Dead Girls' Dance

As he was bringing his hands up her sides, his fingers just barely brushed the outer curve of her breasts, and she gasped into his mouth.

Shane immediately sat her upright, and moved to the other end of the couch. His face was flushed; his eyes were bright and no longer looked even a little bit tired. “No,’” he said, and held out his hand like a traffic cop when she tried to scoot closer. “Red flag. If you make that sound again, we are in trouble. Or I am, anyway.’”

“But—’” Claire felt that blush creeping in again, and had no idea what it was going to be like to put this into words. “What about you? You know—’” She made a vague gesture that could have been anything. Or nothing. Or anything.

“Don’t worry about me. I needed this.’” He was still breathing deeply, but he did look better. Steadier. More like…Shane, instead of that lost and hurt little boy terrified of his nightmares. “So? Did we have fun?’”

“Fun,’” she agreed faintly. So much fun she felt like a fizzed-up soda, ready to burst. “Um, I need to—’”

“Yeah, me, too.’” But Shane made no move to go. Claire swallowed hard and took the course of the better part of valor, up the stairs to her room. She shut the door and locked it, threw herself on her brand-new mattress—she hadn’t even put sheets on it yet, and they were a little light on blankets after using most of them to fight the fire—and bounced. The room smelled like a wet smoky dog, but she didn’t care.

Not at all.

Fun.

Oh yes.

Around noon, Claire heard the doorbell, and ran downstairs. Shane was lying on the couch, sound asleep. Still no sign of Eve, and she didn’t expect to have any Michael sightings, given the daylight hours. She raced down the hall to the door, which was braced with a wooden chair as a temporary lock, and hesitated.

“Michael? You there?’” A chilly breeze swept across her, ruffling her hair. Wow. He was strong today. “Can I open the door? One for yes, two for no.’”

Apparently, yes. She pulled the chair away and peered outside. There were two men standing on the porch, both tall; one was lean and hard-looking, with black hair; the other one was a little pale (but not vamp pale) and heavyset, and where he wasn’t balding, his very short hair looked brown.

They both displayed badges. Police.

“You’re Claire, right?’” the lean one said, and extended his hand. “Joe Hess. This is my partner, Travis Lowe. How you doing?’”

“Um…’” She fumbled for the handshake. “Fine, I guess.’” Lowe also shook her hand. “Is something—I mean, did you find—?’” Because she both hoped that Shane’s dad was in a holding cell, and was afraid of what that would mean for Shane. She rocked nervously back and forth on her heels, her eyes darting from one of them to the other.

Joe Hess smiled. Unlike most smiles she’d seen since coming to Morganville, this one seemed…uncomplicated. Clean, sort of. Not happy, because that would have been weird, but comforting. “It’s okay,’” he said. “No, we haven’t found them, but you’ve got nothing to be afraid of. May we come inside?’”

She heard shuffling footsteps behind her. Shane had woken up, and was standing in the hallway, barefoot and rumpled, with a fierce bed-head that got worse as he yawned and ran fingers through his hair, standing part of it on end.

How sick was it that she found that sexy?

Claire collected herself and pointed at the cops on the doorstep. Shane’s eyes focused fast.

“Officers,’” he said, and came toward the door. “Anything you need?’”

“I was just asking if we can come in and talk,’” Detective Hess said. He’d stopped smiling, but he still looked kind. “Informally.’”

A chill moved softly over Claire’s skin. A single wave of chill. Yes. Michael was okay with it.

“Sure,’” Claire said, and stepped back to swing the door wider. The cops stepped over the threshold, Hess first, then Lowe, and Shane shot Claire a look she couldn’t quite figure out and led the men back to the living room.

Lowe studied the place more than the two of them; he seemed to really appreciate it. “Nice,’” he murmured, which was the first thing he’d said. “Great use of wood in here. Real organic.’”

She couldn’t really say thank you, because, hey, she didn’t build it. She didn’t even own it. But on Michael’s behalf she said, “We think so, too, sir.’” Claire settled nervously back on the sofa, perched on the edge. Shane remained standing, and Hess and Lowe moved around, not exactly searching, but cataloging everything. Hess stayed focused on the two of them, and after a moment, he bent his knees and sat down in the chair that Michael had occupied last night. Déjà vu, Claire thought. Hess seemed to shiver a little, and he looked up, maybe trying to locate the source of the draft that had just brushed past him.

Michael liked that chair.

“You had some trouble here last night,’” Hess said. “I know you had a talk with our colleagues Gretchen and Hans. I read the report this morning.’”

No harm in admitting to that. Both Shane and Claire nodded.

“A little scary, huh?’”

Claire nodded. Shane didn’t. He gave the detective a narrow little smile. “I’m a Morganville lifer. Define scary,’” he said. “Anyway, if you’re playing good cop, bad cop—’”

“I’m not,’” Hess said. “Trust me, you’d know if I was, because I’d be the bad cop.’” And there was something in his eyes that—oddly—made Claire believe it. “Look, I won’t lie to you. Gretchen and Hans, they’ve got their own agendas. But so do we. We want to make sure you’re protected, understand me? That’s our job. We serve and protect, and Travis and I believe in that.’”

Lowe paused in his slow amble to nod.

“We’re neutral. There’s a few of us in town who did enough good for each side to earn a little freedom, as long as we’re careful.’”

“What Joe means,’” Detective Lowe said, “is that they ignore us as long as we keep it on our side of the tracks. Humans are the slave race here—forget about skin color. So we have to take care of our own when we can.’”

“And when we can’t,’” Hess said, as smoothly as if they’d rehearsed all this, “things get ugly. It ain’t like the two of us are free agents. We’re Switzerland. If you cross the line, you’re on your own.’”

Shane frowned at him. “What can you do for us, if you’re Switzerland?’”

“I can make sure that Gretchen and Hans don’t make any follow-up visits,’” Hess said. “I can keep most of the cops away from you, maybe not all. I can put out the word—widely—that you’re not just under a Founder’s seal; Travis and I are keeping an eye on you. That’ll keep anybody else from trying to win friends by smacking you around.’”

“Anybody human, he means,’” Lowe amended. “The vamps, they’ll scare the shit out of you if they can, but they won’t hurt you. Not unless you screw up and that Founder’s seal goes away. Got me?’”

Which had already happened, really. The screwing-up part. Well, technically, she supposed Shane’s dad hadn’t broken any laws—yet—because Michael hadn’t really died.

Except that he had.

God, Morganville made her head hurt.

A door slammed upstairs, and Eve came clattering down the stairs, fully dressed in Goth finery: a purple sheer shirt over a black corset thingie, a skirt that looked like it had gotten caught in a shredder, hose with skulls woven in, and her black Mary Janes. Very fierce. Her makeup was back in full force, ice white face, black-rimmed eyes, lips like three-day-old bruises.

“Officer Joe!’” Eve practically flew across the room to hug him. Shane and Claire exchanged a look. Yeah, this wasn’t something they were going to see every day. “Joe Joe Joe! I’ve been wondering where you were!’”

“Hi, Skippy. You remember Travis, right?’”

“Big T.!’” Another hug. This, Claire thought, had tipped over the edge into the surreal, even for Morganville. “I’m so glad to see you guys!’”

“Ditto, kid,’” Lowe said. He was smiling, and it transformed his face into something that was almost angelic. “You’ve still got the numbers, right?’”