Rachel Caine - Feast of Fools

“Oh—fantastic,” Claire said, with so much enthusiasm she knew nobody was fooled. She sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s just—”

Eve pointed above their heads. “The dean of the drama department?”

Michael looked up at her, and for a second Claire saw the blue of his eyes flicker. “He’s got his reasons,” he said. “Let it go, Eve.”

“Pardon me, but that boy can make a paper cut seem like a mortal wound. . . .”

“I said let it go.” Michael snapped it this time, and there was unmistakable command in his voice. Eve stopped twirling spaghetti. Stopped doing everything except watching him with narrowed, kohl-rimmed eyes.

“Let’s review,” she said, and put the fork carefully down on a napkin. “You got all diva and decided you were too busy to go to the store. Next, Shane threw a tantrum and stomped up to his room to put on a one-man pity party. And now you’re ordering me around like you own me. Are we under a testosterone storm warning?”

“Eve.”

“I’m not finished. You may think that growing a pair of fangs makes you the boss around here, but you’d better check your playlist. You’re on the seriously wrong track.”

“Eve.” Michael leaned forward, and Claire caught her breath. His eyes were all wrong, his movements too fast, and she caught a flash of teeth that were too white, too sharp.

Eve pushed her chair back from the table, picked up her bowl, and walked into the kitchen without a backward glance.

Michael put his head in his hands. “Christ, what just happened?”

Claire swallowed. She tasted nothing but metal, as if she’d tried to chew the fork instead of the food. Her whole body felt cold, aching with the need to do . . . something.

She took Michael’s bowl, stacking it with her own. “I’ll clean up,” she said.

Michael’s hand closed around her wrist. She didn’t dare look up at him. At close range, she didn’t want to see the changes in his eyes, the ones Eve had seen so clearly.

“I wouldn’t hurt any of you. You believe me, right?”

She heard the sudden doubt in his voice.

“Sure,” she said. “It’s just—Michael, I don’t think you really know what you are yet. What’s changing inside you. Eve thinks that showing you our weakness is a bad idea. I don’t think she’s wrong about that.”

Michael was watching her as if he’d never actually seen her before. As if she’d changed right before his eyes, from a child to an equal.

She swallowed hard. That was a powerful look, and it wasn’t the vampire part of him—it was the Michael part. The part she admired, and loved.

“No,” he said softly. “I don’t think she’s wrong, either.” He touched Claire’s cheek gently. “What happened to Shane?”

“You don’t think it was just another pity party, like Eve?”

Michael had never looked so serious, she thought. “No,” he said. “And I think he may need help. But I don’t think he’d take it from me right now.”

“I’m not sure he’ll take it from me, either,” Claire said.

Michael took the plates from her. “Don’t underestimate yourself.”

Shane’s room was dark, except for the dim glow that came in from the distant streetlights. Claire eased the door open and, in the stripe of warm hallway light, saw his foot and part of his leg. He was lying on the bed. She shut the door, took a slow, calm breath, and walked to sit down next to him.

He didn’t move. As her eyes adjusted, she saw that his eyes were open. He was staring at the ceiling.

“You want to talk about it?” she asked. No answer. He blinked; that was all. “She got to you, didn’t she? Somehow, she got to you.”

For a long few seconds, she thought he was just going to lie there and ignore her, but then he said, “They get inside your head, the really strong ones. They can make you—feel things. Want things you don’t really want. Do things you’d never do. Most of them don’t bother, but the ones that do—they’re the worst.”

Claire reached out in the darkness, and his hand met hers midway—cool at first, then growing warm where their skin touched.

“I don’t want her, Claire,” he said. “But she made me want her. You understand?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does. Because now that she’s done it once, it’s going to be easy for her to do it again.” His fingers tightened on hers, hard enough to make her wince. “Don’t try to stop her. Or me, if it comes to that. I have to handle this myself.”

“Handle it how?”

“Any way I can,” Shane said. He shifted over on the bed. “You’re shivering.”

Was she? She honestly hadn’t realized, but the room felt cold, cold and full of despair. Shane was the only bright thing in it.

She stretched out facing him. Too close, she thought, for her dad’s comfort, if he’d seen them, even though they were only holding hands.

Shane reached down on the other side of the bed, found a blanket, and threw it over both of them. It smelled like—well, like Shane, like his skin and hair, and Claire felt a rush of warmth go through her as she breathed it in. She moved closer to him under the covers, partly to get warm, and partly—partly because she needed to touch him.

He met her halfway, and their bodies pressed together with every curve and hollow. Their intertwined fingers curled in on one another. Even though they were close enough to kiss, they didn’t—it was a kind of intimacy that Claire wasn’t used to, being this close and just . . . being. Shane freed his hand from hers and brushed stray locks of hair back from her eyes. He traced her slightly parted lips.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. “When I first saw you, I thought—I thought you were too young to be on your own here, in this town."

"Not now?"

“You’ve made it through better than most of us. But if I could get you to leave this place, I would.” Shane’s smile was dim and crooked and a little broken, in the shadows. “I want you to live, Claire. I need you to live.”

Her fingers touched the warm fringe of his hair. “I’m not worried about me,” she said.

“You never are. That’s my point. I worry about you. Not just because of the vampires—because of Jason. He’s still out there somewhere. And—” Shane paused for a second, as if he couldn’t quite get the rest of it out. “And there’s me, too. Your parents might be right. I might not be the best—”

She moved her fingers to put them over his mouth, over those soft, strong lips. “I won’t ever stop trusting you, Shane. You can’t make me.”

A shaky laugh out of the dark. “My point exactly.”

“That’s why I’m staying here,” Claire said. “With you. Tonight.”

Shane took in a deep breath. “Clothes stay on.”

“Mostly,” she agreed.

“You know, your parents really are right about me.”

Claire sighed. “No, they’re not. Nobody knows you at all, I think. Not your dad, not even Michael. You’re a deep, dark mystery, Shane.”

He kissed her for the first time since she’d entered the room, a warm press of lips to her forehead. “I’m an open book.”

She smiled. “I like books.”

“Hey, we’ve got something in common.”

“I’m taking off my shoes.”

“Fine. Shoes off.”

“And my pants.”

“Don’t push it, Claire.”

Claire woke up drowsy and utterly peaceful, and it took a slow second for her to realize that the heavenly warmth at her back was radiating from someone else, in the bed, with her.

From Shane.

She stopped breathing. Was he awake? No, she didn’t think so; she could feel his slow, steady breaths. There was a delicious, forbidden delight to this, a moment that she knew she’d carry with her even when it was gone. Claire closed her eyes and tried to remember everything—like the way Shane’s bare chest touched her back, warm and smooth where their skin connected. She’d negotiated for the removal of shirts, since she’d been wearing a sleeveless camisole underneath, and Shane had wavered enough to let it go. He’d insisted on keeping the pants, though.