Midnight Bites (22 page)

“If you want to save
your
life, you'd better take your hand off me, asshole!”

Richard did, sitting back and crossing his arms. Hannah's gaze darted from him to Shane, then back again. “We're all going to just calm down,” she said. “Because this doesn't help anyone, least of all Michael. Shane, he's not wrong. This is serious, and if we don't do something, it's going to go bad, especially for your friend, and maybe for the rest of you, too. Please. We need your help.”

“To do what? Spy on my best friend? Screw that.” Shane felt his jaw muscles bunching up, and his aching hands—still bruised from last night's little scuffle—tightened into fists. “Never gonna happen. Not unless you're straight with me. Who is it you're looking for, exactly? I'm guessing not Dracula, probably.”

The house seemed very quiet, to Shane. He knew Claire could feel the house's moods, somehow, but he didn't really. It was just a house. Except it wasn't, and somehow, he knew it was . . . listening.

“I can't tell you that,” Hannah said. “And you don't need to know. It's better if you don't.”

“Yeah, for you. But for me, trust me, it's better if I believe you when you say I need to stab my best friend in the back.”

Another moment of silence, and then Richard made a frustrated sound, like a dog growling, and said, “Fine, Shane. But when I tell you this, it means you are exactly the fifth person in Morganville to know it. You, me, Hannah, Amelie, and Oliver. And guess which one we'll be looking at if it gets out.”

Shane was starting to think it really
was
Dracula they were talking about. “All right,” he said. “I'll sign a paper, or whatever you want. But I need to know what you're talking about, here.”

“Bishop,” Richard said. “I'm talking about Bishop.”

Shane felt his entire body turn cold. The hangover headache disappeared, just like mist. He slid his sunglasses off and stared at Richard, then Hannah. “You're kidding,” he said. “You didn't kill him yet? Or at least keep him in prison?” He
had
to be in prison. Bishop was, hands down, the most terrifying guy that Shane had ever seen in person. He'd never met a serial killer, not a real one, but damn, Bishop was the next-best thing. Shane was willing to bet that Bishop would have intimidated Dahmer, Gacy, and Bundy put together.

And he
lived
to cause destruction. It was his thing. That, and undoing whatever good things his daughter, Amelie, had managed to accomplish.

Not somebody you wanted to have roaming around loose on the streets of Morganville.

Jesus,
Shane thought.
I walked home last night, bleeding and drunk. Michael wasn't kidding about the death wish.

“Bishop was in prison,” Richard confirmed. “Amelie had him walled up in a cell. And now he's out. He killed four guards along the way.”

“You've got to be—wait, you think
Michael
is hiding him? Why the hell would he do that?”

“I'll be honest with you—we don't
know
that Michael is involved. But there are only a few people in Morganville that Bishop could
potentially use, and Michael's one of them—he was under Bishop's influence before. If so, your friend is in deep, deep trouble,” said Hannah. “If you can find out where Bishop is hiding, we can take care of this quickly and quietly. Michael never has to be involved. But if you can't, we'll still find Bishop, and we'll bring Michael in as an accessory. Amelie's already said that this time she won't be so merciful—not to Bishop or to any vampire who gives him help. This could save his life, Shane. Help us.”

Shane stood up and walked away, arms folded. He was aching inside now, angry at them for putting him in this position, angry at Michael for . . . for whatever.
If you weren't a bloodsucking leech, this would never have happened.
Not that Michael had asked for it, in the beginning, anyway. He'd been a casualty of war, even at the start.

Even if Michael forgave him for this, Eve never would; Shane just knew that. When it came to Michael, Eve held a grudge like nobody he'd ever seen. And how the hell was he going to explain any of this to Claire? He couldn't tell her about Bishop. No way.

Save his life.

Shane put his sunglasses back on, turned around, and said, “What do you want me to do?”

•   •   •

Following a vampire around was not as easy as it sounded. For one thing, Michael had wheels—a Morganville-issued sedan, with blacked-out windows. The transportation Shane could get was all too obvious—Eve's big black boat of a car, with tail fins, or the murdered-out black Charger he was making payments on with Rad, down at the repair shop. But there
was
a way to do it.

Rad had motorcycles. Lots of them. Most of them were way too flashy—chrome, bright paint, all that stuff. No good for staying anonymous.

“How about this one?” Shane asked, pointing to a dark blue Honda. “That'd probably do.”

“Pretty drab,” Rad—Radovic—said. “I could maybe put some paint on it if you want.” Rad didn't feel that any of his rides were worth much unless they were memorable, which was kind of funny; he didn't have to work to make people remember him. Rad was a big, tough guy, all muscles. He was one of the few Shane would back off from in a fight, because when Rad swung a punch, it broke things. “How long you need it for?”

“I don't know,” Shane said. “Hopefully just tonight.”

“Twenty-five dollars a day,” Rad said. “Friends' rate. I won't ask you if you have a motorcycle license. You don't, that's your problem.”

Shane didn't think Hannah was going to quibble about some paperwork, not right now. He nodded. “I need a helmet. Something that covers my face.”

Rad nodded. “No problem. You want maybe night vision?”

“What?”

“My own invention,” Rad said proudly. “Night vision built into helmet. Very handy for Morganville. You want?”

“How much?”

“Oh, another twenty-five dollars a night for the helmet.”

“You're killing me.”

Rad shrugged. “Cheap if you can see trouble coming out there. Right?”

Well, Shane really couldn't argue with that. He finally nodded and shelled out fifty from the cash he'd won off the college boys. It was a good value, in Morganville, no question about it.

“You want two?” Rad's lips split in a wide, blinding grin. He had big, square teeth that could have done work in a toothpaste commercial. “One for the girlfriend, eh?”

“Just one,” Shane said. “I'm on my own tonight.”

As a precaution, Shane parked the bike behind the garage, in the deepest shadows he could find. He'd gotten to know it on the way home, and it was a sweet little ride, not as loud as a lot of motorcycles. That would help, probably. But the important thing wasn't to keep Michael from seeing the bike following him, just that he didn't know it was Shane.

At least, that was Shane's best idea.

When he came in the kitchen, Claire was already there, looking in the refrigerator. She was wearing the same clothes she'd had on yesterday, which meant she'd just gotten back from the lab, and when he started toward her, she held up her hands, looking miserable. “I smell,” she said. “No, I'm wrong—I stink. I can't smell it, but I can feel it. I don't want you to smell me right now.”

“I love how you smell,” he said. “Besides, I didn't take a shower this morning, either. My bad.”

She considered that, catching that cute lower lip between her teeth in a way that made him tingle, and then nodded and stepped into his embrace. God, she felt good—small and fragile and warm, soft in all the right places. Her lips were hot and sweet under his, and for a few seconds, at least, he felt all the way better. Kissing Claire did that to him.

He kissed her a second time, lightly, and asked, “Did you eat anything today?”

“I think I had a graham cracker yesterday,” she said, and yawned. “I think I'm too tired to eat, though.” When she turned her head, he saw the shadow of bite marks on her neck—scars, not fresh. She was growing her hair longer to cover them up. “Where's everybody else?”

“Michael's at the music store. He had a late lesson. Should be back soon. Eve—” Right on cue, the front door banged open. “That'd be Eve.”

“Yo, losers, where's my dinner?” Eve yelled.

“Yo, Gothic Princess, your name is on the kitchen duty list today!”

“Is
not
!”

Shane rolled his eyes. Claire was smiling. “I'll help,” she said, and started pulling stuff out.

“Not your turn,” Eve said, breezing into the kitchen. “You don't have to, Claire.”

“I know, but I'm hungry. I think. Maybe.” Claire frowned doubtfully at some leftovers. “Is this any good?”

“If you have to ask, the answer is usually no,” Eve said, and dumped the bowl into the trash. “Ugh. I don't even know what that was, but it isn't anymore. How about spaghetti?”

It was always spaghetti with Eve, unless someone else stepped in. Today, though, Shane's heart wasn't in it. “Sure,” he said, which made her turn and narrow her heavily made-up eyes at him. Mistake.

“Wow. Mr. I Have a Better Idea, stumped? That's crazy talk. Are you running a fever?”

“Spaghetti sounds good.” He shrugged and let it go, because he was starting to wonder how he was going to gracefully ease out of here and follow Michael, if Michael left again.

“Not to me,” Claire sighed. “You know what? I was right the first time. I'm more tired than I am hungry.” She grabbed a can of Coke from the fridge and covered another yawn. She really did look exhausted—dark circles under her eyes, her skin gone paler than it should have been.

“You're working too hard,” Shane said. “Promise me you're going to get some rest, okay?”

“Okay,” Claire said, and gave him an absolutely beautiful smile. “Promise me you'll wake me up tomorrow?”

He had a flash of what that would be like: sitting on the edge of her bed as the rising sun streamed in, bending over to kiss her awake,
seeing her eyes open and that same lazy, delicious smile on her lips. Just for him.

All of a sudden, his pants felt two sizes too small, and he had to clear his throat. “I promise,” he said, and meant it. That was something to live for, if everything else failed on him. “Go on. Get to bed.”

She kissed him, ran her fingers through his hair, and left, practically staggering. He stood there watching her, not really thinking about anything until Eve smacked him on the back of the head. “You're a good boyfriend,” she said.

“Then why did you hit me?”

“No reason,” she said, and grinned. “Spaghetti it is. You're in charge of sauce.”

“Sauce is most of the work.”

“Really? I had no idea.”

Shane actually liked being around Eve, mostly, although she could get on his nerves; tonight, when he was anxious and trying not to show it, or think about it, she was perfect company. Her way-too-much-caffeine-powered chatter kept him concentrating just to keep up with her. He made the spaghetti sauce, which mostly involved opening a jar and dumping in more garlic, because it bugged the hell out of Michael, and the time seemed to go incredibly fast.

Michael arrived before the sauce was boiling. “Hey,” he said, around kissing Eve's upturned lips. That took a while, and Shane grunted back a greeting that somehow managed to convey both
I'm at the point of gagging
and
Welcome home
. “Shane, the garlic thing? Getting old, man.”

“I like garlic,” Shane said. “Blame Eve—she told me to make the sauce.”

Michael just shrugged. Eve went to the fridge and got out an opaque sports bottle, which she held up. “I already ate,” Michael said. Which meant that he'd stopped by the blood bank, which was why
his skin was flushed almost to a healthy normal color. The hungrier he got, the paler he got. When you could mistake him for a marble statue, it was time to run for the stakes. “I can't stay,” he continued. “I promised I'd do a late lesson thing.”

Michael earned his living at the music store—mainly because he refused, so far, to live the way the rest of the vamps did: by taking on a human, or preferably humans, to Protect. What a joke. The only Protecting the vamps did was protecting their own interests. The humans had a choice—pay twenty percent of their earnings into the vampire's account, or make regular donations at the blood bank. Most people chose blood, weirdly enough. Money was tougher to come by in Morganville.

Technically, Shane supposed that his Protector—and Claire's, and Eve's—was the Founder. So far, Amelie hadn't asked him or Eve for anything—no money, no blood, no nothing. Maybe Claire's hard work at the lab for Crazy Mad Bloodsucking Scientist Dude was paying all their bills. That did not make Shane feel more manly.

“Who are you teaching?” Shane asked, trying to make it sound offhand and casual. From the glance Michael shot him, he wasn't sure he'd gotten it right.

“Raoul Garza,” Michael said. “Why?”

“Just curious. Seems like you've got a lot of late-night clients. You starting up some kind of undead band or something?” Not that it was a bad idea, now that Shane said it. “You got a bass player, drums, that kind of thing?”

“Not yet. I'm not sure there's a lot of interest in that among the vamps.”

“Doesn't have to be all vamps, though. I'm just sayin'.”

This was almost a normal conversation, Shane thought. Michael
didn't seem paranoid about it, which was good. “Yeah, that's true,” Michael said. “I'll think about it. Might be fun.”

“Just make sure I get my fifteen percent. It's fifteen for agents, right?”

“Bite me.”

“Think you've got that backwards, man.”