Lord of Misrule

The three of them edged past the people and vampires who packed the Glass House. It had become the unofficial campaign center for their side of the war, which meant there were plenty of people tramping around, getting in their stuff, who none of them would have let cross the threshold under normal circumstances.

Take Monica Morrell. The mayor’s daughter had shed her elaborate Marie Antoinette costume and was back to the blond, slinky, pretty, slimy girl Claire knew and hated.

“Oh my God.” Claire gritted her teeth. “Is she wearing my blouse?” It was her only good one. Silk. She’d just bought it last week. Now she’d never be able to put it on again. “Remind me to burn that later.” Monica saw her staring, fingered the collar of the shirt, and gave her an evil smile. She mouthed, Thanks. “Remind me to burn it twice. And stomp on the ashes.”

Eve grabbed Claire by the arm and hustled her into the empty corner of the room, where she shook out the blanket and held it at arm’s length to provide a temporary shelter.

Claire peeled off her sweat-soaked Harlequin costume with a whimper of relief, and shivered as the cool air hit her flushed skin. She felt awkward and anxious, stripped to her underwear with just a blanket held up between her and a dozen strangers, some of whom probably wanted to eat her.

Shane leaned over the top. “You done?”

She squealed and threw the wadded-up costume at him. He caught it and waggled his eyebrows at her as she stepped into the jeans and quickly buttoned up the shirt.

“Done!” she called.

Eve dropped the blanket and smiled poison-sweet at Shane.

“Your turn, leather boy,” she said. “Don’t worry. I won’t accidentally embarrass you.”

No, she’d embarrass him completely on purpose, and Shane knew it, from the glare he threw her. He ducked behind the blanket. Claire wasn’t tall enough to check him out over the top—not that she wasn’t tempted—but when Eve lowered the blanket, bit by bit, Claire grabbed one corner and pulled it back up.

“You’re no fun,” Eve said.

“Don’t mess with him. Not now. He’s going out there alone.”

Eve’s face went still and tight, and for the first time, Claire realized that the shine in her eyes wasn’t really humor. It was a tightly controlled kind of panic. “Yeah,” she said. “I know. It’s just—we’re all splitting up, Claire. I wish we didn’t have to do that.”

On impulse, Claire hugged her. Eve smelled of powder and some kind of darkly floral perfume, with a light undertone of sweat.

“Hey!” Shane’s wounded yell was enough to make them both giggle. The blanket had drooped enough to show him zipping up his pants. Fast. “Seriously, girls, not cool. A guy could do serious damage.”

He looked more like Shane now. The leather pants had made him unsettlingly hot-model gorgeous. In jeans and his old, faded Marilyn Manson T-shirt, he was somebody down-to-earth, somebody Claire could imagine kissing.

And she did imagine, just like that. It was, as usual, heart-racingly delicious.

“Michael’s going out, too,” Eve said, and now the tension she’d been hiding made her voice tremble. “I have to tell him—”

“Go on,” Claire said. “We’re right behind you.”

Eve dropped the blanket and pushed through the crowd, heading for her boyfriend, and the unofficial head of their strange and screwed-up fraternity.

It was easy to spot Michael in any group—he was tall and blond, with a face like an angel. As he caught sight of Eve heading toward him, he smiled, and Claire thought that was maybe the most complicated smile she’d ever seen, full of relief, welcome, love, and worry.

Eve crashed straight into him, hard enough to rock him back on his heels, and their arms went around each other.

Shane held Claire back with a touch on her shoulder. “Give them a minute,” he said. “They’ve got things to say.” She turned to look at him. “And so do we.”

She swallowed hard and nodded. Shane’s hands were on her shoulders, and his eyes had gone still and intense.

“Don’t go out there,” Shane said.

It was what she’d been intending to say to him. She blinked, surprised.

“You stole my paranoia,” she said. “I was going to say, Don’t go. But you’re going to, no matter what I say, aren’t you?”

That threw him off just a little. “Well, yeah, of course I am, but—”

“But nothing. I’ll be with Amelie; I’ll be okay. You? You’re going off with the cast of WWE Raw to fight a cage match or something. It’s not the same thing.”

“Since when do you ever watch wrestling?”

“Shut up. That’s not the point, and you know it. Shane, don’t go.” Claire put everything she had into it.

It wasn’t enough.

Shane smoothed her hair and bent down to kiss her. It was the sweetest, gentlest kiss he’d ever given her, and it melted all the tense muscles of her neck, her shoulders, and her back. It was a promise without words, and when he finally pulled back, he passed his thumb across her lips gently, to seal it all in.

“There’s something I really ought to tell you,” he said. “I was kind of waiting for the right time.”

They were in a room full of people, Morganville was in chaos outside, and they probably didn’t have a chance of surviving until sunrise, but Claire felt her heart stutter and then race faster. The whole world seemed to go silent around her. He’s going to say it.

Shane leaned in, so close that she felt his lips brush her ear, and whispered, “My dad’s coming back to town.”

That so wasn’t what she was hoping he’d say. Claire jerked back, startled, and Shane put a hand over her mouth. “Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t say anything. We can’t talk about this, Claire. I just wanted you to know.”

They couldn’t talk about it because Shane’s father was Morganville’s most wanted, public enemy number one, and any conversation they had—at least here—was in danger of being overheard by unfriendly, undead ears.

Not that Claire was a fan of Shane’s father; he was a cold, brutal man who’d used and abused Shane, and she couldn’t work up a lot of dread for seeing him behind bars . . . only she knew that Amelie and Oliver wouldn’t stop at putting him in jail. Shane’s father was marked for death if he came back. Death by burning. And while Claire wouldn’t necessarily cry any big tears over him, she didn’t want to put Shane through that, either.

“We’ll talk about it,” she said.

Shane snorted. “You mean, you’ll yell at me? Trust me, I know what you’re going to say. I just wanted you to know, in case—”

In case something happened to him. Claire tried to frame her question in a way that wouldn’t tip their hand to any listening ears. “When should I expect him?”

“Next few days, probably. But you know how it is. I’m out of the loop.” Shane’s smile had a dark, painful edge to it now. He’d defied his dad once, because of Claire, and that meant cutting the ties to his last living family in the world. Claire doubted his dad had forgotten that, or ever would.

“Why now?” she whispered. “The last thing we need is—”

“Help?”

“He’s not help. He’s chaos!”

Shane gestured at the burning town. “Take a good look, Claire. How much worse can it get?”

Lots, she thought. Shane, in some ways, still had a rose-colored view of his father. It had been a while since his dad had blown out of town, and she thought that Shane had probably convinced himself that the guy wasn’t all that bad. He was probably thinking now that his dad would come sweeping in to save them.

It wasn’t going to happen. Frank Collins was a fanatic, car-bomb variety, and he didn’t care who got hurt.

Not even his own son.

“Let’s just—” She chewed her lip for a second, staring at him. “Let’s just get through the day, okay? Please? Be careful. Call me.”

He had his cell phone, and he showed it to her in mute promise. Then he stepped closer, and when his arms closed around her, she felt a sweet, trembling relief.