Ghost Town

He wanted to put a human brain in it. So not happening. Myrnin was crazy, but normally it was a good crazy, not a creepy crazy. Lately he seemed to be pushing the far end of the creep-o-meter, though. She seriously wondered if she ought to get some vampire psychologist to look at him or something. They probably had someone who’d been around when Dr. Freud was just finishing medical school.

Common Grounds was blessedly dim and cool, but mercilessly busy. There wasn’t a free table to be had, which was depressing; Claire’s feet hurt, and her shoulder was about to dislocate from the constant pull of her book bag. She found a corner and dumped the weight of knowledge (potential, anyway) with a sigh of relief and joined the line at the order window. There was a new guy working the counter, again, which didn’t surprise Claire much; Oliver seemed to go through employees pretty quickly. She wasn’t sure if that was just his strict nature or whether he was eating them. Either one was possible, but the latter wasn’t likely, at least. Oliver was more careful than that, even if he didn’t really want to be.

It took about five minutes to reach the front of the line, but Claire put in her order for a café mocha without much trouble, except that the new guy spelled her name wrong on the cup. She moved on down the counter, and when she looked up, Oliver was staring at her from behind the espresso machine as he pulled shots. He looked the same as always—aging hippie, graying hair pulled back in a classy-looking ponytail, one gold stud in his right ear, a coffee-splattered tie-dyed apron, and eyes like ice. With all the hippie-flavored details, you didn’t tend to notice the pallor of his face or the coldness of his stare right away unless you already knew him.

In the next second, he smiled, and his eyes changed completely, like another person had just stepped into his body—the friendly coffee-shop guy he liked to pretend to be. “Claire,” he said, and finished dumping shots into her mocha cup. “What a nice surprise. Sorry about the lack of seating.”

“I guess business is good.”

“Always.” He knew how she liked the drink, and added whipped cream and sprinkles without asking before handing it over. “I believe the frat boys by the window are about to leave. You can get a seat if you hurry.”

He was right; she could see the preleaving preparations going on. Claire nodded her thanks and grabbed her bag, pushing between chairs and apologizing her way to the table so that she arrived just as the last frat boy grabbed his stuff and headed for the door. She was one of four who had aimed for the vacancy, and missed it by the length of one outstretched, well-manicured hand.

“Excuse me, our table,” Monica Morrell said, looking down at her with unconcealed delight. “The junior skank section is over there, by the trash. Beat it.”

The sister of Morganville’s mayor sank down on one of the four chairs, flipping her shiny dark hair over her shoulders; she’d added some blond highlights to it again, but Claire didn’t think they did her any favors. She’d accessorized with arm candy, though, in the form of a big linebacker-style guy with one of those faces that was beefy but still handsome. He was blond, which seemed to be Monica’s new type, and (Claire knew from the one class she’d shared with him) dumb, which was always Monica’s type. He was carrying Monica’s coffee, which he put down in front of her before taking a seat next to her, close enough to drape his big arm around her shoulders and stare down her cleavage.

It would have been the safe thing to just back off and let Monica claim her petty victory, but Claire was really not in the mood. She wasn’t afraid of Monica anymore—well, not normally—and the last thing she wanted to do was let Monica spoil the one thing she’d been looking forward to during the entire walk over: a decent seat in which to enjoy her drink.

So Claire put her café mocha down at the third place and sat down, just ahead of Je

Monica, oddly, didn’t say anything. She stared at Claire as if she couldn’t quite figure out what the hell that was doing sitting down at her table, and then, once she got over the shock, she smiled, as if it occurred to her that maybe this could be fun. In a nasty sort of way. Her new temporary boyfriend didn’t seem to be noticing any of it as he smirked and did a virtual high five with some friends across the room.

Je

Je

Claire sensed a movement at her back, and almost ducked, but she forced herself not to flinch. Nothing will happen, not here. Not in front of Oliver. It wasn’t that Oliver was fond of her, exactly—only that he didn’t like conflict inside of his business that he himself hadn’t started.

Monica’s eyes went to Je

Je

“Well? Go scare somebody out of one. It’s what you do.”

That was cold, even for Monica, and Claire suddenly felt uneasy about this. Maybe she should just . . . move on. She didn’t want to be in the middle, because if Monica and Je

But before she could decide what to do, she heard Je

It was, Claire realized, a really good strategy. The guy didn’t seem like the type to come and pick a fight over something that small, especially with a girl of Je

Je

It was just . . . sad.

Claire shook her head. She still wanted to sit down and rest, but it really wasn’t worth the small victory to be part of this. She stood up, grabbed her chair, and towed it across the crowded room to slide it next to the guy Je

Now he really looked confused. So did Monica and her Monickettes, as if the concept of givebacks had never crossed their path before. Claire sighed, shifted the weight of her backpack, and prepared to leave, mocha in hand.

“Hey!” Monica’s grip on her elbow dragged her to a stop. “What the hell? I want you to stay!”

“Why?” Claire asked, and jerked her arm free. “So you can needle me for an hour? Are you really that bored?”