Glass Houses tmv-1 Page 3

She opened her eyes at the sound of Eve’s shoes clomping back into the room. Eve was carrying a tray with a red and white can, a bowl, a spoon, and an ice pack. She set the tray on a coffee table and nudged the table toward Claire with her knee. “Ice pack first,” she said. “You can never tell what Shane puts in the chili. Be afraid.”

  Shane padded back to the couch and flopped, sucking on his own can of soda. Eve shot him an exasperated look. “Yeah, man, thanks for bringing me one, too.” The raccoon eye makeup exaggerated her eye roll. “Dork.”

  “Didn’t know if you wanted zombie dirt sprinkled on it or anything. If you’re eating this week.”

  “Dork! Go on and eat, Claire—I’ll go get my own.”

  Claire picked up the spoon and tried a tentative bite of the chili, which was thick and meaty and spicy, heavy on the garlic. Delicious, in fact. She’d gotten used to cafeteria food, and this was just…wow. Not. Shane watched her, eyebrows up, as she started to shovel it in. “’Sgood,” she mumbled. He gave her a lazy salute. By the time she was halfway through the bowl, Eve was back with her own tray, which she plunked down on the other half of the coffee table. Eve sat on the floor, crossed her legs, and dug in.

  “Not bad,” she finally said. “At least you left out the oh-my-God sauce this time.”

  “Made myself a batch with it,” Shane said. “It’s got the biohazard sticker on it in the fridge, so don’t bitch if you get flamed. Where’d you pick up the stray?”

  “Outside. She came to see the room.”

  “You beat her up first, just to make sure she’s tough enough?”

  “Bite me, chili boy.”

  “Don’t mind Eve,” he told Claire. “She hates working days. She’s afraid she’ll tan.”

  “Yeah, and Shane just hates working. So what’s your name?”

  Claire opened her mouth, but Shane beat her to it, clearly happy to one-up his roomie. “Claire. What, you didn’t even ask? A chick beat her up, too. Probably some skank in the dorms. You know how that place is.”

  They exchanged a look. A long one. Eve turned back to Claire. “Is that true? You got beat up in the dorm?” She nodded, hastily shoveling more food in her mouth to keep from having to say much. “Well, that totally blows. No wonder you’re looking for the room.” Another nod. “You didn’t bring much with you.”

  “I don’t have much,” she said. “Just the books, and maybe a couple of things back at my room. But—I don’t want to go back there to get stuff. Not tonight.”

  “Why not?” Shane had grabbed a ratty-looking old baseball from the floor and tossed it up toward the tall ceiling, narrowly missing the spinning blades of the fan. He caught it without effort. “Somebody still looking to pound you?”

  “Yeah,” Claire said, and looked down into her fast-diminishing chili. “Guess so. It’s not just her, it’s—she’s got friends. And…I don’t. That place just—well, it’s creepy.”

  “Been there,” Eve said. “Oh, wait, still there.”

  Shane mimed throwing the baseball at her. She mimed ducking.

  “What time is Michael getting up?”

  Shane gave her another mock throw. “Hell, Eve, I don’t know. I love the guy, but I don’t love the guy. Go bang on his door and ask. Me, I’m gonna go get ready.”

  “Ready for what?” Eve asked. “You’re not seriously going out again, are you?”

  “Seriously, yeah. Bowling. Her name’s Laura. If you want more details, you’re gonna have to download the video like everybody else.” Shane rolled off the couch, stood up, and padded off toward the wide stairs leading up to the second floor. “See you later, Claire.”

  Eve made a frustrated sound. “Wait a minute! So what do you say? You think she’d do okay here, or what?”

  Shane waved a hand. “Whatever, man. Far as I’m concerned, she’s okay.” He gave Claire one quick look and a crooked and oddly sweet smile, and bounded up the stairs. He moved like an athlete, but without the swagger she was used to. Kind of hot, actually.

  “Guys,” Eve sighed. “Damn, it’d be good to have another girl in here. They’re all like, Yeah, whatever, and then when it comes to picking up the place or washing dishes, they turn into ghosts. Not that you have to, like, be a maid or anything, I mean…you just got to yell at ’em until they do their part or they walk all over you.”

  Claire smiled, or tried to, but her split lip throbbed, and she felt the scab break open again. Blood dribbled down her chin, and she grabbed the napkin Eve had put on the tray and applied pressure to her lip. Eve watched in silence, frowning, and then got up from the floor, picked up the ice pack, and settled it gently against the bump on Claire’s head. “How’s that?” she asked.

  “Better.” It was. The ice began to numb the ache almost immediately, and the food was setting up a nice warm fire in her stomach. “Um, I guess I should ask…about the room….”

  “Well, you have to meet Michael, and he has to say yes, but Michael’s a sweetie, really. Oh, and he owns this place. His family does, anyway. I think they moved away and left him the house a couple of years ago. He’s about six months older than I am. We’re all about eighteen. Michael’s sort of the oldest.”

  “He sleeps days?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I like to sleep days, but he’s got a thing about it. I called him a vampire once, ’cause he really doesn’t like being up in the daytime. Like, ever. He didn’t think it was real funny.”

  “You’re sure he’s not a vampire?” Claire said. “I’ve seen movies. They’re sneaky.” She was kidding. Eve didn’t smile.

  “Oh, pretty sure. For one thing, he eats Shane’s chili, which, God knows, has enough garlic to explode a dozen high-quality Dracs. And I made him touch a cross once.” Eve took a big swallow of her Coke.

  “You—what? Made him?”

  “Well, sure, yeah. I mean, a girl can’t be too careful, especially around here.” Claire must have looked blank, because Eve did the eye-roll thing again. It was her favorite expression, Claire was sure. “In Morganville? You know?”

  “What about it?”

  “You mean you don’t know? How can you not know?” Eve set her can down and got up to her knees, leaning elbows on the coffee table. She looked earnest under the thick makeup. Her eyes were dark brown, edged with gold. “Morganville’s full of vampires.”

  Claire laughed.

  Eve didn’t. She just kept staring.

  “Um…you’re kidding?”

  “How many kids graduate TPU every year?”

  “I don’t know…. It’s a crappy college, most everybody transfers out….”

  “Everybody leaves. Or at least, they stop showing up, right? I can’t believe you don’t know this. Didn’t anybody tell you the score before you moved in? Look, the vamps run the town. They’re in charge. And either you’re in, or you’re out. If you work for them, if you pretend like they’re not here and they don’t exist, and you look the other way when things happen, then you and your family get a free pass. You get Protection. Otherwise…” Eve pulled a finger across her throat and bugged out her eyes.

  Right, Claire thought, and put down her spoon. No wonder nobody rented a room with these people. They’re nuts. It was too bad. Except for the crazy part, she really liked them.

  “You think I’m wacko,” Eve said, and sighed. “Yeah, I get that. I’d think I was, too, except I grew up in a Protected house. My dad works for the water company. My mom is a teacher. But we all wear these.” She extended her wrist. On it was a black leather bracelet, with a symbol on it in red, nothing Claire recognized. It looked kind of like a Chinese character. “See how mine’s red? Expired. It’s like health insurance. Kids are only covered until they’re eighteen. Mine was up six months ago.” She looked at it mournfully, then shrugged and unsnapped it to drop it on her tray. “Might as well stop wearing it, I guess. It sure wouldn’t fool anybody.”

  Claire just looked at her, helpless, wondering if she was the victim of a practical joke, and if any second Eve was going to laugh
and call her an idiot for buying it, and Shane would go from kind of lazy-sweet to cruel and shove her out the door, mocking all the way. Because this wasn’t the way the world worked. You didn’t like people, and then have them turn up all crazy, right? Couldn’t you tell?

  The alternative—that Eve wasn’t crazy at all—just wasn’t anything Claire wanted to think about. She remembered the people on the street, walking fast, heads down. The way the mother had yanked her little girl off the street at a friendly wave.

  “Fine. Go ahead, think I’m nuts,” Eve said, and sat back on her heels. “I mean, why wouldn’t I be? And I won’t try to convince you or anything. Just—don’t go out after dark unless you’re with somebody. Somebody Protected, if you can find them. Look for the bracelet.” She nudged hers with one finger. “The symbol’s white when it’s active.”

  “But I—” Claire coughed, trying to find something to say. If you can’t say anything nice… “Okay. Thanks. Um, is Shane—?”

  “Shane? Protected?” Eve snorted. “As if! Even if he was, which I doubt, he’d never admit it, and he doesn’t wear the bracelet or anything. Michael—Michael isn’t, either, but there’s sort of a standard Protection on houses. We’re sort of outcasts here. There’s safety in numbers, too.”

  It was a very weird conversation to be having over chili and Coke, with an ice pack perched on the top of her head. Claire, without even knowing she was going to do it, yawned. Eve laughed.

  “Call it a bedtime story,” she said. “Listen, let me show you the room. Worst case, you lie down for a while, let the ice pack work, then bug out. Or hey, you wake up and decide you want to talk to Michael before you leave. Your choice.”

  Another cold chill swept over her, and she shivered. Probably had to do with the bang on the head, she figured, and how tired she was. She dug in her pocket, found the package of pills the doc had prescribed for her, and swallowed one with the last gulp of Coke. Then she helped Eve carry the trays into the kitchen, which was huge, with stone sinks and ancient polished counters and two modern conveniences—the stove and the refrigerator—stuck awkwardly in the corners. The chili had come from a Crock-Pot, which was still simmering away.

  When the dishes had been washed, trays stacked, trash discarded, Eve retrieved Claire’s backpack from the floor and led her through the living room, up the stairs. On the third riser, Eve turned, alarmed, and said, “Hey, can you make it up the stairs? Because, you know—”

  “I’m okay,” Claire lied. Her ankle hurt like hell, but she wanted to see the room. And if they were likely to throw her out later, she at least wanted to sleep one more time in a bed, however lumpy and old. There were thirteen steps to the top. She made every one of them, even though she left sweaty fingerprints on a banister Shane hadn’t even bothered to touch on his way up earlier.

  Eve’s steps were muffled here by a rich old-looking rug, all swirls and colors, that ran down the center of the polished wood floor. There were six doors up here on the landing. As they passed them, Eve pointed and named. “Shane’s.” The first door. “Michael’s.” The second door. “He’s got that one, too—it’s a double-sized room.” Third door. “Main bathroom.” Fourth. “The second bathroom’s downstairs—that’s kind of the emergency backup bathroom when Shane’s in there moussing his hair for like an hour or something….”

  “Bite me!” Shane yelled from behind the closed door. Eve pounded a fist on the door and led Claire to the last two on the row. “This one’s mine. Yours is on the end.”

  When she swung it open, Claire—prepared for disappointment—actually gasped. For one thing, it was huge. Three times the size of her dorm room. For another, it was on a corner, with three—three! — windows, all currently shaded by blinds and curtains. The bed wasn’t some dorm-sized miniature; it was a full-sized mattress and box spring with massive wooden columns at the corners, dark and solid. There was a dresser along one wall big enough to hold, well, four or five times the clothes that Claire had ever owned. Plus a closet. Plus…

  “Is that a TV?” she asked in a faint voice.

  “Yeah. Satellite cable. You’d pitch in, though, unless you want to take it out of the room. Oh, and there’s Internet, too. Broadband, over there. I should probably warn you, they monitor Internet traffic around here, though. You have to be careful what you say in messages and stuff.” Eve put the backpack on top of the dresser. “You don’t have to decide right now. You probably ought to rest first. Here, here’s your ice pack.” She followed Claire to the bed and helped her pull back the covers, and once Claire had pulled off her shoes and settled, she tucked her in, like a mother, and put the ice pack on her head. “When you get up, Michael’ll probably be awake. I have to get back to work, but it’ll be okay. Really.”

  Claire smiled at her, a little fuzzily; the painkillers were starting to take effect. She got another chill. “Thank you, Eve,” she said. “This is—wow.”

  “Yeah, well, you look like you could use a little wow today.” Eve shrugged, and gave her a stunning smile back. “Sleep well. And don’t worry, the vampires won’t come in here. This house has Protection, even if we don’t.”

  Claire turned that over in her mind for a few seconds as Eve left the room and shut the door, and then her mind wandered off in happy clouds of noticing the softness of the pillow and how good the bed felt, and how crisp the sheets were….

  She dreamed about the strangest thing: a silent room, with someone pale and quiet sitting on a velvet sofa, 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 w
as…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.