"Sure," she said. She managed not to wince as his cold fingers palpated her arm to feel for veins, and she focused on his face. Oliver always seemed to be older than many of the other vamps, though she couldn't quite pin down why: his hair, maybe, which was threaded with gray streaks and tied back in a hippie-style ponytail just now. There weren't many lines on his face, really, but she always just pegged him as middle-aged, and when she really stared, she couldn't say why he gave her that impression.
Mostly he just seemed more cynical than the others.
He was wearing a black tee under a gray sweater today, and blue jeans, very relaxed; it wasn't too different from what Shane was wearing, actually, except Shane managed to make his look edgy and fashionable.
The needle slid in with a short, hot burst, and then the pain subsided to a thin ache as Oliver taped it down and attached the tubing. He released the tourniquet and clamps, and Claire watched the dark red line of blood race down the plastic and out of sight, into a collection bag below. "Good," he said. "You have excellent flow."
"I'm . . . not sure how I feel about that, actually."
He shrugged. "It's got fine color and pressure, and the scent is quite crisp. Very nice."
Claire felt even less good once he'd said that; he described it like a wine enthusiast talking about his favorite vintage. In fact, she felt just faintly sick, and rested her head against the soft cushions while she stared at a cheerful poster tacked up on the back of the door.
Oliver moved on from her to Shane, and once she'd taken a couple of deep, calming breaths, she stopped studying the kitten picture and looked over at her boyfriend. He was tense, but trying not to seem it; she could read that in the slightly pale, set face and the way his shoulders had tightened, emphasizing the muscles under his sweater. He rolled up his sleeve without a word, and Oliver - likewise silent - put the tourniquet in place and handed him another ball to squeeze. Unlike Claire, who was barely able to dent the thing, Shane almost flattened it when he pressed. His veins were visible to her even across the room, and Oliver barely skimmed fingertips over them, not meeting Shane's eyes at all, then slipped the needle in so quickly and smoothly that Claire almost missed it. "Two pints," he told Shane. "You'll still be behind on your schedule, but I suppose we shouldn't drain you much more at once."
"You sound disappointed." Shane's voice came out faint and thready, and he put his head back against the cushions as he squeezed his eyes shut. "Damn, I hate this. I really do."
"I know," Oliver said. "Your blood reeks of it."
"If you keep that up, I'm going to punch you." Shane said it softly, but he meant it. There was a muscle as tight as a steel cable in his jaw, and his hand pumped the rubber ball in convulsive squeezes. Oliver released the tourniquet and clamps, and Shane's blood moved down the tube.
"Can I specify a user for my donation?" Claire asked. That drew Oliver's attention, and even Shane cracked an eyelid to glance at her. "Since mine's voluntary anyway."
"Yes, I suppose," Oliver said, and took out a black marker. "Name?"
"The hospital," she said. "For emergencies."
He gave her a long, measured stare, and then shrugged and put a simple cross symbol on the bag - already a quarter full - before returning it to the holder beside her chair.
Shane opened his mouth, but Oliver said, "Don't even consider saying it. Yours is already spoken for."
Shane responded to that with a gagging sound.
"Precisely why it's not earmarked for my account," Oliver said. "I do have standards. Now, if either of you feel any nausea or weakness, press the button. Otherwise, I'll be back in a few minutes."
He rose and walked toward the door, but hesitated with his hand on the knob. He turned back to them and said, "I received the invitation."
For a moment, Claire didn't know what he was talking about, but then she said, "Oh. The party."
"The engagement party," he said. "You should speak with your friends about the . . . political situation."
"I - What? What are you talking about?"
Oliver's eyes held hers, and she was wary of some kind of vamp compulsion, but he didn't seem to be trying at all. "I've already tried to warn Michael," he said. "This is unwise. Very unwise. The vampire community in Morganville is already . . . restless; they feel humans have been given too much freedom, too much license, in their activities of late. There was always a clearly drawn relationship of - "
"Serial killers and victims," Shane put in.
"Protector and those Protected," Oliver said, flashing a scowl at her boyfriend. "One that is of necessity free of too much emotional complication. It's an obligation that vampires can understand. This - connection between Michael and your human friend Eve is . . . raw and messy. Now that they threaten to sanction it with legal status . . . there is resistance. On both sides, from vampires and humans alike."
"Wait," Shane said. "Are you seriously telling us that people don't want them to get married?"
"There is a certain sense that it is not appropriate, or wise, to allow vampire-human intermarriage."
"That's racist!"
"It has nothing to do with race," Oliver said. "It has everything to do with species. Vampires and humans have a set relationship, and from the vampire standpoint, it's one of predator and prey."
"I still think you mean parasite and host."
Oliver's temper flared, which was dangerous; his face changed, literally shifted, as if the monster underneath was trying to get out. Then it faded, but it left a feeling in the room, a tingling shock that made even Shane shut up, at least for now. "Some don't want Michael and Eve to marry," he said. "You may take it from me that even those who are indifferent believe that it will go badly for all involved. It's unwise. I've told him this, and I've tried to tell her. Now I'm telling you to stop them."
"We can't!" Claire said, appalled. "They love each other!"
"That has exactly nothing to do with what I am saying," the vampire told her, and opened the door to the room. "I care nothing about their feelings. I am talking about the reality of the situation. A marriage is politically disastrous, and will ignite issues that are best left smoldering. Tell them that. Tell them it will be stopped, one way or another. Best if they stop it themselves."
"But - "
The door shut on whatever she was going to say, and anyway, Claire wasn't sure she really had any idea. She looked over at Shane, who seemed just as speechless as she was.
But he was, of course, the first to recover his voice. "Well," he said, "I told him so."
"Shane!"
"Look, vampires and humans together have never been a good idea. It's like cats and mice hooking up. Always ends badly for the mouse."
"It's not vampires and humans. It's Eve and Michael."
"Which is different how, exactly?"
"It - just is!"
Shane sighed and put his head back against the cushions. "Fine," he said. "But no way am I breaking Eve's heart. You get to tell her the wedding's off, courtesy of the vampire almost-boss. Just let me know so I can put my headphones on the going-deaf setting to drown out the screaming and wailing."
"You are such a coward."
"I am bleeding into a bag," he pointed out. "I think I've achieved some kind of anticoward merit badge."
She threw her red rubber ball at him.
Not that Claire hadn't secretly seen all this coming.
She hadn't wanted to believe it. She'd been involved in all the party preparations - Eve had insisted. Between the two of them, they'd planned absolutely everything, from the napkins (black) on the tablecloths (silver) to the paper color on the invitations (black, again, with silver ink). It had been fun, of course, sitting there having girl time, picking out flowers and food and party favors, setting up playlists for the music, and best of all picking out clothes.
It had been only this week, as everything got . . . well, real . . . that Claire had begun feeling that maybe it wasn't all just fairy tales and ice cream. Walking with Eve downtown had turned into a whole new experience, a shocking one; Claire was used to being ignored, or (more recently) being looked at with some weird wariness - wearing the Founder of Morganville's pin in her collar had earned her an entirely unwanted (possibly undeserved) reputation as a badass.