Kiss of Death

“You know what he was here for,” Michael said. “We haven’t gotten his people passes to leave town yet, which is what you promised him in return for not killing you three when he had the chance. He’s getting impatient, and since you three are on the hook as his own personal blood donors, I think we need to get serious about making that happen.”

“He wouldn’t dare.”

“No? Can’t say that I agree with you. Morley isn’t afraid of much that I can tell, including Amelie, Oliver, or a wooden arrow in the heart.” Michael nodded at Shane. “Still. Thanks. Nice.”

“Brute force. It’s what I do.”

“Just keep it aimed the right way.”

Shane looked as i

“Cool. Let’s go shoot some undead things on the TV, then.”

“Loser.”

“Not if I win.”

“Like that ever happens.”

2

The next day, Claire had classes at Texas Prairie University, which was always a mixture of fascinating and a

This seriously pissed off Monica, Queen Bee of the Morganville Under-Thirty set. Still, Claire had come a long way from the clueless early-admission freshman she’d been last year. When Monica tried to bully her—which was virtually certain to happen at least a couple of times every week—the outcome wasn’t usually in Monica’s favor, or always in Claire’s, either. But still, a draw was better than a beat-down, in Claire’s view. Everybody was left standing.

Claire’s first stop was at the campus student store, where she bought a new backpack—sturdy, not too flashy, with lots of pockets inside and out. She ducked into the next bathroom she found to transfer the contents of her taped-together book bag to the new one, and almost threw the old one away ... but it had a lot of sentimental value, somehow. Ripped, scuffed, stained with all kinds of things she didn’t want to remember, but it had come with her to Morganville, and somehow she felt that throwing it away would be throwing away her chance of ever getting out of here.

Crazy, but she couldn’t help it.

In the end, she stuffed the rolled-up old backpack into a pocket of the new one, hefted the weight, and jogged across campus to make her first class of the day.

Three uneventful (and mostly boring) hours later, she ran into Monica Morrell, who was sitting on the steps of the Language Arts building, sunglasses on, leaning back on her elbows and watching people go by. One of her lipstick mafia girls was with her—Je

Claire was heading up the steps, ignoring them, when Je

That was creepy enough to stop Claire right in her tracks. She looked over, and Je

So was Monica.

This, from the two girls who’d punched and kicked her, thrown her down a flight of stairs, abducted her at least twice, threatened her with knives, tried to set her house on fire ... yeah. Claire didn’t really feel like redefining the relationship on their new buddy-buddy terms.

She just gave the two of them a long look, and kept on up the stairs, trying to focus on what it was she was supposed to remember today about early American literature. Nathaniel Hawthorne? So last week ...

“Hey!” Monica grabbed her two steps from the top, yanking on the strap of her new book bag to drag her to a halt. “Talking to you, bitch!”

That was more like it. Claire glanced down at Monica’s hand and raised her eyebrows. Monica let go.

“I figured it couldn’t be me,” she said. “Since you were acting so nice and all. Had to be some other Claire.”

“I just thought since the two of us are more or less stuck with each other, we might as well try to be friendly, that’s all. You didn’t have to act as if I stole your boyfriend or something.” Monica smiled slowly and pulled her sunglasses down to stare over the top. Her big, lovely blue eyes were full of shallow glee. “Speaking of that, how is Shane? Getting bored with the after-school special yet?”

“Wow, that’s one of your better insults. You’re almost up to junior high level. Keep working on it,” Claire said. “Ask Shane yourself if you want to know how he’s doing. I’m sure he’d be glad to tell you.” Colorfully. “What do you want?”

“Who says I want something?”

“Because you’re like a lion. You don’t bother to get up unless you’re getting something out of it.”

Monica smiled even wider. “Hmmm, harsh, but accurate. Why work harder than you have to? Anyway, I hear you and your friends made a deal that’s getting you into trouble. Something with that skanky homeless Brit vamp—what’s his name? Mordred?”

“Mordred is from the King Arthur stories. It’s Morley.”

“Whatever. I just wanted to tell you that I can take care of it for you.” Her smile revealed teeth, even and white. “For a price.”

“Yeah, I didn’t see that coming,” Claire said with a sigh. “How are you going to take care of it, exactly?”

“I can get him the passes out of town he wants. From my brother.”

Claire rolled her eyes and adjusted her book bag a little more comfortably on her shoulder. “Meaning what? You’re going to forge his signature on a bunch of photocopies that will get everybody thrown in jail except you? No thanks. Not interested.” Claire had no doubt that whatever Monica was offering, it wasn’t real; she’d already talked to Monica’s brother, Mayor Richard Morrell, several times about this and gotten nowhere. But Monica liked to pretend she had “access”—with full air quotes. “If that’s all, I’ve got class.”

“Not quite,” Monica said, and the smile vanished. “I want the answers to the final exam in Lit 220. Get them.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding? Get them, or—well, you know what kind of or there is, right?” Monica pushed the sunglasses back up. “Get them to me by Friday or you’re fried, special needs.”

Claire shook her head and took the last two steps, walked to her class, dumped her bag at her lecture hall seat, and sat down to think things over.

By the time class began, she had a plan—a warm, fuzzy plan.

Some days, it was absolutely worth getting out of bed.

When Claire got home, the sun was slipping fast toward the horizon. It was too early for most vampires to be out—not that they burst into flames that easily; most of the older ones were sort of flame-retardant-but she kept a sharp lookout, anyway. Instead of going straight to the Glass House, she turned at the cross street and went a few more blocks. It was like déjà vu because her parents’ house looked almost exactly like the Glass House; a little less faded, maybe. The trim had been painted a nice dark green, and there were fewer bushes around the windows, different porch furniture, and a couple of wind chimes; Claire’s mom loved wind chimes, especially the big, long ones that rang those deep bell sounds.