“Thought so.”
Eve came in, still flushed from the heat outside. She’d sweated off most of her makeup, and underneath it, she looked surprisingly young and sweet. “Oh my God, that looks like real food!”
“Tacos,” Shane said proudly, as if it were his idea. Claire elbowed him in the ribs, or tried to. His ribs were a lot more solid than her elbow. “Ow,” he said. Not as if it hurt.
Claire glanced out the window. Night was falling fast, the way it did in Texas at the end of the day—furious burning sun all of a sudden giving way to a warm, sticky twilight. “Is Michael here?” she asked.
“Guess so.” Shane shrugged. “He’s always here for dinner.”
The three of them got everything ready, and sometime midway through the assembly-line process they’d developed—Claire putting meat in taco shells, Eve adding toppings, Shane spooning beans onto the plates—a fourth pair of hands added itself to the line. Michael looked as if he’d just gotten up and showered—wet hair, sleepy eyes, beads of water still sliding down to soak the collar of his black knit shirt. Like Shane, he was wearing jeans, but he’d gone formal, with actual shoes.
“Hey,” he greeted them. “This looks good.”
“Claire did it,” Eve jumped in as Shane opened his mouth. “Don’t
“Wasn’t going to!” Shane looked offended.
“Riiiiiight.”
“I chopped. What did you do?”
“Cleaned up after you, like always.”
Michael looked over at Claire and made a face. She laughed and picked up her plate; Michael picked up his, and followed her out into the living room.
Someone—Michael, she guessed—had cleared the big wood table next to the bookcases, and set up four chairs around it. The stuff that had been piled there—video game cases, books, sheet music—had been dumped in other places, with a cheerful disregard for order. (Maybe, she amended, that had been Shane’s idea.) She set her plate down, and Eve promptly slapped her own down next to Claire’s and slid a cold Coke across to her, along with a fork and napkin. Michael and Shane strolled back in, took seats, and began shoveling in food like—well, like boys. Eve nibbled. Claire, who was surprisingly hungry, found herself on her second taco before Eve had gotten through her first one.
Shane was already headed back for more.
“Hey, dude,” he said as he returned with a reloaded plate, “when are you going to get a gig again?”
Michael stopped chewing, flashed a look at Eve, then Claire, and then finished the bite before saying, “When I’m ready.”
“Pussy. You had a bad night, Mike. Get back on the horse, or whatever.” Eve frowned at Shane, and shook her head. Shane ignored her. “Seriously, man. You can’t let them get you down.”
“I’m not,” Michael said. “Not everything is about beating your head against the wall until it breaks.”
“Just most things.” Shane sighed. “Whatever. You let me know when you want to stop hermiting.”
“I’m not hermiting. I’m practicing.”
“Like you don’t play good enough. Please.”
“I get no respect,” Michael said. Shane, busy taking another crunchy bite, rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Yeah, I know, world’s smallest violin playing just for me. Change the subject. How was that hot date with Lisa, anyway? Rented shoes turn her on or what?”
“It’s Laura,” Shane said. “Yeah, she was hot, all right, but I think she had the hots for you—kept saying how she saw you over at the Waterhouse last year and you were all, like, wow, amazing. It was like a ménage à trois, only you weren’t there, thank God.”
Michael looked smug. “Shut up and eat.”
Shane shot him the finger.
All in all, it was a pretty good time.
Michael and Eve washed dishes, having lost out on the coin toss, and Claire hovered in the living room, not sure what she wanted to do. Studying sounded—boring, which surprised her. Shane was concentrating on the video game selection, bare feet propped up on the coffee table. Without looking directly at Claire, he asked, “You want to see something cool?”
“Sure,” she said. She expected him to put a game in, but he dumped it back in the pile, got up off the couch, and padded up the stairs. She stood at the bottom, staring up, wondering what to do. Shane appeared at the top of the stairs again and gestured, and she followed.
The second floor was quiet, of course, and dimly lit; she blinked and saw Shane already halfway down the hall. Was he heading for her room? Not that she didn’t have a crazy hot picture in her head of sitting on the bed with him, making out…and she had no idea why that popped into her head, except that, well, he was just… yeah.
Shane moved aside a picture hanging on the wall between her room and Eve’s, and pressed a button underneath.
And a door opened on the other side of the wall. It was built into the paneling, and she’d never have even known it was there. She gasped, and Shane beamed like he’d invented the wheel. “Cool, huh? This damn house is full of crap like that. Trust me, in Morganville it pays to be up on the hiding places.” He pushed open the door, revealed another set of stairs, and padded up them. She expected them to be dusty, but they weren’t; the wood was clean and polished. Shane’s feet left prints of the ball of his foot and his toes.
It was a narrow pitch of just eight steps, half a story, really, and there was another door at the top. Shane opened it and flipped on a switch just inside. “First time I saw this, and the room back of the pantry, I figured, yep. Vampire house. What do you think?”
If she believed in vampires, he might have been right. It was a small room, no windows, and it was…old. It wasn’t just the stuff in it, which was antique and dark; it had this sense of…something ancient, something not quite right. And it was cold. Cold, in the middle of a Texas heat wave.
She shivered. “Does everybody know about this room?”
“Oh yeah. Eve says it’s haunted. Can’t really blame her. It creeps me the hell out, too. Cool, though. We’d have stuck you in here when the cops came, only they’d have seen you through the windows coming out of the kitchen. They’re nosy bastards.” Shane wandered across the thick Persian carpet to flop on the dark red Victorian couch. Dust rose in a cloud, and he waved it off, coughing. “So what do you think? Think Michael sleeps off his evil- undead days in here, or what?”
She blinked. “What?”
“Oh, come on. You think he’s one of them, right? ’Cause he doesn’t show up during the day?”
“I–I don’t think anything!”
Shane nodded, eyes downcast. “Right. You weren’t sent here.”
“Sent—sent here by
“I got to thinking…. The cops were looking for you, but maybe they were looking for you to make us want to keep you here, instead of pitch you out. So which is it? Are you working for them?”
“Them?” she echoed thinly. “Them, who?” Shane suddenly looked at her, and she shivered again. He wasn’t like Monica, not at all, but he wasn’t playing around, either. “Shane, I don’t know what you mean. I came to Morganville to go to school, and got beaten up, and I came here because I was scared. If you don’t believe me— well, then I guess I’ll go. Hope you liked the tacos.”
She went to the door, and stopped, confused.
There wasn’t a doorknob.
Behind her, Shane said quietly, “The reason I think this is a vampire’s room? You can’t get out of it unless you know the secret. That’s real convenient, if you like to bring victims up here for a little munch session.”
She whirled around, expecting to see him standing there with that huge knife he’d used on the onions, and she’d broken the first rule of horror movies, hadn’t she, or was it the second one? She’d trusted someone she shouldn’t have….
But he was still sitting on the couch, slumped at ease, arms flung over the back on both sides.
Not even looking at her.
