How much did that suck?
The rest of the night passed quietly. The next morning, they woke up to a ringing phone.
Eve’s dad was gone.
“The funeral’s tomorrow,” Eve said. She wasn’t crying. She didn’t look much like herself this morning— no makeup, no effort at all put into what she’d thrown on. Her eyes were veined with red, and her nose almost glowed. She’d cried all night; Claire had heard her, but when she’d knocked on the door, Eve hadn’t wanted company. Not even Michael’s.
“Are you going?” Michael asked. Claire thought that was a funny question—who wouldn’t go? But Eve just nodded.
“I need to,” she said. “They’re right about that closure thing, I guess. Will you . . . ?”
“Of course,” he said. “I can’t do graveside, but—”
Eve shuddered. “So not going there, anyway. The church is bad enough.”
“Church?” Claire asked, as she poured mugs of coffee for the three of them. Shane, as usual, had slept through the phone. “Really?”
“You’ve never met Father Joe, have you?” Eve managed a weak smile. “You’ll like him. He’s— something.”
“Eve had the hots for him when she was twelve,” Michael said, and got a dirty look. “What? You did, and you know it.”
“It was the cassock, okay? I’m over it.”
Claire raised her eyebrows. “Is Father Joe a . . . ?” She did the teeth-in-neck mime. They both smiled.
“No,” Michael said. “He’s just nonjudgmental.”
Eve got through the day without too much trouble; she did the normal things—helping with the laundry, taking half the cleaning jobs for the day. It was her day off from work. Claire had a few classes, but she skipped three that she knew she’d already built up enough momentum in, and attended only the one that seemed critical. Michael didn’t go in to teach private guitar lessons, either.
It was nice. It was like . . . family.
The funeral was held at noon the next day, and Claire found herself trying to pick out what to wear. Party clothes seemed too . . . festive. Jeans were too informal. She borrowed a pair of Eve’s black tights and wore them with an also-borrowed black skirt. Paired with a white shirt, it looked moderately respectful.
She wasn’t sure how Eve planned to dress, because at eleven a.m., Eve was still sitting in front of her vanity mirror, staring at her reflection. Still in her black dressing gown.
“Hey,” Claire said. “Can I help?”
“Sure,” Eve said. “Should I do my hair up?”
“It’d look nice that way,” Claire said, and picked up the hairbrush. She brushed Eve’s thick black hair until it shone, then twisted it into a knot and pinned it up at the back of her head. “There.”
Eve reached for her rice-powder makeup, then stopped. She met Claire’s eyes in the mirror.
“Maybe not the right time,” she said.
Claire didn’t say anything at all. Eve applied some lipstick—dark, but not her usual shade—and began searching through her closet.
In the end, she went with a black high-necked dress, one long enough to hang to the tops of her shoes. And a black veil. It was subdued, for Eve.
The four of them were at the church with fifteen minutes to spare, and as Michael pulled into the parking garage, Claire saw that several vampire-tinted cars were already present. “Is this the only funeral?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said, and turned off the engine. “I guess Mr. Rosser had more friends than we thought.”
Not that many, as it turned out; when they entered the vestibule of the church, it was nearly empty, and there weren’t many names noted in the register. Eve’s mother stood by the book, waiting to pounce on anyone who came in the door.
True to Michael’s earlier description, Mrs. Rosser couldn’t seem to stop crying; she was wearing all black, like Eve, only it was much more theatrical— dramatic sweeps of black satin, a big formal hat, gloves.
And, Claire reflected, when you were more theatrical than Eve, you definitely had issues.
Mrs. Rosser had gone in heavy for mascara, and it was in messy streams all down her cheeks. Her hair was dyed blond, and straggling around her face. If she was going for the role of Ophelia in the town production of Hamlet, Claire thought she probably had it in the bag.
Eve’s mother threw herself on Claire like a wet blanket, sobbing on her shoulder and smearing mascara on her white shirt. “Thank you for coming!” she wailed, and Claire awkwardly patted her on the back. “I wish you’d known my husband. He was such a good man, such a hard life—”
Eve stood there looking remote and a little sick. “Mom. Get off her. She doesn’t even know you.”
Mrs. Rosser drew back, gulping back another sob. “Don’t be cruel, Eve, just because you didn’t love your father—”
Which was just about the coldest thing Claire had ever heard. She exchanged a stricken look with Shane.
Michael got between mother and daughter, which was damn brave of him. Maybe it was the vampire gene. “Mrs. Rosser. I’m sorry about your husband.”
“Thank you, Michael, you’ve always been such a good boy. And thank you for taking care of Eve when she went out on her own.”
Mrs. Rosser blew her nose, which was how she missed Eve saying caustically, “You mean, when you threw my ass out on the street?”
“Sign us in,” Michael said to Claire, and took Eve’s arm and led her into the church. Claire hastily scribbled their names in the book, nodded to Mrs. Rosser—who was staring after her daughter with an expression that turned Claire’s stomach—and grabbed Shane’s arm to follow.
She’d been in the church before. It was nice—not overly fancy, but peaceful in its simplicity. No crosses anywhere in sight, but just now, the focus was the big, black casket at the end of the room. She was struck by the smooth curve of the wood, and how much it reminded her of the Bloodmobile.
That made Claire shiver and grip Shane’s arm even more tightly as they slid into the pew beside Michael and Eve.
There were about fifteen people scattered through the sanctuary, and more arrived as the minutes ticked by. A couple of men in suits—from the funeral home, Claire supposed—set up more floral displays on either side of the casket.
It somehow didn’t seem real. And the sounds of Mrs. Rosser’s continued sobs and wails, responding to every mourner who entered, made it even weirder.
Eve slid out of the pew and walked up to the coffin. She stared down into it for a few long seconds, then bent and put something in it and came back to take her seat. She had her veil down, but even with the softening blur, her expression looked frozen and hard.
“He was a son of a bitch,” she said when she saw Claire watching her. “But he was still my dad.”
She leaned against Michael’s shoulder, and he put his arm around her.
Mrs. Rosser finally entered the sanctuary and took a seat in the front row, ahead of where the four of them were. One of the funeral home attendants handed her an entire box of tissues. She pulled out a handful and continued to sob.
And a tall, good-looking man in a black cassock and white surplice, with a purple stole around his neck, came out from behind the floral displays and knelt down next to her, patting her hand. The fabled Father Joe, Claire supposed. He seemed nice—a little earnest, and younger than she’d expected. Brown hair and golden eyes that were very direct behind a pair of square gold-rimmed spectacles. He listened to Mrs. Rosser’s ode to her husband with a sympathetic, if distant, expression, nodding when she paused. His glance flicked away once or twice, to the clock, and he finally bent forward and whispered something to her. She nodded.
More people had come in at the last minute, enough to fill about half the church. Claire, turning, spotted familiar faces: Detectives Joe Hess and Travis Lowe, who nodded in her direction as they took their seats at the back of the room. She recognized a few more people, including a total of four vampires in dark suits and sunglasses.
