He settled into his usual chair, the one where his guitar was lying in its case next to it. He was like Eve; he had to have something to do with his hands, and in his case, his default was the guitar. He went for it immediately, and began picking out soft chords and notes, tuning the strings as he went.
“Well?” Shane said, and sat on the arm of the sofa beside Claire. “You can’t leave it like that, man.”
Michael glanced at him, a flash of big blue eyes, and then set his gaze at a safe middle distance. His music face, Claire thought, the one that he put up like a shield. One place he wasn’t looking was at Eve. At all. And that just wasn’t right.
“It was before my time,” he said. “Back in the sixties, I guess, a vamp named Pavel hooked up with a girl named Jenny, and it got serious. They got married.”
Silence, except for the steady, relentless whisper of his fingers on the strings of the guitar. Eve was staring at him intensely, and finally said, “You haven’t told me this.”
That broke through his shell for a second, and he glanced over at her, an apologetic and gentle look. “Sorry,” he said. “I was trying to think how to do it, because it’s not a happy ending.”
“Didn’t think it was,” she said. Eve sounded very steady, very adult. “But every story’s tragic somewhere along the way. You just have to know where to stop telling the story to make it a happy ending.”
“Well, this one doesn’t have any happy middles, either,” Michael said. “They were married for about a month, and Pavel killed her. He didn’t mean to do it; he just . . . couldn’t cope.”
“Why?” Claire asked. Michael raised his eyebrows, just a twitch, and got a very odd look on his face, as if he was trying to think how to phrase his reply.
Finally, he said, “He wasn’t used to being around humans on a daily basis. In particular, not around girls.”
“And she pissed him off?” Shane asked.
“Not exactly—you really don’t want to know.”
“Yeah,” Shane said, frowning. “I kinda do.”
Michael now looked truly uncomfortable. “There are times when it’s hard to be around girls when you’re a vampire. Look, don’t make me draw you a picture, okay?”
“I don’t—” Eve’s face went blank, and she looked over at Claire. “Oh. Oh.”
Claire shrugged, mystified for just another second, and then she got it, too.
Once a month. And vampires could smell blood.
She imagined her expression looked pretty much like Eve’s.
Shane slowly sat down on the couch next to Claire. “That is . . . epically disgusting,” Shane said, “and I don’t think I will ever, ever get that out of my brain again, man. Thanks.”
“Told you you didn’t want to know,” Michael said. “Anyway, Pavel didn’t expect it, and he lost control and killed her. Then her family came after him and killed him. The vamps arrested her father and brother and executed them; some said they weren’t even the ones who did it. It started the whole human underground resistance, and a bunch of them attacked the vampire districts and tried to burn them down. People and vampires got hurt; some got killed. Morganville was chaos for a while. It was bad.”
They all let that sit in silence for a few seconds, and then Eve said, “And now, what? Amelie’s afraid our story’s going to end the same way? With her cleaning up the mess?”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Michael said. He’d lowered his head while he was talking, focusing on his guitar, but now he looked up and directly at her, blue eyes clear and honest. “But we both know the risks, Eve.”
“Honey, it’s not the same thing at all. If you were going to snap, you’d have already done it—you’ve been living in a house with three heartbeats and two girls for how long now? You’re not going to make a mistake, because you’ve already proved you know how to handle—this.” She waved at them, the whole situation, everything. “You said it yourself: Pavel hardly ever came in contact with a pulse. He got overwhelmed—too much too soon. You’re already used to it.”
“What if I’m not?” he asked softly. “You really think about what might happen?”
She pulled in a deep breath. “All the time, Michael. I’m the one who’s risking my life, after all.”
Shane cleared his throat. “If you guys want to have some kind of serious convo, let me clear the hell out.”
“No, you stay,” Eve commanded. “Everybody stays. Everybody needs to hear this; right, Michael? If Amelie wants to come down from the mountain and tell you stop the wedding, what are you going to do about it?”
He looked—well, there was no other word for it than miserable. He looked down again, strummed a few chords, actually hit a wrong note. She saw him flinch, and he deliberately waited a few long seconds before he said, “I’d do what’s right.”
“That’s not an answer.” Eve’s voice shook a little this time, and her fists clenched where they rested on her skull-patterned tights. “Michael, are you going to marry me even if Amelie tells you not to do it?”
“I don’t know if I can,” he said. “Amelie can influence other vampires, if she wants to. She has the power to make me do what she wants.”
“Michael!”
“I’m telling you the truth!” He shouted it, and almost threw the guitar back in its case, standing up with sudden energy. His pale face was lightly flushed, and his body language rippled with tension. Claire unconsciously pressed herself back into the cushions, and felt Shane shift his weight next to her. She put a hand on his knee, and he relaxed. A little. “Dammit, Eve, I am trying. Don’t you understand? It’s not like I can just do what I want, twenty-four /seven! I’m—”
“Owned,” Eve finished for him, and stood up to face him. Her fists were still clenched. “Amelie’s pet. And she can make you roll over—is that it? You won’t stand up to her, even for me?”
“Eve—”
“No. No, I get it.” She was gulping in deep breaths now, and her eyes glittered, but she wasn’t crying. Not yet. “Do you even want to marry me, really?”
“God,” Michael whispered. He stepped forward and put his arms around her, a sudden, almost desperate move, and she was like a statue in his arms, stiff with surprise. “God, Eve, yes. I want to make you happy. I want that so much.”
She went limp against him, holding on, and rested her forehead against his shoulder. “Then fight for us,” she whispered. “Please.”
“If I fight Amelie, I’ll lose.”
“Then go down fighting, you jerk!”
He kissed the top of her head. “I will.” He rested his chin there where he’d kissed, and Claire realized that he was looking at Shane. She glanced up and saw Shane looking back. Whatever communication was going on there, she didn’t have the playbook to read it. Shane’s face was blank, his body language tense.
After a second, he got up and walked out of the room into the kitchen. Claire stuffed the rest of her hot dog in her mouth and followed him.
Shane kept walking, right to the back door, opened it, and went outside. Claire chewed fast, swallowed, and lunged out after him before the screen door flapped shut. She hopped down the concrete steps and caught up with Shane just as he sat down under the shade of the scraggly tree next to the leaning wooden garage.
“What was that look?”
Shane pulled out a pack of breath mints and took two, then passed them over. She took one. “You know what it was.”
“Really don’t.”
“If you don’t know, you don’t want to know, trust me.”
“It could not possibly be as bad as the Pavel story.”
He sighed. “It’s just that I’m not going to stand there while he lies to her. I’m trying to be all nonviolent and shit. And I want to punch him, and he knows it, and out here is better right now until I get myself together.”