“I was thinking how different you are,” he said. “You really stood up to Myrnin in there. I’m not sure a lot of vampires could have done that. Including me.”
“I’m not different. I’m the same Claire as ever.” She grinned, though. “Okay, fewer bruises than when you first met me.”
He smiled and closed the car door; she folded the umbrella and got in on the shotgun side. She was careful to open the door only enough to get in; the angle of the sun was cutting uncomfortably close to reaching Michael’s side of the car. Inside, the tinting cut the light almost completely. It was like being in a cave, again, only she hoped this one didn’t house giant mutated spiders and—what had Michael called them?
Things.
“Some people come to Morganville and collapse,” Michael said as he put the car in motion. “I’ve seen it a dozen times. But there are a few who come here and just—bloom. You’re one of those.”
Claire didn’t feel especially bloomy. “So you’re saying I thrive on chaos.”
“No. I’m saying you thrive on challenge. But do me a favor, okay?”
“Considering you came running and jumped into a cave to help me out? Yes.”
He shot her a smile so sweet it melted her heart. “Don’t ever let him get that close to you again. I like Myrnin, but he can’t be trusted. You know that.”
“I know.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “Thanks.”
“No problem. You die, I have to call your parents and explain why. I really don’t want to do that. I’ve already got the whole vampire thing against me.”
That took up the entirety of the short drive to the rehearsal hall, which of course had underground parking, being in the vampire part of town. It also had security, Claire was interested to note—a vampire on duty in a blacked-out security booth whom she thought she remembered as being from Amelie’s personal security detail. Hard to tell when they all wore dark suits and looked like the Secret Service, only with fangs. Michael showed ID and got a pass to put in his windshield, and within five minutes, they were heading up a sweeping flight of stairs into the Civic Center’s main auditorium.
There they found the director having a total YouTube moment.
“What do you mean, not here?” he bellowed, and slammed a clipboard to the stage floor. He had an accent—German, maybe—and he was a neat little man, older, with thinning gray hair and a very sharp face. “How can she not be here? Is she not in this play? Who is responsible for the call sheet?”
One of the other people standing in a group around the director onstage waved her hand. She had a clipboard, a microphone headset, and a tense, worried expression. Claire didn’t recognize her. “Sir, I tried calling her cell phone six times. It went to voice mail.”
“You are the assistant director! Find her! I don’t want to hear about this voice mail nonsense!” He dismissed her with a flip of his hand and glared at the rest of the group. “Well? We must shift the schedule, then, until she gets here, yes? Script!”
He held out his hand; some quick thinker slapped a bundle of paper into his hand. He flipped pages. “No, no, no—ah! Yes, we will do that. Is our Stanley here?”
A big, tattooed guy shouldered through the crowd. “Here,” he said. That, Claire guessed, was Rad, the one Eve and Kim were going gaga over. He looked—big. And tough. She didn’t see the appeal; for one thing, he wasn’t anything like Shane, who was almost as big, and probably just as tough. Shane wore it like part of his body. This guy made a production out of it.
“Good, we’ll do the bar scene. We have Mitch? Yes? And all the others?”
Claire stopped listening and glanced at Michael. “Where’s Eve? They’re missing a her.”
“I don’t know.” He looked at the crowd of people rushing around the stage, resetting the scenery, going over lines, arguing with one another. “I don’t see her anywhere.”
“You don’t think—”
Michael was already walking down the aisle, heading for the stage.
“I guess you do think.” Claire hurried after him.
Michael put himself directly in front of the frazzled-looking assistant director, who had a cell phone to one ear, and a finger jammed in the other. She turned a shoulder toward him, clearly indicating she was busy, but he grabbed it and swung her around to face him. Her eyes widened in shock. Michael took the phone from her hand and checked the number. “It’s not Eve’s,” he told Claire, and she saw the intense relief that flooded over his face. “Sorry, Heather.”
“It’s okay, it’s still voice mail.” Heather, the assistant director, looked even more worried. She was biting her lip, gnawing on it actually, and darting her eyes toward the livid director, who was stomping around the stage throwing pages of the script to the floor. “Eve’s in the dressing room. Man, I am so fired.”
Michael zipped off, ruffling their hair with the speed of his passage, leaving Claire standing with Heather. After a hesitation, she stuck out her hand. “Hi,” she said. “Claire Danvers.”
“Oh, that’s you? Funny. I thought you’d be—”
“Taller?”
“Older.”
“So who’s missing?”
Heather held up a finger to silence her, tapped the device strapped to her belt, and spoke into her headset mike. “What’s the problem? Well, tell him that the director wants it that way, so just do it, okay? I don’t care if it looks good. And quit complaining.” She clicked it to OFF and wiped sweat from her forehead. “I don’t know what’s worse, having a crew who’s a bunch of newbies, or having a crew who’s been doing this kind of thing since they still used gas in footlights.”
Claire blinked. “You’ve got vampires on the crew.”
“Of course. Also in the cast, and of course, Mein Herr, there.” Heather jerked her chin at the director, who was lecturing some poor sap trying to position a potted plant. “He’s kind of a perfectionist. He imported the costumes from vintage shops. You tell me, who worries about authentic fabrics when you’ve just cast two Goth girls as the leads?”
Heather wasn’t so much talking to her as at her, Claire decided, so she just shrugged. “So, who’s missing?”
“Oh. Our second female lead. Kimberlie Magness.”
Kim. Claire felt a slow roll of irritation. “Does she usually show up on time?” Because that would be a surprise.
Heather raised her eyebrows. “In this production, everybody shows up on time. According to Mein Herr, to be early is to be on time, and to be on time is to be late. She’s never been late.”
Still.
Kim.
Probably nothing at all.
“Where is my Stella?” the director bellowed suddenly, and the sound bounced around the stage and also out of Heather’s earpiece. She winced and turned down the volume. “Stella!” He drew it out, Brando-style.
And in the wings of the stage, Eve stepped out from behind the curtains, tightly holding Michael’s hand. She was dressed in tight black jeans, a black baby-doll shirt with a pentagram on it, and lots of chains and spikes as accessories.
From the director’s sudden silence, and Heather’s intake of breath, Claire figured that wasn’t what Eve was supposed to be wearing. “Oh no,” Heather whispered. “This isn’t happening.”
“What?”
“He insists on rehearsal in costume. Something about getting inside the characters. She’s supposed to be in her slip.”
The director stomped to Eve, stopping inches away from her. He looked her up and down, and said coldly, “What do you think you are doing?”
“I have to go,” she said. Her knuckles were white where she gripped Michael’s hand, but she stared the director right in the eyes. “I’m sorry, but I have to.”
“No one leaves my rehearsals except in a body bag,” he said. “Is that how you’d prefer it?”
“Is that really how you want this to go?” Michael asked quietly. “Because somebody could leave in a body bag, but it won’t be her.”