Dead Girls' Dance

“Right.’” The sergeant didn’t look happy with having the whole thing dumped in his lap again, but he also looked resigned. Couldn’t be the easiest thing, Claire thought, having vamps for bosses. They didn’t seem to have a long attention span. “Glass, right? Occupation?’”

“Musician, sir,’” Michael said.

“Play around town, do you?’”

“I’m rehearsing for some upcoming gigs.’”

The cop nodded and flipped pages in a black leather book. He ran a thick finger down a list, frowned, and said, “You’re behind on your donations, Glass. About a month.’”

Michael threw a lightning-fast glance at Shane. “Sorry, sir. I’ll get out there tomorrow.’”

“Better, or you know what happens.’” The cop ran down the roster. “You. Collins. You still unemployed?’” He gave him a stare. A long one. Shane shrugged, looking—Claire thought—as dumb as possible. “Try harder.’”

“Common Grounds,’” Eve volunteered before he could start in on her. “Eve Rosser, sir, thank you.’” She was vibrating all over—she was so nervous—which was fu

The cop seemed bored now. “Yeah, okay. You, the kid. Name?’”

“Claire,’” she said faintly. “Um…Danvers. I’m a student.’”

He looked at her again, and kept looking. “Shouldn’t you be in the dorm?’”

“I have permission to live off campus.’” She didn’t say from whom, because it was primarily herself.

He watched her for another few seconds, then shrugged. “You live off campus, you follow the town rules. Your friends here’ll tell you what they are. Watch on campus about how much you pass along—we got enough problems without panicking students. And we’re real good at finding blabbermouths.’”

She nodded.

That wasn’t the end of it, but it was the end of her discussions with them; the police poked around a little, took some pictures, and left the house a few minutes later without another word to any of them.

For a good ten seconds after the police closed the front door—or closed it as much as was possible with a busted lock—there was silence, and then Shane turned to Michael and said, “You fucking bastard.’” Claire swallowed hard at the tight fury in his voice.

“You want to take this outside?’” Michael asked. He sounded neutral, almost calm. His eyes were anything but.

“What, you can leave the house now?’”

“No, I meant another room, Shane.’”

“Hey,’” Eve said, “don’t—’”

“Shut up, Eve!’” Shane snapped.

Michael came off the couch like somebody had pushed him; he reached down, grabbed Shane by the T-shirt, and yanked him upright. “Don’t,’” he said, and gave him one hard shake. “Your father’s an asshole. It’s not a disease. You don’t have to catch it.’”

Shane grabbed him in a hug. Michael rocked back a little from the impact, but he closed his eyes and hung on for a moment, then slapped Shane’s back. And of course Shane slapped his back, too, and they stepped way apart. Manly. Claire rolled her eyes.

“I thought you were dead,’” Shane said. His eyes looked suspiciously bright and wet. “I saw you die, man.’”

“I die all the time. It doesn’t really take.’” Michael gave him a half smile that looked more grim than amused. “I figured it was better to let your dad think he’d taken me out. Maybe he wouldn’t be so hard on the rest of you.’” His gaze swept over the bruises on Shane’s face. “Brilliant plan. I’m sorry, man. Once I was dead, I couldn’t do much until night came around again.’”

He said it so matter-of-factly that Claire felt a shiver. “Do you remember…you know, what they did to you?’”

Michael glanced at her. “Yeah,’” he said. “I remember.’”

“Oh hell.’” Shane collapsed back on the sofa and put his head in his hands. “God, man, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’”

“Not your fault.’”

“I called him.’”

“You called him because it looked like we were all pulling an Alamo. You didn’t know—’”

“I know my dad,’” Shane said grimly. “Michael, I want you to know, I wasn’t—I didn’t come here to do his dirty work. Not…not after the first week or so.’”

Michael didn’t answer him. Maybe there was no answer to that, Claire thought. She scooted closer to Shane and stroked his ragged, shoulder-length fine hair. “Hey,’” she said. “It’s okay. We’re all okay.’”

“No, we’re not.’” Shane’s voice was muffled by his hands. “We’re totally screwed. Right, Mike?’”

“Pretty much,’” Michael sighed. “Yeah.’”

“The cops will find them,’” Eve said in an undertone to Claire as both girls stood in the kitchen making pasta. Pasta, apparently, was a new thing that Eve wanted to try. She frowned down at the package of spaghetti, then at the not-yet-bubbling pot of water. “Shane’s dad and his merry band of assholes, I mean.’”

“Yeah,’” Claire agreed, not because she thought they would, but because, well, it seemed like the thing to say. “Want me to warm up the sauce?’”

“Do we do that? I mean, it’s in a jar, right? Can’t you just dump it over the pasta?’”

“Well, you can, but it tastes better if you warm it up.’”

“Oh.’” Eve sighed. “This is complicated. No wonder I never cook.’”

“You make breakfast!’”

“I make two things: bacon and eggs. And sometimes sandwiches. I hate cooking. Cooking reminds me of my mother.’” Eve took another pot from the rack and banged it down onto the massive stove. “Here.’”

Claire struggled with the top on the spaghetti sauce jar, and finally got it to release with a pop. “You think they’re going to stay mad at each other?’” she asked.

“Michael and Shane?’”

“Mmm-hmmm.’” The sauce plopped into the pot, chunky and wet and vaguely nauseating. Claire considered the second jar, decided that if two of the four of them were boys, more was better. She got it opened and in the pot, as well, then turned on the burner and set it to simmer.

“Who knows?’” Eve shrugged. “Boys are idiots. You’d think Shane could just say, ‘Oh man, I’m glad you’re alive,’ but no. It’s either guilt or amateur night at the Drama Queen Theater.’” She blew out a frustrated breath. “Boys. I’d turn gay if they weren’t so sexy.’”

Claire tried not to laugh, but she couldn’t help it, and after a second Eve smiled and chuckled, too. The water started boiling. In went the pasta.

“Um…Eve…can I ask…?’”

“About what?’” Eve was still frowning at the pasta like she suspected it was going to do something clever, like try to escape from the pot.

“You and Michael.’”

“Oh.’” A surge of pink to Eve’s cheeks. Between that and the fact that she was wearing colors outside of the Goth red and black rainbow, she looked young and very cute. “Well. I don’t know if it’s—God, he’s just so—’”

“Hot?’” Claire asked.

“Hot,’” Eve admitted. “Nuclear hot. Surface of the sun hot. And—’”

She stopped, the flush in her cheeks getting darker. Claire picked up a wooden spoon and poked the pasta, which was begi

“And I was pla

“Oh, wow.’”

“Yeah, embarrassing. Did he peek?’”

“When you were changing?’” Claire asked. “I don’t think so. But I think he wanted to.’”

“That’s okay, then.’” Eve blinked down at the pasta, which had formed a thick white foam on top. “Is it supposed to be doing that?’”

Claire hadn’t ever seen it happen at her parents’ house. But then again, they hadn’t made spaghetti much. “I don’t know.’”

“Oh crap!’” The white foam kept growing, like in one of those cheesy science fiction movies. The foam that ate the Glass House…it mushroomed up over the top of the pot and down over the sides, and both girls yelped as it hit the burners and began to sizzle and pop. Claire grabbed the pot and moved it. Eve turned down the burner. “Right, pasta makes foam, good to know. Too hot. Way too hot.’”