Bitter Blood

Monica’s target was clearly Mr. Man Candy, who, Claire had to admit, did not suffer from closer inspection. He was tall (as tall as Shane), and broad-shouldered (like Shane)…but with an expensive-looking style to his thick dark hair, and perfect golden brown skin. Whether it was airbrushed or natural, it looked good on him. He had on a tight knit shirt that showed off his washboard abs, and his face was just…perfect.

“Hi,” Monica said, and held out her hand to him as she came to a stop about a foot away from him. “Welcome to Morganville.”

He smiled at her with dazzlingly white teeth. “Well,” he said, and even his voice was perfect, with just a little hint of a Spanish accent to give it spice. “Morganville gets points for having the loveliest welcoming committee yet. What’s your name, lovely?”

Monica was not used to being one-upped in the flattery game, Claire guessed, because she blinked and actually looked a little taken aback. But it lasted only an instant, and then she smiled her biggest, brightest smile and said, “Monica. Monica Morrell. And what’s your name?”

His smile lost a little of its luster, and those sparkling dark eyes dimmed a bit. “Ah, I thought you knew.”

Monica froze. Shane muttered, “Thank you, God,” and took out his cell phone to start recording. “It’s like arrogant matter meets arrogant antimatter.”

Monica unfroze long enough to snap, “Put that away, Shane. God, are you six?” before focusing back on Mr. Man Candy. “Don’t mind him—he’s the village idiot. And she’s the village Einstein, which is nearly as bad.”

He accepted that as an apology, Claire guessed, because he took the girl’s hand and bent over it to plant his lips on her knuckles. Monica looked dazzled. And a little scared. Her lips parted, her eyes widened, and for a moment she looked like a normal, regular girl of nineteen who’d been knocked off her feet by an older, slicker man. “My name is Angel Salvador,” he said. “I am the host of the show After Death. Perhaps you know it?”

It sounded vaguely familiar—one of those ghost-hunting shows Claire never watched.

Shane pivoted and focused on the girl. “And you are…”

“His cohost,” the woman standing a few feet away said. She was just as pretty as Angel, but she was frosty…. Even her hair was a pale, watery blond, and her eyes were very light blue. Unlike Angel, she looked uncomfortable in the harsh sunlight. “Jenna Clark.”

The other guy snorted and said, “Since nobody’s going to ask my name, it’s Tyler, thanks. I’m just the one who does all the work and hauls all the equipment and—”

Jenna and Angel said, in perfect, bored synchronicity, “Shut up, Tyler.” Then they threw each other poisonous looks. Clearly, there was no love lost there. Or maybe some gone bad.

“After Death?” Shane asked. “Don’t you guys do some kind of spirit-hunting thing?”

“Yes, exactly,” Jenna said, and seemed to focus on Shane as an actual human being for the first time. She smiled, but to Claire’s relief it was more of a professional kind of attention, not a Wow, you’re hot kind of thing. “We’re looking for the permits office.”

“Permits?” Monica had recovered her composure, at least a little. Angel had stopped kissing her fingers, but he hadn’t let her hand go, and Claire thought her voice sounded a little higher than usual. She was also a little more blushy than normal. “Permits for what? Are you moving your business here?”

Angel laughed, low in his throat—a sexy laugh, of course. “Alas, no, my lovely. Our studio is out of Atlanta. But we are interested in filming some local sights here. Perhaps conducting a nighttime investigation of your graveyard, for instance. We always pay a visit to the local offices for our filming permits. It avoids so many problems.”

Claire could not even count how many ways this was a bad idea…. Television people. In Morganville. Filming at night. She was mesmerized by the flood of horrible possibilities that ran through her brain.

Luckily, Monica wasn’t one for deep thought. “Oh,” she said, and smiled so warmly that Claire was almost fooled. “I see. Well, I wouldn’t waste my time. Morganville doesn’t have anything special for you. Not even a decent ghost to hunt. We’re just really…boring.”

“But it’s so scenic!” Angel protested. “Look at this courthouse. Pure Texas Gothic Renaissance. We passed a cemetery that was perfect—elaborate tombstones, wrought iron, and that big dead white tree—such a striking color, very photogenic. I’m sure we’ll find something.”

Shane muttered to Claire, “If they hang around there at night, they definitely will, but I don’t think it’s what they’re hoping for.”

“Ssssshhh!”

He cleared his throat and raised his voice. “Monica’s right—it’s very boring.” He sounded like he was still struggling not to laugh. “Unless you want the world’s least interesting reality show. The weirdest thing that happens around here is old Mr. Evans running around naked at midnight and howling, and he only does that on special occasions.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Jenna said. “It does seem perfect.”

“Well, it won’t hurt to get the permits. At least we’ll contribute to your local economy, yes?” Angel said, and flashed them all an impartial movie-star smile. “Adios. I’m sure we’ll meet again.” He gave Monica’s hand another brief kiss, and then he and Jenna were striding up the walk toward City Hall, with Tyler scrambling in their wake while carrying a small camcorder—though what kind of filmable drama there’d be in applying for a permit, Claire couldn’t imagine.

“Crap,” Shane said. He still sounded way too amused. “So. Any bets on how long they last before the vamps make them go away?”

“No bet,” Monica said. “They won’t last long.” Looking dreamy-eyed, she sighed and cradled her hand. “Too bad. So pretty. And totally manscaped under that shirt, I’ll bet.”

Shane sent her a revolted look, then put his arm around Claire. “And on that note, we’re out.”

“Really?” Claire said, and couldn’t help but smile. “That’s what creeps you out. Waxing. You can take on vampires and draug and killers, but you’re afraid of a little chest-hair pulling?”

“Yes,” he said, “because I am sane.”

They walked on a bit, and it took a few minutes for Claire to realize that although they’d left behind the ghost hunters, they still had an unwanted visitor: Monica. She was keeping pace with them. Uninvited. “Yes?” Claire asked her, pointedly. “Something we can help you with?”

“Maybe,” Monica said. “Look, I know I’ve been historically kind of a bitch to you, but I was wondering…”

“Spit it out, Monica,” Shane said.

“Teach me how to do that stuff you do.”

“What, be awesome? Can’t do it.”

“Shut up, Collins. I mean…” She hesitated, then lowered her voice as she brushed her hair back from her face. She slowed down and stopped on the sidewalk, and Claire stopped, facing her. Shane tried to keep going, but eventually he looped back, defeated. “I mean that I want to learn how to fight. In case I need to do that. I always sort of thought—my father always said we didn’t need to worry about the vampires, because we worked for them. But Richard never trusted that. And now I know I shouldn’t, either. So I want to learn how to make weapons. Fight. That kind of thing.”

“Oh hell no,” Shane said. “And we’re walking.”

He started to, but Claire stayed put. She was studying Monica with a frown, feeling conflicted but oddly compelled, too. Monica looked serious. Not defiant, or arrogant, or any of her usual poses. Her brother had told Claire before he’d died that he thought Monica could change—and had to change.

Maybe she was starting to understand that.

“How do we know you won’t sell us out at the first possible opportunity?” she asked.

Monica smiled. “Shortcake, I probably would if it got me anywhere, but these days, it wouldn’t do squat. The vampires aren’t looking at us like collaborators and enemies anymore. We’re all just… snack foods. So. I understand what a stake is for, but you guys seem to have all the killer toys. What do you say we work out a sharing arrangement?”

“We’ll take it under advisement,” Shane said, and grabbed Claire’s elbow. “We’re going. Now.”

They left her, and when Claire looked back, she thought Monica had really never looked lonelier. The other girl finally walked to her red convertible, got in, and drove away.