Bitter Blood

“That’s not an answer,” Shane said. He tapped the identification card again. “You’re not serious about really carrying these things.”

“That’s the new law of the land, Shane. Carry it or get fined the first time. Second time, it’s jail. I can’t advise you to do anything else but comply.”

“What do we get the third time, stocks and public mockery?”

“There wouldn’t be a third time,” she said. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then silently put it back in his pocket. Claire knew that look, and she saw the muscle jumping uneasily along his jawline. He was counting to ten, silently, letting go of the impulse to say something crazy and suicidal.

When he let his breath out, slowly, she knew it was okay, and she felt tension she didn’t even know she had start to unbraid along her spine.

“Thanks for seeing us,” Claire said, and Hannah stood to offer her hand. Claire accepted, though she still felt awkward shaking hands. Trying to be professional always made her seem like a fraud, like a kid playing dress-up. But she tried to hold Hannah’s gaze as she returned the firm, dry grip. “Are you sure you won’t come with us?”

“You’re intent on going to see Amelie?”

“We have to try,” Claire said. “Don’t we? As you said, she used to listen to me, a little. Maybe she still will.”

Hannah shook her head. “Kid, you’ve got guts, but I’m telling you, it’s not going to work.”

“Will you make an appointment for me, though? That way there’s a record.”

“I will.” Hannah looked to Shane. “You’re going to let her do this?”

“Not alone.”

“Good.”

Ten seconds later, they were out in the waiting area, under the judging gaze of the assistant, and then in the hallway. Claire took in a deep breath. “Did we actually accomplish anything?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “We figured out that Hannah wasn’t going to help us much. Go figure, a Morganville mayor whose hands are tied? Who saw that coming?” He stopped Claire and put his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll go with you to see Amelie.”

“That’s sweet, but having you with me is kind of a walking invitation to trouble.”

“Just because they know I prefer my vampires extra-crispy…”

“Exactly.” Claire covered the hand on her shoulder with her own. “I’ll be careful.”

“I meant what I said. You’re not going in there alone,” he said. “Take Michael. Or—and I can’t believe I’m actually saying this—take Myrnin. Just have somebody at your back, okay?”

It was really something if Shane suggested she go anywhere at all with Myrnin, and for pretty good reasons…. Myrnin had feelings for her, and he had feelings for Shane, too, but in the opposite way entirely. As in, Myrnin probably thought about the death of her boyfriend, and Shane had the same fantasies. It was a mutual, weirdly cheerful loathing, even if it didn’t come to outright conflict.

“Okay,” Claire said. She didn’t mean it, but it touched her that he was so genuinely concerned about her safety. She’d survived a lot in Morganville—not as much as Shane, granted—and she thought of herself as pretty tough these days. Not indestructible, but…sturdy.

One of these days, she’d have to sit him down and explain that she wasn’t the fragile little sixteen-year-old he’d met; she was an adult now (she so didn’t feel that status yet, despite the birthdays) and she’d proven she could meet the challenges of survival around here. And while it was sweet and lovely that he wanted to protect her, at a certain point he really needed to understand it wasn’t his job to do it, twenty- four/seven.

He linked his arm with hers and walked her to the elevator. There was no repeat of the kissing, which was a little disappointing, but he outright ignored his would-be stalker Annabelle down in the outer lobby. That was better.

After the chill of the lobby, walking into the sun was like hitting a furnace face-first, and Claire blinked and grabbed her sunglasses. They were cheap and fun, blinged all to heaven—a gift from Eve, of course. As she adjusted them, she saw something odd.

Monica Morrell was still here. Standing at the bottom of the steps, leaning against a forbidding granite pillar (the courthouse was built in a style Claire liked to call Early American Mausoleum) and shading her eyes to peer out at the street. The hot wind stirred her long, glossy, dark hair like a sheet of silk, and that dress—as ever—was dangerously close to violating decency laws when the breeze inched the hem up.

Shane saw her, too, and slowed down, shooting Claire a sideways glance. She silently agreed. It was odd. Monica didn’t just stand places, at least not unless she was making a statement of some kind. She was always on the move, like a shark.

“Huh,” Monica said. “That’s weird. Don’t you think that’s weird?” She addressed the remark to the air, but Claire supposed she intended it for her and Shane. Kind of.

“What?” she asked.

“The van,” Monica said, and tilted her head toward the street. “Parked on the corner.”

“Sweet,” Shane said. “Somebody got new wheels.”

“This year’s model,” Monica said. “I know for a fact that our lame-ass car lot doesn’t even have last year’s model. I had to go all the way to Odessa to buy my convertible. Morganville doesn’t exactly keep up with the cutting edge.”

“Okay.” Shane shrugged. “Somebody went to Odessa and bought a new van. Why’s that weird?”

“Because I’d know about it if they did, stupid. Nobody in Morganville’s bought a new van in years.” She sounded confident. Monica was the queen of town gossip, and Claire had to admit, she had a point. She would know. She’d probably know the serial numbers of each purchase, and how many times it had driven through town, and what the driver had been wearing on each occasion. “Besides, that shine? That’s so town, not country. And check out the tinting.”

“So?” Claire asked. Most glossy cars in Morganville had superdark windows, because they were owned by people who were—to put it mildly—allergic to the sun.

“That’s not vampire shades,” Shane said. “Dark, but not that dark. Custom stuff. Huh. And there’s a logo on the side. Can’t really see it, though, and…” His voice trailed off as the doors opened on the van. Three people got out.

“Oh,” Monica said. “Oh. My. God. Look at him.”

There were two men who’d exited the van, but Claire knew exactly what she meant…. There was only one him, even at a distance. Tall, dark, Latin, hot.

“That,” Monica continued, in a voice that sounded very much like awe, “is some serious man candy.” Shane made a throwing-up sound in the back of his throat, which brought out a leisurely smile on Monica’s lips. “I’ll bet if I licked him, he’d even taste like fruit. Passion fruit.”

There was a woman, too—tall, leggy, with blond hair pulled back in a bouncy, glossy ponytail. She seemed pretty, too, but Claire had to admit, her attention was on Mr. Man Candy. Even at a distance, Monica had nailed the description.

Monica pushed away from the pillar and set off in a runway stride, high heels clicking on the hot concrete sidewalk.

“Come on,” Shane said, and tugged Claire after her. “This, I’ve got to see. And maybe get on the Internet.”

TWO CLAIRE

As they got closer to the van, Claire realized it was big—Texas-style big, with a high roof. It looked more like something to haul equipment than people. The logo on the side of the van was on a magnet backing, and it was red on black. There was some kind of skull with a microphone and hard-to-read letters, not that she was paying a lot of attention.