taking you out. Okay?”
“I don’t think so. My face is just starting to heal. I’ve got bruises all over my throat. The last thing I want to do is go to a nice restaurant and have everybody stare at us and wonder if you’re abusing me. I wouldn’t enjoy my food at all.”
“You think too much.”
She took his hand. “Probably.”
“Okay then. How about a sandwich offered up on a nice, clean napkin, in my room?”
“You’re such a romantic.”
“It’s in my room.”
They were about two blocks along from Common Grounds—about halfway home—when the streetlights began to go out, one after another, starting behind them and zooming past as each clicked off. It wasn’t quite full dark yet, but it was getting there fast as the last hints of red sunset faded from the horizon.
“Claire?” Shane looked around, and so did she, feeling her instincts start to howl a warning.
“Something’s wrong,” she said. “Something’s here.”
A bloody form lurched out of the darkness toward them, and Shane shoved Claire behind him. It was a vampire—red eyes, fangs down, blood splashed on the pale face and hands.
Claire knew him, she realized after a second of pure adrenaline and shock. He was wearing the same ragged, greasy clothes from the last time she’d seen him: Morley, the graveyard vampire who’d tried to ambush Amelie.
He saw Claire and gasped out, “Fair lady, tell your mistress—tell her—”
He lunged for Claire, off balance, and Shane stiff-armed him away. Morley went sprawling on the pavement, and rolled up into a ball.
Afraid.
“It’s okay,” Claire said, and put a hand on Shane’s arm. She carefully crouched down near Morley’s bloodstained body. “Mr. Morley? What happened?”
“Ruffians,” he whispered. “Tormentors. Hellhounds.” Something made him flinch, and he listened for a second, then rolled painfully to his feet. Claire jumped backward, just in case, but Morley didn’t even look at her. “They’re coming. Run.”
Something was coming, all right. Morley stumbled away, moving at a fraction of normal vampire speed, and Claire heard the distant sound of running feet, voices calling to one another, and excited whoops.
In a few more seconds, she saw them—six young men, most no older than Shane. Two wore TPU jackets. They were all drunk, mean, and looking for trouble, and they all were armed—baseball bats, tire irons, stakes. They slowed when they caught sight of Claire and Shane, and changed course to come toward them.
“Hey!” one of them yelled. “You seen an old dude running through here?”
“Why? What did he do, steal your purse?” Shane shot back. Claire dug her fingernails into his arm in warning, but he wasn’t paying attention. “Jesus, you idiots, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Cleaning up the streets,” another one said, and twirled his bat as if he really knew how to use it. “Somebody’s gotta. The cops don’t do it.”
“We heard that one killed a kid,” said the first man—the least drunk, as far as Claire could tell, and, also, maybe the meanest. She didn’t like the way he was watching Shane, and her. “Drained her dry, right on the playground. We don’t let that pass, man. He has to pay.”
“You have any proof?”
“Screw your proof. These monsters have been running around killing for a hundred years. We catch them, we teach them a lesson they don’t forget.” He laughed, dug in his pocket, and pulled out something. He tossed it on the ground in front of Shane’s feet. Claire couldn’t tell what the scattered pieces were at first, and then she knew.