Rachel Caine: Dead Girls' Dance

And locking it.

She looked in terror at Eve. Eve lunged forward, grabbed Claire, and hustled her around to the far side of the bed…and stepped in front of her. Claire looked frantically around for a weapon. Anything. She picked up a heavy-looking skull, but it was plastic, light and utterly useless.

Eve yanked a field hockey stick from under her bed.

“Let’s do this nice,’” the man said. “That little stick isn’t going to do you any good, and it’s only going to piss me off.’” His lips widened in a grin, revealing big, square, yellow teeth. “Or get me all excited.’”

Claire felt sick and faint. This wasn’t like Shane coming into her room the other night, not at all. This was the flip side of men, and although she’d heard about it—you couldn’t grow up without that—she’d never really seen it. Some jerks, sure, but there was something horrible about this guy. Something that looked at her and Eve like pieces of meat he was about to devour.

“You’re not touching us,’” Eve said, and raised her voice. “Shane! Shane, get your ass up here now!’”

There was a touch of panic in her voice, although she was putting on a good front. Her hands were shaking where they gripped the hockey stick.

The man glided around the end of the bed, prowling like a cat. Six feet tall, at least, and as broad as two of Eve, maybe bigger. His bare arms were ripped with muscle. His blue eyes looked shallow and hungry.

Claire heard the thump of footsteps outside, and then a bang as Shane fetched up against the locked door. He rattled the knob and pounded hard. “Eve! Eve, open up!’”

“She’s busy!’” the biker yelled, and laughed. “Oh yeah, gonna be real busy.’”

“No!’” Shane screamed it, and the door shook with the strength of the blows he put into it. “Stay away from them!’”

Eve backed Claire up, all the way to the window. She took a swipe at the biker, who just stepped back out of range, still laughing.

“Get your dad!’” she yelled at Shane. “Make him do something!’”

“I’m not leaving you!’”

“Do it, Shane, now!’”

Footsteps pounded down the hall. Claire swallowed, feeling suddenly even more alone and vulnerable. “Do you think his dad will come?’” she whispered. Eve didn’t answer.

“Swear to God, you come near us and—’”

“Like this?’” The biker sidestepped a slash from the hockey stick, grabbed it on the way, and yanked it out of Eve’s hands. He tossed it over his shoulder to land on the floor with a clatter. “This near enough? Whatcha gonna do, doll girl? Cry all over me?’”

Claire hid her eyes as the biker reached out for Eve with one tattooed hand.

“No,’” Eve said breathlessly. “I’m going to let my boyfriend beat the crap out of you.’”

There was a dull thunk of wood meeting flesh, and a howl. Then another, harder thunk, and a crash as a body hit the floor.

The biker was down. Claire stared at him in disbelief, then looked past him, to the figure standing there with the field hockey stick in both hands.

Michael Glass. Back from the dead, again, a gorgeous blond avenging angel, breathing hard. Flushed with anger, blue eyes flashing. He glanced at the two girls, making sure they were okay, and then put the blade of the hockey stick on the biker’s throat. The biker’s eyes fluttered and tried to open, but didn’t make it. He relaxed into unconsciousness.

Eve flew toward Michael, leaped over the biker’s body, and fastened herself around Michael like she was trying to be sure he was all there. He must have been; he winced from the force of the impact, then kissed her on the top of her head without looking away from the man lying limp at their feet.

“Eve,’” he said, and then glanced at her and gentled his tone. “Eve, honey, go open the door.’”

She nodded, stepped away, and followed instructions. Michael handed her the hockey stick, grabbed the biker by the shoulders, and towed him quickly out into the hallway. He closed the door again, locked it, and said, “Right, here’s the story—Eve, you knocked him out with the hockey stick and—’”

He didn’t finish, because Eve grabbed him and pushed him back against the door, wrapping herself around him like a Goth-girl coat. She was crying again, but silently; Claire could see her shoulders shaking. Michael sighed, put his arms around her, and bent his blond head to rest against her dark one.

“It’s okay,’” he murmured. “You’re okay, Eve. We’re all okay.’”

“You were dead!’” she wailed, muffled by the fact that her face was still pressed against his chest. “Damn you, Michael, you were dead, I saw them kill you, and—they—’”

“Yeah, it wasn’t too pleasant.’” Something passed fast and hot across Michael’s eyes, the reflection of a horror that Claire thought he didn’t want to remember or share. “But I’m not a vampire, and they can’t kill me like a vampire. Not while the house owns my soul. They can do pretty much anything to my body, but it just—gets fixed.’”

The prospects of that made Claire sick, like standing on the edge of a huge and unexpected drop. She stared at Michael, wide-eyed, and saw he understood the same things she did: that if Shane’s father and his merry band of thugs found out, they might decide to test that out. Just for fun.

“That’s why I’m not here,’” Michael said. “You can’t tell them. Or Shane.’”

“Not tell Shane?’” Eve pulled back. “Why not?’”

“I’ve been watching,’” he said. “Listening. I can do that when I’m, you know—’”

“A ghost?’” Claire supplied.

“Exactly. I saw—’” Michael didn’t go on, but Claire thought she knew what he’d been about to say.

“You saw Shane’s dad hit him,’” she said. “Right?’”

“I don’t want to make him keep secrets from his dad. Not now.’”

Footsteps pounding up the stairs, then slowing when they hit the hallway. Michael touched his finger to his lips and eased out from Eve’s frantic grip. He pressed his lips silently to hers.

“Hide!’” Claire whispered. He nodded and opened the closet, rolled his eyes at the mess inside, and forced his way in. Burying himself in piles of clothes, Claire hoped. Miranda had been trapped in that closet after trying to knife Eve, before the house had caught fire; she’d really done a job of messing things up. Eve was going to be furious.

Both girls jumped at a hard blow on the door. Eve hastily unlocked the door and stepped back as it flew open, and Shane charged through.

“How—?’” He was breathing hard, and he had a crowbar in his hand. He’d have broken through the locks, Claire realized, if he’d had to. She came toward him slowly, trying to figure out what he was feeling, and he dropped the crowbar and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her up off the ground. His face was buried in the crook of her neck, and the warm, fast pump of his breath on her skin made her shiver in raw delight. “Oh Christ, Claire. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’”

“Not your fault,’” Eve said. She held out the field hockey stick. “Look! I hit him. Um, twice.’”

“Good.’” Shane kissed Claire’s cheek and let her slide back down to the floor, but he kept hold of her arms. His eyes, bright under the bruises and swelling, surveyed her carefully. “He didn’t hurt you? Either of you?’”

“I hit him!’” Eve repeated brightly, and brandished the stick again for emphasis. “So, no, he didn’t hurt us. We hurt him. You know, all alone. Without any help. Um, so…where’s your dad? He charges to the rescue pretty slow.’”

Shane closed the door and locked it again as the biker in the hall groaned and rolled over on his side. He didn’t answer, which was answer enough. Shane’s dad needed his bikers more than he needed Eve or Claire. They were expendable. Worse, they’d probably just become rewards.