Feast of Fools (9 page)

She walked away. Shane and Claire stayed frozen where they were until she was out of sight, and then Claire rushed to him. When she put her hand on him, he flinched, just a little.

‘‘Don't touch me,'' he said. His voice was hoarse, and the vein in his throat was beating very, very fast. ‘‘I don't want—''

‘‘Shane—it's me, it's Claire—''

He reached out for her then, like a drowning man clutching a life raft, and his strength shocked her as he pulled her in. His head bent, and she felt the weight of it resting on her shoulder. The feverish, damp heat of his forehead against her neck.

She felt the shudder go through him, just one, just enough to tell her how horribly
wrong
he felt.

‘‘God,'' she whispered, and gently stroked his hair. It was wet underneath, matted with sweat. ‘‘What did she do to you?''

He shook his head without raising it from her shoulder. He couldn't, or wouldn't, say it. His chest rose and fell, taking in breaths that felt like gasps but were too deep for that, and after what seemed like a full minute, Shane's body began to relax, uncoiling from that awful tension.

When he pulled back, she expected to get a look at his expression, but he turned away so fast it was just a blur—wounded dark eyes in a stark, pale mask. He looked down at the chips he was holding, and dropped them on the floor as he walked away.

Claire quickly put them back on the shelf and followed. He kept going, right past the registers. She shelled out cash to the impatient cashier for the hamburger, grabbed the plastic bag, and hurried out into the lamplit darkness after her boyfriend.

He was already unlocking the car and getting in. She was still at least a dozen feet away when he started the car with a roar, and she saw the flare of brake lights as he shifted into gear.

For a heart-stopping second Claire thought he was going to peel out and drive away, leaving her there in the dark, but he waited. She opened the passenger door and got in. Shane didn't move.

‘‘Are you okay?'' she asked.

He didn't so much as
look
at her.

He put the car in gear and burned rubber on the way out of the lot.

4

Shane went straight to his room, and didn't come down again for the dinner that Eve made— spaghetti with meat sauce, light on the garlic for the sake of the vampire at the table. It was probably delicious, but Claire couldn't taste a thing. She couldn't keep her mind off the white, rigid set of Shane's face, and the panic and loathing in his eyes. She didn't understand what had happened, and she knew he didn't want to be asked. Not now.

‘‘Well?'' Eve twirled spaghetti around her fork as she stared at Claire. ‘‘How is it?''

‘‘Oh—fantastic,'' Claire said, with so much enthusiasm she knew nobody was fooled. She sighed. ‘‘I'm sorry. It's just—''

Eve pointed above their heads. ‘‘The dean of the drama department?''

Michael looked up at her, and for a second Claire saw the blue of his eyes flicker. ‘‘He's got his reasons,'' he said. ‘‘Let it go, Eve.''

‘‘Pardon me, but that boy can make a paper cut seem like a mortal wound. . . .''

‘‘I said let it go.'' Michael snapped it this time, and there was unmistakable command in his voice. Eve stopped twirling spaghetti. Stopped doing everything except watching him with narrowed, kohl-rimmed eyes.

‘‘Let's review,'' she said, and put the fork carefully down on a napkin. ‘‘
You
got all diva and decided you were too busy to go to the store. Next, Shane threw a tantrum and stomped up to his room to put on a one-man pity party. And now you're ordering me around like you own me. Are we under a testosterone storm warning?''

‘‘Eve.''

‘‘I'm not finished. You may think that growing a pair of fangs makes you the boss around here, but you'd better check your playlist. You're on the seriously wrong track.''

‘‘Eve.''
Michael leaned forward, and Claire caught her breath. His eyes were all wrong, his movements too fast, and she caught a flash of teeth that were too white, too sharp.

Eve pushed her chair back from the table, picked up her bowl, and walked into the kitchen without a backward glance.

Michael put his head in his hands. ‘‘Christ, what just happened?''

Claire swallowed. She tasted nothing but metal, as if she'd tried to chew the fork instead of the food. Her whole body felt cold, aching with the need to do . . . something.

She took Michael's bowl, stacking it with her own. ‘‘I'll clean up,'' she said.

Michael's hand closed around her wrist. She didn't dare look up at him. At close range, she didn't want to see the changes in his eyes, the ones Eve had seen so clearly.

‘‘I wouldn't hurt any of you. You believe me, right?''

She heard the sudden doubt in his voice.

‘‘Sure,'' she said. ‘‘It's just—Michael, I don't think you really know what you are yet. What's changing inside you. Eve thinks that showing you our weakness is a bad idea. I don't think she's wrong about that.''

Michael was watching her as if he'd never actually seen her before. As if she'd changed right before his eyes, from a child to an equal.

She swallowed hard. That was a powerful look, and it wasn't the vampire part of him—it was the Michael part. The part she admired, and loved.

‘‘No,'' he said softly. ‘‘I don't think she's wrong, either.'' He touched Claire's cheek gently. ‘‘What happened to Shane?''

‘‘You don't think it was just another pity party, like Eve?''

Michael had never looked so serious, she thought. ‘‘No,'' he said. ‘‘And I think he may need help. But I don't think he'd take it from me right now.''

‘‘I'm not sure he'll take it from me, either,'' Claire said.

Michael took the plates from her. ‘‘Don't underestimate yourself.''

Shane's room was dark, except for the dim glow that came in from the distant streetlights. Claire eased the door open and, in the stripe of warm hallway light, saw his foot and part of his leg. He was lying on the bed. She shut the door, took a slow, calm breath, and walked to sit down next to him.

He didn't move. As her eyes adjusted, she saw that his eyes were open. He was staring at the ceiling.

‘‘You want to talk about it?'' she asked. No answer. He blinked; that was all. ‘‘She got to you, didn't she? Somehow, she got to you.''

For a long few seconds, she thought he was just going to lie there and ignore her, but then he said, ‘‘They get inside your head, the really strong ones. They can make you—feel things. Want things you don't really want. Do things you'd never do. Most of them don't bother, but the ones that do—they're the worst.''

Claire reached out in the darkness, and his hand met hers midway—cool at first, then growing warm where their skin touched.

‘‘I don't want her, Claire,'' he said. ‘‘But she made me want her. You understand?''

‘‘It doesn't matter.''

‘‘It does. Because now that she's done it once, it's going to be easy for her to do it again.'' His fingers tightened on hers, hard enough to make her wince. ‘‘Don't try to stop her. Or me, if it comes to that. I have to handle this myself.''

‘‘Handle it how?''

‘‘Any way I can,'' Shane said. He shifted over on the bed. ‘‘You're shivering.''

Was she? She honestly hadn't realized, but the room felt cold, cold and full of despair. Shane was the only bright thing in it.

She stretched out facing him. Too close, she thought, for her dad's comfort, if he'd seen them, even though they were only holding hands.

Shane reached down on the other side of the bed, found a blanket, and threw it over both of them. It smelled like—well, like Shane, like his skin and hair, and Claire felt a rush of warmth go through her as she breathed it in. She moved closer to him under the covers, partly to get warm, and partly—partly because she needed to touch him.

He met her halfway, and their bodies pressed together with every curve and hollow. Their intertwined fingers curled in on one another. Even though they were close enough to kiss, they didn't—it was a kind of intimacy that Claire wasn't used to, being this close and just . . . being. Shane freed his hand from hers and brushed stray locks of hair back from her eyes. He traced her slightly parted lips.

‘‘You're beautiful,'' he said. ‘‘When I first saw you, I thought—I thought you were too young to be on your own here, in this town."

"Not now?"

‘‘You've made it through better than most of us. But if I could get you to leave this place, I would.'' Shane's smile was dim and crooked and a little broken, in the shadows. ‘‘I want you to live, Claire. I
need
you to live.''

Her fingers touched the warm fringe of his hair. ‘‘I'm not worried about me,'' she said.

‘‘You never are. That's my point.
I
worry about you. Not just because of the vampires—because of Jason. He's still out there somewhere. And—'' Shane paused for a second, as if he couldn't quite get the rest of it out. ‘‘And there's me, too. Your parents might be right. I might not be the best—''

She moved her fingers to put them over his mouth, over those soft, strong lips. ‘‘I won't ever stop trusting you, Shane. You can't make me.''

A shaky laugh out of the dark. ‘‘My point exactly.''

‘‘That's why I'm staying here,'' Claire said. ‘‘With you. Tonight.''

Shane took in a deep breath. ‘‘Clothes stay on.''

‘‘Mostly,'' she agreed.

‘‘You know, your parents really are right about me.''

Claire sighed. ‘‘No, they're not. Nobody knows you at all, I think. Not your dad, not even Michael. You're a deep, dark mystery, Shane.''

He kissed her for the first time since she'd entered the room, a warm press of lips to her forehead. ‘‘I'm an open book.''

She smiled. ‘‘I like books.''

‘‘Hey, we've got something in common.''

‘‘I'm taking off my shoes.''

‘‘Fine. Shoes off.''

‘‘And my pants.''

‘‘Don't push it, Claire.''

Claire woke up drowsy and utterly peaceful, and it took a slow second for her to realize that the heavenly warmth at her back was radiating from someone else, in the bed, with her.

From Shane.

She stopped breathing. Was he awake? No, she didn't think so; she could feel his slow, steady breaths. There was a delicious, forbidden delight to this, a moment that she knew she'd carry with her even when it was gone. Claire closed her eyes and tried to remember everything—like the way Shane's bare chest touched her back, warm and smooth where their skin connected. She'd negotiated for the removal of shirts, since she'd been wearing a sleeveless camisole underneath, and Shane had wavered enough to let it go. He'd insisted on keeping the pants, though.

She hadn't mentioned that she'd gotten rid of the bra, though she knew he'd noticed that right off.

Dangerous,
some part of her said.
You're going to take this too far. You're not ready—
Why not? Why wasn't she? Because she wasn't seventeen? What was so magic about a number, anyway? Who decided when she was ready except her?

Shane made a sound in his sleep—a deep, contented sigh that vibrated through her whole body.
I'll bet if I turn around and kiss him, I could convince him. . . .

Shane's hand was resting on the inward curve just above her hip, a warm loose weight, and that was how she knew when he woke up—his hand. It went from utterly limp to careful, tensing and relaxing but not moving from its spot.

She could feel each individual finger on her skin.

She stayed very still, keeping her breathing slow and steady. Shane's hand slowly, gently moved up her side, barely skimming, and then he moved away from her and sat up, facing away toward the window. Claire rolled toward him, holding the blanket at neck level.

‘‘Good morning,'' she said. Her voice sounded drowsy and slow, and she saw a slice of his face as he turned slightly toward her. Sunlight glimmered warm on his bare skin, like he'd been dusted in gold.

‘‘Good morning,'' he said, and shook his head. ‘‘Man. That was stupid.''

Not at all what
she
was thinking. Shane got up, and she gulped at the way his blue jeans rode low on his hips, the way his bones and muscles curved together and begged to be touched—

‘‘Bathroom,'' he blurted, and moved almost as fast as a vampire getting out of there. Claire sat up, waiting, but when he didn't come back, she slowly began to assemble her clothes again. Bra, clicked back into place. Camisole neat and demure, if wrinkled. She'd kept her jeans on. Her hair looked like she'd combed it with a blender—she was still messing with it when she heard Eve's trademark heavy shoes clopping down the hallway outside, passing Shane's door, going all the way to the end.

To Claire's own room.

Eve hammered on the door. ‘‘Claire?''

Claire slipped out of Shane's room quietly, trying not to look obvious about it, and made sure she was several steps into neutral territory before she said, ‘‘What is it?''

Eve, who'd opened up Claire's door and was looking inside, whirled so fast she almost overbalanced. She was ultra-Goth today—deep purple dress with skull patterns, black-and-white striped tights, a death's-head choker. Her hair was up in one scary-looking spiked ponytail, and her makeup was the usual rice paper and dead black, with the addition of dark cherry lipstick.