Dead Girls' Dance

“It wouldn’t be for Monica,’” he said. “You know that.’”

They stared at the flames, waiting. Seconds ticked by, and there was no sign of anyone: no Monica, and no cops, either. The horizon was getting lighter in the east, Claire realized, going from dark blue to twilight.

Dawn was coming, and they were almost out of time to get Monica to Founder’s Square, if they could get her at all.

If she was still alive.

“Sun’s coming!’” Michael shouted over the roar of the fire.

Claire didn’t ask how he knew. He’d known when he was a ghost; she figured it was probably the same time sense as a vampire’s. Made sense. It would be a survival trait, to know when to get under cover. “You need to get out of here!’” she yelled back. A thick, black billow of smoke belched out of the doorway and made her double over, coughing. They all retreated. “Michael, you have to go! Now!’”

“No!’”

“At least get in the police car!’” Eve pointed to it, on the other side of the fence. “Tinted windows! We’ll wait here, I swear!’”

“I’m not leaving you!’”

The sun crested the far horizon in a tiny sliver of gold, and where it touched him, Michael’s pale skin started to sizzle and smoke. He hissed in pain and slapped at it. A pale, licking flame took hold on his hand.

Claire and Eve screamed, and Eve tackled him into the shadows. That helped, but not much; he was still burning, just more slowly. Michael groaned and looked like he was trying not to scream.

“Claire!’” Eve tossed her the car keys. “Ram the gate! Get it open! Do it!’”

“But—your car!’”

“It’s just a freakin’ car! Come on, move it! We’ll never get him over the fence!’”

Claire scrambled back over the slick, warm iron of the fence, slicing her hands in two or three more places, and barely felt the impact when she fell this time. She was up and ru

—and then she changed course, threw herself into the driver’s seat of the police car, and started it with the keys hanging from the ignition.

This had to be some kind of crime, right? But in an emergency…

She backed it up almost to the end of the block, put the car in drive, and pressed the gas pedal to the floor.

She screamed and managed to hang on to the wheel somehow as the gate rushed up at her; there was a bone-jarring crunch, and she slammed on the brakes. The gates flew open, bent and mangled, and the police car gave a roar and died, sputtering. Claire got out and opened the back door as Eve rushed Michael toward her; Michael dived in, and Claire slammed the door behind him. Eve was right—the windows were heavily tinted, probably to protect vampire cops from the sun. He’d be okay in there.

Claire hoped.

“What about the others?’” she yelled at Eve, who shook her head. They both turned to look at the warehouse, which was fully on fire now, shooting flames twenty or thirty feet into the morning sky. “Oh God. Oh God! We have to do something!’”

Just then, two figures staggered out of the side door, bathed in black smoke, and collapsed to the pavement. Eve and Claire dashed to them. For a second, Claire didn’t even know who they were, so blackened were they by smoke, and then she recognized Joe Hess under the grime.

The other one was Travis Lowe. They were both coughing and retching up black stuff.

“Get up!’” Eve ordered, and grabbed Hess’s arm to drag him away from the building. “Come on, get up!’”

He did, weaving badly, and Claire managed to get Lowe to do the same. They made it about halfway to the police car, and then Lowe sat down in the open parking lot, coughing his lungs out, gasping. Claire crouched down next to him, wishing she could do something, wishing the damn fire department would come, wishing….

“We’re too late,’” Eve said. She was watching the sun climb over the horizon. “It’s dawn. We’re too late.’”

Hess gasped, “No. Not yet. Richard—had Monica—’”

“What? Where?’” Claire spun to look at him. Hess was nearly as bad off as his partner, but he was able to form words, at least. “They’re still alive?’”

“Should have been right behind us,’” Lowe wheezed.

Claire didn’t think about it. If she’d given herself time, she would have talked herself out of it, but her brain was on hold and all that was left was instinct. It wasn’t just that there was still hope to save Shane; it was that she couldn’t leave anybody to die like that.

She just couldn’t.

She heard Eve yelling her name, but she didn’t stop, couldn’t stop; she kept ru

Okay, this was a really bad idea.

She didn’t dare crawl too far; in the chaos and darkness, she’d never find her way out again. Something fell near her with a huge crash, and fire roared overhead. Claire went flat on the floor and curled into a ball, then—when she wasn’t roasted or crushed—forced herself to keep moving. One minute. One minute and then straight back out.

She wasn’t sure she could survive a minute in here.

Her searching fingers brushed cloth. Claire opened her eyes and was instantly sorry, because the smoke burned and stung, and she couldn’t see a thing anyway. But she had her hand on cloth, and yes, that was a leg, a pant leg….

And that was a hand that turned and gripped hers. An unrecognizable voice rasped, “Get Monica out!’”

A new burst of fire lit up the darkness, and she saw Richard Morrell lying there, curled around his sister. Protecting her. Monica looked up, and there was sheer terror in her face. She reached out blindly. Claire took her hands and pulled her back the way she’d come in, straight back. She felt the draft of air coming in the door, and that helped guide her. “Grab your brother!’” she yelled. Monica took Richard’s hand, and Claire hauled with all her strength, dragging them both.

She didn’t make it.

She wasn’t sure how it happened exactly…. One minute she was pulling; the next she was down, and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop coughing. Oh no. No no no. But she couldn’t get up, couldn’t force her body to move.

Shane…

Somebody grabbed her by the ankles and yanked, hard. Claire had just enough presence of mind left to hold on to Monica’s wrist.

“Shit!’” Eve was groaning, coughing, and all of a sudden Claire was outside lying in the sun, watching black smoke billow into the air. “Claire! Breathe, dammit!’”

It wasn’t so much breathing as hacking up a lung, but at least air was moving in and out. She heard someone else coughing next to her, and raised her head to see Monica on her hands and knees, spitting out black phlegm.

And now Eve was dragging Richard Morrell out by his feet.

Eve collapsed next to them, coughing, too, and somewhere on the distant edges of the fire’s roar, as if somebody had flipped a switch, Claire heard sirens. Oh, now they were coming. Perfect. Someone’s tax dollars at work, even if it wasn’t hers…

Claire rolled painfully to her feet. There were burned patches in her clothes, and she smelled burned hair, too. She was going to hurt later, but for now, she was just glad to be alive.

“Get Monica,’” she wheezed at Eve, and grabbed one of Monica’s arms. Eve grabbed the other, and they half dragged her across the parking lot to the shattered gate. Hess and Lowe were leaning up against the police car. Lowe, incredibly, was smoking a cigarette, but he dropped it and managed to get to his feet to stumble over to where Richard was lying, and help him up.

“Michael!’” Eve rapped on the window of the police car. Claire blinked her watering eyes; she could just barely see his shadow through the tinted glass. “Move over!’” Eve opened the back door carefully, making sure he was out of the direct sun, and loaded Monica into the backseat, then got in with them. Monica made a groan of protest. “Oh, shut up already and be grateful.’”