Rachel Caine - Last Breath

If she’d had any doubts at all about it, the sight of his face when she said the name erased them. That was the most shocked, caught-red-handed expression she’d ever seen, and God, in that moment she hated him.

Shane looked over at his best friend, but by the time he did, Michael had managed to wipe away all guilt from his expression and just look curious. “Oh,” he said, and stood up, leaning his guitar against the arm of the chair. It seemed to her to be not just careful, but too careful, as if he was afraid to be seen rushing. As if he felt he had to slow down and make sure he didn’t make mistakes. “Of course. Thanks, Claire.”

She glared at him, and avoided him as he went past her toward the kitchen. She headed straight for the steps, prepared to run all the way up, but Shane’s voice stopped her. “Hey,” he said, keeping it low. “What the hell?”

“ You go ask. You’re always telling me not to try to analyze,” she said, and went up, wondering if she should tell Eve, wondering if that would lead to the ultimate Glass House apocalypse. She didn’t, only because she heard the shower running. Eve tended to shower when she got unhappy. There wouldn’t be any hot water for anybody else, not for a while.

Claire passed up the bathroom, closed and locked her door, put her headphones on, and blocked out the world with the loudest, saddest music she could stand.

Oh, Michael, how could you?

If the knowledge hurt her, how awful was it going to be for Eve?

Claire expected a blowup—daily—of the Michael/Eve relationship; Eve didn’t mention Naomi, and neither did Michael, and the tension kept spinning up inside of Claire like twisting rubber bands.

Shane hadn’t said much about Naomi’s visit, either, though Claire could tell it troubled him. When Claire had tried to talk about it, he’d gone back to his old refrain. Ask Michael. Yeah, right, like she was going to get in his face and ask, when she already knew .

He also said stay out of it . And that was probably good advice. But Claire couldn’t just see this all heading for the cliff and not at least try to turn the wheel. It might be wrong, it might be messy and crazy and a very bad idea, but she had to do it.

So she took Eve out for an ice-cream soda at Marjo’s Diner, which Eve happily accepted, because there were no better ice-cream sodas available in the known universe, and Eve never turned down something ice-cream based. It was, Claire thought, a good thing Eve ran on so much nervous energy, with all that sugar craving.

As she spooned up the deliciousness, Eve couldn’t put down her cell. She was scrolling through her to-do list, shaking her head. “You would not believe how much there is,” she told Claire. “I mean, I’ve been doing this for weeks, and this list never gets smaller! It’s insane. And I’ve only got a couple of days left. Oh! I need to get my appointment to get a waxing done.”

“I really did not need to know that,” Claire sighed. Eve threw her a wink and slurped up dessert. “Uh—I have something I need to tell you.”

Eve’s eyes widened, and she put both spoon and cell down. “It’s Shane, isn’t it? It’s always Shane getting himself into some kind of crazy trouble. What vampire did he—”

“No, it’s not Shane.” Although Claire honestly couldn’t blame her for jumping to that conclusion; Shane was trouble-prone, no doubt about that. “It’s about Michael.”

Eve smiled, but it looked manic and wrong. She was wearing an absolutely incredible shade of magenta lipstick, and her eye shadow matched. In the tired mid-last-century Formica and rusty chrome of the diner, she looked like a deadly, exotic flower, something imported from a place that had never seen day. Beautiful, but intimidating. And strange. “Well, at least I know Michael’s not in jail. On the other hand, Shane just loves the gray bar hotel. Maybe it’s the food or something.” But there was a flash of desperation in her eyes. She didn’t want to talk about Michael. Not at all.

Claire felt like something was pressing on her chest, driving all the breath out of her. “I’m not kidding,” she said. “You need to hear this, Eve. About Michael.” It hurt, saying this, physically hurt , and she felt tears tingle in her eyes. She blinked them away, fast. “I think he’s seeing another girl.”

Eve had picked up her spoon, and now she sat there, perfectly still, staring. She cocked her glossy black-haired head slowly over to the side, as if trying to puzzle out what Claire had just said. “Another girl,” she said. “What do you mean, another girl?”

“A vampire,” Claire said. “Naomi. She came to the house. I saw her. I talked to her. She asked for Michael.”

Eve flinched, as if Claire had reached across the table and slapped her, and then said, “But . . . I’m sure she’s just . . .”

“Just a friend?” Claire said when Eve couldn’t finish. She felt like her heart was breaking. She could see the panic and horror in Eve’s face, and the awkward way Eve put the spoon down. She clenched her hands together and started twisting her engagement ring.... “Maybe. I guess that’s possible, but you should talk to him, Eve. You should ask. I don’t think he wanted you to know about it. He hasn’t told you, has he?”

Eve shook her head and looked down at her ice-cream soda, which was slowly melting. “He must have forgotten to mention it,” she said, but there wasn’t any conviction in her voice. “She came to the house ?”

“A couple of days ago—remember when I went with Shane to give blood? She showed up after you went upstairs. I answered the door.”

This time, it was definitely a flinch, and Eve glanced up. Her eyes were wide, and stricken. “He—he came upstairs later. We made up. He was—” She twisted the ring again, restlessly. “He was so sorry about upsetting me.”

“Oh,” Claire said softly. “And he didn’t mention her.”

“No. Not at all ,” Eve admitted. She suddenly flung her hand out across the table, and Claire grabbed it and held on, as if she were pulling Eve back from a cliff. “Oh God. I know Gloriana got inside his head, but I thought—I thought with her gone . . .”

“I know. But, Eve, I know he loves you. I just don’t know—”

“If he loves me enough?” Eve laughed, shakily, and picked up a napkin to dab carefully at her eyes, making black blots of wet mascara on the paper. “Yeah, join the club. Well, what do you think?”

“It’s not really what I think—it’s what you do.”

Eve sniffled and wiped at her nose. “This is ruining my makeup; you know that.”

“You can blame me if you want.”

“No. No, I don’t.” Eve sighed and looked up, trying for a smile but failing pretty badly. “I’ve known he wasn’t totally—comfortable with this, you know? That he kept worrying, and thinking, and worrying . . . and I was just hoping that he’d stop, that it was cold feet, which is pretty stupid because he’s a vampire and, you know, cold in general, but—I thought he’d get over it. It’s just gotten worse.”

“And he’s not telling you about this girl.”

“Apparently. Yeah.” This time, Eve burst out in tears, and covered her face with the napkin. She had to use both hands, and Claire sat helplessly, wishing she could do something , while Eve bawled like a little girl. She finally got up and slid over to Eve’s side of the booth and put her arms around her.

If the makeup had been extreme before, it was ultra-Goth now, with the dripping lines of mascara and smears. Eve started wiping it off, going through more and more napkins.