Lord of Misrule

“It’s not locked,” she said.

“It’s also not open,” Shane said quietly, through the wood. “I’m not a complete ass.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Okay, sometimes I am.” He hesitated, and she heard the floor creak as he shifted his weight. “Claire.”

“Come in.”

He froze when he saw the stuff piled in front of her, waiting to be put in bags and her one suitcase. “You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

“You’re just going to pick up and leave.”

“You know my parents want me to come home.”

He didn’t say anything for a long moment, then reached into his back pocket and took out a black case, about the size of his hand. “Here, then. I was going to give it to you later, but I guess I’d better do it now, before you take off on us.”

His voice sounded offhand and normal, but his fingers felt cold when she touched them in taking the case, and there was an expression on his face she didn’t know—fear, maybe; bracing himself for something painful.

It was a hard, leather-wrapped case, on spring hinges. She hesitated for a breath, then pried up one end. It snapped open.

Oh.

The cross was beautiful—delicate silver, traceries of leaves wrapped around it. It was on a silver chain so thin it looked like a breath would melt it. When Claire picked up the necklace, it felt like air in her hand.

“I—” She had no idea what to say, what to feel. Her whole body seemed to have gone into shock. “It’s beautiful.”

“I know it doesn’t work against the vamps,” Shane said. “Okay, well, I didn’t know that when I got it for you. But it’s still silver, and silver works, so I hope that’s okay.”

This wasn’t a small present. Shane didn’t have a lot of money; he picked up odd jobs here and there, and spent very little. This wasn’t some cheap costume jewelry; it was real silver, and really beautiful.

“I can’t—it’s too expensive.” Claire’s heart was pounding again, and she wished she could think. She wished she knew what she was supposed to feel, supposed to do. On impulse, she put the necklace back in the box and snapped it shut, and held it out to him. “Shane, I can’t.”

He gave her a broken sort of smile. “It’s not a ring or anything. Keep it. Besides, it doesn’t match my eyes.”

He stuck his hands in his pockets, rounded his shoulders, and walked out of the room.

Claire clutched the leather box in one sweaty hand, eyes wide, and then opened it again. The cross gleamed on black velvet, clean and beautiful and shining, and it blurred as her eyes filled with tears.

Now she felt something, something big and overwhelming and far too much to fit inside her small, fragile body.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh God.” This hadn’t been just any gift. He’d put a lot of time and effort into getting it. There was love in it, real love.

She took the cross, put it around her neck, and fastened the clasp with shaking fingers. It took her two tries. Then she went down the hall and, without knocking, opened Shane’s door. He was standing at the window, staring outside. He looked different to her. Older. Sadder.

He turned toward her, and his gaze fixed on the silver cross in the hollow of her throat.

“You’re an idiot,” Claire said.

Shane considered that, and nodded. “I really am, mostly.”

“And then you have to go and do these awesome things—”

“I know. I did say I was mostly an idiot.”

“You kind of have your good moments.”

He didn’t quite smile. “So you like it?”

She put her hand up to stroke the cross’s warm silver lines. “I’m wearing it, aren’t I?”

“Not that it means we’re—”

“You said you loved me,” Claire said. “You did say that.”

He shut his mouth and studied her, then nodded. There was a flush building high in his cheeks.

“Well, I love you, too, and you’re still an idiot. Mostly.”

“No argument.” He folded his arms across his chest, and she tried not to notice the way his muscles tensed, or the vulnerable light in his eyes. “So, you moving out?”

“I should,” she said softly. “The other night—”

“Claire. Please be straight with me. Are you moving out?”

She was holding the cross now, cradling it, and it felt warm as the sun against her fingers. “I can’t,” she said. “I have to do laundry first, and that might take a month. You saw the pile.”

He laughed, and it was as if all the strength went out of him. He sat down on his unmade bed, hard, and after a moment, she walked around the end and sat next to him. He put his arm around her.

“Life is a work in progress,” Shane said. “My mom used to say that. I’m kind of a fixer-upper. I know that.”

Claire sighed and allowed herself to relax against his warmth. “Good thing I like high-maintenance guys.”

He was about to kiss her—finally—when they both heard a sound from overhead.

Only there was nothing overhead. Nothing but the attic.

“Did you hear that?” Shane asked.

“Yeah. It sounded like footsteps.”

“Oh, well, that’s fantastic. I thought it was supposed to be exit-only or something.” Shane reached under his bed and came up with a stake. “Go get Michael and Eve. Here.” He handed her another stake. This one had a silver tip. “It’s the Cadillac of vampire killers. Don’t dent it.”

“You are so weird.” But she took it, and then dashed to her room to grab the thin silver knife Amelie had given her. No place to put it, but she poked a hole in the pocket of her jeans just big enough for the blade. The jeans were tight enough to keep the blade in place against her leg, but not so much it looked obvious, and besides, it was pretty flexible.

She hurried down the hall, listening for any other movement. Eve’s room was empty, but when she knocked on Michael’s door, she heard a startled yelp that sounded very Eve-like. “What?” Michael asked.

“Trouble,” Claire said. “Um, maybe? Attic. Now.”

Michael didn’t sound any happier about it than Shane had been. “Great. Be there in a second.”

Muffled conversation, and the sound of fabric moving. Claire wondered if he was getting dressed, and quickly tried to reject that image, not because it wasn’t awesomely hot, but because, well, it was Michael, and besides, there were other things to think about.

Such as what was upstairs in the attic.

Or who.

The door banged open, and Eve rushed out, flushed and mussed and still buttoning her shirt. “It’s not what you think,” she said. “It was just—oh, okay, whatever, it was exactly what you think. Now, what?”

Something dropped and rolled across the attic floor directly above their heads. Claire silently pointed up, and Eve followed the motion, staring as if she could see through the wood and plaster. She jumped when Michael, who’d thrown on an unbuttoned shirt, put a hand on her shoulder. He put a finger to his lips.

Shane stepped out of his room, holding a stake in either hand. He pitched one underhand to Michael.

Where’s mine? Eve mouthed.

Get your own, Shane mouthed back. Eve rolled her eyes and dashed into her own room, coming back with a black bag slung across her chest, bandolier-style. It was, Claire assumed, full of weapons. Eve fished around in it and came up with a stake of her very own. It even had her initials carved in it.

“Shop class,” she whispered. “See? I did learn something in school.”

Michael pressed the button to release the hidden door, and it opened without a sound. There were no lights