Midnight Alley (20 page)

‘‘Break . . . fast,'' Monica said, drawing out the word. ‘‘Most important meal of the day? Do you even
have
parents?''

Claire felt ridiculously off balance. ‘‘I don't understand. Why are you here?''

Shane leaned against the wall, glaring at Monica. He had a serious bed-head thing going on, and Claire wanted to run her hands through his thick, soft hair and return it to its usual shaggy mess. ‘‘What a good question. The second best one being, who let her inside? And we're going to have to throw out that chair. The smell's never coming out.''

‘‘I let her in,'' Michael said quietly, and that got him a stare from Shane. ‘‘Lay off the daggers. It was better to let her in than have her pitch a fit on the porch with all the cops around. We've already got enough trouble.''

‘‘What's this
we,
paleface? I mean that in the vampire sense, not—''

‘‘Shut up, man.''

Claire rubbed her forehead, feeling her headache blooming back to hot, throbbing life. She ignored Michael and Shane with an effort and focused on Monica, who had a malicious smile curving her lips. ‘‘You're enjoying this,'' Claire said. Monica shrugged.

‘‘Of course. They're jackasses to me most of the time; it's nice to see them take it out on each other for a change. Not that I care.'' Monica arched one perfectly groomed eyebrow. ‘‘So? I know you like coffee. I've seen you drinking it.''

Eve stepped in between them, and for a second Claire thought her friend honestly looked . . . dangerous. ‘‘You're not taking Claire anywhere. And you're
sure
not taking her anywhere near that son of a bitch,'' she said.

‘‘Which son of a bitch would that be, exactly? Because hey, she lives
here.
It's not like she's choosy about who she hangs out with.''

Eve bunched up a fist, and for a second Claire thought she was going to haul off and slug Monica right in her perfect, pouty mouth. But Eve checked herself. Barely.

‘‘You
so
need to leave our house,'' Eve said. ‘‘Now. Before something bad happens that I won't really regret.''

Monica gave her a look. ‘‘I'm sorry, were you talking? Because I think I dropped off. Claire? I'm not here to banter with the mentally challenged. I'm just trying to be friendly. If you don't want to go, just say so.''

Claire felt ridiculously like laughing, it was so weird. Why was this happening to her?

‘‘What do you really want?'' she asked, and Monica's lovely, crazy eyes widened. Just a little.

‘‘I want to talk to you without the Losers Club hanging over my shoulder. I figured we could have breakfast, but if you're allergic to caffeine and pastry . . .''

‘‘Anything you can say to me, you can say in front of my friends,'' Claire said. That brought
both
of Monica's eyebrows up.

‘‘Oooookay. Your funeral,'' she said, and glanced at Shane. ‘‘So where was your boyfriend last night after midnight?''

‘‘Who?
Shane
?'' What time had she left his room, anyway? Late. But . . . not after midnight.

‘‘None of your damn business where I was,'' Shane said to Monica. ‘‘Eve told you to get out. The next step is I throw your skanky ass and see if you bounce when you hit the porch. I don't care whose pet you are; you don't come here and—''

‘‘Shane,'' Monica interrupted with elaborate calm, ‘‘shut the hell up. I saw you, idiot.''

Claire waited for Shane to give her a biting comeback, but he just sat there. Waiting. His eyes had gone very dark.

‘‘They don't know, do they?'' Monica continued, and tapped her rolled-up copy of
Teen People
against her hip. ‘‘Wow. Shocker. Bad boy keeps secrets. That
never
happens.''

‘‘Shut up, Monica.''

‘‘Or you'll
what
? Kill me?'' She smiled. ‘‘There wouldn't even be DNA left when they got done with you, Shane. And the rest of you, too.
And
your families.''

‘‘What's she talking about?'' Eve asked. ‘‘Shane?''

‘‘Nothing.''

‘‘
Nothing,
'' Monica mocked. ‘‘Deny everything. That's a brilliant plan. Then again, it's what I'd expect from someone like you.''

Michael was frowning at Shane now, and Claire couldn't resist, either. Shane's dark eyes darted to each of them in turn, Claire last.

‘‘The cops aren't going to find any bodies out there in the alley. And they're not going to find one anywhere else in your house,'' Monica said, ‘‘because Shane moved a body last night, out the back door.''

Shane
still
wasn't saying anything. Claire covered her mouth with her hand. ‘‘No,'' she said. ‘‘You're lying.''

Monica folded her arms. ‘‘Why exactly would I do that? Why would I admit to hanging around watching your house unless I had to? Embarrassing! Look, if I'm lying, all it takes is for him to deny it. Ask him. Go on.'' She was staring right at Shane.

Shane's eyes narrowed, but he didn't say anything. For a frozen second or two, nobody moved, and then Michael said, ‘‘
Christ,
Shane, what the hell?''

‘‘Shut up!'' Shane snapped. ‘‘I had to! I thought I heard something down in the basement last night, when I was getting some water in the kitchen. So I went to check it out. And—'' He stopped, and Claire saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, hard. ‘‘She was dead down there. At the bottom of the stairs, as if somebody had just . . . thrown her. For a second I thought it was''—he glanced at Eve, then away—‘‘I thought it was you. I thought you'd tripped and fallen down the stairs or something. But when I got down there, it wasn't you. And she was dead, not just knocked out.''

Eve sank down on the arm of the sofa, looking as stunned as Claire felt. ‘‘Who? Who was it?''

‘‘I didn't recognize her. Some college girl, I guess.

She didn't look local and she wasn't wearing a bracelet.'' Shane took in an audible deep breath. ‘‘Look, we've been in enough trouble as it is. I had to get rid of her. So I wrapped her up in one of the blankets out of the boxes down there and carried her out. I put her in the trunk of your car—''

‘‘You
what
?'' Michael snapped.

‘‘And I drove her to the church. I left her there, inside. I didn't want to just—dump her. I thought''— Shane shook his head—‘‘I thought it was the right thing to do.''

Monica sighed. She was checking out her fingernails with exaggerated boredom. ‘‘Yeah, yeah, touching. The point is, when I saw you, you were hauling a dead chick into the trunk of
his
car. And I just can't
wait
to tell my brother. You know my brother, right? The cop?''

Unbelievable. ‘‘What do you
want
?'' Claire practically yelled it at her.

‘‘I told you. Breakfast.'' Monica gave her a sunny movie-star smile. ‘‘Please. If you say yes, I just could forget all about what I saw. Especially since I was, you know, out after curfew, and I don't want to get asked about why. Think of it as mutually assured destruction.''

It sounded like a deal, but it wasn't, not really. Monica had all the cards, and they had none. None at all.

‘‘There's no body in the alley,'' Claire said. ‘‘The police aren't going to find anything. You're sure?''

‘‘Don't think so, but wouldn't that suck for you if they did?'' Monica shrugged, puckered her lips, and blew Shane a mocking kiss. ‘‘You've got guts, Shane. No brains, but a whole lot of guts. You thought it out, right? Now that Michael's one of the chosen undead, humans can't get in this house without an invitation. So you have to either blame it on a vampire, or face up to the fact that one of you killed her. Either way, it's not going to be pretty, and somebody's going down.'' She held up her hand. ‘‘I vote for Shane. Anybody else?''

‘‘Leave him alone!'' Claire said sharply. ‘‘You want to go out, fine. We'll go. No, don't you even start!'' Eve hadn't even had a chance to do more than open her mouth, and now she shut it, fast. ‘‘You guys work it out between the three of you. I won't be long. Believe me, I probably won't be able to keep anything down, whatever I manage to eat.''

Monica nodded, as if she'd known it would happen all along, and did a runway model's walk down the hall toward the front door. From the back, her shorts were barely legal.

And however much they hated her, Shane and Michael were watching her go.

‘‘Guys,'' Claire muttered, and grabbed her backpack.

 
Claire hadn't been inside Common Grounds in a while, but it hadn't changed. It was bohemian, warm, packed to the gills with college types grabbing their morning venti-whatever, and if Claire hadn't known better—known very well—she'd never have believed that the nice, smiling hippie type behind the counter was a vampire.

Oliver locked gazes with her and nodded slightly. His face stayed pleasant. ‘‘Nice to see you back,'' he said. ‘‘What'll it be?''

Much as she hated to admit it, he made the best drinks in town. Better than Eve, actually. ‘‘White mocha,'' she said. ‘‘With whip.'' She managed to hold back from adding anything more
,
because she didn't like being nice to him. God, he'd been licking blood off her wrist two hours ago! The least she could do was not say
please
and
thank you.

‘‘No charge,'' he said, and waved away the five dollar bill she dug out of her jeans pocket. ‘‘A welcome-back present, Claire. Ah, Monica. Your usual?''

‘‘Half-caf no foam double pump latte, with pink sugar,'' she said. ‘‘In a real cup, not that foam stuff.''

‘‘A simple yes would suffice,'' he said. As Monica started to turn away, he reached out and grabbed her wrist. He did it in such a way that nobody but Claire would notice, but it was unmistakably threatening. ‘‘She doesn't pay. You do, Monica. You may think of yourself as a princess, but trust me, I've met them, and you don't qualify.'' He grinned just a little, but there was no humor in his eyes. ‘‘Well, perhaps
met
isn't quite the right word.''

‘‘Eaten?'' Claire supplied acidly. His smile turned darker.

‘‘Oh, the charm and eloquence of the younger generation. It does warm my heart.'' Oliver let go of Monica's arm and stepped away to make the drinks. Monica backed away, looking flushed. She threw a dirty look at Claire—
Yeah, like it's my fault,
Claire thought—and stalked to the table in the corner. The one the deceased vampire Brandon had once staked out—pun intended—as his own. There were two young college girls sitting there, with books and papers piled up. Monica folded her arms and took up a belligerent pose.

‘‘You're in my chair,'' she said. ‘‘Move.''

The two girls—shorter and pudgier than Monica— stared up with saucer-huge eyes. One of them stammered, ‘‘Which one of us?''

‘‘Both,'' Monica snapped. ‘‘I like my space. Get out.''

They gathered up papers and books and hurried away, nearly dumping coffee all over Claire in their haste to go. ‘‘Did you have to do that?'' Claire asked.

‘‘No. It was just fun.'' Monica sat, crossed her smooth tanned legs, and patted the table. ‘‘Come on, Claire. Have a seat. We have so much to talk about.''

She didn't want to, but it was stupid to stand there, looking obvious. So she sat, dumped her backpack on the floor next to her feet, and concentrated on the scarred wood of the tabletop. She could see Monica's flip-flop living up to its name as the other girl casually jiggled her foot. Ridiculously, it reminded her of Myrnin.

‘‘That's better.'' Monica sounded way too pleased with herself. Not cool. ‘‘So. Tell me all about it.''

‘‘About what?''

‘‘Whatever Amelie's got you doing,'' Monica said. ‘‘Your supersecret stuff. I mean, she picked you for a reason, and it's not for your charm and good looks, right? Obviously. It's for your brains. You don't have any family here; you've got nothing anybody wants other than that.''

Monica was smarter than she looked. ‘‘Amelie's not asking me to do anything,'' Claire lied. ‘‘Maybe she will later, I don't know. But she hasn't yet.'' She nervously twisted the gold bracelet circling her left wrist. It was starting to remind her of those bands biologists put on endangered species.

And lab animals.

Monica's eyes were half-closed when Claire risked a glance upward. ‘‘Huh,'' she said. ‘‘Really. Well, that's disappointing. I really thought you'd have something good I could use. Oh well. Then let's talk about making a deal.''

‘‘A deal?'' First Jason, now Monica. How had Claire stepped into the role of negotiator?

‘‘I want to talk to Amelie about Protection. You can give me an introduction. And a recommendation.''

Claire nearly laughed. ‘‘Ask her yourself!''

‘‘I would, but she won't let me near her. She doesn't like me.''

‘‘I'm shocked,'' Claire muttered under her breath.

Monica gave her a long look, one strangely missing the usual hip, ironic, contemptuous features. It looked almost . . . earnest. ‘‘Since Brandon died, Oliver took over his contracts. The thing is, he's not keeping most of them. He's trading them for favors with other vampires. If I don't make a better deal, there's no telling what could happen to me.'' Monica pointed at Claire's bracelet. ‘‘Might as well start at the top.''