“Just don’t go telling him about, you know, anything personal. About us.”
“Embarrassed?”
He buffed his fingernails on his coat and looked at them with an exaggerated smugness. “Me, embarrassed? Nah, I was just worried he’d feel bad about his celibacy thing.”
“God, you are such a jackass.”
“That is three times you’ve called me that in one walk. You need a new compliment.” He tickled her, and she mock-shrieked and ran, and he chased her, and they raced each other around the block, down the street, all the way to the white fence around their not-very-attractive yard, up the walk to the big pillared porch of the peeling Victorian house. The Glass House, called that because the last (and current) owners were the Glass family—Michael being the last of that family still in residence. The rest of them were, technically, renting rooms, but over time Shane, Claire, and Eve had become Michael’s family. As close as family, anyway.
As evidenced by the fact that when Shane opened the door, he yelled out, “Put your pants on, people; we are back!”
“Shut up!” Eve yelled from somewhere upstairs. “Jackass!”
“You know, when people say that, I just hear the word awesome ,” Shane said. “What’s for lunch? Because personally I am down two pints of blood and I need food. Cookies and orange juice did not cut it.”
“Hot dogs,” Eve’s distant voice said. “And no, I didn’t make chili. You’d just criticize how I make it. But there’s relish and onions and mustard!”
“You’re a princess!” Shane called back on his way to the kitchen. “Okay, a lame Goth half-dead princess, but whatever!”
“Jack. Ass!”
Claire shook her head as she dumped her backpack on the couch. She was glowing and tingling from the run, and felt a little light-headed—probably hadn’t been smart, doing that so soon after giving blood, but that was one thing you learned quick in Morganville: how to run even with blood loss. Shane wandered into the kitchen, and she heard things banging around for a few minutes. He came back with two plates, one with plain hot dogs, one with hot dogs buried under a mound of whatever that stuff was—onions, relish, mustard, probably hot sauce, too.
Claire took the plain plate. He dug a can of Coke out of his pocket and handed that over, too. “You’re officially no longer a jackass,” she told him, as he thumped down on the couch beside her and started shoveling food in his mouth. He mumbled something and winked at her, and she ate in slow, measured bites as she thought about what she was going to do about Eve.
Shane finished his plate first—not surprisingly—and took hers away into the kitchen, leaving her holding the second hot dog. He was gone—conveniently—when Eve came downstairs. Her poufy black net skirt brushed the wall with a strange hiss as she descended, like a snake’s, and Eve did look poisonously fierce, Claire thought. A leather corset and jacket, skull-themed tights under the skirt, a black leather choker with spikes, and loads of makeup. She flung herself on the couch in Shane’s deserted spot and thumped her booted feet up on the coffee table with a jingle of chrome chain.
“I can’t believe you actually got him to donate without some kind of four-point restraint system,” Eve said, and reached for the game controller. Not that the TV was on, but she liked to fiddle with things, and the controller was perfect. On her left hand, the diamond engagement ring twinkled softly in the light. It was a silver ring, not gold; Eve didn’t do gold. But the diamond was beautiful. “You’re going to be around on Saturday to decorate, right?”
“Right,” Claire agreed, and took a bite of her hot dog. She was still hungry, and focused hard on the delicious taste to take her mind off what Oliver had said. “Anything you want me to get?”
Eve smiled, a happy curve of dark red lips, and dug in the pocket of her jacket. She came out with a piece of paper, which she handed over. “Thought you’d never ask, maid of honor,” she said. “I had some trouble finding the right party supplies. I was hoping maybe you’d take a look . . . ?”
“Sure,” Claire said. It was a long list, and she silently mourned the loss of her day off. “Ah—Eve—?”
“Yeah?” Eve ran her hand through her shag-cut hair, fluffing it out into the appropriate puff ball thickness. “Hey, do you think this is too much for meeting with Father Joe?”
Claire blinked as she tried to put the image of Eve’s combat boots and stiff net skirt into the same space with Father Joe. She gave up and said, “Probably.”
“Awesome. I was going for over-the-top. That way, no matter what I wear to the party, it’ll be a relief.”
Eve had a logic all her own, and usually it was awesomely amusing, but right now, Claire was focused on something else. Shane wasn’t going to like it, and truthfully she didn’t much enjoy it, either, but she felt like she had to speak up. That was what friends did, right? Speak up even when it was hard.
“I need to tell you something,” Claire said. There must have been something serious in her voice, because Eve stopped fiddling with the controller and put it aside. She turned, putting one knee up on the couch, and faced Claire directly. Now that she had Eve’s undivided attention, though, Claire felt suddenly tongue-tied, and there was a suspicious absence of Shane as backup . . . and no sound from the kitchen. He was probably lurking on the other side of the door, listening.
Chicken.
Eve saved her from the unbearable tension by saying, in a very level voice, “Oliver talked to you, didn’t he?”
Claire pulled in a deep, relieved breath. “You know.”
“Oh, he’s been dropping hints like atomic bombs for about a month now,” Eve said. “Everything short of ordering Michael to call it off.” Her dark eyes studied Claire’s face, all too knowing. “He told you to tell us to call it off.” Claire just nodded. Eve’s lips slowly spread into a wicked smile. “See, I always wanted to turn this town upside down, and we are so doing that. I can just hear him now. Back in my day, humans knew their place. What’s next, marrying cattle? Dogs and cats, living together.”
Her impersonation of Oliver’s accent and impatience was so dead-on that Claire burst out laughing, a little guiltily. She heard the kitchen door swing open behind her, and when she glanced back, she saw Shane standing there, arms folded, leaning against the wall as he watched the two of them. “So,” he said. “Vamp Central Command doesn’t want you guys getting hitched. What are you going to do?”
“Piss them off,” Eve said. “You with me?”
Shane’s smile was every bit as dark and wicked as Eve’s. “You know it.”
“See, I knew I could count on you for quality mayhem, my man.” Eve settled her focus back on Claire again. “What about you?”
“Me?”
“I know you’re friends with them,” Eve said. “Lots more than me or Shane. This is going to put you in the middle. I don’t like that, but it’s going to happen.”
“Oliver already tried to put me in the middle, but as far as I’m concerned, who you marry is none of his damn business,” Claire said. “I just wanted to make sure you knew what was happening.”
“And what about Amelie?”
“It’s none of her business, either. This can’t be the first time a human and a vampire got married.”
“It isn’t.”
They all jumped—Eve included—because Michael was standing at the top of the stairs, looking over the railing at them, looking casual and rumpled and fresh out of bed. His shirt was still half-unbuttoned.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop.” He kept fastening his shirt on the way down, which was—from a purely objective point of view, Claire thought virtuously—kind of a pity. “It isn’t the first time a vampire and a human have gotten married in Morganville, and that’s the problem.” He was a tall boy—and, oddly for a vampire, he was almost exactly as old as he looked, which was frozen somewhere around eighteen. It was a weird thought, but Shane looked just a little bit older now than when Claire had first met him, and Michael didn’t. And never would.