Rachel Caine: Ghost Town

Shane believed—and Claire had no reason to doubt it—that Monica had set the fire that had burned his home and killed his sister and destroyed his family’s life. That wound was never going to heal; he was always going to hate Monica with an intense passion that was two seconds from violence. Not that Monica didn’t egg him on, most of the time; she seemed to enjoy Shane’s rage.

Claire couldn’t think of much to say, so she kissed him again, and it felt sweet, warm, a little distracted on his part. She shouldn’t have brought it up, she thought. He didn’t like to think about those days at all. “Hey,” she said. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” His smile came back again, and she thought he was back in the here and now, with her, instead of in the bad old days. “Glad you weren’t here for all that, actually. I wasn’t really all that good to know then. Plus, if you want to know the truth, I was kind of a jerk in junior high.”

“All boys are jerks in junior high. And mostly in high school. And then they grow up to be jerks.” She kissed him again. “But not you, Mr. McStabby.”

“Oh, man, Eve’s not letting that go, is she?”

“Not remotely.” She felt herself smiling, too. Shane always brought out some crazy streak in her she didn’t think she had—that was probably what worried her parents so much about the two of them. But Claire liked it. When she was with Shane, she could feel —feel the blood pounding in her veins, feel every nerve awake and alive and hungry to be touched. Everything was brighter, clearer, cleaner. A little crazy was a good thing. “Want to make out?”

“Maybe I should take a shower. I smell like sweat and barbecue.”

“You smell great,” she said. “I love the way you smell.”

“You’re getting sappy, you know that? And maybe a little creepy.”

“Oh, shut up, you like it.”

He did, she could tell, especially when they were under the blanket, curled together on the couch, and Amelie’s refuge was their own, their private, sweet, warm heaven where nothing could intrude.

Well, except for Claire’s cell phone alarm, which was set for seven a.m.

That sucked.

Morning was hard, partly because neither one of them had slept much, and partly because Claire just didn’t want to ever leave the room, but she finally managed to kiss her way free and get down the stairs to the closed door.

It didn’t open. “Shane!” she yelled. “I have to go !”

His evil laugh drifted down to her, movie-campy, but he pushed the button and let her out. She beat Eve to the shower, of course; Eve was not voluntarily an early riser, and it was her day off, so Claire could take her time in the hot water, and get herself pulled together without knocks rushing her along. When she opened the bathroom door and stepped out, she found Shane sitting on the floor next to it, blocking the hallway with his legs. He had on his rumpled jeans, but he’d left off the shirt.

So not fair. She loved looking at his chest, and he knew it.

“We have got to get a second bathroom in this monster,” he said, and kissed her on his way through the doorway. “You take way too long.”

“Do not!” she said, outraged, but the wood had already closed between them. “I take half the time Eve does!”

“Still too long!” he called from inside. “Girls.”

She banged on the door, then winced and hoped it wasn’t loud enough to wake Eve or Michael, and went down the hall to her room. Shane had been right: she had never made the bed yesterday, but she did it today, putting the pillows right and everything. Then she pulled out old, ratty clothes and her worst high-tops.

There was no sense in wearing good clothes to Myrnin’s lab. They were just going to get splashed with icky stuff, or stuff that burned holes, or stuff that never came out, no matter how creative you got with laundry add-ins. Claire gulped a bowl of cereal in the kitchen, standing over the sink, and started to wash the bowl—but it was Shane’s kitchen day, and with a grin, she put the dirties down unscrubbed.

Served him right for trying to make her late.

She dumped most of the contents of her backpack, except for the things that were relevant to her project with Myrnin, then added in the slim history book and took off.

It was a beautiful morning. She’d missed sunrise, but it was still a little cool, and the sky was a beautiful clear blue with only a few scrubby clouds on the horizon. At this hour, the sun seemed friendly, not like the scorching monster it would become by noon. Claire skipped down the steps and out the gate, and set off for Common Grounds first. No Oliver, and this time both the baristas were new employees. Her name was spelled wrong again.

Coffees in hand, she headed for Myrnin’s lab.

Morganville was busy at this hour, with practically everybody who wasn’t a vampire taking advantage of the sunshine and the safety it afforded. Kids walked in groups, even so; most adults didn’t go alone, either, but go they did. Claire met several people she knew as she walked along.

It felt like home. That was actually a little sad.

A police car pulled up next to her on the street, idling and crawling along, and Claire saw Hannah Moses wave at her. The police chief of Morganville rolled down her window. “You need a ride, Claire?”

Hannah was . . . impressive. She just had this completely competent air about her, and there was a scar on her face that should have looked disfiguring, but on her, it made her seem even more intimidating—until she smiled. Then she looked beautiful. Today, she was wearing her cornrowed hair back in a loose knot, elegant and kind of formal. For Hannah, anyway.

“No, thanks,” Claire called back. “I appreciate it, but it’s a really nice day. I should walk. And you’re probably busy.”

“Busy is vampires fighting over the snack supply,” Hannah said. “This isn’t it, trust me. Okay, then, have a nice day. If you see Myrnin, tell him I said I want my slow cooker back.”

“Your—You let him borrow something you put food in?”

Hannah’s smile disappeared. “Why?”

“Um, never mind. I’ll make sure it gets disinfected before you get it back. But don’t lend anything to him again unless you can put it in some kind of sterilizer.”

That made even Hannah look nervous. “Thanks. Tell crazy boy I said hey.”

“I will,” Claire promised. “Hey, if you don’t mind me asking—when did he borrow it from you?”

“He just showed up at my door one night about a week ago, said, ‘Hi, nice to meet you. Can I borrow your Crock-Pot?’ Which I understand is pretty typical Myrnin.”

“Very,” Claire agreed. “Well, I should go; the coffee’s getting cold—”

“Be safe,” Hannah said, and accelerated away. Claire increased her pace, too, walking faster as she passed through a couple of neighborhoods and arrived in the street with the Day House—a mirror of Michael Glass’s, because they were both Founder Houses, the original houses built by Amelie and Myrnin. The Founder Houses not only looked the same; they had the same kind of energy to them, Claire had found. In some it was stronger than others, but they all had that slightly unsettling sensation of . . . intelligence. It was strongest in the Glass House, almost a personality of its own.

The Day House was at the end of the cul-de-sac. Hannah’s relatives lived there, or at least Gramma Day still did; Claire didn’t know where Lisa Day had gone, except that she’d chosen wrong during Morganville’s civil uprisings of a few months back, gotten jailed, and been released after a couple of weeks. She’d never come back to the Day House; that was certain. Claire knew Hannah was still looking for her cousin. There were only a few possibilities—Lisa had managed to escape Morganville, or she’d gone into hiding, or she’d never made it out of jail alive. For Gramma Day’s sake, Claire hoped Lisa had escaped. She wasn’t the friendliest person, but the old lady loved her.