Eve didn’t have a comeback to that. She knew Claire was right. Morganville existed on a teetering, dangerous balance between the paranoia and violence of the vampires, and the paranoia and violence of the humans who outnumbered them. Right there, at the balance point, they could all coexist. But it didn’t take much to tilt things to one side or the other, and if that happened, Morganville would burn.
Claire chewed her lip and continued. “We’re getting it done; really, we are, but he’s got some kind of deadline he’s not telling me about, and I’m worried he’s going to . . . do something crazy.”
“He lives in a hole in the ground, dresses funny, and occasionally eats his assistants,” Eve said. “Define crazy.”
Claire closed her eyes. “Okay. I think he wants to put my brain in a jar and wire it into the machine.”
Dead silence. She opened her eyes. Michael was staring at her, frozen in the act of opening the refrigerator door; Eve had put her Coke down, her eyes as wide as anything ever drawn in animation. Michael finally remembered what he was doing, reached in, grabbed a green sports bottle, which he carried to the table, and sat down. “That’s not going to happen,” he said. “I’m not going to let it happen. Neither will Amelie.”
Claire wasn’t so sure about that last part, but she was sure Michael meant what he said, and that made her feel a little better. “I don’t think he’s serious about it,” Claire said weakly. “Well, not most of the time. But he keeps going on about how the brain is a much better CPU—”
“Not going to happen,” Michael repeated flatly. “I’ll kill him first, Claire. I mean it.”
She didn’t want Myrnin dead, but it did make her feel better to have her friend say it. Michael was a sweetheart most of the time, but the truth was, there was something cold inside him—and it wasn’t just that his heart didn’t beat. It was . . . something else. Something darker. Mostly, it didn’t show.
Sometimes, she was grateful it did.
“Shane’s late,” Eve said, changing the subject. “Where’s Mr. Barbecue McStabby?”
“Working late,” Claire replied. “Somebody canceled on the night shift, so he had to work dinner service. He said it was okay; he could use the overtime. And he doesn’t like you to call him Mr. McStabby, you know.”
“Have you ever seen him cutting up that meat? He is like an artist with slicing. And that knife is as long as my arm. Mr. McStabby it is.”
They debated it for a while, with Michael staying out of it and sipping his sports bottle of—probably—blood, until Eve got the sandwiches out and they ate a cold, and somewhat mushy, dinner. After that, Claire fidgeted around, too restless to study, missing Shane, until Eve finally snapped at her about pacing and moving stuff, and she went up toward her room.
On an impulse, she didn’t go there; she stopped in the hallway, reached out, and found the hidden catch to the secret room. The paneling clicked open, and she went in and shut the door behind her. No knob on this side, but that was okay; she knew where the release was. She ran up the narrow flight of stairs and came out in the windowless, dusty room that they’d always figured had been Amelie’s retreat, when she’d once lived in this house. It looked like her, somehow—old Victorian furniture, tapestry hangings, multicolored Tiffany lamps that were probably worth a fortune. It was always a little cold in here, for some reason. Claire stretched out on the old velvet sofa, staring up at the ceiling, and thought about how many times she’d come here with Shane. It was their private place, where they could just get away from everything, and the blanket draped over the back smelled like him. She pulled it over her and smiled, feeling like the ghost of Shane was here with her, snuggling up close.
She had no idea she’d fallen asleep at first, and then she thought she was dreaming, because someone was touching her. Not molesting her or anything, just a fingertip being drawn down her cheek, across her lips . . . a slow, gentle sort of caress.
She opened her eyes to see Shane crouched down next to her. His hair was—as usual—mussed, hanging long around his face, and he smelled like barbecue and wood smoke, and his smile was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” he said. “It’s three in the morning. Eve thought vampires stole you, but that’s only because you didn’t make your bed this morning. I think I’m a bad influence.”
Her lips parted, and his finger paused there, tracing her mouth slowly. She didn’t speak. His smile got wider.
“Miss me?”
“No,” she said. “I wanted some peace and quiet. I didn’t even know you were gone.”
He clapped his hands over his chest like she’d shot him, and fell on the floor. Claire rolled off the couch on top of him, but he refused to open his eyes until she kissed him, long and thoroughly. She licked her lips as she pulled away. “Mmmm, barbecue.”
“Hungry?”
“Eve brought UC sandwiches.”
Shane made a face. “Yeah, glad I missed that. But I wasn’t exactly talking about midnight snacks.”
“Boys. Is that all you think about?”
“Midnight snacks?”
“Is that what the cool kids are calling it these days?”
He laughed, and she felt the rumble of it through her skin. Shane didn’t laugh often, except when they were together; she loved the light in his brown eyes, and the wicked way his smile curled up on the ends. “Like I would know,” he said. “I never was one of the cool kids.”
“Bullshit.”
“Such language, Miss Danvers. Oh, wait, shit—I’m a bad influence.”
She settled her head down again, ear against his chest, listening to the rush of his breathing. “Tell me what you were like in school.”
“Why?”
“Because I missed it.”
“You didn’t miss much,” he said. “Me and Mikey hung out a lot. He was Mr. Popular, you know, but really shy. Girls, girls, girls, but he was pretty choosy. At least, up until our junior year.”
“What happened in your junior year?” she asked before she thought.
Shane’s fingers kept stroking through her hair as he said, “House burned, my sister Alyssa died, my family went on the run. So I don’t know how Mikey was the last two years of school. We caught up some when I came back, but it wasn’t the same. Something happened to him. Sure as hell something happened to me. You know.” He shrugged, even with her weight on him, but then, she wasn’t much of a burden, and he was a strong guy. “There’s not a lot to say about me. I was a pretty boring dumb-ass.”
“Were you in sports?”
He laughed. “Football, for a while. I liked hockey better. More chances to hit people. But I’m not really a team player, so I ended up in the penalty box about twice as much as everybody else. Not as much fun.” He was quiet for a few seconds, then said, “I guess you know Monica was after me for a while.”
That surprised her. “Monica Morrell? You mean, after you, in the sense of—”
“I mean she slipped me really dirty notes and tried to rip my clothes off in a broom closet once. Which I guess to her was love. Not so much for me.” His face got hard for a moment, and then relaxed. “I blew her off, and she got pissed. You know the rest.”
Shane believed—and Claire had no reason to doubt it—that Monica had set the fire that had burned his home and killed his sister and destroyed his family’s life. That wound was never going to heal; he was always going to hate Monica with an intense passion that was two seconds from violence. Not that Monica didn’t egg him on, most of the time; she seemed to enjoy Shane’s rage.
Claire couldn’t think of much to say, so she kissed him again, and it felt sweet, warm, a little distracted on his part. She shouldn’t have brought it up, she thought. He didn’t like to think about those days at all. “Hey,” she said. “I didn’t mean—”