Bitter Blood (The Morganville Vampires #13)(8)

“It’s not what you think,” he said, which was exactly the wrong thing to say, because it made Claire (and almost certainly Eve) think about every guy ever caught cheating. Luckily, he didn’t stop there. “Eve, all vampires get the hunting privilege; it’s just part of living in Morganville—it’s always been the rule, even when nobody in the human community knew. Look, I don’t want it. I opposed the whole idea at the meetings—”

“Which you didn’t tell us about at all, jerk,” Eve broke in. “We’re community!”

Michael took a deep breath and continued. “I told Amelie and Oliver I wouldn’t ever use it, but they didn’t care.”

“Doesn’t matter. You have a free pass for murder.”

“No,” he said, and took her hands in his, a gesture so quick she couldn’t avoid it, but gentle enough that she could have pulled away if she’d wanted. “No, Eve. You know me better than that. I’m trying to change it.”

Her eyes filled with tears, suddenly, and she collapsed against his chest. Michael put his arms around her and held her tightly, his head resting against hers. He was whispering. Claire couldn’t hear what he was saying, but it really wasn’t any of her business.

She took the glass of milk Eve had poured for herself, seeing as how it was sitting there unwanted, and drank it. He still should have told us, she thought, and slit her envelope open with a steak knife to take out her own letter and ID card. It felt weird, seeing her information on there. Even though the vampires had always known what her blood type was, where she lived…it felt different, somehow.

Official.

As if she were some kind of commodity. Worse: with the chip in it, it meant she couldn’t hide, couldn’t run. She now, as Eve had said, had papers, just as they demanded in those old black-and-white war movies; she had to carry the card or get arrested (today’s encounter had proven that), and it meant that they could round her up whenever they wanted…for questioning. Or for sticking her in some kind of prison camp.

Or worse.

One thing was certain: Shane Collins was not going to like this at all…and just as she thought about that, Shane banged in the swinging door of the kitchen, headed straight for the refrigerator, and snagged himself a cold soft drink, which he popped open and chugged three swallows of before he stopped, looked at Eve and Michael, and said, “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you guys are fighting again. Seriously, isn’t there supposed to be a honeymoon period or something?”

“We’re not fighting,” Michael said. There was something in his voice that warned this was a bad time for Shane to get snarky. “We’re making up. We’ll be upstairs.”

Shane actually opened his mouth to say something else, but he suddenly shivered and took a step back. “Hey!” he said, and looked up at the ceiling. “Stop it, Miranda! Brat.”

Miranda was…well, the Glass House teen ghost. A real, official one. She’d died here, in the house—sacrificed herself, in the battle with the draug—and now she was part of it, but invisible during the day.

She could still make herself felt, when she wanted to; the cold spot she’d just formed around Shane was proof of how she felt about his impulse to harass Michael and Eve just now. Miranda couldn’t be heard or seen during the daytime, but she could sure make her displeasure known.

And they’d probably hear about it tonight, in detail, when she materialized.

Claire sighed as Michael led Eve out of the room with an arm around her shoulders. “Here,” she said, and passed Shane the envelope with his name on it. “You should sit down. You’re really not going to like this.”


Sitting Shane down to discuss things didn’t help, because all it accomplished was an overturned chair, and Shane stalking the kitchen in dangerously black silence. He tried to throw his ID card in the trash, but Claire quietly retrieved it and put it back on the table, along with hers. Eve’s still sat abandoned on the counter.

“You’re going along with this?” he finally asked. She’d been watching him as he paced; there was a lot to learn about her boyfriend when he wasn’t saying anything, just from the tenseness of his muscles, and the way he held himself. How he looked right now was telling her that he was on the verge of punching something—preferably something with a set of fangs. Shane had gotten better about controlling his impulses to fight, but they never really went away. They couldn’t, she supposed. Now he stopped, put his back to the wall, and used both hands to push his shaggy, longish hair back from his face. His eyes were wide and dark and full of challenge as he looked at her.

“No,” she said. She felt steady, almost calm, really. “I’m not going along with it. None of us is—we can’t. Are you coming with me to talk to Amelie about it?”

“Hell yes, I’m coming with you. Did you think I’d let you go alone?”

“Do you promise to keep your cool?”

“I promise I won’t go starting any fights. But I’m taking a little insurance, and you’re carrying, too. No arguments. I know you don’t think Amelie’s exactly on our side anymore, so trusting her’s off the table.” He pushed off the wall and opened the cabinets under the sink; under there were several black canvas bags of equipment, all of it damaging to vampires in some way.