Fade Out

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t want to lie to him.

Michael stared at her for a few long seconds, long enough that she was almost sure he could read her mind, and then he shoved his keys in his pocket and moved off down the stairs.

She sat down on his bed, staring up at the vent where she’d found the camera. Claire didn’t actually know what she was going to do until she heard Michael’s new replacement car starting up outside, and then she stood, walked down to the kitchen, and interrupted an intense conversation between Shane and Eve at the sink to say, “Michael’s gone to get Kim, and we need to go, right now.”

They both stopped and looked over their shoulders at her. Eve had her arms elbow-deep in soapy water. Shane held a dish towel and a plate.

“Right now,” Claire repeated. “Please.”

Eve yanked the plug on the sink, grabbed the towel from Shane’s hands, and wiped her hands and arms. She three-pointed the towel onto the counter. “I’ll drive,” she said, and ran to grab her keys. Shane stayed where he was, still holding the plate in one hand, watching Claire. He opened his mouth.

“Don’t you dare tell me I can’t go,” she said. “Don’t even, Shane. I’m on those videos, too. You know I am.”

He put the plate down. “Michael went alone?”

“Mr. Vampire Superhero doesn’t need backup.” Well, that wasn’t quite fair. “He’s meeting Detective Hess there. But still.”

The kitchen door swung open, and Eve blazed back in, vivid in black and white, a mime on a mission. She tossed her keys in a nervous jingle of metal and said, “Weapons.”

Nobody argued that it would only be Kim they were going up against. Shane grabbed a black nylon bag from under the counter—in other towns, people might keep emergency supplies of food and water, maybe a medical kit, but in Morganville, their emergency readiness kit consisted of stakes and silver-coated knives. “Got it,” he said, and tossed it over one shoulder. “Claire—”

“Don’t even!”

He gri

Oh. “You get me the nicest things.”

“Anybody can get jewelry. Posers.”

Eve rolled her eyes. “Let’s go, comedian.”

As she tossed the keys again, Shane grabbed them in midair. “I may be a comedian, but you look like a mime, anybody ever tell you that?”

He dashed for the door. Eve followed. Claire shouldered the nylon bag and prepared to shut the door of the house; as she did, she felt a wave of emotion sweep through her. The house, Michael’s house, was worried. It was almost alive, some of the time. Like now.

“It’ll be okay,” she told it, and patted the countertop. “He’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”

The lights dimmed a little as she shut the door.

Eve’s car wouldn’t start.

“Um . . . this isn’t good,” Eve said as Shane cranked the engine again. There was a click, and nothing. “You’ve got to be kidding me. This is not the time, stupid evil hunk of junk!” She slapped the dashboard, which had zero effect. “Come on, work!”

It was very dark outside—no streetlights on, and the moon and stars were veiled by thick, fast-moving clouds. In the glow of the dashboard, Shane and Eve looked worried. Shane pulled the old-fashioned lever under the dash, and the hood of the car popped up with a thick clunk of metal. “Stay inside,” he said. “I’m going to take a look.”

“Because you’ve got guy parts, you’re automatically a better mechanic than me? I don’t think so,” Eve said, and bailed out of the passenger side. Shane banged the back of his head against the seat.

“Seriously,” he said. “Why is it always so hard with her?”

“She’s worried,” Claire said.

“We’re all worried. You stay in the car.”

“Idon’t know anything about cars. I will.”

“Finally, a girl with some sense.” He leaned over the seat to kiss her, then got out to join Eve as she hauled the giant, heavy hood of the car upward. From that point on, Claire had a limited view of what was going on—the hood, the dark night outside, some lights glowing in nearby houses. . . .

A car turned the corner, and its headlights swept color over darkness, lighting up the Glass House in all its decaying Victorian glory, then the sun-faded picket fence, the spring crop of weeds along the curb. . . .

And then came a group of vampires out of the darkness, heading for Shane and Eve. One of them was Morley, the skanky homeless dude from the cemetery. She supposed the others were his friends; they didn’t look as polished and well-groomed as most of the other vamps seemed to be. These looked hungry, mean, and dirty.

Claire lunged across the big bench seat from the back and slammed her hand down on the horn. It was as loud as a foghorn, and she heard a sharp bang as either Eve or Shane hit their head on the hood of the car as they straightened up.

“Guys!” she yelled. “Trouble!”

Shane, one hand held to the top of his head, opened the back door and pulled her out. “Door,” he said. “Get back inside. The car thing isn’t happening.”

Claire didn’t argue. She dug her front door key out of her jeans pocket as she ran, banged open the front gate, and skidded to a halt in front of the door. The porch light flickered on.

“Thanks,” she told the house absently, jammed the key into the lock, and opened the door.

Shane was at the foot of the steps, but he’d stopped, looking back.

Eve was trapped between the car and the house, and she was surrounded by vampires. Claire gasped, and saw that neither Shane nor Eve had had time to grab the weapons bag out of the car.

She still had hers.

Morley lunged forward, slamming Eve against the rounded fender of her car, and Eve’s scream of panic split the night. Shane rushed toward her, pulling a stake from his jacket, but it wasn’t going to help. There were six of them, all with vampire strength.

He’d get himself killed.

Claire zipped open the bag and pulled out the big plastic Super Soaker. It was a totally absurd color of neon, and it was heavy with a full load of water.

God, please work. Please work.

Claire moved forward at a run, and pressed the trigger. A shockingly thick spray shot out, hit the sidewalk, and splashed; she quickly angled it up, over the fence, and sprayed it in an arc across Shane’s back, the vampires turning to meet him, Morley, Eve.

Where it hit exposed vampire skin, the solution of silver powder and water lit them up like Christmas trees. The bony woman with long dark hair heading for Shane broke off with a yelp, slapped at her burning face, and then gaped at the burns on her hands as the solution began to eat away at her flesh.

Claire pumped the toy gun again, building up pressure, and put it to her shoulder as she came to a flat-footed stop. “Back off!” she yelled. “Everybody just stop! You, let her go!” That last was directed at Morley, who had Eve by the shoulder and was holding her in front of him. He was wearing a filthy old raincoat, and it had protected him from the spray; she could see a livid burn spreading across his cheek, but nothing that would really hurt him.

Shane backed up next to Claire, breathing hard. She aimed the Super Soaker directly at Morley and Eve. “Let her go,” she repeated. “We didn’t do anything to you.”

“Nothing personal,” Morley said. “We’re starving, love. And you’re so juicy.”

“Ewww,” Eve said faintly. “Has anybody ever told you that you smell like tombstones?”

He glanced at her and smiled. “You’re the first,” he assured her. “Which is a bit charming. I’m Morley. And you are . . . ? Ah yes. Amelie’s friend. I remember you from the cemetery. Sam Glass’s grave.”

“Nice to meet you. Don’t eat me, ’kay?”