Ghost Town mv-9 Page 19

  Shane actually blushed. Little red spots high on his cheeks. Claire stared at them, fascinated, and thought, This is like watching one of those reality-show train wrecks. It was almost . . . entertaining. “Shut up,” Shane said. He sounded like he was choking on something.

  “Oh, relax. It’s not like we did it or anything. Yet.”

  “Seriously. Shut. Up.”

  Monica must have finally gotten the idea that Shane was really not joking, because she looked a little thrown, then hurried on to another topic. “So what happened to you? Oh, we’re here because Jennifer got into her mom’s gin or something and forgot how to drive, even though she just learned. So funny! She totally destroyed her mom’s car—at least, I think it was her mom’s car. Some kind of red convertible. Tacky! So she’s a couple of rooms over. You?”

  “Just do me a favor and leave, Monica. I don’t need the aggravation right now.” When Shane wanted to be, he could be blunt and kind of mean, and Claire actually felt a twinge of sympathy for the way Monica’s smile collapsed.

  “Jeez, I was just trying to be nice, Collins,” Monica said. “You don’t have to be such a toe rag all the time. You’re not that cute, you know. I can do better. Lots better.”

  She flounced off. Literally flounced, with her hair bouncing. So odd.

  Shane said, finally, “Did that remind anybody else of something?”

  “Yes,” Eve said, tapping her lower lip with a bloodred fingernail. “How much I need to shave her head while she’s sleeping.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Mike?”

  “School,” Michael said instantly. “That’s what she was like in school when she was coming on to you.”

  “Speaking of school . . .” Eve said. “What the hell was this about the closet makeout session?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Did you seriously tongue-wrestle Monica in the—”

  “Eve, shut up.”

  “No, seriously, I have to know this. Were you high? Because that is honestly the only excuse I can think of.”

  “It wasn’t my fault. She grabbed me and pulled me in.” Shane got that flush in his cheeks again. “Once. It was once. And I told her to fuck off the next day.” Shane’s eyes widened, and Claire saw his expression change. “The next day. That was the day she . . . the day she told me she’d make me sorry.”

  “Oh, man,” Michael said. “It was only a couple of weeks before—”

  Shane shut his eyes again. “Don’t want to talk about it.”

  Even Eve let that one go, because what was going unsaid was that two weeks later, the fire had started at Shane’s house, and Monica had been to blame. Maybe.

  And Shane’s sister had died.

  “She didn’t even look at me,” Claire said. “She always looks at me.”

  “What?” Michael asked, distracted.

  “Monica. She never lets a chance go by to say something rude to me. But she didn’t. It was like she didn’t even know I existed.”

  That was why Monica had ignored her, Claire realized. She wasn’t her enemy. She didn’t even know her. Monica was mentally back in . . . What had it been, tenth grade? Before Shane’s house had burned, and his family had left town.

  Monica thought they were all still in high school.

  “Creepy,” Claire said.

  Shane swallowed. “You have no idea. Monica used to follow me everywhere. Send me porn notes and texts. She told people she was my girlfriend. She beat up any girl I talked to. It was miserable.”

  Wow. Monica had been Shane’s stalker. That put a whole different light on things. “How long did that go on?”

  “I guess about three months, maybe. Michael?”

  “Yeah, that sounds right. It was after she decided I was off-limits.” He shook his head when Claire opened her mouth. “Don’t ask. She was a serial stalker. Worked her way through most of the jocks, but I don’t know why she picked on the two of us.”

  “Well, how about you’re adorably cute and talented?” Eve said. “I crushed all over you, too. Not you, Collins. You, Glass.”

  The doctor came in around then, and expelled them while Shane got stitches. Claire was happy enough to miss that part. Stitches were painful; she knew that from experience.

  Monica and Gina were sipping cans of cola from straws and giggling while they checked out the butts on the interns and doctors. It was so . . . not them. And yet, it was, at the same time. Monica kept looking toward the curtain that hid Shane from view with hungry, fascinated eyes, and that made Claire feel hot and furious and filthy.

  Monica still thought Shane was interested in her. All evidence to the contrary.

  “This isn’t right,” Michael said, looking around. “It just doesn’t feel right. You know? It’s like everything’s just . . . out of tune. I don’t know if you feel it the way I do. Vampires sense things differently.”

  “That may be why some get violent,” Claire said. “We have to fix it. Somehow. It can only get worse.”

  “Well, you can’t go back to Myrnin. Not after—”

  “Michael, I have to! This thing comes and goes, right? People snap out of it. He’ll come back, and when he does I have to be there and find out what to do.” She took a deep breath. “Or, like Shane said, we have to pull the plug. That’s the only other solution.”

  “Nuke the site from orbit,” Eve said. “It’s the only way to be sure.”

  “Do not quote Aliens at me; I’m freaked-out enough already!”

  “Sorry. But it’s always good advice.”

  “It actually is good advice,” Michael said. “I can go pull the plug. Myrnin won’t come after me—”

  “He would,” Claire said. “Myrnin used to bite other vamps, too, in case you forgot. You can’t assume just being in the blood club is going to get you through. And he’s strong, and really fast. Don’t. Make Amelie go, or Oliver. I don’t think he’d bite them.”

  “You don’t think?”

  She shrugged unhappily. “I don’t know him anymore when he’s like this. I don’t know what he’s going to do.”

  “We are so screwed,” Eve said. “What about Amelie? What’s she doing?”

  That opened up a whole can of worms that wriggled unpleasantly in the pit of Claire’s stomach. She was absolutely sure that Amelie and Oliver wouldn’t want her telling anybody about what she’d seen earlier, not even—or maybe especially—Eve and Michael. She decided to hedge. “I don’t know. Oliver told me to take care of it, but . . .” Claire was forced to shrug again. “Maybe by now they’ve both got it, too.”

  “Well, that would be bad. Epically bad.”

  It would, Claire thought. “I should check in with them and see what they want to do. It’s weird nobody’s called me back,” she said. “Michael, could you stay and wait for Shane—”

  It turned out, as the curtain whipped aside, that there was no need to wait. Shane joined them, moving slowly. The stitches were in, but he had a white bandage taped over them. Claire took his hand, and he smiled. He looked a little pale. “I’m good to go. What are we doing?”

  “Taking you home,” Claire said.

  “Not if you guys are going somewhere else.”

  “You’re walking wounded,” Michael said. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t optional.”

  “Oh, yeah? You want to try to stop me, tough guy?” Shane said, and grinned. “I know you better. You wouldn’t hit a guy who’s down.”

  Eve held up a hand for a high five with him. “Give it up for Shane Collins, master manipulator!”

  He smacked it, and winced a little again. “Yeah, well, you don’t grow up with my dad without knowing a few things. So where are we going?”

  “To Amelie,” Claire said. “She can go with us to the lab and keep Myrnin pinned down while we pull the plug, if he’s not . . . you know, better.”

  “Define better with that guy.”

  “Not all fangs and raaaaar.”

  “Oh. Okay. Quick stop at the house. I want to load up on the
good stuff.”

  If Shane expected an argument, he didn’t get one. Claire was thinking the same thing.

  When you were going into a war zone, you didn’t go unarmed.

  ELEVEN

  Eve had ordered something special off the Internet, which had arrived by mail, Claire discovered. She’d gotten three of them, and Claire put hers on with a whoop of delight.

  Getting two-inch silver chain chokers around the neck of a guy, especially Shane, proved to be more of a problem.

  Shane held the jewelry at arm’s length, dangling it like a dead rat. “No way in hell am I caught dead or alive wearing that.”

  “Oh, come on, just this once,” Eve said. “Protects your neck. As in your arteries and veins? That’s kind of crucial, right?”

  “Thanks for the thought, but it doesn’t go with my shoes.”

  “You’re seriously going to worry about what people think right now?”

  “No, I’m worrying about people taking pictures and putting them on Facebook. That crap never dies. Kind of like you, Mikey.”

  Michael, straight-faced, said, “He’s got a point, because I would definitely take pictures. So would you.”

  Eve had to grin. “Yeah, I would. Okay, then. But you’d look glam. I could fix you up with silver eye shadow to match.”

  “Tell you what: you can be Glammera the vampire hunter. I’ll stick with being manly and heavily armed.”

  Michael snorted and picked up some wooden—i.e., mostly nonlethal—stakes, which he stuffed in his jacket. “You guys ready?”

  “Guess so.” Shane gave his small crossbow another once-over, then put it in the carry bag. Eve had packed a (for her) huge purse full of stuff. The purse, of course, had a shiny yellow happy face on it—with fangs. Claire stuck with her unfashionable but useful backpack. She’d emptied out all of her books and left them stacked on the table. She had no idea when she’d actually get back to school, but it certainly wouldn’t be today.

  Shane dropped the silver choker to the table, shuddered, and led the way out of the Glass House to the car. Michael locked up behind them, and Claire thought about how natural it was for them now to watch one another’s backs. There wasn’t even any discussion. Shane went first, keys to Eve’s hearse in hand; Eve had, of course, called shotgun, so she was heading straight for the passenger side. Claire was checking shadows and heading for the back of the long black coach, and Michael zipped down fast and joined her as she opened the back. He was the last one in, and smacked the roof to signal Shane as he and Claire sat down on the long bench seats in the back.

  Eve had added some kind of color-changing strips along the inside of the roof. “What’s with the disco lights?” Michael said, rolling down the window between the driver’s compartment and the back.

  Eve turned around, and her face brightened. “You like it? I thought it looked really cool. I saw it in a movie, you know, in a limo.”

  “It’s cool,” Michael said, and smiled at her. She smiled back. “Can’t wait to lie here and watch it with you.”

  Claire said, “You don’t have to wait; it’s working now. Look—Oh. Never mind.” She blushed, feeling stupid that she hadn’t gotten that one in the first second. Eve winked at her.

  “Shouldn’t you be calling Amelie and getting us some kind of parking permit?” Eve asked. Claire nodded, glad to be off the hook, and made the call. It rang to voice mail, and Claire left her a message. She was just hanging up when she spotted a parked police car out of the window.

  Hannah Moses was standing alongside it. Just . . . standing. Looking around.

  “Wait,” Claire said, and leaned over to grab Shane’s shoulder. “Stop. She can get us in; she’s got permission to go to Founder’s Square anytime she wants.”

  Shane pulled in behind Hannah’s cruiser, and Claire got out to talk to her. She moved fast, because this wasn’t a well-lit area, and everything seemed really dark tonight anyway. Even with the hearse’s headlights shining, it felt shadowed.

  “Hannah!” she said. “We need some help. Can you get us in to see Amelie?”

  Hannah turned to look at her, and there was something odd in her body language. She seemed tense and ready to react. She kept her hand near the gun in her holster. “Who are you?” she asked. “Name.”

  “Oh, crap,” Claire said. “You’ve got it, too.”

  “Name!” Hannah snapped. “Now!”

  “Uh, okay, I’m Claire. Claire Danvers. You know me.”

  Hannah shook her head. “This is Morganville,” she said. “I can’t be in Morganville. I was in . . . I was in Kandahar. I was just there.” She looked down at her police uniform and shook her head again. “I wasn’t wearing this. I’m not a cop. I’m a marine. This can’t be happening.”

  “Hannah, you’re having a . . . a flashback, that’s all. You’re not a marine; you’re not in Afghanistan. You’re here, in Morganville. You’re the chief of police, remember?”

  Hannah just looked at her as if Claire were crazy.

  “Look at what you’re wearing,” Claire said. “Police uniform. Why would somebody kidnap you, bring you here, and change your clothes? What sense does that make?”

  “It doesn’t,” Hannah admitted. “None of this makes any sense. I need to call in.”

  “Call in where?”

  “To my commanding officer.”

  “Hannah, you’re not in the marines now! You don’t have a commanding officer!”

  Hannah didn’t seem to hear her this time. “They’ll think I’m AWOL. I need to tell them what happened.” Then she looked around again, and the look in her face was a little desperate. “Except I don’t know what happened.”

  “I just told you! Flashback!”

  “This isn’t a combat flashback!”

  “No, it’s . . .” Lying, Claire figured, was now the only way to go. “You’ve been drugged. You have to believe me. You live here, in Morganville. You’re the chief of police.”

  Hannah was shaking her head—not as if she didn’t believe it, but as if she didn’t want to believe it. “I’m not going back to Morganville. No way in hell am I signing up for that.”

  But you did, Claire started to say, then held it back. She didn’t know why Hannah had changed her mind; maybe something had happened to her while she was in Afghanistan, or since she came back from there. But whatever it was, in Hannah’s mind, it hadn’t happened yet.

  “I know this is hard,” Claire said. “But we need your help. Really. All you have to do is call in permission for us to go into Founder’s Square. Would you do that?”

  “I don’t know you people,” Hannah said. “And you’re driving around in a damn hearse. It doesn’t exactly make me want to trust you. . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she blinked as the hearse’s doors opened, and Michael and Eve got out. “You’re . . . you’re the Glass kid. The guitar player. I remember you. And—” Hannah did an absolute double take, the most surprised Claire had ever seen her. “Eve? What the hell did you do to yourself? Have your parents seen how you look?”

  Claire exchanged a mute second of stares with her friends, and Eve finally said, “Ah, yeah, they’ve seen it. I’ve been dressing like this for about three years; don’t you remember?”

  “No,” Hannah said, and suddenly sat down on the sidewalk. Just . . . sat. She put her head in her hands. “No, I don’t remember that. I remember . . . you were in school with my brother Reggie, before he . . . I saw you at the funeral. . . .”

  Eve crouched down next to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “I know,” she said. “But then you went to Afghanistan, and then you came back, and now you’re the head police chick. You have to remember that!”

  “I don’t,” Hannah said, and Claire realized with a shock that she was crying silently, tears running down her face. “I don’t remember that at all.” She pulled in a deep breath, wiped her face, and let Eve help her to her feet. “All right. Let’s say all that’s true, even if I don’t believe it. What do you want?”


  “Just . . . we need you to call in to the guard post at Founder’s Square and give us a pass to see Amelie,” Claire said. “Please. I’ve tried phoning. She’s not answering.” And Claire found that she was really, truly worried. Not that Amelie was a friend, exactly, but the idea of a Morganville without her was . . . unthinkable. She couldn’t get the image of Amelie lying limp on the floor in Oliver’s arms out of her head.

  Hannah stared at her like she was even crazier than before. “We don’t ever call the Founder by name.”

  “We do now,” Claire said. “I do. We all do. You have to believe me—things around here are different now. Please, Hannah. We really need this if we’re going to help people.”

  Hannah took another look around at the town, at them, and finally nodded. “All right,” she said. “You tell me what to do and I’ll do it. Anything to make this all . . . stop.”

  Claire got into the police car and found Hannah’s cell phone. Sure enough, it had all kinds of numbers plugged in, and one of them was to the guard station at the entrance to Founder’s Square. She dialed it for Hannah and held out the phone.

  “Guard post?” Hannah said, and here, at least, she seemed to be on familiar ground. Marine training did that for you, Claire guessed. “This is Lieut—This is Hannah Moses. I’ve got four kids in a hearse who are cleared for admittance to Founder’s Square.” She covered the phone receiver and looked at Claire. “Anything else?”

  “Um . . . they should let us in to see Amelie.”

  Hannah took in a deep breath and nodded as she uncovered the receiver. “Yeah, and they’ll need unescorted access to the Founder’s office.” She listened, and her eyes widened a little. “Great. Thank you.” She passed the phone back to Claire, who hung it up and put it back in the car. “They said they’d put you on the list. Just like that.”

  “Thanks, Hannah.” On impulse, Claire hugged her. Hannah was a solid block of muscle, but then she softened a little and hugged her back. “Go home. Don’t go out again until things stop feeling weird, okay?”

  “Home?” Hannah echoed, and looked haunted again. “I’ve got no home here.”