Glass Houses

turning pages in a book and weeping. It didn’t scare her, exactly, but she felt cold, on and off, and the house…the house seemed like it was full of whispers.

Eventually, she fell into a deeper, darker place, and didn’t dream at all.

Not even about Monica.

Not even about vampires.

Chapter 3

S he woke up in the dark with a panicked flinch that sent the ice pack—water sloshing in a bag now—thumping off her pillow and onto the floor. The house was quiet, except for the creaky, creepy noises houses made at night. Outside, wind rattled the dry leaves on the trees, and she heard music coming from the other side of the bedroom door.

Claire slid out of bed, fumbled for a lamp, and found one next to the bed—Tiffany-style glass, really nice—and the colorful glow chased away any nightmare fears she’d been trying to have. The music was slow and warm and contemplative, kind of guitar alternative. She got her shoes on, took a look in the dresser mirror, and got a nasty shock. Her face still hurt, and it was obvious why—her right eye was swollen, the skin around it purple. Her split lip looked shiny and unpleasantly thick, too. Her face—always pale—looked even paler than normal. Her short pixie-cut black hair had a serious case of bed-head, but she fluffed it out into something like order. She’d never really been much for makeup, even when she’d been stealing Mom’s to try on, but today maybe a little foundation and concealer couldn’t hurt…. She looked ragged, and beaten, and homeless.

Well. It was nothing but the truth, after all.

Claire took a deep breath and opened her bedroom door. Lights were on in the hall, warm and glowing gold; the music was coming from downstairs, in the living room. She checked a clock hanging on the wall at the far end; it was after midnight—she’d slept for more than twelve hours.

And missed all her classes. Not that she’d have wanted to show up looking like this, even if she hadn’t been so paranoid about Monica following her around…but she’d need to hit the books later. At least the books didn’t hit back.

Her bruises felt better, and in fact her head hurt only a little. Her ankle was still the worst of it, sending sharp glassy jabs of pain up her leg with every step down the stairs.

She was halfway down when she saw the boy sitting on the couch, where Shane had been sprawled before. He had a guitar in his hands.

Oh. The music. She’d thought it was a recording, but no, this was real, this was live, and he was playing it. She’d never heard live music before—not really playing, not like this. He was…wow. He was wonderful.

She watched him, frozen, because he clearly didn’t even know she existed yet; it was just him and the guitar and the music, and if she had to put a name to what she could see on his face, it would be something poetic, like longing. He was blond, his hair cut kind of like Shane’s, in a careless mop. Not as big as Shane, and not as muscled, though he was maybe as tall. He was wearing a T-shirt, too, black, with a beer logo. Blue jeans. No shoes.

He stopped playing, head down, and reached for the open beer on the table in front of him. He toasted empty air. “Happy birthday to you, man.” He tossed back three swallows, sighed, and put the bottle down. “And here’s to house arrest. What the hell. Own it or get owned.”

Claire coughed. He turned, startled, and saw her standing there on the stairs; his frown cleared after a second or two. “Oh. You’re the one Shane said wanted to talk about the room. Hey. Come on down.”

She did, trying not to limp, and when she got into the full light she saw his quick, intelligent blue eyes catalog the bruises.

He didn’t say a word about them. “I’m Michael,” he said. “And you’re not eighteen, so this is going to be a real short conversation.”

She sat, fast, heart pounding. “I’m in college,” she said. “I’m a freshman. My name is—”

“Don’t bullshit me, and I don’t care what your name is. You’re not eighteen. It’s a good bet you’re not even seventeen. We don’t take anybody in this house who isn’t legal.” He had a deep voice, warm but—at least right now—hard. “Not that you’d be signing on to Orgy Central, but sorry, me and Shane have to worry about things like that. All it takes is you living here and somebody even hinting there’s something going on—”

“Wait,” she blurted. “I wouldn’t do that. Or say that. I’m not looking to get you guys in trouble. I just need —”

“No,” he said. He put the guitar aside, in its case, and latched it shut. “I’m sorry, but you can’t stay here. House rules.”

She’d known it was coming, of course, but she’d let herself think—Eve had been nice, and Shane hadn’t been horrible, and the room was so nice—but the look in Michael’s eyes was as final as it got. Complete and utter rejection.

She felt her lips trembling, and hated herself for it. Why couldn’t she be a badass, stone-cold bitch? Why couldn’t she stand up for herself when she needed to, without breaking down into tears like a baby? Monica wouldn’t be crying. Monica would be snapping some comeback at him, telling him that her stuff was already in the room. Monica would slap money down on the table and dare him to turn it down.

Claire reached in her back pocket and pulled out her wallet. “How much?” she asked, and started counting out bills. She had twenties, so it looked like a lot. “Three hundred enough? I can get more if I have to.”

Michael sat back, surprised, a little frown bracketing his forehead. He reached for his beer and took another sip while he thought about it. “How?” he asked.

“What?”

“How would you get more?”

“Get a job. Sell stuff.” Not that she had much to sell, but in an emergency there was always the panicked call to Mom. “I want to stay here, Michael. I really do.” She was surprised at the conviction in her voice. “Yeah, I’m under eighteen, but I swear, you won’t have any trouble from me. I’ll stay out of your way. I go to school, and I study. That’s all I do. I’m not a partyer, I’m not a slacker. I’m useful. I’ll—I’ll help clean and cook.”

He thought about it, staring at her; he was the kind of person you could actually see thinking. It was a little scary, although he probably didn’t mean it to be. There was just something so…adult about him. So sure of himself.

“No,” he said. “I’m sorry, kid. But it’s just too much risk.”

“Eve’s only a little bit older than I am!”

“Eve’s eighteen. You’re what, sixteen?”

“Almost seventeen!” If you were a little fluid on the definition of almost. “I really am in college. I’m a freshman—look, here’s my student ID….”

He ignored it. “Come back in a year. We’ll talk about it,” he said. “Look, I’m sorry. What about the dorm?”

“They’ll kill me if I stay there,” she said, and looked down at her clasped hands. “They tried to kill me today.”

“What?”

“The other girls. They punched me and shoved me down the stairs.”

Silence. A really long one. She heard the creak of leather, and then Michael was on one knee next to the chair. Before she could stop him, he was probing the bump on her head, tilting it back so he could get a good, impersonal look at the bruises and cuts. “What else?” he asked.

“What?”

“Besides what I can see? You’re not going to drop dead on me, are you?”

Wow, sensitive. “I’m okay. I saw the doctor and everything. It’s just—bruises. And a strained ankle. But they pushed me down the stairs, and they meant it, and she told me—” Suddenly, Eve’s words about vampires came back to her and made her trip over her tongue. “The girl in charge, she