The Morganville Vampires Collection (The Morganville Vampires #1-4) (70 page)

Nurse Fenton was, mercifully, off duty when Claire arrived. She checked in with the younger, nicer lady at the desk, whose name was Helen Porter, and went to find the least uncomfortable chair in the waiting area. The building wasn’t completely lame; there were laptop connections and desks, and she set herself up there. The wireless was crap, but there was a LAN connection, and that worked fine.

Of course, the filters restricted where she could go on the Internet, and she quickly grew frustrated trying to find out what was happening in the world
outside of Morganville…more of the same, she guessed. War, crime, death, atrocity. Sometimes it hardly seemed that vampires were the bad guys, given the things people did to each other without the excuse of needing a pint of O neg to get through the day.

She wondered if the vampires had made any headway tracking down who could have staked Sam. Surely they’d found out something. Then again, they hadn’t had a lot of luck cornering Shane’s dad, either…

Her laptop connection stopped working, right in the middle of an email to her parents. She’d been avoiding making the call, because there was this dangerous temptation to start spilling out her hurt and fear and look for comfort – after all, wasn’t that what parents were for? – but if she did, they’d either come running to town, which would be bad, or they’d try to pull her out of school again, which would definitely be worse. Worse in every way.

Still, she knew she was overdue to talk to her mom, and the longer she put it off, the more stress it was going to be for both of them.

Claire logged off the laptop, packed it, and opened up her new cool phone. It glowed with a pale blue light when she dialled the number, and she heard faint clicking. That probably meant the call was
being recorded, or at least monitored. More reason to be careful about what she said…

Mom answered the phone on the third ring. ‘Hello?’

‘Hi!’ Claire winced at the artificial cheeriness of her tone. Why couldn’t she sound natural? ‘Mom, it’s Claire.’

‘Claire! Honey, I’ve been worried. You should have called days ago.’

‘I know, Mom, I’m sorry. I got busy. I got transferred into some advanced classes; they’re really great, but there’s been a lot of homework and reading. I just forgot.’

‘Well,’ her mother said, ‘I’m glad to hear those teachers are recognising that you need special attention. I was a little worried when you told me the classes were so easy. You like challenges, I know that.’

Oh, I’m challenged now,
Claire thought. Between the classes and Myrnin, being stalked by Jason, and being terrified for Shane…‘Yeah, I do,’ she said. ‘So I guess this is all good.’

‘What else? How are your friends? That nice Michael, is he still playing his guitar?’ Mom asked it as if it was a silly little hobby that he’d give up eventually.

‘Yes, Mom, he’s a musician. He’s still playing. In
fact, he was playing in the University Centre the other day. He got quite a crowd.’

‘Well, fine. I hope he’s not playing in some of those clubs, though. That gets dangerous.’

There was more of that, the danger talk, and Claire worried that her mother was, if not remembering exactly, at least remembering
something
. Why would she be so fixated on how dangerous things could be?

‘Mom, you’re overreacting,’ Claire finally said. ‘Honest, everything’s fine here.’

‘Well, you started out this semester in the emergency room, Claire; you can’t really blame me for worrying. You’re very young to be out on your own, and not even in the dorm…’

‘I told you about the problems with the dorm,’ Claire said.

‘Yes, I know; the girls weren’t very nice—’

‘Not very nice? Mom! They threw me down the stairs!’

‘I’m sure that was an accident.’

It hadn’t been, but there was something about her mother that wasn’t going to accept that, not really.

For all her fluttering and worrying, she didn’t want to believe that something really could be badly wrong.

‘Yeah,’ Claire sighed. ‘Probably. Anyway, the house is great. I really like it there.’

‘And Michael has our numbers? In case there’s any problem?’

‘Yes, Mom, everybody’s got the numbers. Oh, speaking of that, here’s my new cell phone—’ She rattled off the digits, twice, and made her mother read them back. ‘It’s got better reception than the old one, so you can get me a lot more easily, OK?’

‘Claire,’ her mother said, ‘are you sure you’re all right?’

‘Yes. I’m fine.’

‘I don’t want to pry, but that boy, the one in the house…not Michael, but—’

‘Shane.’

‘Yes, Shane. I think you should keep your distance from him, honey. He’s old for you, and he seems pretty sure of himself.’

She did
not
want to get into the subject of Shane. She’d nearly stumbled over saying his name, it hurt so bad. She wanted to talk to her mother the way she’d used to. They’d talked about everything, once, but there was no way she could really talk about Morganville with her family.

And that meant that there was no way she could talk about anything at all.

‘I’ll be careful,’ she managed to say, and her attention was caught by the young nurse standing in the doorway of the waiting area, waving for her
attention.

‘Oh…Mom, I have to go. Sorry. Somebody’s waiting for me.’

‘All right, honey. We love you.’

‘Love you, too.’ She hung up, slid the phone into her pocket, and grabbed her backpack.

The nurse led her through another set of glass double doors into an area labelled ICU. ‘He’s awake,’ she said. ‘You can’t stay long; we want him to rest as much as possible, and I can already tell he’s going to be a difficult patient.’ She smiled at Claire, and winked. ‘See if you can sweeten him up a little for me. Make my life easier.’

Claire nodded. She felt nervous and a little sick with the force of her need to see him, touch him…and at the same time, she dreaded it. She hated the thought of seeing him like this, and she didn’t know what she was going to say. What did people say when they were this scared of losing someone?

He looked worse than she’d imagined, and she must have let it show. Shane grunted and closed his eyes for a few seconds. ‘Yeah, well, I’m not dead; that’s something. One of those in the house is enough.’ He looked awful – pale as, well, Michael. The baseball bat had left him with technicolour bruising, and he seemed fragile in ways Claire hadn’t even thought about. There were so many tubes and things. She sat
down in the chair next to his raised bed and reached over the railing to touch him lightly on his scraped, bruised hand.

He turned it to twine their fingers together. ‘You’re all right?’

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Jason ran away, after.’ Walked, really, but she wasn’t going to say that. ‘Eve’s OK, too. She was here while you were in surgery; she just went home to change clothes. She’ll be back.’

‘Yeah, I guess the diva dress might have been a little much around here.’ He opened his eyes and looked at her directly. ‘Claire. Really. You’re OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Except that I’m scared for you.’

‘I’m OK.’

‘Except for the stab wound and all the internal bleeding? Yeah, sure, tough guy.’ She heard her voice quiver, and knew she was about to cry. She didn’t want to. He wanted to laugh it off, wanted to be tough, and she ought to let him, right?

He tried to shrug, but it must have hurt, from the spasm that went across his face. One of the machines near Claire beeped, and he let out a slow sigh. ‘That’s better. Man, they give you the good stuff in ICU. Remind me to always get seriously wounded from now on. That minor injury stuff isn’t as much fun.’

It was wearing him out to talk. Claire got up and
leant over to stroke her fingertips lightly over his lips. ‘Shhhh,’ she said. ‘Rest, OK? Save it for somebody who isn’t me. It’s OK to be scared. It’s OK to be hurt, Shane. With me, it’s OK.’

For a second his eyes glittered with tears, and then the tears spilt over, threading wet trails into his hair. ‘Damn,’ he whispered. ‘Sorry. I just…I felt it all going away, I felt you going away, I tried…I thought he was going to hurt you and there was nothing I could do about it—’

‘I know.’ She leant forward and kissed him very lightly, careful of the bruises. ‘I know.’

He cried a little, and she stayed right where she was, his shield against the world, until it was over. Finally, he fell into a light sleep, and she felt a tap on her shoulder. The nurse motioned for her to step out, and Claire carefully pulled her hand free of Shane’s and followed.

‘Sorry,’ Helen said. ‘I’d like for him to sleep a while before we start with the poking and prodding. You can come back this afternoon, all right?’

‘Sure. What time?’

Four o’clock. That left her the entire day to kill, and not the slightest idea what she ought to be doing with it. She didn’t have to see Myrnin; Amelie hadn’t given her any other instructions to follow. It was Saturday, so she wasn’t cutting any classes, and she
didn’t want to go back to the Glass House and just…worry.

Claire was still trying to decide what to do when she spotted a familiar, well-groomed figure standing outside the hospital doors.

What was Jennifer, one of Monica’s regular clique, doing hanging around here?

Waiting for Claire, apparently, because she hurried to catch up as Claire strode by, heading for the taxi stand. ‘Hey,’ she said, and tucked her glossy hair behind her ear. ‘So. How’s Shane doing?’

‘Like you care,’ Claire said.

‘Well, yeah. I don’t. But Monica wants to know.’

‘He’s alive.’ That was no more than Monica could learn without her help, so it didn’t really matter, and Claire didn’t like having Jennifer this close. Monica was creepy, but at least she was Alpha Creepy. There was something pathetic and extra-weird about her two groupies.

Jennifer kept pace with her. Claire stopped and turned to face her. They were halfway down the sidewalk, in the full glare of early-fall sunlight, which at least meant it wasn’t too likely some vampire would be sneaking up on her while Jennifer kept her distracted. ‘Look,’ Claire said, ‘I don’t want anything to do with you, or Monica, OK? I don’t want to be friends. I don’t want you sucking up to me just
because I’m…somebody, or something.’

Jennifer didn’t look like she wanted to be sucking up, either. In fact, she looked as bitter and resentful as a glossy, entitled rich girl could look – which was a lot. ‘Dream on, loser. I don’t care who your Patron is; you’re never going to be anything more than jumped-up trailer trash with delusions. Friends? I wouldn’t be friends with you if you were the last person breathing in this town.’

‘Unless Monica said so,’ Claire said spitefully. ‘Fine, you don’t want to exchange friendship rings. So why are you bothering me?’

Jennifer glared at her for a few seconds, stubborn and angry, and then looked away. ‘You’re smart, right? Like, freak smart?’

‘What does that have to do with anything?’

‘You placed out of the two classes we were in together. You must have aced the tests.’

Claire nearly laughed out loud. ‘You want
tutoring
?’

‘No, idiot. I want test answers. Look, I can’t bring home anything under a C; that’s the rule, or my Patron cuts off my college. And I
want
my full four years, even if I never do anything with it in this lame-ass town.’ A muscle fluttered in Jennifer’s jawline. ‘I don’t get this economics crap. It’s all maths, Adam Smith, blah blah blah. What am I ever going to use
it for, anyway?’

She was asking for help. Not in so many words, maybe, but that was what it was, and Claire was off balance for a few heartbeats. First Monica, now Jennifer? What next, a cookie bouquet from Oliver?

‘I can’t give you test answers,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t even if I could.’ Claire took in a deep breath. ‘Look, I’m going to regret this, but if you really want help, I’ll go over the notes with you.
Once
. And you pay me, too. Fifty dollars.’ Which was wildly out of line, but she didn’t really care if Jennifer said no.

Which Jennifer clearly thought about, hard, before giving her a single, abrupt nod.

‘Common Grounds,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow, two o’clock.’ Which was pretty much the safest time to be out and about, providing they didn’t stay too long. Claire wasn’t wild about visiting Oliver’s shop again, but she didn’t suppose there were too many places in town that Jennifer would agree to go. Besides, it wasn’t far from Claire’s house.

‘Two o’clock,’ Claire echoed, and wondered if they were supposed to shake hands or something. Not, obviously, because Jennifer flipped her hair and walked away, clearly glad to have it over with. She jumped into a black convertible and pulled away from the curb with a screech of tyres.

Leaving Claire to contemplate the afternoon
sunlight and the odds of walking home through a Morganville where Jason was still on the loose.

She took out her cell phone and called the town’s lone taxi driver, who told her he was off duty, and hung up on her.

So she called Travis Lowe.

Detective Lowe wasn’t really happy to be the Claire Taxi Service. She could tell because he wasn’t his usual self, not at all – he’d always been kind to her, and a little bit funny, but there wasn’t any of that in the way he pulled his blue Ford to the curb and snapped, ‘Get in.’ He was accelerating away even before she got strapped in. ‘You do know I’ve got a real job, right?’

‘Sorry, sir,’ she said. The
sir
was automatic, a habit she couldn’t seem to break no matter how hard she tried. ‘I just didn’t think I should be walking home, with Jason—’

‘Right thought, just wrong timing,’ he said, and his tone softened some. He looked tired and sallow, and there were dark bags under his eyes as though he hadn’t slept in days. He needed a shave and a shower. Probably the shower more than the shave. ‘How’s Shane?’

‘Better,’ she said. ‘The nurse told me he was going to be OK; it’s just going to take some time.’

‘Good news. Could’ve gone the other way. Why’d you try to walk home like that?’

She fidgeted a little in the seat. In contrast to the vampire cars, with their dark tinting, the glare inside Lowe’s car seemed way too bright. ‘Well, we tried getting a ride,’ she said. In retrospect, none of the explanations seemed all that good, really. She didn’t mention that she’d tried both Lowe’s phone and Joe Hess’s. No point in making him feel guilty. Guiltier. ‘We thought with the three of us together…’