Rachel Caine: Dead Girls' Dance

“Huh,’” his father said, and stared at Eve for a few seconds before shrugging. “Turned into a wannabe, then, just about as bad in my book. What about the kid?’”

He was talking about Claire.

“I’m not a kid, Mr. Collins,’” Claire said, and clambered to her feet. She felt awkward, all strings and wires, nothing working right. Her heart was hammering so hard, it hurt to breathe. “I live here. My name is Claire Danvers. I’m a student at the university.’”

“Are you.’” He didn’t make it a question. “You look a little young.’”

“Advanced placement, sir. I’m sixteen.’”

“Sweet sixteen.’” Mr. Collins smiled again, or tried to—the scar pulled the right side of his mouth down. “Never been kissed, I’ll bet.’”

She felt her face go red. Couldn’t stop it, or keep herself from looking at Shane. Shane’s jaw was set tight, muscles fluttering. He wasn’t looking at anything in particular.

“Oho! So it’s like that. Well, you watch yourself around the jailbait, my boy.’” Still, Shane’s dad looked weirdly pleased. “My name’s Frank Collins. Guess you figured out that I’m this one’s father, eh? Used to live in Morganville. I’ve been gone a few years now.’”

“Since the fire,’” Claire said, and swallowed hard. “Since Alyssa died. And—Shane’s mom?’” Because Shane had never said a word about her.

“Molly died later,’” Mr. Collins said. “After we left. Murdered by the vamps.’”

Eve spoke for the first time—a soft, tentative voice. “How did you remember? About Morganville, after you left town? I thought nobody did, once they left.’”

“Molly remembered,’” Mr. Collins replied. “Little bit at a time. She couldn’t forget Lyssa, and that opened the door, inch by inch, until it was all there. So we knew what we had to do. We had to bring it down. Bring it all down. Right, boy?’”

Shane nodded. It didn’t look like agreement so much as a wish not to get smacked for disagreeing.

“So we spent time preparing, and then I sent Shane here back to Morganville to map the town for us, identify targets, do all the stuff we wouldn’t have time to do once we rolled in. Couldn’t wait any longer once he yelled for help, though. Came running.’”

Shane looked sick. He wouldn’t look at Eve, or Claire, or Michael’s body. Or his father. He just—stared. There were tear tracks on his cheeks, but Claire couldn’t remember seeing him cry, really.

“What are you going to do?’” Claire asked faintly.

“First thing, I guess we bury that,’” Mr. Collins said, and nodded toward Michael’s shrouded body. “Shane, best you stay out of the way—’”

“No! No, don’t you touch him! I want to do it!’”

Mr. Collins gave him a long frowning look. “You know what we’re going to have to do’”—he glanced at Eve and Claire—“to make sure he doesn’t come back.’”

“That’s folklore, Dad. You don’t have to—’”

“That’s the way we’re going to do things. The right way. I don’t want your friend coming back at me next time the sun goes down.’”

“What is he talking about?’” Claire whispered to Eve. Sometime in the last few minutes, Eve had gotten up to stand next to her, and their hands were clasped. Claire’s fingers felt cold, but Eve’s were like ice.

“He’s going to put a stake in his heart,’” Eve said numbly. “Right? And garlic in his mouth? And—’”

“You don’t need all the details,’” Mr. Collins interrupted. “Let’s get this done, then. And once we’re finished, Shane’s going to draw us a map of where to find the high-rolling vampires of Morganville.’”

“Don’t you know?’” Claire asked. “You lived here.’”

“Doesn’t work like that, little girl. Vamps don’t trust us. They move around—they have all kinds of Protection to keep themselves safe from retribution. But my boy’s found a way. Right, Shane?’”

“Right,’” Shane said. His voice sounded absolutely flat. “Let’s get this done.’”

“But—Shane, you can’t—’”

“Eve, shut up. Don’t you get it? There’s nothing we can do for Michael now. And if he’s dead, it won’t matter what we do to him. Right?’”

“You can’t!’” Eve yelled it. “He isn’t dead!’”

“Well,’” Mr. Collins said, “I guess that’ll be his problem when we plant a stake in him and chop off his head.’”

Eve screamed into her clenched fists, and collapsed to her knees. Claire tried to hold her up, but she was more solid than she looked. Shane instantly whirled and crouched next to her, hovering protectively and glaring at his father and the two motorcycle dudes standing guard over Michael’s body.

“You’re a bastard,’” he said flatly. “I told you, Michael was no threat to you before, and he’s no threat now. You killed him already. Let it go.’”

For answer, Shane’s father nodded to his two friends—accomplices?—who then reached down, seized hold of Michael’s body, and dragged him out and around the corner to the kitchen door. Shane bolted back to his feet.

His father stepped into his path and backhanded him across the face, hard enough to stagger him. Shane put up his palms—defense, not offense. Claire’s heart sank.

“Don’t,’” Shane panted. “Don’t, Dad. Please don’t.’”

His father lowered the fist he’d raised for a second blow, looked down at his son, and turned away. Shane stood there, shaking, eyes cast down, until his father’s footsteps moved away, toward the kitchen.

Then Shane spun around, lunged forward, and grabbed Claire and Eve by the arms. “Come on!’” he hissed, and towed them both stumbling toward the stairs. “Move!’”

“But—,’” Claire protested. She looked over her shoulder. Shane’s father had gone to look out the window, presumably at whatever they were doing in the backyard (oh God) to Michael’s body. “Shane—’”

“Upstairs,’” he said. He didn’t leave them much choice; Shane was a big guy, and this time he was using his muscle. By the time Claire got herself together, they were upstairs, in the hallway, and Shane was shoving open the door to Eve’s room. “Inside, girls. Lock the door. I mean it. Don’t open it for anybody but me.’”

“But—Shane!’”

He turned to Claire, took hold of both of her shoulders in those big hands, and leaned forward to plant a warm kiss on her forehead. “You don’t know these guys,’” he said. “You’re not safe. Just—stay in there until I get back.’”

Eve, looking dazed, murmured, “You have to stop them. You can’t let them hurt Michael!’”

Shane locked eyes with Claire, and she saw the grim sadness. “Yeah,’” he said. “Well, that’s pretty much done. Just—I have to look out for you now. It’s what Michael wants.’”

Before Claire could summon up anything else in protest, he pushed her back over the threshold and slammed the door. He banged on it once with his fist. “Lock it!’”

She reached up and flipped the dead bolt, then turned the old-fashioned key, as well. She stayed where she was, because she could feel, somehow, that Shane hadn’t moved away.

“Shane?’” Claire pressed herself against the door, listening. She thought she could hear his uneven breathing. “Shane, don’t let him hurt you again. Don’t.’”

She heard a breathless sound that was more like a sob than a laugh. “Yeah,’” Shane agreed faintly. “Right.’”

And then she heard his footsteps moving away, down the hall to the stairs.

Eve was sitting on her bed, staring into space. The room smelled like a fireplace, thanks to the fire that had raged next door, in Claire’s room, but there was only some smoke damage, nothing really serious. And besides, with all the black Goth stuff everywhere, you couldn’t even really tell.