Fade Out

But she knew the right thing to do. “We should go look for her.”

“No,” Shane said. “You stay here. I’m just going to see if she’s out there. I just want to be sure she’s all right.”

Because you don’t at all care, Claire thought, but had enough sense to keep it to herself. She just nodded. Shane let go of her hand and moved to the doors, which he eased open and looked out. After a moment of hesitation, he let it close and came back. “Not there,” he said.

“Which one?”

“Both.” Shane sounded tense, and she couldn’t blame him. He tended to take a lot on himself, and if something ended up going badly with Kim, he’d see it as his failure, which was nonsense, but it was how Shane rolled. “I need to—”

“Need to what?”

Kim again, coming up from right behind Claire. Claire squeezed her eyes shut and almost screamed in frustration—not relief—but she managed to control herself, turn, and say, very calmly, “Need to be sure you were okay. Which you are. Obviously.”

Kim looked at her for a moment; then a knowing smile slowly spread over her lips. “Obviously,” she almost purred. She transferred the look to Shane. And the smile. “You were worried about me? That’s sweet, but gender-bender vamp back there wasn’t about to hurt me.”

“Why not?” Claire asked.

Kim shrugged. “Eh, you know. Damn, I really haven’t seen you in forever, Collins. What you been up to?”

“Not much,” he said, and reached out for Claire’s hand again. “We’ve got seats down there. Sorry. Thanks for the intervention out there.”

“Sure,” Kim said. “Catch you later, then.”

Their seats were close to the front, and by the time they’d reached them, the lights were going down. Claire looked back, but couldn’t see Kim anywhere in the shadows.

“I think I might really hate that girl,” she said.

Shane kissed her fingers lightly. “Don’t be jealous. I’m not into her. Now or later.”

Claire wished she could believe that, but there was still some small, difficult part of herself that was too aware of her own flaws.

Then the spotlights came up, the house lights went down, and Michael walked onto the stage, to a sudden rush of applause, and he wasn’t the Michael Claire knew—he wasn’t the one who hung out in the living room and played video games and noodled around on his guitar and picked terrible Westerns for movie night.

This was someone else.

Someone almost frightening, the way he grabbed and held the spotlight. He’d looked good earlier, but now Claire saw him the way that Michael Glass had always been meant to be seen . . . center stage. The light turned his hair brilliant gold, made his pale skin glow like moon-stone, turned him into something exotic and fabulous and untouchable—and, at the same time, something you wanted to touch. Badly.

Someone pushed into the chair next to Claire. Eve. She’d put on her best, mostly backless black velvet gown, fixed her hair into a chic, gleaming black cap, and when she crossed her legs, the slit in her dress revealed an acre of leg and stiletto heels.

She was out of breath.

“Oh God, I thought I’d never make it,” she whispered to Claire, and snapped open a black silk fan, which she fluttered to cool herself off. “That’s my boyfriend, you know.”

“I know,” Claire said. She’d been prepared to not talk to Eve, but in two sentences, she found herself smiling. There was something so happy in sharing her joy. “He’s okay, I guess.”

Eve smacked her with the folded-up fan. “Bite your tongue. My boyfriend is a rock god, baby.”

And this, with the first few notes of his song, Michael Glass proved vividly to the entire hall.

The concert was great. The after-party was overwhelming, mostly because Claire hadn’t really known there would be one, and she wasn’t up for being stared at by a few hundred strangers who were all pressing around, trying to get to Michael and wondering why she was so special that she got to be behind the autograph table, instead of in front of it. Michael had barely had time to say hi since he’d come out the stage door into the lobby; he’d been mobbed, and not even Eve, standing there looking gorgeous and movie-star sleek, could get private time with him while the fans circled. There was no sign of Kim. The vampires didn’t bother to mix with the crowd, but as each of them left the building, they stopped to look at Michael, and nod. Claire supposed that was their version of a standing ovation.

As the number of autograph seekers finally died down, there were only a few people left. One was Pe

The last person, though, was a human—an older guy dressed in a black tailored leather jacket and jeans—kind of like business tough, if there was such a thing. He had great hair, and one of those nice, even, white smiles people had on TV shows—and a tan.

“Michael, great show,” the man said, and leaned over to shake Michael’s hand. “Seriously, that was out of the park. My name is Harry Sloan, my daughter, Hillary, goes to school here. She wanted me to come and check you out, and I have to say, I was very impressed.”

“Thanks,” Michael said. He looked a little tired, no longer the mighty god of guitar that he’d been onstage, and Claire thought he just wanted to get this done and get home. “I appreciate that, Mr. Sloan.”

Mr. Sloan produced a business card, which he slid across the table toward Michael’s hand. “Yeah, here’s the thing. I think you’ve got real potential, Michael. I work for a major recording company, and I want to take a demo CD back with me.”

There was a moment where they all stared at him, and then Michael said, blankly, “Demo CD?”

“You don’t have one?”

“No. I’ve been—” Michael didn’t know how to finish that sentence. “Busy.” Busy getting killed, then being made into a ghost, then turning into a vampire. Fighting wars. Et cetera.

“You really have to get in the studio, man, right now. I’ll set it up—there’s a good place in Dallas. I’ll book the time for you if you tell me dates. But I want to take your stuff into our next discovery meeting. I think we can really do some business. Think about it, will you? First thing is to get that demo CD done. Call me.”

He held out his hand again, and Michael shook it. He looked pale, and a little vacant, Claire thought. Mr. Sloan flashed them all that Hollywood smile again, slid on a very expensive pair of sunglasses, and left.

“He can’t be,” Eve said. “It’s a joke, right? Monica’s idea of a joke or something.”

Michael held up the business card. Eve examined it, blinked, and passed it to Shane, who passed it on to Claire.

“Vice president,” Claire read. “Oh. Wow.”

“It’s not a joke,” Michael said. “There was an article about this guy in Rolling Stone about six weeks ago.” Michael slowly got to his feet, and it really hit home. “He wants to sign me. As a musician.”

Shane held up his hand, palm out, and Michael slapped it, then grabbed Eve and spun her around in a rush of velvet and squeals. He went still, buried his face in the soft shine of her hair, and just held her. “All my life,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for this all my life.”

“I know,” Eve said, and kissed him. “I’m so proud of you.”

Across the gap of a hundred feet of outdated carpet, Mr. Pe