Glass Houses
Chapter Ten

She was too wired to sleep, and besides, her back hurt, and she couldn't stand the thought of waiting even one more night to get started. Brandon hadn't seemed like the kind of guy to wait for his revenge, and Shane - Shane wasn't the kind of guy to not hold up his end of a deal, either.
If he's stupid enough to want to get bitten, fine, but he's not using me for an excuse.
Shane hadn't come out of his room all night. She hadn't heard a thing when she'd listened - carefully - at his door. Eve had mimed headphones and turning up an invisible stereo. Claire could understand that; she'd spent lots of hours trying to blow out her own eardrums to avoid the world.
Eve lent her a laptop - a retro thing, big and black and clunky, with a biohazard-symbol sticker on the front. When Claire plugged it into the broadband connection and booted it up, the desktop graphic was a cartoon Grim Reaper holding a road sign instead of a scythe - a road sign that read MORGANVILLE, with an arrow pointing down.
Claire clicked on a couple of folders - guiltily, but she was curious - and found they were full of poetry.
Eve liked death, or at least, she liked to write about it. Florid romantic stuff, all angst and blood and moonlit marble...and then Claire noticed the dates. The last of the poetry had been done three years ago.
Eve would have been, what, fifteen? She'd been starry-eyed about vampires back then, but something had changed. No poetry at all for the past three years...
Eve walked in the open door. "Working okay?" she asked. Claire jumped, guilty, and gave her the thumbs-up as she clicked open the Internet connection. "Okay, I called my cousin in Illinois. She's going to let us use her PayPal account, but I have to send her cash, like, tomorrow. Here's the account." She handed over a slip of paper. "We're not going to get her killed, right?"
"Nope. I'm not buying much from any one place. A lot of people buy leather and tools and stuff. And paper - how old is this book supposed to be?"
"Old."
"Was it on vellum?"
"Is that paper?"
"Vellum is the oldest kind of paper they used in books," Claire said. "It's sheepskin."
"Oh. I guess that, then. It's really old."
Vellum would be hard. You could get it, but it was easy to trace. But it wasn't any good being freak smart if you couldn't get around things like that.... Oh, yeah, she needed to think about using somebody else to do the research, too. Too dangerous having tracks that led right back here to the Glass House...
Claire went to work. She didn't even notice Eve going and shutting the door behind her.
For four days, Claire studied. Four solid days. Eve brought her up soup and bread and sandwiches, and Shane dropped by once or twice to tell her she was crazy and he wanted her to stay the hell out of his business; Claire didn't pay any attention. She got like that when she was completely inside of something.
She heard him, and she said something back, but no way was she listening. Like her parents, Shane eventually gave up and went away.
Michael came to her room just a little before dawn. That one surprised her long enough to drag her out of her trance for a while. "How's it going?" he asked.
"Mission Save Shane? Yeah, it's going," she said. "I have to work the long way around. No traces.
Don't worry - even if the vamps get angry, they won't be able to prove we did anything but bring them what we thought they were looking for."
Michael looked pleased, but worried. He worried a lot. She supposed that being trapped the way he was, that was really all he could do - fight anything that got inside to hurt them, and worry about everything else. Frustrating, she guessed.
"Hey," she said, "when does Eve go to work?"
"Four o'clock."
"But that's - "
"The night shift. I know. She's safe enough there, though, and I don't think any vamp is stupid enough to try to get in the way of that damn car. It's like being run over by a Hummer. I made her promise that Oliver would walk her to the car, and Shane's going to get her from the sidewalk inside."
Claire nodded. "I'm going with her."
"To the coffee shop? Why?"
"Because it's anonymous," she said. "Every college student in there has a laptop, and the place has free wireless. If I'm careful, they won't be able to trace who's looking up how to fake-age a book."
He gave her an exasperated look. On him, it looked cute. God. She was still noticing. She really needed to stop that, but hey. Sweet sixteen and never been kissed...
"I don't like Eve out there at night. You're definitely not going."
"If I do it here, everybody could be in danger. Including Eve."
Oh, low blow - she saw his eyes shift, but he toughed it out. "So your answer is that I let you go out there, risk your life, sit in a coffee shop with Brandon, and pretend like that's safer? Claire. In no way does that equal safer."
"Safer than the vampires deciding that everybody in this house deliberately set out to cheat them out of the thing they want most," Claire said. "We're not playing, are we? I mean, I can stop if you want, but we don't have anything else we can trade for Shane's deal. Nothing big enough. I'd let Brandon - you know - but somehow I don't think - "
"Over my - " Michael stopped and laughed. "I was going to say, 'Over my dead body,' but - "
Claire winced.
"No," he said.
"You're not my dad," she pointed out, and all of a sudden...remembered.
Shane, at the hospital, when she'd been drugged up, had said, They called your parents. Also, she distinctly remembered the words freaked out.
Oh, crap!
"Dad," she said aloud. "Oh no...um, I need to use the phone. Can I?"
"Calling your parents? Sure. Long distance - "
"Yeah, I know. I pay for it. Thanks."
She picked up the cordless phone and dialed her home number. It rang five times, then flipped over to the machine. "Hello, you've reached Les and Katharine Danvers and their daughter, Claire. Leave us a message!" It was her mom's bright, businesslike voice. When the beep sounded, Claire had a second of blind panic. Maybe they were just out shopping. Or...
"Hi, Mom and Dad, it's Claire. I just wanted to - um - say hi. I should have called you, I guess. That lab accident thing, that was nothing, really. I don't want you to be worried about me - everything's just fine.
Really."
Michael, leaning against the doorframe, was making funny faces at her. That seemed like Shane's job, somehow. She stuck her tongue out at him.
"I just - I just wanted to say that. Love you. Bye."
She hung up. Michael said, "You ought to get them to come and take you home."
"And leave you guys in this mess? You're in it because of me. Shane's in it because of me. Now that Monica knows he's back..."
"Oh, believe me, I'm not underestimating how much trouble we're in, but you can still go. And you should. I'm going to try to convince Shane to get out, too. Eve - Eve won't go, but she should."
"But - " That leaves you alone, she thought. Really alone. There was no getting out for Michael. Not ever.
Michael looked up and out the window, where the sky was gradually washing from midnight blue to a paler dawn. "My time's up," he said. "Promise me you won't go with Eve tonight."
"I can't."
"Claire."
"I can't," she said. "I'm sorry."
He didn't have time to argue, though she could see he wanted to. He walked down the hall; she heard his bedroom door close, and thought about what she'd seen downstairs in the living room. She wasn't sure how she'd handle that if she had to face it every day - it looked really painful. She supposed the worst of it, though, was his knowing that if he'd been alive, been able to walk around in the daylight, he'd have been able to stop Shane from doing what he'd done.
I wouldn't have to if you'd step up and watch my back! Shane had yelled at him, and yeah, that must have hurt just about worse than dying.
Claire went back to work. Her eyes burned, her muscles ached, but in some strange and secret place, she was happy to finally be doing something that wasn't just protecting herself, but protecting other people, too.
If it worked.
The strange thing was, she just knew it would. She knew.
She really was a freak, she decided.
Claire woke up at three thirty, bleary-eyed and aching, and struggled into a fresh T-shirt and a pair of jeans that badly needed washing. One more day, she decided, and then she'd brave the washing machine in the basement. She had monster bed-head, even though she'd barely slept for three hours, and had to stick her head under the faucet and finger fluff her hair back to something that wasn't too puke-worthy.
She stuck the laptop into the messenger-bag case and dashed downstairs; she could hear Eve's shoes clumping through the house, heading for the door.
"Wait up!" she yelled, and pelted down the stairs and through the living room just as the front door slammed. "Crap..."
She opened it just before Eve succeeded in locking it. Eve looked guilty. "You were going to leave me,"
Claire said. "I told you I wanted to go!"
"Yeah, well...you shouldn't."
"Michael talked to you last night."
Eve sighed and fidgeted one black patent leather shoe. "Little bit, yeah. Before he went to bed."
"I don't need everybody protecting me. I'm trying to help!"
"I get it," Eve said. "If I say no and drive off, what are you going to do?"
"Walk."
"That's what I was afraid of." Eve shrugged. "Get in the car."
Common Grounds was packed with students reading, chatting, drinking chai and mochas and lattes.
And, Claire was gratified to see, working on laptops. There must have been a dozen going at once. She gave Eve a thumbs-up, ordered a cup of tea, and went in search of a decent spot to work. Something with her back to the wall.
Oliver brought her tea himself. She smiled uncertainly at him and minimized the browser window; she was reading up on famous forgeries and techniques. Dead giveaway, with emphasis on dead. Not that she disliked Oliver, but any guy who seemed to be able to enforce rules on the vampires was somebody she couldn't trust real far.
"Hello, Claire," he said. "May I sit?"
"Sure," she said, surprised. Also, uncomfortable. He was old enough to be her dad, not to mention kind of hippie-dippie. Though, being a fringer herself, she didn't mind that part so much. "Um, how's it going?"
"Busy today," he said, and settled into the chair with a sigh of what sounded like gratitude. "I wanted to talk to you about Eve."
"Okay," she said slowly.
"I'm concerned about her," Oliver said. He leaned forward, elbows on the table; she hastily closed the cover of the laptop and rested her hands protectively on top of it. "Eve seems distracted. That's very dangerous, and I'm quite sure that by now you understand why."
"It's - "
"Shane?" he asked. "Yes. I thought that was probably the case. The boy's gotten himself into a great deal of trouble. But he did it with a pure heart, I believe."
Her pulse was hammering faster, and her mouth felt dry. Boy, she really didn't like talking to authority figures. Michael was one thing - Michael was like a big brother. But Oliver was...different.
"I might be able to help," Oliver said, "if I had something to trade. The problem is, what does Brandon want that you, or Shane, can give? Other than the obvious." Oliver looked thoughtful, and tapped his lips with a fingertip. "You are a very bright girl, Claire, or so Eve tells me. Morganville can use bright girls.
We might be able to bypass Brandon altogether, perhaps, and find a way to make a deal with someone...else."
Which was pretty much exactly what they'd already talked about, only without the Oliver part. Claire tried not to look horribly guilty and transparent. "Who?" she asked. It was a reasonable question. Oliver smiled, and his dark eyes looked sharp and cool.
"Claire. Do you really expect me to tell you? The more you know about this town, the less safety there is for you. Do you understand that? I've had to create my own peace here, and it only works because I know exactly what I'm doing, and how far I can go. You - I'm afraid your first mistake might be your last."
Her mouth wasn't dry anymore; it was mummified. She tried to swallow, but got nothing but a dry click at the back of her throat. She hastily picked up her tea and sipped it, tasting nothing but glad of the moisture.
"I wasn't going to - "
"Don't," he cut her off, and his voice wasn't so kind this time. "Why else would you be here today, when you know Brandon is likely to show up any time after dark? You want to make a deal with him to save Shane. That much is obvious."
Well, it wasn't why she was here, but still, she tried to look guilty about that, too. Just in case. It must have worked, because Oliver sat back in his chair, looking more relaxed.
"You're clever," he said. "So is Shane. But don't let it go to your heads. Let me help."
She nodded, not trusting her voice not to quiver or break or - worse - betray how relieved she was.
"That's settled, then," Oliver said. "Let me talk to Brandon and a few others, and see what I can do to make this problem go away."
"Thanks," she said faintly. Oliver got up and left, looking like any skinny ex-hippie who hadn't quite let go of the good old days. Inoffensive. Ineffective, maybe.
She couldn't rely on adults. Not for this. Not in Morganville.
She opened up the laptop, maximized the browser window, and went back to work.
Like always, time slipped away; when she looked up next, it was night outside the windows, and the crowd in the coffee shop had switched over from studious to chatty. Eve was busy at the bar, talking and smiling and generally being about as cheerful as a Goth chick could be.
She went quiet, though, when Brandon slouched in from the back room and took his accustomed seat at the table in the darkest corner. Oliver brought him some kind of drink - God, she hoped it wasn't blood or anything! - and sat down to have some intense and quiet conversation. Claire tried to look like she wasn't there. She and Eve exchanged a few glances between customers at the bar.
Putting together the book, Claire had learned during the long research marathon, was work for experts, not sixteen-year-old (nearly seventeen) wannabes. She could put something together, but - to her vast disappointment - anybody with an eye for rare books could spot a fake pretty easily, unless it was expertly done. She suspected that her leatherworking and bookbinding skills needed work.
All of which brought her back to square one, Shane Gets Bitten. Not acceptable.
A line in one of the dozens of windows she'd opened caught her eye. Nearly anything can be created for the movies, including reproductions of ancient books, because the reproduction only has to fool one of the senses: vision....
She didn't have time - or cash - to get some Hollywood prop house to make a book for her, but it gave her an idea.
A really good idea.
Or a really bad one, if it didn't work.
Nearly anything can be created for the movies.
She didn't need the book. She just needed a picture.
By the time midnight rolled around - and Common Grounds ushered the last caffeine addict out into the night - Claire was reasonably sure she could pull it off, and she was too tired to care if she couldn't. She packed up the laptop and leaned her head on her hand, watching while Eve cleaned up cups and glasses, loaded the dishwasher, chatted with Oliver, and deliberately ignored the dark shadow sitting in the corner.
Brandon hadn't taken off after his walking snacks. Instead, he kept sitting there, nursing a fresh cup of whatever it was he was drinking, smiling that cruel, weird little smile at Eve, then Claire, then Eve.
Oliver, drying ceramic cups, had been watching the watcher. "Brandon," he said, and tossed the towel across his shoulder as he began slotting cups into their pull racks. "Closing time."
"You didn't even call last round, old man," Brandon said, and turned that smile on Oliver.
Where it died, fast. After a moment of silence, Brandon stood up to stalk away.
"Wait," Oliver said, very quietly. "Cup."
Brandon looked at him in utter disbelief, then picked up the cup - disposable paper - and dumped it in the trash can. First time he'd bused his own table in a few dozen years, Claire guessed. If ever. She hid a nervous grin, because he didn't seem like the kind of guy - much less vamp - who'd appreciate her sense of humor.
"Anything else?" Brandon asked acidly. Not as if he actually cared.
"Actually, yes. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like the ladies to leave first."
Even in the shadows, Claire saw the gleam of sharp teeth when Brandon silently opened his mouth - flashing his fangs. Showing off. Oliver didn't seem impressed.
"If you wouldn't mind," he repeated. Brandon shrugged and leaned against the wall, arms folded. He was wearing a black leather jacket that drank in light, a black knit shirt, dark jeans. Dressed to kill, Claire thought, and wished she hadn't.
"I'll wait," he said. "But they don't need to worry about me, old man. The boy made a deal. I'll stick to it."
"That's what I'm worried about," Oliver said. "Eve, Claire, get home safe. Go."
Eve slammed the door on the dishwasher and turned it on; she grabbed her purse from behind the counter and ducked out to take Claire's hand and pull her toward the door. She flipped the front sign from OPEN to CLOSED and unlocked the door to let Claire out. She locked it back behind them with a set of keys, then hustled Claire quickly to the car, which sat in the warm glow of the streetlight. The street looked deserted; wind whipped trash and dust into clattering ghosts, and the blinking red stoplights danced and swayed along. Eve unlocked the car in record time, and both of them slammed down the locks once they were inside. Eve started up the Caddy and motored away from the curb; only then did she sigh a little in relief.
And then she gasped, because another car turned the corner and whipped past them in a black blur, stopping at the curb where they'd been parked. "What the hell?" Eve blurted, and slowed down. Claire turned to look back.
"It's a limo," she said. She didn't even think Morganville had a limo, but then she thought about funeral homes and funerals, and got chills. For all she knew, maybe Morganville had more limos than any city in Texas....
This one wasn't part of a procession, though. It was big and black and gleamed like the finish on a cockroach, and as the Caddy inched along, Claire saw a uniformed driver get out and walk around to the back.
"Who is it?" Eve asked. "Can you see?"
The driver handed out a woman. Small - not much taller than Claire herself, she guessed. Pale, with hair that glowed white or blond in the streetlights. They were too far for Claire to get a really good look, but she thought the woman looked...sad. Sad, and cold.
"She's not very tall - white hair? And kind of elegant?"
Eve shrugged. "Nobody I've met, but most of the vamps don't mingle with the little people. Kind of like the Hiltons don't shop at Wal-Mart."
Claire snorted. As Eve turned the corner, she saw the woman standing in front of the door of Common Grounds, and saw Oliver opening it for her. No sign of Brandon. She wondered if Oliver had already sent him out, or if he was making the vamp give them a head start. "How does Oliver do this?" she asked. "I mean, why don't they just...?"
"Kill him? I wish I knew. He's got balls of platinum, for one thing," Eve said. Passing streetlights strobed across her face. "You saw how he did Brandon back there? Dissing him? Unbelievable. Anybody else would be dead by dawn. Oliver...just gets away with it."
Which made Claire even more curious about the why. Or at least the how. If Oliver could get away with it, maybe other people could, too. Then again, maybe other people had already tried, and ended up as organ donors.
Claire turned back face forward, lost in thought, as Eve sped through the silent, watching streets for home. A police car prowled a side street, but somehow in Morganville she thought they weren't looking so much for criminals as potential victims.
At first, she thought she was so tired she was imagining things - that happened when you didn't sleep; you saw ghosts in mirrors and spooky faces at the window - but then she saw something moving fast through the glow of a streetlight. Something pale.
"They're following," Eve said grimly. "Damn."
"Brandon?" Claire tried to scan the sides of the street, but Eve pressed the gas and went faster.
"Not Brandon. Then again, he doesn't have to get his fangs dirty personally - "
Fifty feet ahead, someone stepped in front of the car.
Claire and Eve screamed, and Eve stamped on the brakes. Claire pitched forward against the seat belt, which snapped tight and grabbed so hard she just knew she was going to pass out from pain as the acid burn on her back rubbed against the seat. But the pain flashed away, buried by fear, because the car was fishtailing to a stop on the dark street, and there was a vampire standing there, resting its hands on the hood.
Grinning with way, way too many teeth.
"Claire!" Eve yelled. "Don't look at him! Don't look!"
Too late. Claire had, and she felt something going soft in her head. The fear went away. So did all her good sense. She reached for the lock on the door, but Eve lunged across and grabbed her arm. "No!"
she screamed, and held on as she slammed the car into reverse and burned rubber backward. She didn't get far. Another vampire stepped out, blocking the street. This one was tall, ugly, and old. Same number of gleaming teeth. "Oh, God..."
Claire kept fumbling for the lock on the door. Eve muttered something that would have definitely gotten Claire grounded at home, hit the brakes again, and said, "Claire, honey, this is going to hurt," and then she pushed Claire forward and slapped her on the burn. Hard.
Claire screeched loud enough to deafen dogs three counties away, nearly fainted, and quit trying to get out of the car. Even the two vampires outside the car - who were all of a sudden right there at the doors - flinched and stepped back.
Eve gunned the engine. Claire, half fainting from the red-hot throbbing agony in her back, heard noise like iron nails on a chalkboard, but then it stopped and they were moving, driving, flying through the night.
"Claire? Claire?" Eve was shaking her by the other shoulder, the one that didn't feel like she'd taken another acid bath. "Oh, God, I'm sorry! It was just - he was going to get you to open the door, and I couldn't - I'm sorry!"
Panic was still a hot wire through her nerves, but Claire managed a nod and a weak, sick smile. She understood. She'd always wondered how in the hell anybody could be stupid enough to open up a door to the scary bad thing in the movies, but now she knew. She absolutely knew.
Sometimes, you just didn't have a choice.
Eve was gasping for breath and crying furiously in between. "I hate this," she said, and slammed her hand into the hard plastic steering wheel, over and over. "I hate this town! I hate them!"
Claire got that. She was starting to really hate them, too.