“That’s what I was afraid of.” Eve shrugged. “Get in the car.”
Common Grounds was packed with students reading, chatting, drinking chai and mochas and lattes. And, Claire was gratified to see, working on laptops. There must have been a dozen going at once. She gave Eve a thumbs-up, ordered a cup of tea, and went in search of a decent spot to work. Something with her back to the wall.
Oliver brought her tea himself. She smiled uncertainly at him and minimized the browser window; she was reading up on famous forgeries and techniques. Dead giveaway, with emphasis on dead. Not that she disliked Oliver, but any guy who seemed to be able to enforce rules on the vampires was somebody she couldn’t trust real far.
“Hello, Claire,” he said. “May I sit?”
“Sure,” she said, surprised. Also, uncomfortable. He was old enough to be her dad, not to mention kind of hippie-dippie. Though, being a fringer herself, she didn’t mind that part so much. “Um, how’s it going?”
“Busy today,” he said, and settled into the chair with a sigh of what sounded like gratitude. “I wanted to talk to you about Eve.”
“Okay,” she said slowly.
“I’m concerned about her,” Oliver said. He leaned forward, elbows on the table; she hastily closed the cover of the laptop and rested her hands protectively on top of it. “Eve seems distracted. That’s very dangerous, and I’m quite sure that by now you understand why.”
“It’s—”
“Shane?” he asked. “Yes. I thought that was probably the case. The boy’s gotten himself into a great deal of trouble. But he did it with a pure heart, I believe.”
Her pulse was hammering faster, and her mouth felt dry. Boy, she really didn’t like talking to authority figures. Michael was one thing—Michael was like a big brother. But Oliver was…different.
“I might be able to help,” Oliver said, “if I had something to trade. The problem is, what does Brandon want that you, or Shane, can give? Other than the obvious.” Oliver looked thoughtful, and tapped his lips with a fingertip. “You are a very bright girl, Claire, or so Eve tells me. Morganville can use bright girls. We might be able to bypass Brandon altogether, perhaps, and find a way to make a deal with someone…else.”
Which was pretty much exactly what they’d already talked about, only without the Oliver part. Claire tried not to look horribly guilty and transparent. “Who?” she asked. It was a reasonable question. Oliver smiled, and his dark eyes looked sharp and cool.
“Claire. Do you really expect me to tell you? The more you know about this town, the less safety there is for you. Do you understand that? I’ve had to create my own peace here, and it only works because I know exactly what I’m doing, and how far I can go. You—I’m afraid your first mistake might be your last.”
Her mouth wasn’t dry anymore; it was mummified. She tried to swallow, but got nothing but a dry click at the back of her throat. She hastily picked up her tea and sipped it, tasting nothing but glad of the moisture.
“I wasn’t going to—”
“Don’t,” he cut her off, and his voice wasn’t so kind this time. “Why else would you be here today, when you know Brandon is likely to show up any time after dark? You want to make a deal with him to save Shane. That much is obvious.”
Well, it wasn’t why she was here, but still, she tried to look guilty about that, too. Just in case. It must have worked, because Oliver sat back in his chair, looking more relaxed.
“You’re clever,” he said. “So is Shane. But don’t let it go to your heads. Let me help.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice not to quiver or break or—worse—betray how relieved she was.
“That’s settled, then,” Oliver said. “Let me talk to Brandon and a few others, and see what I can do to make this problem go away.”
“Thanks,” she said faintly. Oliver got up and left, looking like any skinny ex-hippie who hadn’t quite let go of the good old days. Inoffensive. Ineffective, maybe.
She couldn’t rely on adults. Not for this. Not in Morganville.
She opened up the laptop, maximized the browser window, and went back to work.
Like always, time slipped away; when she looked up next, it was night outside the windows, and the crowd in the coffee shop had switched over from studious to chatty. Eve was busy at the bar, talking and smiling and generally being about as cheerful as a Goth chick could be.
She went quiet, though, when Brandon slouched in from the back room and took his accustomed seat at the table in the darkest corner. Oliver brought him some kind of drink—God, she hoped it wasn’t blood or anything! — and sat down to have some intense and quiet conversation. Claire tried to look like she wasn’t there. She and Eve exchanged a few glances between customers at the bar.
Putting together the book, Claire had learned during the long research marathon, was work for experts, not sixteen-year-old (nearly seventeen) wannabes. She could put something together, but—to her vast disappointment—anybody with an eye for rare books could spot a fake pretty easily, unless it was expertly done. She suspected that her leatherworking and bookbinding skills needed work.
All of which brought her back to square one, Shane Gets Bitten. Not acceptable.
A line in one of the dozens of windows she’d opened caught her eye. Nearly anything can be created for the movies, including reproductions of ancient books, because the reproduction only has to fool one of the senses: vision….
She didn’t have time—or cash—to get some Hollywood prop house to make a book for her, but it gave her an idea.
A really good idea.
Or a really bad one, if it didn’t work.
Nearly anything can be created for the movies.
She didn’t need the book. She just needed a picture.
By the time midnight rolled around—and Common Grounds ushered the last caffeine addict out into the night—Claire was reasonably sure she could pull it off, and she was too tired to care if she couldn’t. She packed up the laptop and leaned her head on her hand, watching while Eve cleaned up cups and glasses, loaded the dishwasher, chatted with Oliver, and deliberately ignored the dark shadow sitting in the corner.
Brandon hadn’t taken off after his walking snacks. Instead, he kept sitting there, nursing a fresh cup of whatever it was he was drinking, smiling that cruel, weird little smile at Eve, then Claire, then Eve.
Oliver, drying ceramic cups, had been watching the watcher. “Brandon,” he said, and tossed the towel across his shoulder as he began slotting cups into their pull racks. “Closing time.”
“You didn’t even call last round, old man,” Brandon said, and turned that smile on Oliver.
Where it died, fast. After a moment of silence, Brandon stood up to stalk away.
“Wait,” Oliver said, very quietly. “Cup.”
Brandon looked at him in utter disbelief, then picked up the cup—disposable paper—and dumped it in the trash can. First time he’d bused his own table in a few dozen years, Claire guessed. If ever. She hid a nervous grin, because he didn’t seem like the kind of guy—much less vamp—who’d appreciate her sense of humor.
“Anything else?” Brandon asked acidly. Not as if he actually cared.
“Actually, yes. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like the ladies to leave first.”
Even in the shadows, Claire saw the gleam of sharp teeth when Brandon silently opened his mouth—flashing his fangs. Showing off. Oliver didn’t seem impressed.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” he repeated. Brandon shrugged and leaned against the wall, arms folded. He was wearing a black leather jacket that drank in light, a black knit shirt, dark jeans. Dressed to kill, Claire thought, and wished she hadn’t.
“I’ll wait,” he said. “But they don’t need to worry about me, old man. The boy made a deal. I’ll stick to it.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” Oliver said. “Eve, Claire, get home safe. Go.”
Eve slammed the door on the dishwasher and turned it on; she grabbed her purse from behind the counter and ducked out to take Claire’s hand and pull her toward the door. She flipped the front sign from OPEN to CLOSED and unlocked the door to let Claire out. She locked it back behind them with a set of keys, then hustled Claire quickly to the car, which sat in the warm glow of the streetlight. The street looked deserted; wind whipped trash and dust into clattering ghosts, and the blinking red stoplights danced and swayed along. Eve unlocked the car in record time, and both of them slammed down the locks once they were inside. Eve started up the Caddy and motored away from the curb; only then did she sigh a little in relief.