“Won’t do any good,” Michael said. “He’s not listening to anything I have to say. Or you, for that matter. Come on, Claire. We should go.”
“No! I’m not leaving him here like this, thinking that I’m—”
Shane lunged forward, grabbed her by the shoulders, and put his face very close to hers. Close enough to kiss, but that didn’t seem to be on his mind at all. It was Shane, but…not. Not the Shane she’d always known. Even when he’d lost his memory, there’d been this core of gentleness, of control…and now that was gone.
It was like part of him had died. The best part.
“Let me make it real clear,” he said. “I don’t date fang-bangers. If it’s not him, then it’s that crazy-ass, bloodsucking boss of yours. So, go on. Do what you know you want to do. None of my business anymore. We’re done.”
And he pushed her away, hard. She banged against a steel post, which knocked the breath out of her and brought tears to her eyes from the instant, white-hot pain of bone ringing on metal.
Through the tears, she saw Michael grab Shane’s arm and yank him away from her, unbelievably fast and strong. But Shane had strength and quickness of his own, more than he should have, more than she’d ever seen any human have, and he swung around inside Michael’s defenses and slammed a fist into his stomach, then his chin, snapping Michael’s head back. Then again and again and again, so fast it was a blur.
And Michael went down flat on his back. He rolled over, blinking, and got back to his feet, but his mouth was bleeding, and Eve was yelling and trying to get between him and Shane, and it was all just insane how this was happening. How could it possibly be—
Claire caught sight of a figure standing at a metal railing upstairs, looking down at them. A petite woman, masses of honey-colored wavy hair, a sweet face.
Gloriana. The vampire.
She was smiling—not an evil smile, which Claire could have understood, but a smile of childlike delight. A smile that should have been reserved for puppies and rainbows and true love.
Not for seeing Shane kick Michael in the side with enough force to shatter bone.
The onlookers watched with a kind of strange, hungry approval, and nobody moved in to stop it until a tattooed, muscled guy—Rad, from the car and motorcycle shops—grabbed Shane from behind, winding his arms through and locking his fingers together behind Shane’s neck in a unbreakable restraining hold. He kicked the joints of Shane’s legs and got him down on his knees.
Eve was down next to Michael, helping him sit up, wiping the slightly too-pale blood from his face with a lacy black handkerchief. “My God,” she was saying numbly. “My God, my God…Oh, sweetie…”
Shane was trying to throw off Rad’s hold, but his buddies were moving in now. As if he realized it was useless to try to break Rad’s hold on him, Shane went still.
Eve must have decided Michael was okay, because she looked at Claire and asked her if she was hurt, at increasingly worried volumes. Claire shook off her daze and said, “No, I’m fine. Michael?”
He didn’t answer. He was sitting up and all his attention was on Shane. Just Shane. “Let him go, Rad,” he said.
“Dude,” Rad said. “Don’t think that’s too good an idea. He ain’t givin’ up. He’s just waiting. I can feel it.”
“I said let him go.”
“Your funeral.” Rad released Shane, who turned and shoved him back. Rad held up his hands, signaling surrender.
And Shane turned back toward Michael, who wasn’t showing anything like that. In fact, he was on his feet again, moving Eve—gently—and facing Shane squarely.
“This isn’t you, man. What is causing this?” Michael asked.
“It’s her,” Claire said, and looked up at the railing above them. “She’s screwing with him.”
Only Gloriana was gone. No sign she’d ever been there. Claire looked around, but there were no vampires in view. Not one.
Just Michael.
Shane turned a scorching look on her. “Her who?”
“Gloriana,” Claire said. “She’s doing this to you.”
He laughed. “I don’t do vamps. You ought to remember that.”
“It’s a glamour.”
“No, it’s not,” Michael said, very quietly. “Not exactly. Or not completely. Right, Shane? This is something else.”
“Yeah,” Shane said. “It’s something else. Because there’s a lot of us who are sick as hell of getting our asses kicked by vampires, sick of being your cheap wine bottles with legs, sick of letting you rule this town like lords. It’s not going to happen anymore. Right, guys?”
The gym guys—and girl, too—had gathered around in a circle, and the rest had the same predatory glitter in their eyes, the same barely under-the-surface violence. Rad seemed to be the only muscled-up dude who was in the wrong place and had the wrong motives, and he was looking around now, frowning uneasily.
“Look, maybe you should go,” he said to Michael, and then glanced at Eve and Claire. “All of you. Work this out later.”
Her impulse was to say that she was staying, that no power on earth could make her leave Shane when he was like this, but if she did that, she knew that Michael and Eve would stick it out, too. And that would be bad. Shane seemed especially angry about Michael being here—and, from the look he gave her now, Eve, too.
A big, overmuscled guy dressed in microfiber sweats and gold chains, like some cheesy reality-show reject, gave Eve a really nasty grin. It was mostly a snarl. “You always ran around town, dressing like a wannabe bloodsucker, and now you’re banging one,” he said. Well, he didn’t actually say banging, but Claire’s brain refused to completely translate it. It was too shocking when it was said with that much venom. “I hate fang-bangers worse than the vamps. At least the vamps are just doing what comes natural. Your kind, you’re perverts.”
Eve flinched a little, but then she lifted her chin. “Really? Considering what I hear from the girls you date, Sandro, maybe you ought to think twice about throwing that word around. ’Cause I had to look up half the things you wanted them to do on Urban Dictionary, and it was disgusting.”
She was wearing the choker again, having tied it back on before they’d left the house, but now Sandro—like Shane had before—reached out and yanked on it. He didn’t manage to pull it off, but he pulled it down far enough that Eve’s fang marks were clearly visible. “Look at that. Walking blood bank. I heard you’re a walking ATM, too. That stands for Any Time Michael wants it—”
Michael stepped in front of Eve, facing Sandro, and said, “You want to say it to me?”
Sandro laughed. “You didn’t learn your lesson from your little friend there? Sure. ’Cause you ain’t got no backup, Glass. Your whole family’s been vamp pets from the Dark Ages, but we ain’t having any more of that better-than-you crap. Not here. Here, you’re all on your own, bitch.”
Shane had gone very quiet behind them. Claire looked at him, at his set, unsmiling face, and felt panic ignite. This was real, and it was dangerous. Rad and the few others who didn’t seem angry were backing off, edging out of the crowd. Maybe they’d send for some help, or maybe not. She certainly didn’t trust that the dude taking their money at the door would bother to come charging to the rescue.
Michael was a vampire, but he was young, and he couldn’t fight this crowd on his own. Plus, he’d be trying to protect Eve, and her, too.
And Shane didn’t have his back. Or any of their backs. It was obvious and painful, and Eve gave him the worst, most heartbroken and betrayed look Claire could imagine. “You’d just stand there,” she said. “You’d stand there and let this happen to us. To us. To your own girlfriend.”
Shane turned away to start slugging the heavy bag again.
“Shane,” Claire whispered. “Please. Please.”