Glass Houses

Chapter 7

S he couldn’t sleep.

Maybe it was the memory of that creepy little Gothic room—which she suspected Eve really, deeply loved—but all of a sudden, her lovely cozy room seemed full of shadows, and the creaks of old wood in the wind sounded…stealthy. Maybe the house eats people, Claire thought, lying there alone in the dark, watching the bone-thin shadows of branches shudder on the far wall. The wind made twigs tap her window, like something trying to get in. Eve had said vampires couldn’t get in, but what if they could? What if they were already inside? What if Michael…?

She heard a soft, silvery note, and knew that Michael was playing downstairs. Something about that helped—pushed the shadows back, turned the sounds into something normal and soothing. It was just a house, and they were just kids sharing it, and if there was anything wrong, well, it was outside.

She must have slept then, but it didn’t feel like it; some noise startled her awake, and when Claire checked the clock next to her bed it was close to five thirty. The sky wasn’t light outside, but it wasn’t totally dark, either; the stars were faded, soft sparkles in a sky gradually turning dark blue.

Michael’s guitar was still going, very quietly. Didn’t he ever sleep? Claire slid out of bed, tossed a blanket over her shoulders over the T-shirt she wore to bed, and shuffled out and into the still-dark hallway. As she passed the hidden door she glanced at it and shivered, then continued on to the bathroom. Once she’d gotten that out of the way—and brushed her hair—she crept quietly down the steps and sat down, blanket around her, listening to Michael play.

His head was down, and he was deep into it; she watched his fingers move light and quick on the strings, his body rock slowly with the rhythm, and felt a deep sense of…safety. Nothing bad could happen around Michael. She just knew it.

Next to him, a clock beeped an alarm. He looked up, startled, and slapped it off, then got up and put his guitar away. She watched, puzzled…. Did he have someplace to be? Or did he actually have to set an alarm to go to bed? Wow, that was obsession….

Michael stood, watching the clock as if it were his personal enemy, and then he turned and walked over to the window.

The sky was the color of dark turquoise now, all but the strongest stars faded. Michael, holding a beer in his hand, drank the rest of the bottle and put it down on the table, crossed his arms, and waited.

Claire was about to ask him what he was waiting for when the first ray of sun crept up in a blinding orange knife, and Michael gasped and hunched over, pressing on his stomach.

Claire lunged to her feet, startled and afraid for the look of sheer agony on his face. The movement caught his attention, and he jerked his head toward her, blue eyes wide.

“No,” he moaned, and pitched forward to his hands and knees, gasping. “Don’t.”

She ignored that and jumped down the stairs to run to his side, but once she was there she didn’t know what to do, didn’t have any idea how to help him. Michael was breathing in deep, aching gasps, in terrible pain.

She put her hand on his back, felt his fever-hot skin burning through the thin cloth, and heard him make a sound like nothing she’d ever heard in her life.

Like someone dying, she thought in panic, and opened her mouth to scream for Shane, Eve, anybody.

Her hand suddenly went right through him. The scream, for whatever reason, locked tight in her throat as Michael—transparent Michael—looked up at her with despair and desperation in his eyes.

“Oh, God, don’t tell them.” His voice came from a long, long way off, a whisper that faded on the shafts of morning sun.

And so did he.

Claire, mouth still open, utterly unable to speak, waved her hand slowly through the thin air where Michael Glass had been standing. Slowly, then faster. The air felt cold around her, like she was standing in a blast from an air conditioner, and the chill slowly faded.

Like Michael.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, and clapped both hands over her mouth.

And muffled the scream that she had to let out or explode.

She might have blacked out a little, because next thing she knew, she was sitting on the couch, next to Michael’s guitar case, and she felt kind of funny. Bad funny, as if her brain had turned liquid and sloshed around in her head.

Weirdly calm, though. She reached over and touched the leather cover of his guitar case. It felt real. When she flipped up the latches and pulled her shaking fingers across the strings, they made a wistful sort of whisper.

He’s a ghost. Michael’s a ghost.

He wasn’t a ghost. How could he be a ghost, if he sat here—right here! — at the table and ate dinner? Tacos! What kind of ghost ate tacos? What kind of…?

Her hand went right through him. Right through him.

But he was real. She’d touched him. She’d—

Her hand went right through him.

“Don’t panic,” she said numbly, out loud. “Just…don’t panic. There’s some explanation….” Yeah, right. She’d stumble over to Professor Wu’s physics class and ask. She could just imagine how that would go over. They’d toss a net over her and pump her full of Prozac or whatever.

He’d said, Oh, God, don’t tell them. Tell who? Tell…? Was he gone? Was he dead?

She was about carried away by panic again, and then something stopped it cold. Something silly, really.

The alarm clock sitting on the table next to the sofa. The one that had gone off just a few minutes ago.

The one that had warned Michael that sunrise was coming.

This happens…every day. He hadn’t acted like it was odd, just painful.

Shane and Eve had both said that Michael slept days. They were both night owls; they were sound asleep right now, and wouldn’t be up for hours yet. Michael could have…disappeared…daily like this with nobody paying attention.

Until she came along, and got nosy.

Don’t tell them. Why not? What was so secret?

She was crazy. That was the only rational explanation. But if she was crazy, she wasn’t rational….

Claire curled up on the sofa, shivering, and felt cold air brush over her again. Ice-cold. She sat up. “Michael?” she blurted, and sat very still. The chill went away, then brushed over her again. “I–I think I can feel you. Are you still here?” Another second or two without the icy draft, and then it drifted across her skin. “So—you can see us?” Yes, she figured, since the warm-cold cycle repeated. “You don’t go away during the day? Oh—um, stay where you are if it’s no, okay?” The chill stayed steady. “Wow. That’s—harsh.” A yes, and weirdly, she felt a little cheered. Okay, she was having a conversation with a breeze, but at least she didn’t feel alone. “You don’t want me to tell Shane and Eve?” Clearly, a no. If anything, it got colder. “Is there anything—anything I can do?” Also a no. “Michael—will you come back?” Yes. “Tonight?” Yes, again. “We are so going to talk.”

The chill withdrew completely. Yes.

She collapsed back on the sofa, feeling giddy and strange and exhausted. There was a ratty old blanket piled near the guitar case; she carefully moved the instrument over to the table (and imagined an invisible Michael following her anxiously the whole way), then wrapped herself in the blanket and let herself drift off into sleep, with the ticking of the grandfather clock and memories of Michael’s guitar as a soundtrack.

That day, Claire went to class. Eve argued with her; Shane didn’t. Nothing much happened, although Claire spotted Monica twice on campus. Monica was surrounded by admirers, both male and female, and didn’t have time for grudges. Claire kept her head down and stayed out of any deserted areas. It was an early afternoon for her—no labs—and although she wanted to get home and wait around for Michael to show up (and boy, she wanted to see how that happened!) she knew she’d drive herself crazy, and make Shane suspicious.

As she walked in that general direction, she spotted the small coffee shop, wedged in between the skateboard shop and a used-book store. Common Grounds. That was where Eve worked, and she’d said to stop by….

The bell rang with a silvery tinkle as Claire pushed open the door, and it was like walking into the living room of the Glass House, only a little more Gothic. Black leather sofas and chairs, thick colorful rugs, accent walls in beige and blood red, lots of nooks and crannies. There were five or six students scattered at café tables and built-in desks. None looked up from their books or computers. The whole place smelled like coffee, a constant simmering warmth.

Claire stood for a second, indecisive, and then walked over to an empty desk and dumped her backpack before going to the counter. There were two people behind the waist-high barrier. One was Eve, of course, looking perky and doll-like with her dye-dark hair in two pigtails, eyes rimmed with liner, and lipstick a dramatic Goth black. She was wearing a black mesh shirt over a red camisole, and she grinned when she spotted Claire.

The other was an older man, tall, thin, with graying curly hair that fell nearly to his shoulders. He had a nice, square face, wide dark eyes, and a ruby earring in his left ear. Hippie to the core, Claire guessed. He smiled, too.

“Hey, it’s Claire!” Eve said, and hurried around the counter to slip her arm around Claire’s shoulders. “Claire, this is Oliver. My boss.”

Claire nodded hesitantly. He looked nice, but hey, a boss. Bosses made her nervous, like parents. “Hello, sir.”

“Sir?” Oliver had a deep voice, and an even deeper laugh. “Claire, you’ve got to learn about me. I’m not a sir. Believe me.”

“That’s true.” Eve nodded wisely. “He’s a dude. You’ll like him. Hey, want a coffee? My treat?”

“I—uh—”

“Don’t touch the stuff, right?” Eve rolled her eyes. “One noncoffee drink, coming up. How about hot cocoa? Chai? Tea?”

“Tea, I guess.”

Eve went back behind the counter and did some stuff, and within a couple of minutes, a big white cup and saucer appeared in front of Claire, with a tea bag steeping in the steaming water. “On the house. Well, actually, on me, because, yikes, boss is right here.”

Oliver, who was working on some complicated machine that Claire guessed was something that made cappuccino, shook his head and grinned to himself. Claire watched him curiously. He looked a little bit like a distant cousin she’d met from France—the same kind of hook nose, anyway. She wondered if he’d been a professor at the university, or just a perpetual student. Either looked possible.

“I heard you had some trouble,” Oliver said, still concentrating on unscrewing parts on the machine. “Girls in the dorm.”

“Yeah,” she admitted, and felt her cheeks burn. “Everything’s okay, though.”

“I’m sure it is. Listen, though: if you have trouble like that, you come here and tell me about it. I’ll make sure it stops.” He said it with absolute assurance. She blinked, and his dark eyes moved to rest on hers for a few seconds. “I’m not without influence around here. Eve tells me that you’re very gifted. We can’t have some bad apples driving you off.”

“Um…thanks?” She didn’t mean to make it a question; it just came out that way. “Thanks. I will.”

Oliver nodded and went back to his work dissecting the coffeemaker. Claire found a seat not far away. Eve slipped out from behind the counter and pulled up a chair next to her, leaning forward, all restless energy. “Isn’t he great?” she asked. “He means it, you know. He’s got some kind of pipeline to—” She made a V sign with her fingers. V, for vampires. “They listen to him. He’s good to have on your side.”

Claire nodded, dunking the tea bag and watching the dark stains spread through the water. “You talk about me to everybody?”

Eve looked stricken. “No! Of course I don’t! I just—well, I was worried. I thought maybe Oliver knew something that…Claire, you said it yourself—they tried to kill you. Somebody ought to be doing something about that.”

“Him?”

“Why not him?” Eve jittered her leg, tapping the thick heel on her black Mary Janes. Her hose had green and black horizontal stripes. “I mean, I get that you’re all about being self-sufficient, but come on. A little help never hurts.”

She wasn’t wrong. Claire sighed, took the tea bag out, and sipped the hot drink. Not bad, even on a blazing-hot day.

“Stay,” Eve said. “Study. It’s a really good place for that. I’ll drive you home, okay?”

Claire nodded, suddenly grateful; there were too many places to get lost on the way home, if Monica had noticed her after all. She didn’t like the idea of walking three blocks between the student streets, where things were bright and busy, and the colorless hush of the rest of the town, where the Glass House lived. She put the tea to one side and unpacked books. Eve went back to take orders from three chattering girls wearing sorority T-shirts. They were rude to her, and giggled behind her back. Eve didn’t seem to notice—or if she did, she didn’t care.

Oliver did. He put down the tools he was using, as Eve bustled around getting drinks, and stared steadily at the girls. One by one, they went quiet. It wasn’t anything he did, exactly, just the steadiness of the way he watched them.

When Eve took their money, each one of the girls meekly thanked her and took her change.

They didn’t stay.

Oliver smiled slightly, picked up a piece of the disassembled machine, and polished it before reattaching it. He must have known Claire was watching, because he said, in a very low voice, “I don’t tolerate rudeness. Not in my place.”

She wasn’t sure if he was talking about the girls, or her staring at him, so she hurriedly went back to her books.

Quadratic equations were a great way to pass the afternoon.

Eve’s shift ended at nine, just as the nightlife at Common Grounds picked up; Claire, not used to the babble, chatter, and music, couldn’t keep her mind on her books anyway. She was glad of an excuse to go when Eve’s replacement—a surly-looking pimpled boy about Shane’s age—took her place behind the counter. Eve went in the back to get her stuff, and Claire packed up her backpack.

“Claire.” She looked up, startled that somebody remembered her name other than, well, people who wanted to kill her, and saw Kim Valdez, from the dorm.

“Hey, Kim,” she said. “Thanks for helping me out—”

Kim looked mad. Really mad. “Don’t even start! You left my cello just laying around out there! Do you have any idea how hard I worked for that thing? Way to be an asshole!”

“But—I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie. You bugged out somewhere. Hope you got your bags and crap. I left them out there just like you left my stuff.” Kim jammed her hands in her pockets and glared at her. “Don’t ask me for any favors again. Right?”

She didn’t wait for an answer, just moved off toward the counter. Claire sighed. “I won’t,” she said, and zipped the backpack. She waited for a few minutes, but the crowd was getting thicker, and Eve was nowhere in sight. She stood up, stepped out of the way of a group of boys, and backed into a table in the shadowy corner.

“Hey,” a voice said softly. She looked back and saw a coffee cup tipping over, and a pale, long-fingered hand catching it before it did. The hand belonged to a young man—she couldn’t really call him a boy—with thick dark hair and light-colored eyes, who’d claimed the table when she wasn’t looking.

“Sorry,” she said. He smiled at her and licked a couple of drops of coffee from the back of his hand with a pale tongue.

She felt something streak hot down her backbone, and shivered. He smiled wider.

“Sit,” he said. “I’m Brandon. You?”

“Claire,” she heard herself say, and even though she didn’t intend to, she sat, backpack thumping on the floor beside her. “Um, hi.”

“Hello.” His eyes weren’t just light; they were pale—a shade of blue so faint it was almost silver. Scary-cool. “Are you here alone, Claire?”

“I—no, I—ah—” She was babbling like an idiot, and didn’t know what was wrong with her. The way he was looking at her made her feel naked. Not in a secretly cool, wow-I-think-he-likes-me way, but in a way that made her want to hide and cover herself. “I’m here with a friend.”

“A friend,” he said, and reached across to take her hand. She wanted to pull it back—she did—but somehow she couldn’t get control of herself. All she could do was watch as he turned her hand palm down, and brought it to his mouth to kiss. The warm, damp pressure of his lips on her fingers made her shiver all over.

Then he brushed his thumb across her wrist. “Where is your bracelet, little Claire? Good girls wear their bracelets. Don’t you have one?”

“I—” There was something sick and terrible happening in her head, something that made her tell the truth. “No. I don’t have one.” Because she knew now what Brandon was, and she was sorry she’d laughed at Eve, sorry she’d ever doubted any of it.

You’ll get yours, Monica had promised.

Well, here it was.

“I see.” Brandon’s eyes seemed to get even paler, until they were pure white with tiny black dots for pupils. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream. “The only question is who will have you, then. And since I’m here first—”

He let go of her, both her hand and her mind, and she fell backward with a breathless little gasp. Somebody was standing behind her chair, a solid warmth, and Brandon was frowning and staring past her.

“You offend my hospitality,” Oliver said, and put his hand on Claire’s shoulder. “You ever bother my friend Claire in here again, Brandon, and I’ll have to revoke the privileges for everyone. Understand? I don’t think you want to be explaining that.”

Brandon looked furious. His eyes were blue again, but as Claire watched, he snarled at Oliver, and revealed fangs. Real, genuine fangs, like a snake’s, that snapped down into place from some hidden spot inside of his mouth, and then back up again, quick as a scorpion’s sting.

“None of that,” Oliver said calmly. “I’m not impressed. Off with you. Don’t make me have a conversation with Amelie about you.”

Brandon slid out of his chair and slouched away through the crowd, toward the exit. It was dark outside now, Claire noticed. He went out into the night and disappeared from sight.

Oliver still had his hand on her shoulder, and now he squeezed it gently. “That was unfortunate,” he said. “You need to be careful, Claire. Stay with Eve. Watch out for each other. I’d hate to see anything happen to you.”

She nodded, gulping. Eve came hurrying out of the back, leather coat flapping around her ankles. Her smile died at the sight of Claire’s face. “What happened?”

“Brandon came in,” Oliver said. “Trolling. Claire happened to run into him.”

“Oh,” Eve said in a small voice. “Are you okay?”

“She’s fine. I spotted him before any permanent damage was done. Take her home, Eve. And keep a sharp eye out for that one; he doesn’t take being ordered off very well.”

Eve nodded and helped Claire to her feet, picked up the backpack, and got her outside. The big black Caddy was parked at the curb, and Eve unlocked it and thoroughly checked it over, backseat and trunk, before putting Claire inside of it. When Claire was fastening the seat belt, she noticed two things: first, Oliver was standing in the doorway of Common Grounds, watching them.

Second, Brandon was standing at the corner, in the very edge of the glow of the streetlamp. And he was watching them, too.

Eve saw, too. “Son of a bitch,” she said furiously, and shot him the finger. Which might not have been too smart, but it made Claire feel better. Eve cranked the engine and squealed out of her parking space, driving like she was breaking the record at a NASCAR race, and screeched to a halt in front of the house just a couple of minutes later. “Okay, you go first,” she said. “Run for the door, bang on it while you’re opening it. Go, Claire!”

Claire bailed out breathlessly and slammed the gate back, pounded up the paved walk and up the stairs as she was digging her key out of her pocket. Her hands were shaking, and she missed the keyhole on the first try. She kicked the door and yelled, “Shane! Michael!” as she tried again.

Behind her, she heard the car door slam, and Eve’s shoes clatter on the sidewalk…and stop.

“Now,” said Brandon’s low, cold voice, “let’s not be rude, Eve.”

Claire whirled, and saw Eve standing absolutely still ten steps from the porch, her back to the house. Hot wind whipped her leather coat behind her with a dry snapping sound.

Brandon was facing her, his eyes completely white in the pale starlight.

“Who’s your sweet little friend?” he asked.

“Leave her alone.” Eve’s voice was faint and shaking. “She’s just a kid.”

“You’re all just kids.” He shrugged. “Nobody asks the age of the cow that gave you hamburger.”

Claire, purely terrified now, concentrated, turned back to the door, and rammed the key into the lock…

…just as Shane whipped it open.

“Eve!” she gasped, and Shane pushed her out of the way, jumped down the steps, and got between Eve and Brandon.

“Inside,” Michael said. Claire hadn’t heard him, hadn’t seen him coming, but he was in the doorway, gesturing her in. As soon as she was over the threshold he grabbed her arm and pushed her out of sight behind him. She peeked around him to see what was happening.

Shane was talking, but whatever he was saying, she couldn’t hear it. Eve was backing up, slowly, and when the back of her heels touched the porch steps she whirled and ran up, diving into the doorway and Michael’s arms.

“Shane!” Michael shouted.

Brandon lunged at Shane. Shane dodged, yelled, and kicked the vampire with all his weight. Brandon flew backward into the fence, broke through, and rolled into the street.

Shane fell flat on the ground, scrambled up, and ran for the door. It was impossible for Brandon to move that fast, but the vampire seemed to flash from lying in the street to reaching for Shane’s back…

…and grabbed hold of Shane’s T-shirt, yanking him to a sudden stop. But Shane was reaching, too, for Michael’s hand, and Michael pulled him forward.

The shirt ripped, Shane stumbled in over the threshold, and Brandon tried to follow. He bounced off an invisible barrier, and for the second time Claire saw his fangs snap down, deadly sharp.

Michael didn’t even flinch. “Try it again, and we’ll come stake you in your sleep,” he said. “Count on it. Tell your friends.”

He slammed the door. Eve collapsed against the wall, panting and trembling; Claire couldn’t stop shaking, either. Shane looked flushed and more worried about the damage to his T-shirt than anything else.

Michael grabbed Eve by the shoulders. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he never—wow. That was close.”

“No kidding. Claire?”

She waved, unable to summon up a word.

“Where the hell did he come from?” Shane asked.

“He picked up Claire’s scent at the coffee shop,” Eve said. “I couldn’t shake him. Sorry.”

“Damn. That’s not good.”

“I know.”

Michael clicked the locks on the front door. “Check the back. Make sure we’re secure, Shane. Upstairs, too.”

“Check.” Shane moved off. “Dammit, this was my last Killers T-shirt. Somebody’s paying for this….”

“Sorry, Michael,” Eve said. “I tried, I really did.”

“I know. Had to happen sooner or later, with four of us here. You did okay. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m glad you and Shane were here.”

Michael started to say something, then stopped, looking at Claire. Eve didn’t seem to notice. She stripped off her leather coat and hung it on a peg by the door, and clumped off in the direction of the living room.

“We were just attacked,” Claire finally managed to say. “By a vampire.”

“Yeah, I saw,” Michael said.

“No, you don’t understand. We were attacked. By a vampire. Do you know how impossible that is?”

Michael sighed. “Truthfully? No. I grew up here, and so did Eve and Shane. We’re just kind of used to it.”

“That’s crazy!”

“Absolutely.”

It hit her then that there was another impossible thing she’d nearly forgotten about, in the press of panic, and she started to blurt it out, then looked around to be sure Shane and Eve were nowhere in sight. “What about, you know? You?” She pointed at him.

“Me?” He raised his eyebrows. “Oh. Right. Upstairs.”

She expected him to take her to the secret room Shane had shown her, but he didn’t; instead, he took her to his own room, the big one on the corner. It was about twice the size of her own room, but didn’t have much more furniture; it did have a fireplace—empty this time of year—and a couple of chairs and a reading lamp. Michael settled in one. Claire took the other, feeling small and cold in the heavy leather seat. The wing chair was about twice her size.

“Right,” Michael said, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Let’s talk about this morning.” But having said that, he didn’t seem to know how to start. He fidgeted, staring at the carpet.

“You died,” Claire said. “You vanished.”

He seemed glad to have something to respond to. “Not exactly, but—yeah. Close enough. You know I used to be a musician?”

“You still are!”

“Musicians play someplace besides their own houses. You heard Shane at dinner. He’s pushing to find out why I’m not playing gigs. Truth is, I can’t. I can’t go outside of this house.”

She remembered him standing in the doorway, white-faced, watching Shane face off with Brandon. That hadn’t been caution; he wanted to be out there, fighting next to his friend. But he couldn’t.

“What happened?” she asked softly. She could tell it wasn’t going to be an easy story.

“Vampire,” he said. “Mostly they just feed, and eventually they kill you if they feed hard enough. Some of them like that kind of thing, not all of them. But—this one was different. He followed me back from a gig and tried—tried to make me—”

She felt her face burn, and dropped her gaze. “Oh. Oh God.”

“Not that,” he said. “Not exactly. He tried to make me a vampire. But he couldn’t. I guess he—killed me. Or nearly, anyway. But he couldn’t make me into what he was, and he was trying. It nearly killed us both. When I woke up later, it was daylight, he was gone, and I was a ghost. Wasn’t until night came that I realized I could make myself real again. But only at night.” He shook his head slowly, rubbing his hands together as if trying to wash off a stain. “I think the house keeps me alive.”

“The house?” she echoed.

“It’s old. And it has a kind of—” He shrugged. “A kind of power. I don’t know what it is, exactly. When my parents traded up to this house, they only lived here for a couple of months, then moved away to New York. Didn’t like the vibes. I liked it fine. I think it liked me, too. But anyway, I can’t leave it. I’ve tried.”

“Even during the day? When you’re not, you know, here?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Can’t go out any door, window, or crack. I’m trapped here.”

He looked oddly relieved to be telling her. If he hadn’t told Shane or Eve, he probably hadn’t told anybody. That felt odd, being the keeper of that secret, because it was a big one. Attacked by a vampire, left for dead, turned into a ghost, trapped in the house? How many secrets was that, anyway?

Something occurred to her. “You said—the vampire, did he…drink your blood?”

Michael nodded. He didn’t meet her eyes.

“And—you died?”

Another silent nod.

“What happened to your—you know—body?”

“I’m still kind of using it.” He gestured at himself. Claire, unable to stop herself, reached out and touched him. He felt real and warm and alive. “I don’t know how it works, Claire, I really don’t. Except I do think it’s the house, not me.”

She took a deep breath. “Do you drink blood?”

He looked up this time, surprised, lips parted. “No. Of course I don’t. I told you, he couldn’t—make me what he was.”

“You’re sure.”

“I eat Shane’s garlic chili. Does that sound like a vampire to you?”

She shrugged thoughtfully. “Until today, I thought I knew what a vampire was, all capes and fake Romanian accents and stuff. What about crosses? Do crosses work?”

“Sometimes. Don’t rely on them, though. The older ones aren’t stopped by things like that.”

“How about Brandon?” Since he was her main concern right now.

Michael’s lip curled. “Brandon’s a punk. You could melt him with a Super Soaker full of tap water, so long as you told him it was blessed. He’s dangerous, but so far as vampires go, he’s at the bottom of the food chain. It’s the ones who don’t go around flashing fangs and trying to grab you off the street you need to worry about. And yeah, wear a cross—but keep it under your clothes. You’ll have to make one if you don’t already have one—they don’t sell them anywhere in town. And if you can find things like holy water and Eucharist, keep them on hand, but the vampires in this town closed down most of the churches fifty years ago. There’s still a few operating underground. Be careful, though. Don’t believe everything you hear, and never, ever go by yourself.”

That was the longest speech she’d ever heard from Michael. It tumbled out in a flood, driven with intensity and frustration. He can’t do anything. He can’t do anything to help us when we go outside the door.

“Why did you let us move in?” she asked. “After—what happened to you?”

He smiled. It didn’t look quite right somehow. “I got lonely,” he said. “And since I can’t leave the house, there’s too much I can’t do. I needed somebody to help with groceries and stuff. And…being a ghost doesn’t exactly pay the bills. Shane—Shane was looking for a place to stay, and he said he’d pitch in for rent. It was perfect. Then Eve…we were friends back in high school. I couldn’t just let her wander around out there after her parents threw her out.”

Claire tried to remember what Eve had said. Nothing, really. “Why did they do that?”

“She wouldn’t take Protection from their Patron when she turned eighteen. Plus, she started dressing Goth when she was about your age. Said she was never going to kiss any vampire ass, no matter what.” Michael made a helpless gesture with his hands. “At eighteen, they threw her out. Had to, or it would have cost the whole family their Protection. So she’s on her own. She’s done okay—she’s safe here, and she’s safe at the coffee shop. It’s only the rest of the time she has to be careful.”

Claire couldn’t think of anything to say. She looked away from Michael, around the room. His bed was made. Oh my God, that’s his bed. She tried to imagine Michael sleeping there, and couldn’t. Although she could imagine some other things, and shouldn’t have because it made her feel hot and embarrassed.

“Claire,” he said quietly. She looked back at him. “Brandon’s too young to be out before dark, so you’re safe in the daytime, but don’t stay out after dark. Got it?”

She nodded.

“About the other thing…”

“I won’t tell,” she said. “I won’t, Michael. Not if you don’t want me to.”

He let out his breath in a long, slow sigh. “Thanks. I know it sounds stupid, but…I just don’t want them to know yet. I need to figure out how to tell them.”

“It’s your business,” Claire said. “And Michael? If you start, you know, getting this craving for red stuff…?”

“You’ll be the first to know,” he said. His eyes were steady and cool. “And I expect you to do whatever you have to do to stop me.”

She shivered and said yes, okay, she’d stake him if she had to, but she didn’t mean it.

She hoped she didn’t, anyway.