Glass Houses

He must have known Claire was watching, because he said, in a very low voice, “I don’t tolerate rudeness. Not in my place.”

She wasn’t sure if he was talking about the girls, or her staring at him, so she hurriedly went back to her books.

Quadratic equations were a great way to pass the afternoon.

Eve’s shift ended at nine, just as the nightlife at Common Grounds picked up; Claire, not used to the babble, chatter, and music, couldn’t keep her mind on her books anyway. She was glad of an excuse to go when Eve’s replacement—a surly-looking pimpled boy about Shane’s age—took her place behind the counter. Eve went in the back to get her stuff, and Claire packed up her backpack.

“Claire.” She looked up, startled that somebody remembered her name other than, well, people who wanted to kill her, and saw Kim Valdez, from the dorm.

“Hey, Kim,” she said. “Thanks for helping me out—”

Kim looked mad. Really mad. “Don’t even start! You left my cello just laying around out there! Do you have any idea how hard I worked for that thing? Way to be an asshole!”

“But—I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie. You bugged out somewhere. Hope you got your bags and crap. I left them out there just like you left my stuff.” Kim jammed her hands in her pockets and glared at her. “Don’t ask me for any favors again. Right?”

She didn’t wait for an answer, just moved off toward the counter. Claire sighed. “I won’t,” she said, and zipped the backpack. She waited for a few minutes, but the crowd was getting thicker, and Eve was nowhere in sight. She stood up, stepped out of the way of a group of boys, and backed into a table in the shadowy corner.

“Hey,” a voice said softly. She looked back and saw a coffee cup tipping over, and a pale, long-fingered hand catching it before it did. The hand belonged to a young man—she couldn’t really call him a boy—with thick dark hair and light-colored eyes, who’d claimed the table when she wasn’t looking.

“Sorry,” she said. He smiled at her and licked a couple of drops of coffee from the back of his hand with a pale tongue.

She felt something streak hot down her backbone, and shivered. He smiled wider.

“Sit,” he said. “I’m Brandon. You?”

“Claire,” she heard herself say, and even though she didn’t intend to, she sat, backpack thumping on the floor beside her. “Um, hi.”

“Hello.” His eyes weren’t just light; they were pale—a shade of blue so faint it was almost silver. Scary-cool. “Are you here alone, Claire?”

“I—no, I—ah—” She was babbling like an idiot, and didn’t know what was wrong with her. The way he was looking at her made her feel naked. Not in a secretly cool, wow-I-think-he-likes-me way, but in a way that made her want to hide and cover herself. “I’m here with a friend.”

“A friend,” he said, and reached across to take her hand. She wanted to pull it back—she did—but somehow she couldn’t get control of herself. All she could do was watch as he turned her hand palm down, and brought it to his mouth to kiss. The warm, damp pressure of his lips on her fingers made her shiver all over.

Then he brushed his thumb across her wrist. “Where is your bracelet, little Claire? Good girls wear their bracelets. Don’t you have one?”

“I—” There was something sick and terrible happening in her head, something that made her tell the truth. “No. I don’t have one.” Because she knew now what Brandon was, and she was sorry she’d laughed at Eve, sorry she’d ever doubted any of it.

You’ll get yours, Monica had promised.

Well, here it was.

“I see.” Brandon’s eyes seemed to get even paler, until they were pure white with tiny black dots for pupils. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream. “The only question is who will have you, then. And since I’m here first —”

He let go of her, both her hand and her mind, and she fell backward with a breathless little gasp. Somebody was standing behind her chair, a solid warmth, and Brandon was frowning and staring past her.

“You offend my hospitality,” Oliver said, and put his hand on Claire’s shoulder. “You ever bother my friend Claire in here again, Brandon, and I’ll have to revoke the privileges for everyone. Understand? I don’t think you want to be explaining that.”

Brandon looked furious. His eyes were blue again, but as Claire watched, he snarled at Oliver, and revealed fangs. Real, genuine fangs, like a snake’s, that snapped down into place from some hidden spot inside of his mouth, and then back up again, quick as a scorpion’s sting.

“None of that,” Oliver said calmly. “I’m not impressed. Off with you. Don’t make me have a conversation with Amelie about you.”

Brandon slid out of his chair and slouched away through the crowd, toward the exit. It was dark outside now, Claire noticed. He went out into the night and disappeared from sight.

Oliver still had his hand on her shoulder, and now he squeezed it gently. “That was unfortunate,” he said. “You need to be careful, Claire. Stay with Eve. Watch out for each other. I’d hate to see anything happen to you.”

She nodded, gulping. Eve came hurrying out of the back, leather coat flapping around her ankles. Her smile died at the sight of Claire’s face. “What happened?”

“Brandon came in,” Oliver said. “Trolling. Claire happened to run into him.”

“Oh,” Eve said in a small voice. “Are you okay?”

“She’s fine. I spotted him before any permanent damage was done. Take her home, Eve. And keep a sharp eye out for that one; he doesn’t take being ordered off very well.”

Eve nodded and helped Claire to her feet, picked up the backpack, and got her outside. The big black Caddy was parked at the curb, and Eve unlocked it and thoroughly checked it over, backseat and trunk, before putting Claire inside of it. When Claire was fastening the seat belt, she noticed two things: first, Oliver was standing in the doorway of Common Grounds, watching them.

Second, Brandon was standing at the corner, in the very edge of the glow of the streetlamp. And he was watching them, too.

Eve saw, too. “Son of a bitch,” she said furiously, and shot him the finger. Which might not have been too smart, but it made Claire feel better. Eve cranked the engine and squealed out of her parking space, driving like she was breaking the record at a NASCAR race, and screeched to a halt in front of the house just a couple of minutes later. “Okay, you go first,” she said. “Run for the door, bang on it while you’re opening it. Go, Claire! ”

Claire bailed out breathlessly and slammed the gate back, pounded up the paved walk and up the stairs as she was digging her key out of her pocket. Her hands were shaking, and she missed the keyhole on the first try. She kicked the door and yelled, “Shane! Michael!” as she tried again.

Behind her, she heard the car door slam, and Eve’s shoes clatter on the sidewalk…and stop.

“Now,” said Brandon’s low, cold voice, “let’s not be rude, Eve.”

Claire whirled, and saw Eve standing absolutely still ten steps from the porch, her back to the house. Hot wind whipped her leather coat behind her with a dry snapping sound.

Brandon was facing her, his eyes completely white in the pale starlight.

“Who’s your sweet little friend?” he asked.

“Leave her alone.” Eve’s voice was faint and shaking. “She’s just a kid.”

“You’re all just kids.” He shrugged. “Nobody asks the age of the cow that gave you hamburger.”

Claire, purely terrified now, concentrated, turned back to the door, and rammed the key into the lock…

…just as Shane whipped it open.

“Eve!” she gasped, and Shane pushed her out of the way, jumped down the steps, and got between Eve and Brandon.

“Inside,” Michael said. Claire hadn’t heard him, hadn’t seen him coming, but he was in the doorway, gesturing