Bitter Blood (The Morganville Vampires #13)(43)
Shane stared at her for a long moment. He felt sorry for her; Claire could see it. He knew how it felt, to blame the vamps for the loss of people he loved. But above all, Shane was practical. “You can’t win,” he said. “Don’t do this. We’ve got a plan. Trust us.”
“You two?” Flora laughed. “Your girlfriend, she’s a vampire’s pet—the Founder’s pet. And you, you are too much in love to see it, and too much of a child. She’s with them, not you.” She dismissed them both with a flip of her hand. “Enough. Enrique. Vámanos.”
He sent Shane an apologetic look and lifted his hands in a what-can-you-do? kind of gesture. “She’s my mother,” he said. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Shane nodded back. “But you should talk her out of this. Seriously. It’s dangerous.”
“I know, man. I know.”
Enrique hurried to catch up. His mother was already half a block away.
Claire stood with Shane, staring at the poster promoting Captain Obvious, and Shane finally took Monica’s bigger, brighter poster and firmly stapled it right over the top.
“Let’s go,” he said. “I guarantee this isn’t over.”
SEVEN
CLAIRE
It wasn’t over, not by a long shot, but at least they were left alone to put up the rest of the posters; that didn’t mean people weren’t glaring at them, or saying mean things, but nobody actively tried to hurt them. Claire did wonder if Mrs. Ramos would be tearing down posters behind them—and if she’d approve of Oliver doing the same thing. Maybe they’d meet in the middle. That would be an interesting thing to witness.
By the time they’d stapled the last cardboard to a pole, in front of Morganville High (“Go Vipers!”), Claire was thoroughly worn out. This, she thought, had to be the worst day off ever…. They hadn’t even stopped for much of a lunch, though they’d wolfed down some cookies between stops and had a couple of Cokes. Morganville wasn’t a very big town, but they’d been down almost every street of it, and that was just about enough for one day in her opinion. She was going to voice it, but she didn’t have to, because Shane gave her a look that told her he was just as tired, and said, “Can we skip the lab and go home?”
“Home,” she said, and slipped her arm through his. The only weight now was the stapler dragging down her backpack (and the anti-vamp knife and extra stakes that she rarely left behind) but it still felt like a ton. Shane took it from her and slipped it on one shoulder, and she envied those muscles—and admired them, too. They felt so warm and firm beneath her fingers, and it made her a bit light-headed, never mind the exhaustion. “What do you think Monica’s doing right now?”
“Bullying someone to make her a crappy Web site and some buttons?”
Claire groaned, because he was almost certainly right. “We created a monster.”
“Well, no. But we’re enabling one.”
By common unspoken consent, they avoided the street Common Grounds was on, which put them on a different, less traveled avenue; it was one that held some bad memories, Claire realized, and wished they’d risked Oliver’s wrath one more time.
This was the street where Shane’s house had once stood. There was nothing in the spot now except a bare, weed-choked lot, a cracked foundation, and the crumbling remains of what would have once been a fireplace. Even the mailbox, which had been leaning before, had given up the ghost and fallen to pieces of random, rusted metal.
“We don’t—maybe we should—” She couldn’t think how to say it, or even if she should, but Shane just kept walking, eyes fixed on the pavement ahead.
“It’s okay,” he said. She might have even believed him, a little, except for the slight hunch to his shoulders, and the way he’d lowered his head to let his shaggy hair veil his expression. “It’s just an empty lot.”
It wasn’t. It was full—full of grief and anger, anguish and terror. She could almost feel it like needles on her skin, an irresistible urge to slow down, to stop, to look. She wondered if Shane felt it, too. Maybe he did. He wasn’t walking quite as quickly as they approached the silent empty spot, which was choked with trash, scattered fire-blackened bricks, and the snarled balls of tumbleweeds.
It was the spot where Shane’s family home had once stood, before it had burned down, taking his sister away with it.
Just as they took their first steps in front of it, Shane stopped. Just…stopped, not moving at all, head still down, hands in his pockets. He slowly looked up, right into Claire’s startled eyes, and said, “Did you hear that?”
She shook her head, confused. All she heard was the normal, constant background noise of daily life—TV sets whispering from distant houses, radios in passing cars, the rattle of blown tumbleweeds against chain-link fences.
And then she heard something that sounded like a very soft, but clear, whisper. She couldn’t have said what it meant, couldn’t make out the word, but it didn’t sound like distant conversation, or TV dialogue, or anything like that. It sounded very…specific. And very close.
“Maybe…a cat?” she guessed. It could have been a cat. But she didn’t see anything as she glanced over the ruins of Shane’s childhood. The only things still recognizable about it having been a home was the foundation—cracked in places, but still there where it wasn’t hidden by weeds—and the jumbled outline of what must have once been a brick fireplace.