Rachel Caine: Dead Girls' Dance

“With us,’” Eve supplied softly. “Right? He didn’t want you to have any friends.’”

“Friends get you killed in Morganville.’”

“No.’” Eve put a pale hand on his knee. “Shane, honey, in Morganville, friends are the only things that keep you alive.’”

Claire couldn’t believe how much had poured out of Shane—all that grief and horror and bitterness and anger. He’d always seemed sort of, well, normal, and it was a shock to see all the emotional bloodshed…and a shock to hear him talk so much, about things so personal. Shane wasn’t a talker.

She collected the dishes and did them alone, comforted by hot water and the fizz of soap on her hands; she cleaned up pots and pans and splashes of red sauce, and thought about Shane finding his mom dead in a bloody bathtub. I wasn’t in a real good place, Shane had said. The master of understatement. Claire wasn’t so sure that she’d ever have been able to smile again, laugh again, function again, if that had happened to her, especially after losing a sister and winning the Drunk-Asshole Lottery with Dad. How did he do it? How did he keep it together, and stay so…brave?

She wanted to cry for him, but she was almost sure that he’d have been embarrassed, so she kept the misery inside, and scrubbed dishes clean. He doesn’t deserve this. Why don’t they all just leave him alone? Why does he have to be the one everybody beats on?

Maybe just because he’d shown he could take it, and make himself stronger for it.

The kitchen door swung open, and she jumped, expected Shane, but it was Michael. He walked over to the sink, ran some cold water in his hands, and splashed it over his face and the back of his neck.

“Bad night,’” Claire said.

“Tell me about it.’” He cut a sideways look toward her.

“Do you think he’s right? About them, you know, killing his mother?’”

“I think Shane’s carrying around a load of guilt the size of Trump Tower. And I think it helps him to be angry.’” Michael shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s possible. But I don’t think we can know one way or the other.’”

That felt…sick, somehow. No wonder Shane was so reluctant to talk about it. She tried to imagine living with that kind of uncertainty, those memories, and failed.

She was glad she did.

“So,’” Michael said. “I’ve got about three hours until morning. We need to make some plans about what we’re going to do, and what we’re not going to do.’”

Claire nodded and set a plate aside to dry.

“First thing is, none of you leave the house,’” Michael said. “Got it? No school, no work. You stay indoors. I can’t protect you if you go outside.’”

“We can’t just hide!’”

“We can for a while, and we will. Look, Shane’s dad can’t run around out there forever. It’s a temporary problem. Someone’s going to find him.’” The unspoken subject of what would happen to Shane’s dad after he was caught was a whole other issue. “As long as we don’t do anything directly that ties us to whatever his dad does, we’re okay. Amelie’s word is good for that.’”

“You’re putting a lot of trust in—’”

“A vampire, yeah, I know.’” Michael shrugged and leaned a hip against the counter, looking down on her. “What choices do we have?’”

“Not too many, I guess.’” Claire studied him more closely. He looked tired. “Michael? Are you okay?’”

Now he looked surprised. “Sure. Shane’s the one who’s got issues. Not me.’”

No, Michael was all good. Killed, dismembered, buried, reborn…yeah, just another day in the life. Claire sighed. “Guys,’” she said mournfully. “Michael, I’ll stay home today, but I really do have to go to school, you know. Really.’” Because her missing school was like a caffeine addict going without a daily jolt.

“Your education or your life, Claire. I’d rather you be alive and a little bit dumber.’”

She met his eyes squarely. “Well, I wouldn’t. I’ll stay home today. I don’t promise about tomorrow.’”

He smiled, leaned forward, and put a warm sloppy kiss on her forehead. “That’s my girl,’” he said, and left. She sighed again, this time happily, and found herself grinning. Michael might be Eve’s new main crush, but he was still available as an oh-my-God-how-cute-is-he thrill.

Claire finished the dishes and went back to the living room. The TV was on, tuned to some forensics show, and Shane was slumped on the couch staring at it. No sign of Eve or Michael. Claire hesitated, thinking longingly about bed and forgetting about all this for a while, but Shane just looked so…alone.

She went and settled in next to him. She didn’t say anything, and neither did he, and after a while his arm went around her and that was all right.

She fell asleep there, braced against his warm body.

It was nice.

Claire supposed that she should have known Shane might have nightmares—bad ones—but she’d never really thought about it. When Shane jerked and rolled off the couch, she thumped flat onto the cushions. The TV was still on—a flickering confusion of color—and Claire flailed and scrambled for some grasp of what was going on through the fog of interrupted sleep.

“Shane?’”

He was on his side on the floor, shuddering, curled up into a ball. Claire slid down next to him and put her hands on his broad back. Under the thin T-shirt his skin was clammy, and his muscles were as tense as steel cable. He was making these sounds, agonizing gasps that weren’t quite sobs but weren’t quite not, either.

She didn’t know what to do. She’d felt helpless a lot in the past few hours, but this was worse, somehow, because Michael and Eve were nowhere to be seen, and she wasn’t sure if Shane would have wanted them to see him like this. Or if he wanted her to see him like this. Shane was all about the pride.

“I’m okay,’” he gasped out. “I’m okay. I’m okay.’” He didn’t sound okay. He sounded scared, and he sounded like a little boy.

He managed to sit up. Claire wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tight, and after a few seconds of resistance she felt him sag against her, and hug her back. His hand stroked her hair as if she might break. “Shhh,’” she whispered to him, the way her mother had whispered it to her when things got bad. “You’re here. You’re safe. You’re okay.’” Because wherever he’d been in his dreams, he hadn’t been any of those three things.

If she expected him to talk about it, she was disappointed. He pulled back, avoided looking at her, and said, “You should go to bed.’”

“Yeah,’” she agreed. “You first.’”

“Can’t sleep.’” Didn’t want to, more likely; his eyes were red and blurred with exhaustion. “I just need some coffee or something.’”

“Coke?’”

“Whatever.’”

She fetched it for him, and Shane downed it like a frat boy at a mixer, belched, and shrugged an apology. “Where’s Michael?’” She spread her hands. “Eve?’” She did another silent pantomime of ignorance. “Well, at least somebody’s getting a good night’s sleep. They together?’”

Claire blinked. “I—don’t know.’” She hadn’t thought about it, actually. She hadn’t seen them go, didn’t know if they’d gone to separate rooms or if Eve had finally worked up the courage to proposition Michael. ’Cause he’d never make the first move. That just wasn’t Michael, somehow.

“Christ, I hope so,’” Shane said. “They deserve a little fun, even in hell.’” He was kidding, but not. He did see Morganville as hell. Claire had to admit, he had a point. It was hell, and they were the lost souls, and it was coming on toward morning and she’d been scared for what felt like a very, very long time….