Rachel Caine - Dead Girls' Dance

Just then, two figures staggered out of the side door, bathed in black smoke, and collapsed to the pavement. Eve and Claire dashed to them. For a second, Claire didn’t even know who they were, so blackened were they by smoke, and then she recognized Joe Hess under the grime.

The other one was Travis Lowe. They were both coughing and retching up black stuff.

“Get up!’” Eve ordered, and grabbed Hess’s arm to drag him away from the building. “Come on, get up!’”

He did, weaving badly, and Claire managed to get Lowe to do the same. They made it about halfway to the police car, and then Lowe sat down in the open parking lot, coughing his lungs out, gasping. Claire crouched down next to him, wishing she could do something, wishing the damn fire department would come, wishing….

“We’re too late,’” Eve said. She was watching the sun climb over the horizon. “It’s dawn. We’re too late.’”

Hess gasped, “No. Not yet. Richard—had Monica—’”

“What? Where?’” Claire spun to look at him. Hess was nearly as bad off as his partner, but he was able to form words, at least. “They’re still alive?’”

“Should have been right behind us,’” Lowe wheezed.

Claire didn’t think about it. If she’d given herself time, she would have talked herself out of it, but her brain was on hold and all that was left was instinct. It wasn’t just that there was still hope to save Shane; it was that she couldn’t leave anybody to die like that.

She just couldn’t.

She heard Eve yelling her name, but she didn’t stop, couldn’t stop; she kept running until she was in the smoke, and then she dropped to her knees and crawled into the hot, suffocating darkness. She flailed with her hands, trying to find something, anything, and kept her eyes tight shut. She could barely breathe, even close to the ground, and every breath she did manage to take was tainted and toxic, more harm than good.

Okay, this was a really bad idea.

She didn’t dare crawl too far; in the chaos and darkness, she’d never find her way out again. Something fell near her with a huge crash, and fire roared overhead. Claire went flat on the floor and curled into a ball, then—when she wasn’t roasted or crushed—forced herself to keep moving. One minute. One minute and then straight back out.

She wasn’t sure she could survive a minute in here.

Her searching fingers brushed cloth. Claire opened her eyes and was instantly sorry, because the smoke burned and stung, and she couldn’t see a thing anyway. But she had her hand on cloth, and yes, that was a leg, a pant leg….

And that was a hand that turned and gripped hers. An unrecognizable voice rasped, “Get Monica out!’”

A new burst of fire lit up the darkness, and she saw Richard Morrell lying there, curled around his sister. Protecting her. Monica looked up, and there was sheer terror in her face. She reached out blindly. Claire took her hands and pulled her back the way she’d come in, straight back. She felt the draft of air coming in the door, and that helped guide her. “Grab your brother!’” she yelled. Monica took Richard’s hand, and Claire hauled with all her strength, dragging them both.

She didn’t make it.

She wasn’t sure how it happened exactly…. One minute she was pulling; the next she was down, and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop coughing. Oh no. No no no. But she couldn’t get up, couldn’t force her body to move.

Shane…

Somebody grabbed her by the ankles and yanked, hard. Claire had just enough presence of mind left to hold on to Monica’s wrist.

“Shit!’” Eve was groaning, coughing, and all of a sudden Claire was outside lying in the sun, watching black smoke billow into the air. “Claire! Breathe, dammit!’”

It wasn’t so much breathing as hacking up a lung, but at least air was moving in and out. She heard someone else coughing next to her, and raised her head to see Monica on her hands and knees, spitting out black phlegm.

And now Eve was dragging Richard Morrell out by his feet.

Eve collapsed next to them, coughing, too, and somewhere on the distant edges of the fire’s roar, as if somebody had flipped a switch, Claire heard sirens. Oh, now they were coming. Perfect. Someone’s tax dollars at work, even if it wasn’t hers…

Claire rolled painfully to her feet. There were burned patches in her clothes, and she smelled burned hair, too. She was going to hurt later, but for now, she was just glad to be alive.

“Get Monica,’” she wheezed at Eve, and grabbed one of Monica’s arms. Eve grabbed the other, and they half dragged her across the parking lot to the shattered gate. Hess and Lowe were leaning up against the police car. Lowe, incredibly, was smoking a cigarette, but he dropped it and managed to get to his feet to stumble over to where Richard was lying, and help him up.

“Michael!’” Eve rapped on the window of the police car. Claire blinked her watering eyes; she could just barely see his shadow through the tinted glass. “Move over!’” Eve opened the back door carefully, making sure he was out of the direct sun, and loaded Monica into the backseat, then got in with them. Monica made a groan of protest. “Oh, shut up already and be grateful.’”

Claire went around to the front seat, got in, and asked blankly, “Who’s driving?’”

Richard Morrell slid in behind the wheel. “Joe and Travis will stay here,’” he said. “I’ll bring you back for your car. Everybody, hold on.’”

As Richard backed the car out and then accelerated toward Founder’s Square, lights and sirens going, Monica managed to get her first coherent words out between coughs.

“Claire…bitch!’” Her voice sounded raw and hoarse. “You…think this…makes us…friends?’”

“God, no,’” Claire said. “But I think you kinda owe me.’”

Monica just glared.

“I’ll call it even if Shane walks away.’”

Monica coughed again. “You wish.’”

Founder’s Square was insane. Richard had to stop the car almost a block away, just outside of a cordon of police cars with flashing lights. Claire got out and had another coughing fit, bad enough that Eve patted her nervously on the back and did the talking for her to the grim-faced uniformed policewoman standing guard at the barricade. “We need to see Mayor Morrell,’” she said.

“Mayor’s busy,’” the policewoman said. “You’ll have to wait.’”

“But—’”

Monica got out of the backseat, and the cop’s eyes widened. “Miss Morrell?’” Well, Claire admitted, the smoke-stained scarecrow with frizzed hair didn’t look much like the usual Monica. She secretly hoped somebody would take pictures. And put them on the Internet.

When Richard got out, as well, the policewoman gulped. “Jesus. Sorry, sir. Hang on, I’ll get someone here.’” The policewoman got on her radio and passed on information; while they waited, she passed out bottled water from her squad car. Claire took two bottles and ducked back into the patrol car’s backseat, where Michael was sitting, eyes shut tight. He stirred and looked at her when she called his name. He didn’t look good—paper pale, burned in places, and apparently sick, too. She handed him the water. “I don’t know if it’ll help, but…?’”

Michael nodded and gulped some down. Claire cracked her own bottle and swallowed, nearly moaning in ecstasy. Nothing had ever tasted so good in Claire’s entire life as that lukewarm, flat water washing away the smoke from her throat.

“I thought—’” Michael licked his lips and let his head flop back against the seat. “I thought I’d be stronger. I’ve seen other vampires in the daytime.’”