Shane looked up at that, at Oliver.
Who hesitated for a moment, and then said, "I hope you never have to know the answer to that, Claire. Don't go out tonight. Wait until tomorrow to leave this house. I have some . . . persuading to do."
Then he left, quietly. She heard the door unlock and Oliver called back, "Lock it behind me." Then he was gone.
Claire screamed out her frustration, dashed down the hall, and slammed the locks home with so much force she bruised her hand. Then she banged her fists on the wood, and kicked it for good measure.
Shane had followed her, and he put his hands on her shoulders. She turned toward him, staring up into his face. God, that bruise looked really bad. He'd almost died.
No, he'd almost been killed. By Myrnin, of all people. How screwed up was that?
"Relax," he whispered. He moved his hands up to cup her face in warmth. "Just relax. The door didn't piss you off."
"Says the guy who punches walls."
"Yeah, well, the walls had it coming."
She had to laugh, but it came out as more of a cross between a bark and a sob. "God, what is going on out there? What are they not telling us?"
"Don't know," Shane said. "But for once, I vote we don't ask, because it's way out of our pay grade." He kissed her forehead, then moved down to kiss her lips. "God, you taste good."
"This is what you're thinking about? After that?"
"When I get nervous, I focus on the positive. Like you." He took her hand and led her back toward the living room, where he had her sit down on the couch as he retrieved two glasses of iced tea (Eve had taken to making it, for some reason), and put a movie into the player. She was too tense to relax, but Shane clearly wasn't; he stretched out on the sofa, and after a few moments of feeling foolish, Claire finally settled down next to him, with his warm, heavy arm around her waist, pulling her close against him.
She had no idea what the movie was, and in a matter of moments, she really didn't care, either. Shane's hot kisses on the back of her neck ensured that. So did the sneaky, wonderful moves he made with his hands.
Within an hour, they were asleep together, curled up under an afghan, while the movie played on without them.
When they woke up, it was to the sound of plates clattering in the kitchen, and the smell of pizza. Claire was the first to stir, and her yawning and stretching made Shane mumble something that sounded happy, and burrow in closer to her, but she smiled and slipped out from under his arms.
Shane cracked his eyelids open just a slit and said, "No fair, you're leaving."
"Well, there's pizza," Claire said. "Get up or I won't save you any."
Pizza was almost as magical a lure as tacos, apparently, because he was on his feet in thirty seconds, shaking his head to flop his hair back into its usual I-don't-care style.
Oh God, his neck looked horrible. No way of disguising that. Claire stepped close to him and whispered, "We can't tell them. You remember, right? Oliver said - "
"Right, 'cause I'm so good at taking orders from walking fangs," Shane whispered back. Even his whisper sounded raw and painful.
"Shane, you can't!"
"Fine. I won't. You explain it."
That was the best he was willing to offer, so Claire pushed through the kitchen door, still casting him doubtful looks, and found Michael and Eve standing at the counters, filling plates with pizza from a box. There were two larges, and Shane made straight for the one with everything. He grabbed a slice and started eating it standing up.
Eve rolled her eyes and slid a plate down the countertop. "Honestly, were you raised in a pony pen or something? Plates! Learn them; love them. . . ." Her voice trailed off, and her expression turned shocked. "What the hell happened to you, Shane?"
Michael looked up from preparing his own plate and saw it, too. His blue eyes widened. "Damn," he said. "You okay?"
Shane gave him a silent thumbs-up.
"Shane! What happened?"
He pointed at his throat and looked pitiful. Oh, of course. He was seriously dumping this whole thing on her, Claire realized. She had no choice but to step in. "He can't talk," she said. "Well, he can, but it hurts." All true. "He got in a fight." Also true, although it hadn't been so much fight as attack. "The good news is he won."
"Dude, someone tried to choke you. That goes a little further than most fights," Michael said. He sounded genuinely concerned. "Was it about the flyers?"
It was a perfectly good explanation, but Claire couldn't help but flinch from using it. For one thing, Michael and Eve already felt bad enough about the tension in town. "I don't think so," she said. "It was . . . personal."
"You know, you really need to stop trying to make new friends, Shane. You're not good at it. And aren't we enough for you?" Eve batted her thick eyelashes at him and smiled, but Claire could tell she was still alarmed, and worried. "Here. Have a Coke. That's good for a sore throat, right?"
"Good for everything," Shane croaked, and took the extended cold can with good grace. "Thanks."
"You owe me a dollar," Eve said. "I'll add it to the five thousand you already owe me, though."
He blew her a kiss, and she stuck her tongue out at him, and that was the end of the subject, thankfully.
They sat at the table together, eating; Michael and Eve did most of the talking. Shane, of course, stayed quiet from necessity; Claire just couldn't think what to say, because today's events had crowded out all her small-talk skills, and she was afraid of saying anything for fear of blurting the wrong thing. Oliver had made it clear enough what the penalties for that would be. Oh God, we already told Eve that Myrnin was freaking out, Claire remembered - they'd said it at the coffee shop, but at least they hadn't spilled anything more than that. If the breaking news was that Myrnin was acting weird, well, nobody was going to interrupt regularly scheduled programming. Hopefully.
"Earth to Claire!" Eve was snapping her fingers in front of Claire's face. She blinked, jerked back, and hastily took a bite of cooling pizza. "Wow. See what happens when you take a nap in the middle of the afternoon? Brain cells hibernate."
"Sorry. What were you saying?"
"I was asking if you planned to be around tomorrow. I may need help picking up the cake and flowers and stuff."
"I - " Claire's brain went completely blank for a second. There might have been something to Eve's brain-cell-hibernation theory. "I have to make up a test tomorrow morning," she finally remembered. "And I really ought to check in at the lab sometime."
"So that would be a no, then," Eve said, and turned to Michael.
"Teaching guitar lessons," he said. "If you need me to cancel - "
"No. Because I know Slacker Boy here has nothing planned. Right, Shane?"
He mimed chopping things. Eve shook her head. "Oh, no, you don't. I checked the schedule. You're not working until Monday. Don't even try."
He took a too-big bite of pizza for a reply. Michael patted him on the shoulder. "I like this plan," he said. "You and Eve, picking up cake and flowers, and you can't even say a word. Should be tons of fun."
Shane almost choked, and gave Michael a sideways glare. Michael sent him a hundred-watt smile in return - no fangs, which was probably for the best.
All in all, it wasn't a bad evening, especially when they all curled up on the sofa together for bad-movie night. It wasn't quite the same without Shane's snarky commentary, but just relaxing against him, his arm around her, made Claire feel that all might just be right with the world after all.
No, it's not, some traitorous, cold part of her brain insisted. Nothing's right. You're in danger.
If Amelie was freaked enough to try to kill Shane, even if it was some kind of terrible mistake, Claire's instincts were almost certainly correct.
Chapter Six
CLAIRE
Friday morning dawned clear, all rain clouds gone; the air was crisp, dry, and icy cold, and the wind - which never really stopped out here - whipped up random gusts of blown sand as Claire, wrapped in a thick jacket, scarf, hat, and gloves, picked up her coffee from Common Grounds. Eve hated the early-morning shift, so this morning it was a girl named Christy; she was a bouncy little blonde who had probably been a Morganville High cheerleader last year, two years ago at the most. Common Grounds was doing brisk business serving up coffee delicacies to people heading off to work and students making their way to early classes. Claire had trouble finding a table, but finally spotted one crammed in close to the wall just as the previous occupant vacated it.