Rachel Caine: Glass Houses

“Claire. Claire Danvers.”

“Welcome to the Glass House, Claire Danvers.”

“But only temporarily.”

“Yeah, temporarily.”

They shared a smile, uneasily, and Michael cleared up the plates this time, and Claire went back up to her room, to spread out her books on the built-in desk and start the day’s studying.

She listened to him playing downstairs, the soft and heartfelt accompaniment to the night, as she fell into the world she loved.

Morning dawned bright and early, and Claire woke up to the smell of frying bacon. She stumbled to the bathroom down the hall, yawning, barely aware that she was scantily dressed in her extra-long T-shirt until she remembered, Oh my God, boys live here, too . Luckily, nobody saw, and the bathroom was free. Somebody had already been in it this morning; the mirrors were still frosted with steam, and the big black-and-white room glistened with drops of water. It smelled clean, though. And kind of fruity.

The fruity smell was the shampoo, she found, as she lathered and rinsed. When she wiped the mirror down and stared at herself, she saw the patterns of bruises up and down both sides of her pale skin. I could have died. She’d been lucky.

She tossed the T-shirt back on, then dashed back to her room to dig out the panties she’d rescued yesterday from the washer. They were still damp, but she put them on anyway, then dragged on blue jeans.

On impulse, she opened the closet, and found some old stuff pushed to the back. T-shirts, mostly, from bands she’d never heard of, and a few she remembered as ancient. A couple of sweaters, too. She stripped off her bloodstained shirt and dragged on a faded black one, and, after thinking about it, left her shoes on the floor.

Downstairs, Eve and Shane were arguing in the kitchen about the right way to make scrambled eggs. Eve said they needed milk. Shane said milk was for pussies. Claire padded silently past them, over to the refrigerator, and pulled out a carton of orange juice. She splashed some into a glass, then silently held the carton up for the other two. Eve took it and poured herself a glass, then handed it to Shane.

“So,” Shane asked, “Michael didn’t pitch you out.”

“No.”

Shane nodded slowly. He was even bigger and taller than she remembered, and his skin was a golden brown color, like he’d spent a lot of time in the sun over the summer. His hair had that bronzy sheen, too. Sun-bleached where Michael was naturally blond. Okay, truthfully? They’re both hotties. She wished she hadn’t really thought that, but at least she hadn’t said it out loud.

“Something you should know about Michael,” he said. “He doesn’t like taking chances. I wasn’t sure he’d let you stay. If he did, then he got a good vibe off of you. Don’t disrespect that, because if you do—I won’t be happy, either. Got it?”

Eve was silently watching the two of them, which Claire figured was a new experience for Eve, at least the not-talking part. “He’s your friend, right?”

“He saved my life,” Shane said. “I’d die for him, but it’d be a dumbass thing to do to thank him for it. So yeah. He’s been my friend all my life, and he’s more like a brother. So don’t get him in trouble.”

“I won’t,” she said. “No milk in the eggs.”

“See?” Shane turned back to the counter and started cracking eggs into a bowl. “Told ya.”

“Traitor,” Eve sighed, and poked at the frying bacon with a fork. “Fine. So. How was Linda last night?”

“Laura.”

“Whatever. Not like I have to remember a name for more than one date, anyway.”

“She bowled a one fifty.”

“God, you’re such a disappointment. Share, already!”

Shane smiled tightly down at the eggs. “Hey, not in front of the kid. You got the note.”

“Kid?” That hurt. Claire dropped plates on the counter with a little too much force. “Note?”

Shane handed over a folded piece of paper. It was short and sweet, and signed “Michael”…and it told them that Claire was underage, and that the two of them were supposed to look out for her while she was in the house.

Cute. Claire didn’t know whether to be pissed or flattered. On reflection…pissed. “I’m not a kid!” she told Shane hotly. “I’m only, like, a year younger than Eve!”

“And girls are much more mature.” Eve nodded wisely. “So you’re about ten years older than Shane, then.”

“Seriously,” Claire insisted. “I’m not a kid!”

“Whatever you say, kid,” Shane said blandly. “Cheer up. Just means you don’t have to put up with me telling you how much sex I didn’t get.”

“I’m telling Michael,” Eve warned.

“About how much sex I didn’t get? Go ahead.”

“No bacon for you.”

“Then no eggs for you. Either of you.”

Eve glowered at him. “Prisoner exchange?”

They glared at each other, then swapped pans and started scooping.

Claire was just about to join in when the front doorbell rang, a lilting silvery sound. It wasn’t a scary sound, but Eve and Shane froze and looked at each other, and that was scary, somehow. Shane put his plate down on the granite countertop, licked bacon grease from his fingers, and said, “Get her out of sight.”

Eve nodded. She dropped her own plate onto the counter, grabbed Claire’s wrist, and hustled her to the pantry—a door half hidden in the shadow of the awkwardly placed refrigerator. It was big, dark, and dusty, shelves crowded with old cans of yams and asparagus and glass jars of ancient jellies. There was a light with a string pull above, but Eve didn’t turn it on. She reached behind a row of murky-looking cans of fruit and hit some kind of a switch. There was a grating rumble, then a click, and part of the back wall swung open.

Eve pushed it back, reached in, and grabbed a flashlight that she handed to Claire. “Inside,” she said. “I’m going to turn the light on out here, but try to keep that flashlight off if you hear voices. It could show through the cracks.” Claire nodded, a little dazed, and crouched down to crawl through the small opening into…a big empty room, stone floored, no windows. A few spiderwebs in the corners, and loads of dust, but otherwise it didn’t look too bad.

Until Eve shut the door, and then the darkness slammed down, and Claire hastily flicked on the flashlight, moved to the nearest corner, and knelt down there, breathing fast and hard.

Just one minute ago, they’d been laughing about bacon and eggs, and all of a sudden…what the hell had just happened? And why was there a secret compartment in this house? One with—so far as she could tell—no other entrances or exits?

She heard distant voices, and hastily thumbed off the flashlight. That was bad. She’d never really been afraid of the dark, but dark wasn’t really dark most of the time…. There were stars, moonlight, distant streetlights.

This was pitch-black, take-no-prisoners dark, and she had the ice-cold thought that anything could be right next to her, reaching out for her, and she’d never see it coming.

Claire bit down hard on her lip, gripped the flashlight tightly, and slid down the wall until her searching hand found the rough wood of the door she’d come in through. A little light was leaking in around it, barely a glimmer but enough to ease the pounding in her chest.

Voices. Shane’s, and someone else’s. A man’s voice, deeper than Shane’s. “…standard inventory.”

“Sir, there’s nobody living here but what’s on the roster. Just the three of us.” Shane sounded subdued and respectful, which didn’t seem like him. Not that she knew him that well, but he was kind of a smart-ass.