Rachel Caine: Glass Houses

“What in the hell are you talking about?”

“Michael. He’s a ghost.”

“Oh, come on! Bullshit! The dude sits here and eats dinner with us!”

She shrugged, threw up her hands, and walked away. “You wanted to know. Fine. Now you know. And by the way? I’m fine.”

“What do you mean, he’s a ghost?” Shane caught up with her, came around her, and blocked her path. “Oh, come on. Ghost? He’s as real as I am!”

“Sometimes,” she agreed. “Ask him. Better yet, watch him at dawn. And then tell me what he is, because ghost is about all I know to call him. The thing is, he can’t leave the house, Shane. He can’t help us. He’s stuck here, and during the day, he can’t even talk to us. He just—drifts.” She batted away the cold air again. “Stop it, Michael. I know you’re pissed. But he needs to know.”

“Claire!” Shane grabbed her and shook her out of sheer frustration. “You’re talking to thin air!”

“Whatever. Let go, I’ve got things to do.”

“What things?”

“Packing!” She pulled free and went upstairs, two steps at a time. Shane always slammed his door when he was mad; she tried it out. It helped.

The cold spot followed her. “Dammit, Michael, get out of my room, you pervert!” Could you even be a pervert if you were dead? She supposed you could, if you had a working body half the time. “I swear, I’m going to start taking my clothes off!”

The cold spot stayed resolutely put until she got the hem of her T-shirt all the way up to her bra line, and then faded away. “Chicken,” she said, and paced the room, back and forth. Worried and more than a little scared.

Shane pounded on the door, but she stretched out on her bed, put a pillow over her face, and pretended not to hear him.

Dusk came, pulling a blue gauze over the sky; she watched the sun sink halfway down the horizon, then unlocked her door and stormed out. Shane was just coming out of Michael’s bedroom. Still looking for someone he wasn’t going to find. Not the way he thought, anyway.

“Michael!” Claire yelled from her end, and felt the cold settle around her like an icy blanket. Shane spun around, and she felt the mist gather, thick and heavy, and then she actually saw it, a faint gray shape in the air….

Eve’s door flew open. “What in the hell is going on around here?” she yelled. “Could you guys keep it down to aircraft-carrier noise?”

…And then Michael just…appeared. Midway between all three of them, forming right out of a thick gray heavy mist, taking on color and weight.

Eve screamed.

Michael collapsed to his hands and knees, retching. He fell on his side, then rolled over to stare up at the ceiling. “Shit!” he gasped, and just stayed there, fighting for breath. His eyes looked wet and terrified, and Claire realized that it was like this for him every day. Every night. Frightening beyond anything she could even imagine.

Claire looked down the hall at Shane. He was frozen in place, mouth open, looking like a cartoon of himself. Eve, too, from her angle.

Claire walked over, held out a hand to Michael, and said, “Well, I guess that settles things.”

He gave her a filthy, wordless look, and took her hand to pull himself up. He staggered and leaned against the wall for support, shaking his head when she tried to help. “In a minute,” he said. “Takes a lot out of you.”

Eve said, in a high, squeaky, airless voice, “The ghost! You’re the ghost Miranda was talking about! Oh my God, Michael, you’re the ghost ! You bastard !”

He nodded, still concentrating on breathing.

Eve got control of her voice and squealed, “That is without a doubt the coolest damn thing I have ever seen in my entire life !”

Shane looked…pale. Pale and shaken and—how predictable was this? — pissed. Michael met his eyes, and the two of them looked at each other for a long, silent second before Shane said, “This is why you asked me to come back.”

“I—” Michael coughed. When he sagged this time, Eve threw his arm around her shoulders. He looked surprised, then pleased. “Not just because—”

“I get it,” Shane said. “I get it, man. I do. What the hell happened while I was gone?”

Michael just shook his head. “Later.”

No, it wasn’t that Shane was pissed after all, Claire realized. He turned away and pounded down the stairs before she could say anything, but she’d seen his eyes. She knew.

He lost Alyssa. Now he thinks he’s lost Michael, too. She didn’t know how that felt, not really; she could imagine, but she was—she knew it—sheltered. She’d never really lost anybody, not even a grandparent. Grief was something in TV shows, in movies, in books.

She had no idea what to say to him. She’d thought that he’d just take it in stride, the way Shane seemed to take things, but…

“Claire,” Michael said. “Don’t let him leave.”

She nodded and left Eve supporting Michael in the hallway, the two of them looking surprisingly comfortable with the whole living-dead-not-dead thing. She supposed that if a ghost had to have a girlfriend, well, Eve was just about the best choice there was.

Shane was standing downstairs, just…standing. Not paying much attention to her or anything else. She reached out, ready to tap him on the shoulder, let him know she was here even if she was no help at all, but just then, there was a knock on the front door.

“I swear to God, if that’s Miranda—,” he grated. His fists were clenched at his sides.

“No, I think it’s for me,” Claire said, and darted around him to run down the hallway. She checked the peephole first, and sure enough, there was Oliver, standing on the doorstep and looking uncomfortable. She supposed he had good reason…. Jeez, hanging around anywhere after dark in Morganville had to be like hanging an EAT ME sign on your back.

She unlocked the door and swung it open.

“I don’t have a lot of time,” he said. “Where are they? Shane and Eve?”

“Inside,” she said, and pulled it open wider, the universal signal for Come in . He didn’t. He held up a hand instead, waved it in the air in front of him with a puzzled frown. “Oliver?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask me in,” he said. “It seems this house has some very detailed Protections in place. I can’t come in unless you ask.”

“Oh. Sorry about that.” She was about to ask him inside when it occurred to her that maybe it wasn’t the best idea, just asking people in without okaying it with the rest of the Glass House first. Especially since she was living here only another day. “Um, can you wait just a second?”

“No, Claire, I really can’t,” Oliver said impatiently. He was still wearing the hippie gear from Common Grounds, but somehow he looked…different. Odd. “Please invite me in. I don’t have time to wait.”

“But I—”

“Claire, I can’t help you if you won’t trust me ! Now quickly, before it’s too late, let me in!”

“But I—” She pulled in a deep breath. “All right. I invite you—”

“No!” It was a roar from behind her, absolutely terrifying, and she threw herself to one side and covered her mouth with both hands to hold in her scream. It wasn’t Shane bearing down on her; it was Michael. Shane was behind him, and Eve. “Claire, get back!”

Michael looked like an avenging angel, and nobody argued with angels. Claire scurried backward, still holding her hands over her mouth, as Michael strode past her, right up to the doorway. The edge of his territory.

Oliver looked disappointed but, she saw, not particularly surprised. “Ah, Michael. Good to see you again. I see you’re surviving nicely.”