Daylighters (The Morganville Vampires #15)(39)
It didn’t make her a better person, though.
“I’m only going to say this once,” Shane said, “and I can’t believe I’m saying it at all, so never ever repeat it, but we need your help. Please.”
Monica blinked. That was obviously not what she’d expected—or, truthfully, what Claire had expected, either. Monica was an effortless button-pusher, and Shane was usually way too easy to manipulate . . . but not this time. “Excuse me?” she asked, and cocked her head to one side. “Are you actually pretending that we’re friends?”
“Monica, I am pretty sure you have no idea how to have a friend who isn’t an empty-souled suck-up, but you’re not a fool. You know you’ve built up way too much bad karma around here, and it’s all coming back on you. The vamps are out, humans are in, and you’ve acted like the Queen of All Bitches for half your life. You’d better start counting up your allies. I’m pretty sure you won’t get past your middle finger.”
That got a long, measured look—much more thoughtful and adult than anything Claire could say she’d ever seen in Monica before. Maybe even the eternally self-involved could sometimes grow up, at least enough to recognize their own danger. “I’m listening,” Monica said.
“Could we do this inside?” Claire asked. She’d caught a glimpse in the distance of a Morganville police cruiser, searchlights flaring.
Monica debated a full fifteen seconds before she stepped back and lowered the gun. “Yeah,” she said. “But don’t expect me to go all Southern belle on you and offer an iced tea and cookies. I am not your grandma. And don’t touch my stuff.”
Neither of them hesitated. They moved fast, and were inside and locking the door behind them before she got the last words out. The relief was immense, and Claire turned to put her back against the door.
“Wow,” Shane said. “This is—” He ran out of words. Claire fully understood why.
It was the girliest room Claire had ever seen. Pale carpet, pink satin couch, pale yellow armchair, also silk. Fairy lights strung around the light fixtures. A bookcase filled not with books but with pictures of Monica, in blinged-out pink frames. A giant custom Andy Warhol–style print, only Marilyn Monroe had been replaced with Monica’s face. There was a sharp, high-pitched volley of barking, and Claire looked down to see a tiny little teacup Chihuahua with a frilly pink collar and mean bulging eyes yapping at them from under the yellow chair.
“Channing, hush,” Monica said, and picked up the little thing. It shivered constantly, studying Shane and Claire with frenzied intensity. It stopped barking, but kept growling, in a pitch that wouldn’t have intimidated a butterfly. “This is Channing. Channing, this is Asshat and Nerd Girlfriend.”
“I think that’s my new band name,” Shane said. “Asshat and Nerd Girlfriend. It’s got a ring to it. Did you name your dog after Channing Tatum?”
“He has qualities,” Monica said, and put the Chihuahua down. It immediately attacked Shane’s shoelaces. He watched it with a puzzled frown, as if he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or . . . really laugh. It really was ridiculous. His shoe was bigger than the whole dog. “Sit. Don’t touch anything.”
Claire perched on the pink sofa; Shane evidently decided that the color might be catching, so he took the yellow armchair, which was marginally more manly, and tried to shake Channing off. That resulted in enthusiastic leg humping. Claire covered her mouth to stop a totally inappropriate burst of giggles, while Monica ignored the drama and poured herself a stiff drink from a bourbon bottle. She didn’t offer to share, not that Claire would have accepted. “So talk,” Monica said, and downed half the drink in one gulp. “Because I can totally still shoot you as home-invasion robbers. Nobody would doubt it, because you’re all jailbreakers and killers and all.”
“We need to get home,” Claire said. As surreal as this whole scene was, from the pastel apartment (was that a pink teapot on the stove?) to Channing having doggy hate-sex with Shane’s leg, the anxiety that had twisted up her guts was sinking deeper. The house needed them. Now. And they were wasting time. “The Daylighters want the Founder Houses destroyed. They’re trying to dismantle everything Amelie’s built, you know that. Myrnin always said the Founder Houses were the heart of Morganville. If they manage to destroy them . . .”
“We’ll have fewer ugly Victorian eyesores to deal with?” Monica asked, and drank the rest of her bourbon. “Okay, anything those idiots with a sunrise fetish want, I’m against, that’s obvious. Even if it means associating with . . . well.” She gestured at the two of them, somehow getting across distaste, disgust, and resignation all with one twist of her mouth. She poured out another generous slug of alcohol. “Everybody’s all warm and fuzzy about how evil is defeated and the sun’s out again, and it’s morning in America or whatever, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t believe these jerks give a crap about making anybody’s lives better. They just want people on their side. All this new construction and paint and architectural Botox . . . it’s just smoke. It’s the vamps they want. And it’s the vamps they’ve got.”
It was a surprisingly accurate observation, coming from Monica, and even Shane forgot about Channing for long enough to stare.