There were two doors—one that said EXIT, one that had nothing on it at all. Shane passed the unmarked door, hesitated, and backed up.
“What?” Claire asked. Shane took hold of the handle and eased the door open.
“Just a hunch,” he said. “Shhhh.”
On the other side was another waiting area, and there were people standing in line. This part of the DonationCenter was darker, with fewer overhead lights. Three people were standing in front of a long white counter, like at a pharmacy, and behind it stood a tall woman wearing a lab coat. She didn’t smile, and she was about as warm as a flask of liquid nitrogen.
“Oh crap,” Shane breathed, and about the same time Claire realized that the blond guy first in line at the counter was Michael. He wasn’t home. . . . He was here.
He finished signing something and shoved the clipboard back, and the woman handed him over a plastic bottle, about the size of the bottled water Claire had been drinking.
This one didn’t hold water. Tomato juice, Claire told herself, but it didn’t look at all like juice. Too dark, too thick. Michael tilted it one way, then another, and his face—he looked fascinated.
No, he looked hungry.
Claire wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. Michael unscrewed the cap on the bottle as he stepped out of line, put the blood to his lips, and began to drink. No, to guzzle. Claire was distantly aware that Shane’s grip on her hand was so tight it was painful, but neither of them moved. Michael’s eyes were shut, and he tilted the bottle back and drank until it was empty except for a thin red film on the plastic.
He licked his lips, sighed, and opened his eyes, and looked straight at the two of them.
His eyes were a bright, brilliant, glowing red. He blinked, and it went away, replaced by an eerie shine. Another blink, and it was all gone, and he was back to being Michael again.
He looked as horrified as Claire felt. Betrayed and ashamed.
Shane shut the door and dragged Claire toward the exit. They hadn’t reached it before Michael came barreling in after them.
“Hey!” he said. His skin had taken on a flush, a faint pink tone, that Claire remembered seeing before. “What are you doing here?”
“What do you think we’re doing? They hauled me here in cuffs, man,” Shane snapped. “You think I’d be here if I had a choice?”
Michael stopped in his tracks, and his gaze flashed down to the stretchy bandages on their arms. Recognition flashed, and then he looked . . . sad, somehow. “I—I’m sorry.”
“What for? Not like we didn’t already know how much you crave the stuff.” Still, Claire heard the betrayal in Shane’s voice. The revulsion. “Just didn’t expect to see you chugging it down like a drunk at happy hour, that’s all.”
“I didn’t want you to see it,” Michael said quietly. “I drink it here. I only keep some at home for emergencies. I never wanted you to watch—”
“Well, we did,” Shane said. “So what? You’re a bloodsucking vampire. That’s not a news flash, Michael. Anyway, it’s no big thing, right?”
“Yeah,” Michael agreed. “No big thing.” He focused on Claire, and she couldn’t fit the two things together—Michael with those terrifying red eyes, gulping down fresh blood, and this Michael standing in front of her, with that sad hope in his expression. “You okay, Claire?”
She nodded. She didn’t trust herself to talk, not even a word.
“I’m taking her home,” Shane said. “Unless that was your appetizer, and now you’re looking for the main course.”
Michael looked sick. “Of course not. Shane—”
“It’s all right.” The fight dropped out of Shane’s voice. He sounded resigned. “I’m okay with it.”
“And that bugs the crap out of you, doesn’t it?”
Shane looked up, startled. The two of them stared it out, and then Shane tugged on Claire’s arm again. “Let’s go,” he said. “See you at home.”
Michael nodded. “See you.”
He was still holding the empty bottle, Claire realized. There was a tiny trickle of blood left in the bottom.
As the door shut between them, she saw Michael realize what he had in his hand, and throw it violently in the trash can.
“Oh, Michael,” she whispered. “God.” In that one gesture, she realized something huge.
He really did hate this. He really did, on some level, hate what he’d become, because of what he saw in their eyes.
How much did that suck?
The rest of the night passed quietly. The next morning, they woke up to a ringing phone.
Eve’s dad was gone.
“The funeral’s tomorrow,” Eve said. She wasn’t crying. She didn’t look much like herself this morning— no makeup, no effort at all put into what she’d thrown on. Her eyes were veined with red, and her nose almost glowed. She’d cried all night; Claire had heard her, but when she’d knocked on the door, Eve hadn’t wanted company. Not even Michael’s.
“Are you going?” Michael asked. Claire thought that was a funny question—who wouldn’t go? But Eve just nodded.
“I need to,” she said. “They’re right about that closure thing, I guess. Will you . . . ?”
“Of course,” he said. “I can’t do graveside, but—”
Eve shuddered. “So not going there, anyway. The church is bad enough.”
“Church?” Claire asked, as she poured mugs of coffee for the three of them. Shane, as usual, had slept through the phone. “Really?”
“You’ve never met Father Joe, have you?” Eve managed a weak smile. “You’ll like him. He’s— something.”
“Eve had the hots for him when she was twelve,” Michael said, and got a dirty look. “What? You did, and you know it.”
“It was the cassock, okay? I’m over it.”
Claire raised her eyebrows. “Is Father Joe a . . . ?” She did the teeth-in-neck mime. They both smiled.
“No,” Michael said. “He’s just nonjudgmental.”
Eve got through the day without too much trouble; she did the normal things—helping with the laundry, taking half the cleaning jobs for the day. It was her day off from work. Claire had a few classes, but she skipped three that she knew she’d already built up enough momentum in, and attended only the one that seemed critical. Michael didn’t go in to teach private guitar lessons, either.
It was nice. It was like . . . family.
The funeral was held at noon the next day, and Claire found herself trying to pick out what to wear. Party clothes seemed too . . . festive. Jeans were too informal. She borrowed a pair of Eve’s black tights and wore them with an also-borrowed black skirt. Paired with a white shirt, it looked moderately respectful.
She wasn’t sure how Eve planned to dress, because at eleven a.m., Eve was still sitting in front of her vanity mirror, staring at her reflection. Still in her black dressing gown.
“Hey,” Claire said. “Can I help?”
“Sure,” Eve said. “Should I do my hair up?”
“It’d look nice that way,” Claire said, and picked up the hairbrush. She brushed Eve’s thick black hair until it shone, then twisted it into a knot and pinned it up at the back of her head. “There.”
Eve reached for her rice-powder makeup, then stopped. She met Claire’s eyes in the mirror.
“Maybe not the right time,” she said.
Claire didn’t say anything at all. Eve applied some lipstick—dark, but not her usual shade—and began searching through her closet.
In the end, she went with a black high-necked dress, one long enough to hang to the tops of her shoes. And a black veil. It was subdued, for Eve.
The four of them were at the church with fifteen minutes to spare, and as Michael pulled into the parking garage, Claire saw that several vampire-tinted cars were already present. “Is this the only funeral?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said, and turned off the engine. “I guess Mr. Rosser had more friends than we thought.”
Not that many, as it turned out; when they entered the vestibule of the church, it was nearly empty, and there weren’t many names noted in the register. Eve’s mother stood by the book, waiting to pounce on anyone who came in the door.