Ghost Town

Sure enough, when Claire went into the bathroom, there was fog on the mirror, and still-warm drops in the shower, and Eve had left her makeup scattered all over the counter. Claire put it back in the bag and got out her own, which wasn’t much beyond an eye pencil and some mascara. She showered and dressed fast, and had her mind on what she was going to say to Oliver when she opened the bathroom door, and ran straight into Michael.

He looked at her in shock—so much shock, in fact, that she checked to make sure she’d remembered to put her pants on. She had. “What?” she demanded. “Do I have something on my face?”

“What are you doing in my bathroom?” Michael asked, and took a giant step back. “How did you get here?”

Oh, crap. She’d been afraid Michael was susceptible to whatever was going on, and now here it was again. Just like Amelie. Just like Myrnin. Just like Monica, for that matter.

He didn’t wait for her answer. He ran to the end of the hall, to her room, and threw open the door. “Dad . . .” He fell silent, staring at the room. “Dad?” He backed up slowly. “What the hell is going on?”

Claire sighed. It seemed like her whole life was being spent telling people the bad news. “I know you’re not going to believe this, but I live here, Michael. I’ve been here for a while now.”

He turned back on her, fists clenched. She’d never seen that look on his face—scared and desperately angry. “What did you do with my parents?”

“I promise, I didn’t do anything! Look, you can ask Eve if you don’t believe me, or Shane—”

“Did Monica put you up to this?” Michael asked, and pushed her. That was a shock, and the grim, furious expression he had made her feel cold inside. “Just get out. Get out of our house!”

“Wait!” It was no use; he wasn’t going to believe her any more than Ha

Michael pushed her again. With vampire strength.

Claire flew backward, fell, rolled, and almost slid down the stairs before she grabbed hold of a banister railing to pull herself to a stop. Michael stood there, looking utterly astonished; he stared at her, down at his hands, and back again.

“You’re a vampire, Michael,” Claire said, and scrambled up. Her head was hurting again. No surprise there. “If you don’t remember anything else, remember that. You can hurt people, even if you don’t mean to do it.”

“Get out!” he yelled. He looked really upset, and very, very angry. Bad combo for a vampire. His eyes had taken on a wicked crimson shimmer.

Claire went down the steps, grabbed her backpack from where it was leaning against the wall, and dashed out the door. Once she was outside in the sun, she stopped and pulled out her cell phone, and dialed Shane’s number. It rang and rang and rang, and finally he picked up and mumbled something that didn’t really sound like a word.

“Wake up! Watch your back,” she said. “Michael doesn’t remember who I—”

She didn’t have any time to say more, because Michael had followed her out onto the porch, and as she started to turn, she saw that he was coming after her.

In the sunlight.

“No!” Claire yelled, and dropped her phone and the backpack to the ground. Michael’s skin started to sizzle and smoke instantly on contact with the sun, and he just stood there, staring down at himself, as if this was some horrible dream, and he was waiting to wake up. “Michael, get back! Get in the shade!”

“I’m not . . . I’m not a . . .” He staggered and fell to his knees. “I’m not a vampire.”

“Michael! ”

She didn’t have a choice. She’d have to risk him turning on her, like Myrnin; she couldn’t leave him out here to fry. He didn’t seem to understand that he had to move—or maybe he wasn’t able to. She couldn’t tell.

“Shane! Shane, get your ass down here!” she screamed, loud enough that she hoped he could hear it over the still-on cell and through the windows. She couldn’t wait for him, though.

She dumped her backpack and raced back to grab Michael under the arms. His shirt was on fire, and she batted it out before trying to drag him, but as soon as she did, the shirt burst into flames again, singeing her own clothes. The shadows were still three feet away. If she got him there, he’d be all right; she knew he’d be all right . . . but he was struggling now, and she kept losing her grip.

Do it, just do it! Claire took a better hold and gritted her teeth and pulled with all her might. He was heavy, really heavy, and it hurt trying to hold on while he thrashed. She moved him another foot. It seemed to take forever.

“Move!” Shane yelled from behind her, and jumped down the steps with a heavy quilt in his hands. He threw it over Michael and started slapping out the flames. “What the hell happened?”

“He . . . he forgot he . . .” Claire couldn’t get her breath. “I couldn’t get him to go inside.”

“Jesus, Michael . . . Claire, go call an ambulance. Hurry.”

She stumbled up into the house and made the call as Shane dragged their friend back up the steps and onto the porch. She hoped she made sense to the emergency services person on the other end. She honestly didn’t know. All she could think about was getting back out there and helping Shane.

It was only as she hung up the phone that she realized her own hands were burned, too. She tried not to look too closely. They didn’t hurt yet, exactly. That was probably shock. She went back out to the porch, and saw that Shane had peeled away the quilt.

Michael was alive, but he didn’t look good. His shirt was covered with burned holes, and the skin underneath looked horrible. So did his face, his hands, his arms—every part of him that hadn’t been fully protected. He was still awake, and his eyes had turned a brilliant ruby red. “I’m not,” he was saying. “I’m not one of them. Shane, tell me I’m not!” He sounded so afraid. His voice was shaking.

Shane’s expression made Claire’s heart ache, and his voice came out rough, but oddly gentle. “You’re not one of them, bro,” he said. “You’re one of us. You’ll always be one of us.”

Michael was crying now. “Get my dad. I need my dad.”

Shane pushed his hair back with one hand, clearly not sure what to say, and then shook his head. “I can’t. He’s not here, Mike. Just stay still, okay? You’re going to be okay. They’ll fix you up.”

“Get Sam,” Michael pleaded. “He’ll tell you I’m not . . . I’m not . . .”

It was awful. Claire wanted to cry, too, but she knew if she started, she wouldn’t be able to stop. Why Michael? God, it was her fault. Hers and Myrnin’s. This was happening to so many people, and she couldn’t take it; she really couldn’t. Michael didn’t deserve this. Nobody deserved this.

“Claire, your hands . . .” Shane was looking at her now, and he seemed pale. “You burned your hands.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said. It seemed the thing to say. It didn’t look so bad now, in the sun. Mostly they were red and angry-looking, like a terrible sunburn. Well, she’d had those before. “Is he in pain?”

“I’m right here,” Michael said. He was getting hold of himself a little. “It hurts. Not so much now, though.”

“He’s healing,” Shane said quietly. “He’ll be all right.”

But Michael was staring at Claire now, and suddenly he said, “You . . . you did something to me. Poured gas on me. Something. I’m not a vampire. I didn’t just catch fire.”

“No!” Claire was appalled he even thought it. “No, Michael, I didn’t—”

“Get her away from me,” Michael said to Shane. “She’s crazy. She was in the house. She’s one of Monica’s friends. You know how they are with fire.”

“Mike . . .” Shane hesitated, then plunged on. “She lives here, man. She’s got the room at the end. Your parents’ room. She’s okay. Really.”

Michael didn’t say anything to that, just shook his head and closed his eyes. Shane looked at Claire, and lifted his hands in a silent apology. She nodded.