Rachel Caine: Dead Girls' Dance

“You’re looking for me?’”

They all turned.

Michael was standing at the top of the stairs. He was pulling on a plain black T-shirt with blue jeans, and he looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. His feet, Claire saw, were bare as usual.

Shane sat down. Fast and hard. Michael took his time coming down the stairs, making sure they were all focused on him instead of Shane, to give Shane time to get through what he was feeling—which was, Claire thought, a lot to pack into less than thirty seconds. Relief, of course, which brought a sheen of tears to his eyes. And then, predictably, he got pissed, because, well, he was a guy, he was Shane, and that was how he handled being scared.

So, really, by the time Michael padded down the last step to the wooden floor and crossed over to the couch through the circle of police, things were pretty much just as they’d been, except that Shane wasn’t about to push the button on his nuclear temper.

“Hey,’” Michael said to him. Shane moved over on the couch to make room. Guy room, which left plenty of empty space. “What’s up?’”

Shane looked at him like he might be crazy, not just nearly dead part-time. “Cops, man.’”

“Yeah, man, I can see that. How come?’”

“You’re telling me you actually slept through all that? Dude, you need to see a doctor or something. Maybe you have a disease.’”

“Hey, I need the sleep. Lisa, you know.’” Michael grinned. They were good at this, Claire realized—good at playing normal, even if there wasn’t a normal thing in the world about their situation. “So what happened?’”

“You weren’t aware of intruders in your home?’” asked Gretchen, who’d been watching the exchange—and the correspondingly shrinking chance of bloodshed—with disappointment. “The others described it as quite loud.’”

“He can sleep through World War Three,’” Shane said. “I told you, it’s some kind of sickness or something.’”

“I thought you said you didn’t know where he was,’” Hans said. “Wasn’t he in his room?’”

Shane shrugged. “I’m not his keeper.’”

“Ah,’” Gretchen said, and smiled. “That is where you are wrong, little knight. You are all your brothers’ keepers here in Morganville, and you can all suffer for their crimes. Which you should know and remember.’”

Hans looked bored now. “Sergeant,’” he said, and the most senior uniformed cop stepped out of the ranks. “I leave this in your hands. If you find anything out of the ordinary, let us know.’”

Just like that, the vamps were gone. They moved fast, and silently; they didn’t seem to want to blend in much, Claire thought, and tried not to tremble. She sank down on the couch beside Shane, nearly crawling into his lap. Eve crowded in between the two boys.

“Right.’” The sergeant didn’t look happy with having the whole thing dumped in his lap again, but he also looked resigned. Couldn’t be the easiest thing, Claire thought, having vamps for bosses. They didn’t seem to have a long attention span. “Glass, right? Occupation?’”

“Musician, sir,’” Michael said.

“Play around town, do you?’”

“I’m rehearsing for some upcoming gigs.’”

The cop nodded and flipped pages in a black leather book. He ran a thick finger down a list, frowned, and said, “You’re behind on your donations, Glass. About a month.’”

Michael threw a lightning-fast glance at Shane. “Sorry, sir. I’ll get out there tomorrow.’”

“Better, or you know what happens.’” The cop ran down the roster. “You. Collins. You still unemployed?’” He gave him a stare. A long one. Shane shrugged, looking—Claire thought—as dumb as possible. “Try harder.’”

“Common Grounds,’” Eve volunteered before he could start in on her. “Eve Rosser, sir, thank you.’” She was vibrating all over—she was so nervous—which was funny; when she’d been on her own, she’d been cool and calm. She had hold of both Michael’s and Shane’s hands. “Although, um, I’m thinking of making a change.’”

The cop seemed bored now. “Yeah, okay. You, the kid. Name?’”

“Claire,’” she said faintly. “Um…Danvers. I’m a student.’”

He looked at her again, and kept looking. “Shouldn’t you be in the dorm?’”

“I have permission to live off campus.’” She didn’t say from whom, because it was primarily herself.

He watched her for another few seconds, then shrugged. “You live off campus, you follow the town rules. Your friends here’ll tell you what they are. Watch on campus about how much you pass along—we got enough problems without panicking students. And we’re real good at finding blabbermouths.’”

She nodded.

That wasn’t the end of it, but it was the end of her discussions with them; the police poked around a little, took some pictures, and left the house a few minutes later without another word to any of them.

For a good ten seconds after the police closed the front door—or closed it as much as was possible with a busted lock—there was silence, and then Shane turned to Michael and said, “You fucking bastard.’” Claire swallowed hard at the tight fury in his voice.

“You want to take this outside?’” Michael asked. He sounded neutral, almost calm. His eyes were anything but.

“What, you can leave the house now?’”

“No, I meant another room, Shane.’”

“Hey,’” Eve said, “don’t—’”

“Shut up, Eve!’” Shane snapped.

Michael came off the couch like somebody had pushed him; he reached down, grabbed Shane by the T-shirt, and yanked him upright. “Don’t,’” he said, and gave him one hard shake. “Your father’s an asshole. It’s not a disease. You don’t have to catch it.’”

Shane grabbed him in a hug. Michael rocked back a little from the impact, but he closed his eyes and hung on for a moment, then slapped Shane’s back. And of course Shane slapped his back, too, and they stepped way apart. Manly. Claire rolled her eyes.

“I thought you were dead,’” Shane said. His eyes looked suspiciously bright and wet. “I saw you die, man.’”

“I die all the time. It doesn’t really take.’” Michael gave him a half smile that looked more grim than amused. “I figured it was better to let your dad think he’d taken me out. Maybe he wouldn’t be so hard on the rest of you.’” His gaze swept over the bruises on Shane’s face. “Brilliant plan. I’m sorry, man. Once I was dead, I couldn’t do much until night came around again.’”

He said it so matter-of-factly that Claire felt a shiver. “Do you remember…you know, what they did to you?’”

Michael glanced at her. “Yeah,’” he said. “I remember.’”

“Oh hell.’” Shane collapsed back on the sofa and put his head in his hands. “God, man, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’”

“Not your fault.’”

“I called him.’”

“You called him because it looked like we were all pulling an Alamo. You didn’t know—’”

“I know my dad,’” Shane said grimly. “Michael, I want you to know, I wasn’t—I didn’t come here to do his dirty work. Not…not after the first week or so.’”

Michael didn’t answer him. Maybe there was no answer to that, Claire thought. She scooted closer to Shane and stroked his ragged, shoulder-length fine hair. “Hey,’” she said. “It’s okay. We’re all okay.’”

“No, we’re not.’” Shane’s voice was muffled by his hands. “We’re totally screwed. Right, Mike?’”

“Pretty much,’” Michael sighed. “Yeah.’”

“The cops will find them,’” Eve said in an undertone to Claire as both girls stood in the kitchen making pasta. Pasta, apparently, was a new thing that Eve wanted to try. She frowned down at the package of spaghetti, then at the not-yet-bubbling pot of water. “Shane’s dad and his merry band of assholes, I mean.’”