Rachel Caine - Glass Houses

Claire blinked. “Archaeologist.”

Monica’s eyes turned winter cold. “Oh, you’d better start running away now.”

Claire went back to where Jennifer was standing, and reached behind her to drag the phone out from between the boxes. She held it up to Monica. “Speak clearly for the microphone. I want to make sure my friends get every word.”

For a second, nobody moved, and then Monica laughed. “Damn, freak. You’re going to be fun.” She glanced away from Claire, behind her. “Not until I say so.”

Claire looked over her shoulder. Gina was standing there, right there, and she had some kind of metal bar in her hand.

Oh my God. There was something awful and cold in Gina’s eyes.

“She’ll get hers,” Monica said. “And we’ll get to watch. But hey, why hurry? I haven’t had this much fun in years.”

Claire’s legs felt like they’d suddenly turned into overcooked spaghetti. She wanted to throw up, wanted to cry, and didn’t dare do anything but pretend to be brave. They’d kill her down here if they thought she was bluffing.

She walked past Gina, between two girls who wouldn’t meet her eyes at all, and put her hand on the doorknob. As she did, she glanced down at the phone’s display.

NO SIGNAL.

She opened the door, walked outside, and found her bags dumped on the grass where she’d been abducted. She pocketed the phone, picked up the bags, and walked across the parking lot to Eve’s car. Eve was still sitting in the driver’s seat, looking clown-pale and scared.

Claire tossed her bag in the back as Eve asked, “What happened? Did they see you?”

“No,” Claire said. “No problems. I’ve got class. I’ll see you later. Thanks, Eve. Um—here’s your phone.” She passed it over. Eve took it, still frowning. “I’ll be home before dark.”

“Better be,” Eve said. “Seriously, Claire. You look—weird.”

Claire laughed. “Me? Check the mirror.”

Eve flipped her off, but the same way she’d have flipped off Shane. Claire grabbed her backpack, closed the door, and watched Eve’s big black car cruise away. Heading back to work, she guessed.

She got halfway to her chem lab when her reaction hit her, and she sat down on a bench and cried silently into her hands.

Oh my God. Oh my God, I want to go home! She wasn’t sure if that meant back to Michael’s house, or all the way home, back in her room with her parents watching over her.

I can’t quit. She really couldn’t. She never in her life had been able to, even when it might have been the smart thing to do.

She wiped her swollen eyes and went to class.

Nobody killed her that afternoon.

After the first couple of hours, she quit expecting it to happen, and focused on class. Her back-to-back labs weren’t too much of a disaster, and she actually knew the answers in history. Bet Monica wouldn’t, she thought, and looked guiltily around the classroom to see if Monica was there, or one of her crew. It wasn’t a big class. She didn’t see anybody who’d been in the basement.

She made it to the grocery store after class without getting killed, too. Nobody jumped her while she was picking out lettuce and tomatoes, or while she was in line for checkout. She thought the guy at the meat counter had looked suspicious, though.

She walked back to the Glass House, watching for vampires in the fading afternoon and feeling pretty stupid for even thinking about it. She didn’t see anybody except other college students, strolling along with bulging backpacks. Most of them traveled in bunches. Once she got past the area that catered to students, the stores were closed, lights off, and what few people were walking were hurrying.

At the corner of Gone with the Wind and The Munsters, the front gate was open. She closed it behind her, unlocked the door with the shiny new key that she’d found on her dresser that morning, and slammed the door behind her.

There was a shadow standing at the end of the hallway. A tall, broad shadow in a grungy yellow T-shirt and low-slung, faded jeans frayed at the bottom. A shadow in bare feet.

Shane.

He just looked at her for a few seconds, then said, “Eve put your crap up in your room.”

“Thanks.”

“What’s that?”

“Stuff for dinner.”

He cocked his head slightly, still staring at her. “For a smart girl, you do some stupid things. You know that?”

“I know.” She walked toward him. He didn’t move.

“Eve says you never saw Monica.”

“That’s what I said.”

“You know what? I’m not buying it.”

“You know what?” she shot back. “I don’t care. Excuse me.” She ducked past him, into the kitchen, and set her bags down. Her hands were shaking. She balled them into fists and started setting out things on the counter. Ground beef. Lettuce. Tomatoes. Onions. Refried beans. Hot sauce, the kind she liked, anyway. Cheese. Sour cream. Taco shells.

“Let me guess,” Shane said from the doorway. “You’re making Chinese.”

She didn’t answer. She was still too pissed and—all of a sudden—too scared. Scared of what, she didn’t know. Everything. Nothing. Herself.

“Anything I can do?” His voice sounded different. Quieter, gentler, almost kind.

“Chop onions,” she said, although she knew that wasn’t exactly what he meant. Still, he came over, picked up the onions, and grabbed a huge scary-looking knife from a drawer. “You have to peel it first.”

He shot her a dirty look, just like he would have Eve, and got to work.

“Um—I should probably call my mom,” Claire said. “Can I use the phone?”

“You pay for long distance.”

“Sure.”

He shrugged, reached over, and grabbed the cordless phone, then pitched it underhanded to her. She nearly dropped it, but was kind of proud she didn’t. She got out a big iron skillet from under the cabinet and put it on the counter, heated up the burner, and found some oil. As it was warming, she read over the thin little recipe book she’d bought at the store one more time, then dialed the phone.

Her mom answered on the second ring. “Yes?” It was never hello with her mother.

“Mom, it’s Claire.”

“Claire! Baby, where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you for days!”

“Classes,” she said. “Sorry. I’m not home that much.”

“Are you sleeping enough? If you don’t get enough rest, you’ll get sick—you know how you are—”

“Mom, I’m fine.” Claire frowned down at the recipe on the counter in front of her. What did sauté mean, exactly? Was it like frying? Diced, she understood. That was just cutting things into cubes, and Shane was doing that already. “Really. It’s all okay now.”

“Claire, I know it’s hard. We really didn’t want you to go even just the few hundred miles to TPU, honey. If you want to come back home, your dad and I would be so glad to have you back!”

“Honestly, Mom, I don’t—I’m fine. It’s okay. Classes are really good”—that was stretching the truth—“and I’ve made friends here. They’re looking out for me.”

“You’re sure.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Because I worry. I know you’re very mature for your age but—”

Shane opened his mouth to say something. Claire made frantic NO NO NO motions at him, pointing at the phone. Mom! she mouthed. Shane held up both hands in surrender and kept chopping. Mom was still talking. Claire had missed some of it, but she didn’t think it really mattered exactly. “—boys, right?”

Wow. Mom radar worked even at this distance. “What, Mom?”

“Your dorm doesn’t allow boys to come up to the rooms, does it? There’s someone on duty at the desk to make sure?”