Dead Girls' Dance

Everybody was taller than Claire.

“Watch it, freak!’” Monica said, and glared at her. And then started to smile. It didn’t lessen the menace in her pretty eyes. “Oh, it’s you. You ought to watch where you’re going.’” She half turned to her little gaggle of followers. “Poor Claire. She’s got a syndrome or something. Falls down stairs, hits her head, nearly burns down her house…’” She focused back on Claire as Je

“Little bit,’” Claire said. She was shaking, deep down, but she knew that if she backed down, she risked a lot worse. “But I heard it’s not the first time that’s happened when you stop by for a visit.’”

Monica’s clique made a low ooooooooooh sound, a no-she-didn’t murmur evenly split between appreciation and anticipation. Monica’s eyes turned cold. -Er.

“Don’t even go there, freak. Not my fault you live with a bunch of losers and jerks. Probably that Goth whore lighting candles all over the place. She’s a walking fire hazard, not to mention a fashion disaster.’”

Claire bit the inside of her lip and swallowed her reply, which would have had to do with who the real whore was in the conversation. She just raised her own eyebrows—well aware they weren’t plucked, or perfect, or anything—and smiled like she knew something Monica didn’t.

“She’s not the only one. Isn’t that top from Wal-Mart? The Trailer Park collection?’” She turned around to go as Monica’s friends ooooohed again, this time with an edge of laughter.

Monica grabbed her by the backpack, yanking her off-balance. “Tell Shane I said hi,’” she said, her breath hot against Claire’s ear. “Tell him I don’t care who’s put out the truce flag—I’m going to get him, and you, and he’s going to be sorry he ever screwed with me.’”

Claire pulled herself free from Monica’s highly polished manicured grip and said, “He wouldn’t screw you if you were the last girl on earth and it was survival of the species.’”

She thought that Monica was going to scratch her eyes out with those perfectly manicured talons, and backed off fast. Monica, strangely, let her go. She was even smiling, a little, but it was a weird kind of smile, and it made Claire’s stomach lurch when she looked back.

“Bye now,’” Monica said. “Freak.’”

Chem class was already under way when Claire breathlessly slid into an empty seat and unpacked her notebook and text. She kept an eye out for Monica, Gina, Je

It was late afternoon when she exited into the quadrangle outside of the science building; the crowds of students had thi

It was fu

And sometimes, the herd got culled.

Claire shivered, looked around for any signs of lurking Monicas, and took off for home. It wasn’t a long walk, but it took her over the nicely tended (though sun-seared) grounds and out into Morganville proper’s “business district’”—which really wasn’t. It was a sideshow for the students, all coffee shops (she wondered what poor fool Oliver had gotten to fill Eve’s empty barista apron) and bookstores and trendy clothing emporiums. Buildings sported school colors—green and white—and usually had STUDENT DISCOUNT signs fading in the windows.

There was a weedy-looking guy in black standing at the corner, watching her with burning dark eyes. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t think why…somebody from class, maybe? Scary, anyway. She wondered why he was staring at her. There were other girls on the street. Prettier ones.

Claire walked faster. When she looked back, he wasn’t there anymore. Was that better, or way creepier?

Walking even faster seemed like a great idea suddenly.

As Claire passed Common Grounds, the coffee shop, she glanced inside and saw someone she thought she recognized…but what the hell would Shane’s dad be doing here? In the middle of the day? He didn’t exactly blend in with the college crowd, and every cop in town was shaking the trees for him, right?

But there he was. Granted, she’d gotten only a quick look, but how many Frank Collins look-alikes could there be in Morganville?

I should get the hell out of here, she thought, but then she wondered. If she could find out what he was doing, maybe that would help Michael and Shane with pla

So Claire opened the door and slipped inside, hiding behind a couple of big jocks with bulky laptop-laden backpacks who were having some earnest conversation about whether baseball stats were legitimate during the steroid years, or had to be thrown out. Yes, that was Shane’s dad, and he was sitting in the corner of the coffee bar, sipping from a cup. Plain as day.

What the hell…?

She caught her breath as Oliver slipped into the seat opposite him. Oliver was a lanky guy, tall and a bit stooped, with long curling hair that was sprinkled and shot through with gray. Not very threatening, Oliver, until you saw the fangs and the real personality lurking underneath what he put on for the public. Oliver was terrifying, and she had no desire at all to get into any position where she’d have to deal with him again.

Claire turned to go, and ran into a broad chest clad in a soft gray T-shirt. She looked up, and saw a guy she didn’t recognize—a little older than Shane, maybe, but not much. He had soft, short red hair, and he was fair-ski

Big and solid, and wearing—of all things, in this Texas late-summer heat wave—an old, worn brown leather jacket. No backpack, but he looked like a student.

He smiled down at her. She expected him to step out of the way, but he didn’t; instead, he reached down, took her hand, and said, “Hello, Claire. I’m Sam. Let’s talk.’”

His fingers felt cool, like clay. And he was, under the freckles, a little too pale. And there was something fey and sad in his eyes, too.

Oh, crap. Vampire.

Claire tried to pull free. He held on effortlessly. He could break bones if he wanted to—she sensed it—but he used just enough strength to keep her from getting loose. “Don’t,’” Sam said. “I need to talk to you. Please, I promise not to hurt you. Let’s sit down, okay?’”

“But—’” Claire looked around, alarmed. The two jocks were moving away, heading for the bar to get drinks. The place was busy, and there were students everywhere—chatting, laughing, playing games, tapping away on laptops, talking on cell phones. And, of course, nobody was paying attention to her. She could make a scene and probably get away, but that would draw the attention of Oliver, not to mention Shane’s dad, and she didn’t want that. Low-pro was the order of the day.