Glass Houses

“Let me out,” she said. Her heart was hammering.

“In a minute. First, you tell me the truth.”

“I have!” And, to her fury and humiliation, she started to cry. Again. “Dammit! You think I’m trying to hurt you? Hurt Michael? How could I? I’m the one everybody hurts! ”

He looked at her then, and she saw the hardness melt away. His voice was a lot gentler when he spoke. “And if I was somebody who wanted to kill Michael, I’d put somebody like you in to do it. Be real easy for you to kill somebody, Claire. Poison some food, slip a knife in his back…and I have to look out for Michael.”

“I thought he looked out for you.” She swiped angrily at her eyes. “Why do you think somebody wants to kill him?”

Shane raised his eyebrows. “Always somebody wanting to kill a vampire.”

“But—he’s not. Eve said—”

“Yeah, I know he’s not a vampire, but he doesn’t get up during the day, he doesn’t go out of the house, and I can’t get him to tell me what happened, so he might as well be. And somebody’s going to think so, sooner or later. Most people in Morganville are either Protected or clueless—kind of like you can raise rabbits for either pets or meat. But some of them fight back.”

She blinked the last of the brief storm of tears away. “Like you?”

He cocked his head to one side. “Maybe. How about you? You a fighter, Claire?”

“I’m not working for anybody. And I wouldn’t kill Michael even if he was a vampire.”

Shane laughed. “Why not? Besides the fact that he’d snap you in two like a twig if he was.”

“Because—because—” She couldn’t put it into words, exactly. “Because I like him.”

Shane watched her for another few, long seconds, and then pressed a raised spot on the head of the lion- carving armrest of the couch.

The door clicked and popped open half an inch.

“Good enough for me,” he said. “So. Dessert?”

Chapter 7

S he couldn’t sleep.

Maybe it was the memory of that creepy little Gothic room—which she suspected Eve really, deeply loved— but all of a sudden, her lovely cozy room seemed full of shadows, and the creaks of old wood in the wind sounded…stealthy. Maybe the house eats people, Claire thought, lying there alone in the dark, watching the bone-thin shadows of branches shudder on the far wall. The wind made twigs tap her window, like something trying to get in. Eve had said vampires couldn’t get in, but what if they could? What if they were already inside? What if Michael…?

She heard a soft, silvery note, and knew that Michael was playing downstairs. Something about that helped —pushed the shadows back, turned the sounds into something normal and soothing. It was just a house, and they were just kids sharing it, and if there was anything wrong, well, it was outside.

She must have slept then, but it didn’t feel like it; some noise startled her awake, and when Claire checked the clock next to her bed it was close to five thirty. The sky wasn’t light outside, but it wasn’t totally dark, either; the stars were faded, soft sparkles in a sky gradually turning dark blue.

Michael’s guitar was still going, very quietly. Didn’t he ever sleep? Claire slid out of bed, tossed a blanket over her shoulders over the T-shirt she wore to bed, and shuffled out and into the still-dark hallway. As she passed the hidden door she glanced at it and shivered, then continued on to the bathroom. Once she’d gotten that out of the way—and brushed her hair—she crept quietly down the steps and sat down, blanket around her, listening to Michael play.

His head was down, and he was deep into it; she watched his fingers move light and quick on the strings, his body rock slowly with the rhythm, and felt a deep sense of…safety. Nothing bad could happen around Michael. She just knew it.

Next to him, a clock beeped an alarm. He looked up, startled, and slapped it off, then got up and put his guitar away. She watched, puzzled…. Did he have someplace to be? Or did he actually have to set an alarm to go to bed? Wow, that was obsession….

Michael stood, watching the clock as if it were his personal enemy, and then he turned and walked over to the window.

The sky was the color of dark turquoise now, all but the strongest stars faded. Michael, holding a beer in his hand, drank the rest of the bottle and put it down on the table, crossed his arms, and waited.

Claire was about to ask him what he was waiting for when the first ray of sun crept up in a blinding orange knife, and Michael gasped and hunched over, pressing on his stomach.

Claire lunged to her feet, startled and afraid for the look of sheer agony on his face. The movement caught his attention, and he jerked his head toward her, blue eyes wide.

“No,” he moaned, and pitched forward to his hands and knees, gasping. “Don’t.”

She ignored that and jumped down the stairs to run to his side, but once she was there she didn’t know what to do, didn’t have any idea how to help him. Michael was breathing in deep, aching gasps, in terrible pain.

She put her hand on his back, felt his fever-hot skin burning through the thin cloth, and heard him make a sound like nothing she’d ever heard in her life.

Like someone dying, she thought in panic, and opened her mouth to scream for Shane, Eve, anybody.

Her hand suddenly went right through him. The scream, for whatever reason, locked tight in her throat as Michael—transparent Michael—looked up at her with despair and desperation in his eyes.

“Oh, God, don’t tell them.” His voice came from a long, long way off, a whisper that faded on the shafts of morning sun.

And so did he.

Claire, mouth still open, utterly unable to speak, waved her hand slowly through the thin air where Michael Glass had been standing. Slowly, then faster. The air felt cold around her, like she was standing in a blast from an air conditioner, and the chill slowly faded.

Like Michael.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, and clapped both hands over her mouth.

And muffled the scream that she had to let out or explode.

She might have blacked out a little, because next thing she knew, she was sitting on the couch, next to Michael’s guitar case, and she felt kind of funny. Bad funny, as if her brain had turned liquid and sloshed around in her head.

Weirdly calm, though. She reached over and touched the leather cover of his guitar case. It felt real. When she flipped up the latches and pulled her shaking fingers across the strings, they made a wistful sort of whisper.

He’s a ghost. Michael’s a ghost.

He wasn’t a ghost. How could he be a ghost, if he sat here—right here! — at the table and ate dinner? Tacos! What kind of ghost ate tacos? What kind of…?

Her hand went right through him. Right through him.

But he was real. She’d touched him. She’d—

Her hand went right through him.

“Don’t panic,” she said numbly, out loud. “Just…don’t panic. There’s some explanation….” Yeah, right. She’d stumble over to Professor Wu’s physics class and ask. She could just imagine how that would go over. They’d toss a net over her and pump her full of Prozac or whatever.

He’d said, Oh, God, don’t tell them. Tell who? Tell…? Was he gone? Was he dead?

She was about carried away by panic again, and then something stopped it cold. Something silly, really.