“Find another car,” Claire said, and just at that moment, she spotted one pulling up. It was rocking pop music at an earsplitting volume, which cut off abruptly as the driver pulled the key and got out.
Monica Morrell didn’t look like she was planning on getting out of town. In fact, she looked like she’d been pulled out of an after-hours club, and as she stalked up the sidewalk, stiletto heels tapping out an impatient rhythm, Claire had to give her style points. Everybody else had a mismatched refugee look, but not Monica. She had on a glittery, figure-hugging minidress, one that showed off her long tanned legs and curves and cleavage. Even her long, straightened dark hair blew in the wind like a supermodel’s.
She slowed down as she caught sight of them, and rolled her eyes. “Oh, perfect,” she said. “You guys.” Claire wondered if she’d heard about her death; obviously not, because Monica skipped right over her presence. Or just massively didn’t care either way.
Monica tried to go around them, but Eve stepped directly in her way. “Bitch, please!” Monica tried to shove her, but Shane’s timing was perfect; he moved Eve out of the way, and Monica’s flattened palm hit his chest instead. “Oh. Well, hello, delicious.” She batted her eyes at him. “Looking for something a little less pasty and junior-sized?”
“Keys,” he said, and looked down at her hand on his chest. “You’re touching me, Monica. That’s a bad thing.”
“Keys,” she repeated, and slowly stepped back. “What do you mean, keys?”
“As in, give. Now.” Shane had that look—hard, and no bullshit. “We don’t have time for your drama, Monica. Nobody does.”
She got serious. It looked very odd on her, Claire thought. “My brother told me not to go out,” she said. “He wasn’t wrong, was he? Something’s happening. They shut down the club and told us all to leave.” Shane nodded slowly, and Monica turned her attention to Claire. “Why do you need my keys, exactly?”
“To get to Amelie,” Claire said. “We need a ride. Eve’s is toast.”
“That’s true,” Eve said. “I’m in mourning.”
“Really? How can anybody tell?” Monica tossed her car keys in her hand and gave them a brilliant smile. “Tell you what, losers: I drive. Nobody touches the baby but me. Besides, if I’m semisafe here with my brother, I’ll be much safer with the Founder.”
Claire doubted that, really, but she wasn’t about to tell Monica that.
Eve, for once, didn’t call shotgun, and neither did Shane. She just got in the back, behind Monica. Claire quickly rock-paper-scissored with Shane on the way to a decision, and Claire lost. She was up front, with Monica, and Shane piled in the back, along with a canvas bag of stuff that he’d dragged out of the back of the hearse.
“Seriously,” Shane said as they settled in and Monica turned the key. “You live in a town full of vampires. Is a convertible really the best option?”
“I didn’t know you cared,” Monica said, and the pop music started up in midsong. It was off Monica’s iPod, Claire guessed, and she was apparently a big Britney Spears fan.
“Toxic.”
That was actually weirdly appropriate.
SEVENTEEN
CLAIRE
By the time they were halfway to Founder’s Square, Claire wished the shotgun seat actually came with a shotgun, because Monica was killing her slowly, with her incessant chatter. That was funny, because Monica normally wasn’t talkative, at least not to them, but it seemed like her shut-up circuit had fried.
“. . . I went to DeeDee’s to pick up my new dress, and it was closed. Not even a note in the window. I was so pissed off! I actually had to wear this thing. . . .” Monica plucked at the fabric of what she was nearly wearing in disgust. Claire didn’t see how that was really possible, since it fit like skin. “. . . Which all the guys have seen about a dozen times now, not to mention Janis Taylor was there and wearing her new dress, which was skanky, and I know she was talking about me recycling the look—”
Shane, from the back, said, “I’m really trying to swear off the random fighting, Monica, but I swear to God that if you don’t shut up, I’m going to go back to Step Zero on my twelve-step program. We don’t give a shit about your dress or your club or Janis Taylor. Michael’s in trouble.”
Monica sent him a hard look in the rearview mirror, and said, “And when is one of you losers not in trouble, anyway? Not that Michael is a total waste of genetics; I’ll give you that. So . . . what’s happening? You seem to always know.”
Claire said, “There’s something new in town, and it’s bad. It’s taking vampires and humans and—” What was it doing, exactly? She didn’t know, but whatever it was, there was no doubt it was pure evil. “Amelie’s scared enough to shut up the town and run.”
“Shut up the town?” Monica’s glossy lips pressed flat. “Are you kidding me? I put a lot of work into living here. I have roots.”
“Here I thought you stopped dyeing your hair,” Shane said. Monica flipped him off.
“Shouldn’t that be Eve’s line?” she shot back. “Or has Goth Princess finally learned to shut up?”
Eve leaned forward. As Claire looked back at her, she felt a little shocked at her friend’s set, serious expression. “I’ve learned a lot of things, Monica,” she said, just loud enough to be heard over the roar of the wind and the music. “Michael is missing. He may be dying. I am not in the mood for your shallow bullshit right now. If you get in my way, I will cut you, because you are nothing but a speed bump on my way to saving him. Are we clear?”
Monica’s lips parted, and she stared straight ahead for a few silent seconds before she said, “Clear.” That was all. She shifted the car into a higher gear, and the engine growled hard. “I know you won’t believe this, but I do care. He’s not bad, your boyfriend. And we have a drastic shortage of hotties in this town. Can’t really afford to waste one.”
Eve eased back into her seat without another word. She stared off to the side, at the darkened streets, the empty stores and houses.
The Morganville that was.
Shane said, “It’s about to rain again. You should put the top up.”
“I have to slow down to do that,” Monica said. “You want that?”
“Good point. I don’t mind getting wet if you don’t.”
“Oh, I mind, hot pants; you think all this didn’t take work?” She indicated, well, all of herself.
“Hot pants?” Claire said, choking on a sudden and inappropriate laugh, because she just knew what Shane’s face would look like without having to turn around. “Do you have any survival instinct at all?”
Monica smiled, one of those cruel, evil smiles that had always heralded trouble. “What do you think?” she almost purred, and shook her long hair back over her shoulders, where it snapped like a flag in the wind. “I’m still alive. And I’m still fabulous. Unlike, well, everybody else in this car.” Her smile faded, and she downshifted. “Company.”
The convertible took a corner hard, tires squealing, and ahead Claire saw the glow of flashing police-car lights. They’d blocked off the street—and probably every approach to Founder’s Square.
“Look, I’ve done my bit, but I’m not running roadblocks for you,” Monica said, and slowed the convertible to an easy rumble.
“Try another route.”
“Don’t be stupid—they’re all blocked. If you want to get in, you’re going to have to get stealthy, and trust me, my shiny red four-wheeled baby is many things, but stealthy she is not.”
That was true, and Monica wasn’t exactly subtle, either. Claire nodded grudgingly. Monica pulled the convertible over to the curb, and the three of them unbuckled and got out.