Glass Houses

dawn. “My time’s up,” he said. “Promise me you won’t go with Eve tonight.”

“I can’t.”

“Claire.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t have time to argue, though she could see he wanted to. He walked down the hall; she heard his bedroom door close, and thought about what she’d seen downstairs in the living room. She wasn’t sure how she’d handle that if she had to face it every day—it looked really painful. She supposed the worst of it, though, was his knowing that if he’d been alive, been able to walk around in the daylight, he’d have been able to stop Shane from doing what he’d done.

I wouldn’t have to if you’d step up and watch my back! Shane had yelled at him, and yeah, that must have hurt just about worse than dying.

Claire went back to work. Her eyes burned, her muscles ached, but in some strange and secret place, she was happy to finally be doing something that wasn’t just protecting herself, but protecting other people, too.

If it worked.

The strange thing was, she just knew it would. She knew.

She really was a freak, she decided.

Claire woke up at three thirty, bleary-eyed and aching, and struggled into a fresh T-shirt and a pair of jeans that badly needed washing. One more day, she decided, and then she’d brave the washing machine in the basement. She had monster bed-head, even though she’d barely slept for three hours, and had to stick her head under the faucet and finger fluff her hair back to something that wasn’t too puke-worthy.

She stuck the laptop into the messenger-bag case and dashed downstairs; she could hear Eve’s shoes clumping through the house, heading for the door.

“Wait up!” she yelled, and pelted down the stairs and through the living room just as the front door slammed. “Crap…”

She opened it just before Eve succeeded in locking it. Eve looked guilty. “You were going to leave me,” Claire said. “I told you I wanted to go!”

“Yeah, well…you shouldn’t.”

“Michael talked to you last night.”

Eve sighed and fidgeted one black patent leather shoe. “Little bit, yeah. Before he went to bed.”

“I don’t need everybody protecting me. I’m trying to help!”

“I get it,” Eve said. “If I say no and drive off, what are you going to do?”

“Walk.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.” Eve shrugged. “Get in the car.”

Common Grounds was packed with students reading, chatting, drinking chai and mochas and lattes. And, Claire was gratified to see, working on laptops. There must have been a dozen going at once. She gave Eve a thumbs-up, ordered a cup of tea, and went in search of a decent spot to work. Something with her back to the wall.

Oliver brought her tea himself. She smiled uncertainly at him and minimized the browser window; she was reading up on famous forgeries and techniques. Dead giveaway, with emphasis on dead. Not that she disliked Oliver, but any guy who seemed to be able to enforce rules on the vampires was somebody she couldn’t trust real far.

“Hello, Claire,” he said. “May I sit?”

“Sure,” she said, surprised. Also, uncomfortable. He was old enough to be her dad, not to mention kind of hippie-dippie. Though, being a fringer herself, she didn’t mind that part so much. “Um, how’s it going?”

“Busy today,” he said, and settled into the chair with a sigh of what sounded like gratitude. “I wanted to talk to you about Eve.”

“Okay,” she said slowly.

“I’m concerned about her,” Oliver said. He leaned forward, elbows on the table; she hastily closed the cover of the laptop and rested her hands protectively on top of it. “Eve seems distracted. That’s very dangerous, and I’m quite sure that by now you understand why.”

“It’s—”

“Shane?” he asked. “Yes. I thought that was probably the case. The boy’s gotten himself into a great deal of trouble. But he did it with a pure heart, I believe.”

Her pulse was hammering faster, and her mouth felt dry. Boy, she really didn’t like talking to authority figures. Michael was one thing—Michael was like a big brother. But Oliver was…different.

“I might be able to help,” Oliver said, “if I had something to trade. The problem is, what does Brandon want that you, or Shane, can give? Other than the obvious.” Oliver looked thoughtful, and tapped his lips with a fingertip. “You are a very bright girl, Claire, or so Eve tells me. Morganville can use bright girls. We might be able to bypass Brandon altogether, perhaps, and find a way to make a deal with someone…else.”

Which was pretty much exactly what they’d already talked about, only without the Oliver part. Claire tried not to look horribly guilty and transparent. “Who?” she asked. It was a reasonable question. Oliver smiled, and his dark eyes looked sharp and cool.

“Claire. Do you really expect me to tell you? The more you know about this town, the less safety there is for you. Do you understand that? I’ve had to create my own peace here, and it only works because I know exactly what I’m doing, and how far I can go. You—I’m afraid your first mistake might be your last.”

Her mouth wasn’t dry anymore; it was mummified. She tried to swallow, but got nothing but a dry click at the back of her throat. She hastily picked up her tea and sipped it, tasting nothing but glad of the moisture.

“I wasn’t going to—”

“Don’t,” he cut her off, and his voice wasn’t so kind this time. “Why else would you be here today, when you know Brandon is likely to show up any time after dark? You want to make a deal with him to save Shane. That much is obvious.”

Well, it wasn’t why she was here, but still, she tried to look guilty about that, too. Just in case. It must have worked, because Oliver sat back in his chair, looking more relaxed.

“You’re clever,” he said. “So is Shane. But don’t let it go to your heads. Let me help.”

She nodded, not trusting her voice not to quiver or break or—worse—betray how relieved she was.

“That’s settled, then,” Oliver said. “Let me talk to Brandon and a few others, and see what I can do to make this problem go away.”

“Thanks,” she said faintly. Oliver got up and left, looking like any skinny ex-hippie who hadn’t quite let go of the good old days. Inoffensive. Ineffective, maybe.

She couldn’t rely on adults. Not for this. Not in Morganville.

She opened up the laptop, maximized the browser window, and went back to work.

Like always, time slipped away; when she looked up next, it was night outside the windows, and the crowd in the coffee shop had switched over from studious to chatty. Eve was busy at the bar, talking and smiling and generally being about as cheerful as a Goth chick could be.

She went quiet, though, when Brandon slouched in from the back room and took his accustomed seat at the table in the darkest corner. Oliver brought him some kind of drink—God, she hoped it wasn’t blood or anything! — and sat down to have some intense and quiet conversation. Claire tried to look like she wasn’t there. She and Eve exchanged a few glances between customers at the bar.

Putting together the book, Claire had learned during the long research marathon, was work for experts, not sixteen-year-old (nearly seventeen) wannabes. She could put something together, but— to her vast disappointment—anybody with an eye for rare books could spot a fake pretty easily, unless it was expertly done. She suspected that her leatherworking and bookbinding skills needed work.

All of which brought her back to square one, Shane Gets Bitten. Not acceptable.

A line in one of the dozens of windows she’d opened caught her eye. Nearly anything can be created for the movies, including reproductions of ancient books, because the reproduction only has to fool one of the senses: vision….