Dead Girls' Dance

“Let’s go,’” Eve said. “We’ve got things to do.’”

It had been Michael in the doorway when they’d driven by on their way to Founder’s Square, and it was Michael in the doorway when the car pulled to a halt at 716 Lot Street. Gretchen opened the back door to allow Eve and Claire to scramble out. Claire looked back; Hess was still in the backseat, watching them go. He wasn’t making a move to get out with them. “Detective?’” she asked. Eve was already halfway up the walk, moving fast. Claire knew that the first rule of Morganville was “Never hang around out in the dark,’” but she did it anyway.

“I’m going back to the station,’” he said. “Hans and Gretchen will drop me off. It’s okay.’”

She didn’t like the idea of leaving anybody alone with Hans and Gretchen, but he was the adult, and he had to know what he was doing, right? She nodded, backed up, and then turned and ran the rest of the way up the steps and into the house.

Michael had pulled Eve inside, but not far in; she nearly ran into the two of them when she charged over the threshold. She slammed the door and locked it—Shane or Michael had replaced the locks again, and added more—and spun around to see that Michael had Eve in a bear hug, pressing her against him so tight that she nearly disappeared. He looked at Claire in total misery over Eve’s shoulder. “What the hell is going on? Where’s Shane?’”

Oh God, he didn’t know. Why didn’t he know? “What happened?’” she blurted. “Why did you let him leave?’”

“Shane? I didn’t let him do anything. Any more than I let you go ru

“Brandon’s dead,’” Eve said. She didn’t try to soften it, and her voice was as hard as an iron bar. “They’ve got Shane in a cage on Founder’s Square for his murder.’”

Michael sagged back against the wall as if she’d punched him in the stomach. “Oh,’” he whispered. “Oh my God.’”

“They’re going to kill him,’” Claire said. “They’re going to burn him alive.’”

Michael closed his eyes. “I know. I remember.’” Oh, crap, he’d seen it done before. So had Eve. She remembered them saying so before, though they’d spared her the details. Michael just breathed for a few seconds, and then said, “We have to get him out.’”

“Yeah,’” Eve agreed. “I know. But by we, you mean me and Claire, right? Because you’re of no damn use at all.’”

She might as well have punched him again, Claire thought; Michael’s mouth dropped open, and she saw the agony in his eyes. Eve must not have seen it. She turned and clomped away, brisk and efficient.

“Claire!’” she called back. “Come on! Move it!’”

Claire looked miserably at Michael. “I’m sorry,’” she said. “She didn’t mean that.’”

“No, she did,’” he said faintly. “And she’s right. I’m no use to you. Or to Shane. What good am I? I might as well be dead.’”

He turned and slammed his hand into the wall, hard enough to break bones. Claire yelped, scrambled backward, and ran after Eve. When Michael went all avenging-angel, well, it was definitely scary. And he didn’t look like he wanted witnesses to whatever was happening inside.

Eve was already going up the stairs. “Wait!’” Claire said. “Michael—shouldn’t we—?’”

“Forget about Michael. Are you in or out?’”

In. She guessed. Claire cast another look back at the hallway, where the sound of flesh hitting wood continued, and winced. Michael couldn’t hurt himself, not permanently, but it sounded painful.

Probably not as painful as what he was feeling.

When Claire reached the doorway, Eve was yanking open drawers, pulling out frilly stuff, and throwing it aside. Black lace. Netting. Fishnet hose. “Ah!’” she said, and brought out a big, black box. It must have been heavy. It made a hollow thunk as she slammed it down on top of the dresser, rattling her collection of Evil Bobbleheads, which all started nodding uneasily. “Come here.’”

Claire went, worried; this was a brand-new Eve, one she wasn’t sure she liked. She liked the vulnerable Eve, the one who cried at the drop of a hat. This one was harsh and hard and liked to order people around.

“Hold out your hand,’” Eve said. Claire did, tentatively. Eve slapped something round and wooden into it.

Pointed on one end.

A homemade stake.

“Vampire killer’s best friend,’” Eve said. “I made a bunch when Brandon was bothering me. I let him know, the next time he came sniffing around me he was going to get a woody. A real one.’”

“Aren’t these—illegal?’”

“They’ll get you thrown under the jail. Or killed and dumped in some empty lot somewhere. So don’t get caught holding.’”

She pulled out more stakes, and set them on the top of the dresser. Then some crude homemade crosses, extra large. She passed one to Claire, who gripped it in numbed fingers. “But—Eve, what are we doing?’”

“Saving Shane. What, you don’t want to?’”

“Of course I do! But—’”

“Look.’” Eve pulled out some more stuff and dumped it on the pile of stakes—lighter fluid, a Zippo lighter. “The time for playing nice is over. If we want to get Shane out of there, vampires have to die. That means we start a war nobody wants, but tough. I’m not watching Shane burn. I won’t do that. They want this. Oliver wants it. Fine, he can have it. He can choke on it.’”

“Eve!’” Claire dropped the cross and stake, grabbed her shoulders, and shook her. “You can’t! You know it’s suicide—you’ve told me that before! You can’t just…kill vampires! You’ll end up in a cage right next to—’”

Oh, God. She hadn’t seen it before, but now she knew what was different about Eve. What was missing in her eyes.

“You want to die,’” Claire said slowly. “Don’t you?’”

“I’m not afraid of it,’” Eve said. “No big deal, right? Tra-la, off to paradise just like my parents always told me, pearly gates and all that. Besides, nobody’s going to help us, Claire. We have to stick together. We have to help ourselves.’”

“What if I find some evidence?’” Claire asked. “Detective Hess said—’”

“Detective Hess stood there and did nothing. That’s what they’re all going to do. Nothing. Just like Michael.’”

“God, Eve, stop it! That’s not fair. Michael can’t leave the house! You know that!’”

“Yeah. Not much help, is it?’” Eve began stuffing her arsenal of vampire-killing equipment into a black gym bag. “It’s time for a little payback around here. There are other people who’re tired of sucking up to the vamps. Maybe I can find them if you’re going to punk out on me. I need people I can rely on.’”

“Eve!’”

“With me or out of the way.’”

Claire retreated to the doorway, and bumped into a warm body. She yelped and lunged forward, turning to face…

Michael.

His face was like a chalky mask, and his eyes were big and wounded and angry. He took Claire’s hand and pulled her through the doorway, out into the hall.

Then he took hold of the doorknob, and looked at Eve. “You’re not going anywhere,’” he said. “Not while I can stop you.’”

He slammed the door and locked it with an old-fashioned key. Seconds later, Eve hit the other side with a bang and began rattling the knob. “Hey!’” she screamed. “Open it! Right now!’”

“No,’” Michael said. “I’m sorry, Eve. I love you. I’m not letting you do this.’”

She screamed and battered harder. “You love me? You asshole! Let me go!’”

“Can you really keep her in there?’” Claire asked anxiously.

“I can for tonight,’” Michael said, his eyes fixed on the door as it vibrated under the force of her kicks and blows. “The windows won’t open, or the doors. She’s stuck. But when the sun comes up…’” He turned to look at Claire. “You said if you could find evidence, Detective Hess would step in for Shane?’”

“That’s what he said.’”