Bitter Blood (The Morganville Vampires #13)(97)
“God, it’s like high school all over again!” Eve said, and shoved the boy away from the hearse. “Get your hands off my car, Aaron!”
“How about you get your hands off me, fang-banger?” he sneered, and shoved her back to slam hard against the scratched paint. “What goes around comes around.”
“You know, you weren’t the brightest crayon in the box even before you flunked out of school, but those were your glory days, weren’t they? You really want to get into it with me, dumbass? Biggest mistake of your life!” Eve, color managing to burn bright in her cheeks even through the Goth makeup, was furious, her body tight and shaking, her fists clenched.
“You think you’ve got some kind of magic shield, what with your hot vampire boyfriend?” one of the girls said from the curb. “You don’t.”
“Not boyfriend. Husband,” another one said, and made a retching sound. “God, don’t you have any self-respect? Marrying him? That’s just gross. It’s like a cow marrying a butcher. They ought to throw you both in jail for being sickening.”
Aaron laughed. “Oh, sure, you’d say that, Melanie. You dated the guy in junior high.”
“Sure, before he turned into one of them!”
“My dad says you’re a traitor,” said another boy, and he had a very different tone—quiet, sure, dangerous. “My uncle Jake disappeared the other night. Just another casualty in a town full of them, right? And you helped. You helped put the vamps right back on top where they’ve always been. Just like all the Founder House families. You’re nothing but whores giving it up to the vamps for money.”
Eve lunged at him. Claire darted around the end of the limo with a sinking conviction that she’d never be fast enough to stop her, and she was right: Eve landed a solid slap right across his face. “Don’t you ever, Roy Farmer!” Eve shouted at him. “Don’t you—”
He hit her back, clocking her, hard, right on the point of her jaw, and before Claire could even draw a breath. It was as if some invisible signal had gone out to all the other kids—her age or just a couple of years older—to attack.
“No!” Claire screamed as Eve was grabbed, dragged forward, and thrown to the ground. It all happened so fast, and in such chaos, that she didn’t know where to aim a shove or a punch to get to her friend’s rescue. Everyone was moving all at once, and Eve was in the middle of it, and it was all just insane.
It seemed as if it went on forever until Claire grabbed hold of one girl by the hair and yanked. The girl, foot raised to deliver a furious kick, lost her balance and fell backward, and Claire dragged her a few feet away as she screamed and twisted and clawed. Whatever the girl was screaming, it involved a lot of curse words, and Claire wasn’t paying attention. She shoved the girl into a thorny shrub and lunged back toward the circle of attackers. Stopping one hadn’t put an end to the beating. The weapons she had were for vampires, not humans, and she couldn’t use them on people who couldn’t heal…though if this went on any longer, she might have to inflict real and lasting damage to save Eve’s life.
Deep breath. She let herself take a second’s pause, and identified the ringleader, the one Eve had slapped; he was the one laying into her with real viciousness. Claire quickly stepped up behind him, tried to channel Shane as hard as she could, and did two moves he had taught her: first, a hard, fast punch to the kidneys; second, putting the toe of her shoe in the bend of his knee as he twisted in her direction.
It worked. He broke off the attack and fell to his knees; then he got up, staggering, and turned on her. The others were still going after Eve, but as he came after Claire, they began to break off and follow.
She danced backward, screamed for help (probably uselessly), and tore off, running.
They followed.
Everybody in Morganville was pretty good at running, of course, but Claire had motivation; she slowed down just enough to make them believe they could catch her, and still stayed out of easy grabbing range. The ringleader of the group—what was his name? Roy something?—Roy was fast, and she had to work to stay just a few inches past his lunges. If he caught up with her, she had no doubt he’d take out his rage on her just as he had with Eve.
Let her be okay. Please, let her be okay!
Her legs were starting to burn; Claire could run a fair distance, but adrenaline and fear were taking their toll, and she knew that the kids baying like hounds behind her weren’t going to get tired as fast—they had mob mentality to urge them on. There was another intersection ahead, but she didn’t see anyone on the street. No, wait—there was a car, cruising up to the stoplight.
A red, flirty sports car with an open roof.
Monica Morrell’s car.
Monica had a scarf looped over her head to prevent the dry wind from blowing her glossy dark hair all over the place, and she was wearing big rock-star sunglasses; when she turned toward the noise of Claire’s pursuit, it was impossible to read her expression.
Claire took a chance. Jumping over the door of the car and into the passenger seat, she narrowly missed flattening Monica’s expensive designer purse.
Monica stared at her for a second in silence, then looked past her as Roy Farmer skidded to a stop a foot away from the car, breathing hard and crimson with fury.
“What?” Monica demanded. “Touch my car and die, Roy Toy.” And then, without turning her head to even look at the light, or oncoming traffic, she gunned the convertible straight through the intersection with a burning squeal of rubber. The mob—well, it wasn’t actually a mob, Claire realized, so much as six teens fired up with rage—fell behind fast, even though they took a couple of steps in pursuit. Monica watched in the rearview for a couple of seconds, speeding up to a limit-breaking sixty miles per hour and blasting through two more stop signs without slowing down, then said, “Any particular reason for that? Not that I care, except somehow trash blew into my passenger seat.”