Rachel Caine: Midnight Alley

Accidents happened.

"I don't need a bodyguard," Claire said. "Nobody's out to get me. Even Monica's gotten all friends-making with me."

That earned her a too-sharp look, which didn't go well with his reddened, kissable lips. "Yeah. Why is that?"

She shrugged and avoided his eyes. "I don't know."

He tipped her chin up with one finger. "So, are we at the lying part of the relationship already? Usually that comes after the exciting hot sexy honeymoon period."

She stuck out her tongue at him, and he leaned forward and — to her horror — licked it. "Ewwww!"

"Then don't stick it out." Shane smiled. "If you're going to hang out in my room and tempt me, there's a penalty. One item of clothing per minute comes off."

"Perv."

He pointed to himself. "Male and eighteen. What's your point?"

"You are so — "

"Say, you got any pleated miniskirts and knee socks? I really get off on — "

She squealed and dodged his grabby hands, then checked her watch. "Oh, crap — I really do have to go. I'm sorry. Look, you'll be —you're okay, right?"

The smile disappeared, leaving only a trace in his dark, secretive eyes. "Yeah," Shane said. "I'll be okay. Watch your back, Claire."

"You too." Claire started for the door, but she heard his footstep behind her and turned and he moved her back to the wall, tipped up her chin and kissed her so thoroughly that she felt her head fill with light and her knees turn to rubber.

When she could breathe again, and he pulled back to give her just an inch or so of space between their lips, she gasped, "Was that a goodbye?"

"That was a come-home-soon," he said, and pushed off from the wall. "Seriously, Claire. Watch yourself. I worry."

"I know," she said, and smiled. Her knees were still weak, and the chorusing light in her head just didn't seem to be fading. "Best kiss so far, by the way."

His eyebrows rose. "You're keeping score?"

"Hey, you raised the bar. I don't grade on a curve."

She left him, reluctantly, to grab her backpack and see if Eve was in the mood to eat brains, or give her a ride to school.

Morning classes went pretty well, and Claire spent her breaks hanging at the coffee bar at the UniversityCenter, where Eve barista'd her way through the day. Eve was good at it — calm, efficient, seemingly impervious to the pissy demands and bitchiness of a lot of the students. Claire had figured out that the rude ones were mostly Protected, so it was a class thing; Eve had elected not to sign up with a vampire for protection, and those who had, looked down on her.

Or else they were just bitchy. Which was equally possible. People didn't have to have a vampire connection to be arrogant jerks.

Eve was working today with another girl, somebody Claire didn't know; she had long straight brown hair that shimmered like a curtain when she moved. She wore it loose around her shoulders, which Claire guessed was okay because she wasn't working directly with the drinks or anything, just taking orders and cash. Her name tag said AMY, and she looked cheerful and sweet. She and Eve were talking like friends, which was good; Eve needed that. Claire killed time between classes by skimming through her English Lit — boring — and reading a book she'd checked out from the library on advanced string theory — not boring. She liked the whole idea of vibrating strings being the basis of everything, that there were all kinds of surfaces that vibrated. It made the world more ... exciting. Always in motion.

Her watch beeped to let her know she was going to be late for class if she didn't hurry, so she packed it up, waved to Amy and Eve, and jogged out of the UC and into the warm afternoon sunshine.

As she was blinking in the glare, she ran into Monicaliterally as Monica was coming up the steps while she was going down. Claire automatically reached out to steady the other girl when she wavered, and then thought, what am I doing? Because Monica had once laughed as Claire tumbled down a flight of stairs and cracked her head halfway open.

"Hey, watch it, bitch!" Monica snapped, and then did a double-take. "Claire? Oh, hi. Cute shirt!"

Claire looked down at herself, mystified. It wasn't. She didn't really own any clothes she'd classify as cute, and even the best of them would never match Monica's standards, which were much higher.

"You on your way to class?" Monica continued brightly. "Too bad, I'd buy you a mocha or something."

"I — uh — yeah, I've got class." Claire edged around and tried to descend the steps, but Monica got in her way. Monica's smile was friendly, but it didn't really warm up her big, pretty eyes. "I'll be late."

"One thing," Monica said, and lowered her voice. It occurred to Claire that it was almost the first time she'd seen Monica alone, not flanked by Gina and Jennifer, not trailing an entourage of The Popular. "I'm having a party on Friday night. Can you come? It's at my parents' house. Here's the address." Before Claire could react, Monica pressed a slip of paper into her hand. "Keep it quiet, all right? I'm only asking the best people. Oh, and wear something nice, it's formal."

And then Monica was gone, breezing by her up the steps, where she fell in with a group of girls and went into the UC's glass atrium chatting and laughing.

The best people? Claire eyed the slip of paper, thought about throwing it away, and then shoved it in her pocket.

Maybe this was a golden opportunity to convince Monica that she wasn't ever going to be anything like a friend.

She headed out for class, moving quickly, but keeping her eyes peeled. When she spotted the guys she was looking for, she veered off the sidewalk and onto the grass.

Gamers. Nerds. They sat around outside most of the afternoon moving counters around on complicated-looking boards and rolling dice. She'd seen them every day for weeks, and in all that time she'd never seen any kind of girl with them, or even approach them. In fact, they stared at her when she cleared her throat like she was an alien from one of the planets on their game board.

"Hi," she said, and thrust out the slip of paper. "My name's Monica. I'm having a party on Friday night. If you guys want to come. Tell your friends."

One of them reached out and gingerly took the slip of paper. Another snatched it away from him, read it, and said, "Wow. Really?"

"Really."

"Mind if we hand it out to some people?"

"Knock yourself out."

Claire headed off to class.

###

"Claire Danvers?"

Last class of the day, and Claire looked up, startled, from writing the date in her notebook. The professor didn't usually take roll. In fact, he seemed pretty much indifferent to who showed up, which was sometimes next to nobody. Like today — she was one of about twelve people. Showing up was really kind of useless in this particular case, since Professor What's-His-Name lectured from PowerPoint slides, bullet by bullet, and then made them available on his website right after the lecture. No wonder most people skipped.

She raised her hand, wondering what was going on. She had a guilty flash of handing over the party invitation to the Nerd Squad, but no, how could they find out so soon? And besides, who'd care, besides Monica?

The professor — gray, wrinkled, tired and unenthusiastic — stared at her for a second without recognition, then said, "You're wanted in Administration. Next building over, third floor, room 317. Go now."

"But — " Claire started to ask what was going on, but he'd already dismissed her and turned back to his PowerPoint, droning on in a monotone. She stuffed books into her bag, wondered again what was going on, and left without much regret.

She'd been in the Administration building exactly three times — once to register, once to file the official paperwork to move off campus, once to do an add/drop. It looked just like any administration building at any school — grubby and utilitarian, with tired, crabby employees and desks piled high with file folders. She avoided the first-floor Registrar's office and went up the steps. The second floor was quieter, but still full of people talking, keys clicking on computers, printers running.