Rachel Caine: Last Breath

Shane opened his mouth, but Oliver said, “Don’t even consider saying it. Yours is already spoken for.”

Shane responded to that with a gagging sound.

“Precisely why it’s not earmarked for my account,” Oliver said. “I do have standards. Now, if either of you feel any nausea or weakness, press the button. Otherwise, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

He rose and walked toward the door, but hesitated with his hand on the knob. He turned back to them and said, “I received the invitation.”

For a moment, Claire didn’t know what he was talking about, but then she said, “Oh. The party.”

“The engagement party,” he said. “You should speak with your friends about the . . . political situation.”

“I—What? What are you talking about?”

Oliver’s eyes held hers, and she was wary of some kind of vamp compulsion, but he didn’t seem to be trying at all. “I’ve already tried to warn Michael,” he said. “This is unwise. Very unwise. The vampire community in Morganville is already . . . restless; they feel humans have been given too much freedom, too much license, in their activities of late. There was always a clearly drawn relationship of—”

“Serial killers and victims,” Shane put in.

“Protector and those Protected,” Oliver said, flashing a scowl at her boyfriend. “One that is of necessity free of too much emotional complication. It’s an obligation that vampires can understand. This—connection between Michael and your human friend Eve is . . . raw and messy. Now that they threaten to sanction it with legal status . . . there is resistance. On both sides, from vampires and humans alike.”

“Wait,” Shane said. “Are you seriously telling us that people don’t want them to get married?”

“There is a certain sense that it is not appropriate, or wise, to allow vampire-human intermarriage.”

“That’s racist!”

“It has nothing to do with race,” Oliver said. “It has everything to do with species. Vampires and humans have a set relationship, and from the vampire standpoint, it’s one of predator and prey.”

“I still think you mean parasite and host.”

Oliver’s temper flared, which was dangerous; his face changed, literally shifted , as if the monster underneath was trying to get out. Then it faded, but it left a feeling in the room, a tingling shock that made even Shane shut up, at least for now. “Some don’t want Michael and Eve to marry,” he said. “You may take it from me that even those who are indifferent believe that it will go badly for all involved. It’s unwise. I’ve told him this, and I’ve tried to tell her. Now I’m telling you to stop them.”

“We can’t!” Claire said, appalled. “They love each other!”

“That has exactly nothing to do with what I am saying,” the vampire told her, and opened the door to the room. “I care nothing about their feelings. I am talking about the reality of the situation. A marriage is politically disastrous, and will ignite issues that are best left smoldering. Tell them that. Tell them it will be stopped, one way or another. Best if they stop it themselves.”

“But—”

The door shut on whatever she was going to say, and anyway, Claire wasn’t sure she really had any idea. She looked over at Shane, who seemed just as speechless as she was.

But he was, of course, the first to recover his voice. “Well,” he said, “I told him so.”

“Shane!”

“Look, vampires and humans together have never been a good idea. It’s like cats and mice hooking up. Always ends badly for the mouse.”

“It’s not vampires and humans . It’s Eve and Michael .”

“Which is different how, exactly?”

“It—just is!”

Shane sighed and put his head back against the cushions. “Fine,” he said. “But no way am I breaking Eve’s heart. You get to tell her the wedding’s off, courtesy of the vampire almost-boss. Just let me know so I can put my headphones on the going-deaf setting to drown out the screaming and wailing.”

“You are such a coward.”

“I am bleeding into a bag,” he pointed out. “I think I’ve achieved some kind of anticoward merit badge.”

She threw her red rubber ball at him.

Not that Claire hadn’t secretly seen all this coming.

She hadn’t wanted to believe it. She’d been involved in all the party preparations—Eve had insisted. Between the two of them, they’d planned absolutely everything, from the napkins (black) on the tablecloths (silver) to the paper color on the invitations (black, again, with silver ink). It had been fun, of course, sitting there having girl time, picking out flowers and food and party favors, setting up playlists for the music, and best of all picking out clothes.

It had been only this week, as everything got . . . well, real . . . that Claire had begun feeling that maybe it wasn’t all just fairy tales and ice cream. Walking with Eve downtown had turned into a whole new experience, a shocking one; Claire was used to being ignored, or (more recently) being looked at with some weird wariness—wearing the Founder of Morganville’s pin in her collar had earned her an entirely unwanted (possibly undeserved) reputation as a badass.

But this week, walking with Eve, she’d seen hate close up.

Oh, it wasn’t obvious or anything.... It came in sidelong glances, in the tightening of people’s lips and the clipped way people spoke to Eve, if they spoke at all. Morganville had changed somewhat, in these past couple of years, and one of the most important changes had been that people were no longer afraid to show what they felt. Claire had thought that was a positive change.

At first, Claire had figured the dissing was just isolated incidents, and then she’d thought that maybe it was just the normal small-town politics at work. Eve was a Goth, she was easily recognizable, and although she was crushingly funny, she could also piss people off who didn’t get her.

This was different, though. The look people had in their eyes for Eve . . . That had been contempt. Or anger. Or disgust.

Eve hadn’t seemed to notice at first, but Claire detected a weakening in her usual glossy armor of humor about midway through their last shopping trip—about the time that an unpleasant lady with church hair had walked away from the counter while Eve was checking out with a bagful of stuff for the party. As she walked away, the Church Lady had reached out to mess with a stacked display of sunglasses, and Claire had caught sight of something odd.

The woman was too old for a tattoo—at least, too old for a fresh one—but there was a design inked on her arm that was still red around the edges. Claire saw only a glimpse of it, but it looked like some kind of familiar shape.

A stake. It was a symbol of a stake.

Another, younger lady had come hustling from the back of the shop to wait on Eve, flushed and flustered. She’d avoided meeting their eyes, and had said the bare minimum to get them out of the store. Church Lady hadn’t bothered to look at them at all.

Claire had waited until they were safely out of earshot of any passersby before she said, “So, did you see the tat? Freaky.”

“The stake?” Eve’s black-painted lips were tight, and even in sunlight, her kohl-rimmed eyes looked shadowed. Her Urban Decay makeup normally looked really cool, but in the harsh winter sunlight, Claire thought it looked a little . . . desperate. Not just crying out for attention, but screaming for it. “Yeah, it’s the new big thing. Stake tats. Even the geezers are lining up for them. Human pride and all that crap.”

“Is that why—”

“Why the bitch refused to wait on me?” Eve tossed her black-dyed shag hair back from her pale face in a defiant shake. “Yeah, probs. Because I’m a traitor.”