Part 3 (1/2)
He dropped the book, surged to his feet, and was at the bars in about one second flat. His hands curled around the iron, and his eyes glittered wildly until he squeezed them shut.
When he opened them again, he'd gotten himself under control. Mostly.
”Hey,” Shane said, as calmly as if they'd just run into each other in the hallway at the Gla.s.s House, their strange little minifraternity.
As if whole months hadn't gone by since they'd been parted. ”Imagine seeing you around here. Happy birthday to you, and all.”
Claire felt tears burn in her eyes, but she blinked them back and put on a brave smile. ”Thanks,” she said. ”What'd you get me?”
”Um . . . a s.h.i.+ny diamond.” Shane looked around and shrugged. ”Must have left it somewhere. You know how it is, out all night partying, you get baked and forget where you left your stuff. . . .” She stepped forward and wrapped her hands around his. She felt tremors race through him, and Shane sighed, closed his eyes, and rested his forehead against the bars. ”Yeah,” he whispered. ”Shutting up now. Good idea.”
She pressed her forehead against his, and then her lips, and it was hot and sweet and desperate, and the feelings that exploded inside her made her shake in reaction. Shane let go of the bars and reached through to run his fingers through her soft, short hair, and the kiss deepened, darkened, took on a touch of yearning that made Claire's heart pound.
When their lips finally parted, they didn't pull away from each other. Claire threaded her arms through the bars and around his neck, and his hands moved down to her waist.
”I hate kissing you through prison bars,” Shane said. ”I'm all for restraint, but self-restraint is so much more fun.”
Claire had almost forgotten that Myrnin was still there, so his soft chuckle made her flinch. ”There speaks a young man with little practical experience,” he said, yawned, and draped himself over a bench on the far side of the wall. He propped his chin up on the heel of one hand. ”Enjoy that innocence while you can.”
Shane held on to her, and his dark eyes stared into hers. Ignore him, they seemed to say. Stay with me.
She did.
”I'm trying to get you out,” she whispered. ”I really am.”
”Yeah, well . . . it's no big deal, Claire. Don't get yourself in trouble. Wait, I forgot who I'm talking to. What kind of trouble are you in today, anyway?”
”I'm not. Don't worry.”
”I've got nothing to do but worry, mostly about you.” Shane was looking very serious now, and he tilted her head up to force her to meet his eyes again. ”Claire. What's he got you doing?”
”You're worried about me?” She laughed, just a little, and it sounded panicked. ”You're the one in a cage.”
”Kind of used to that, you know. Claire, tell me. Please.”
”I . . . I can't.” That wasn't true. She could. She just desperately didn't want to. She didn't want Shane to know any of it. ”How's your father holding up?”
Shane's eyebrows rose just a little. ”Dad? Yeah, well. He's okay. He's just . . . you know.”
And that, Claire realized, was what she was afraid of-that Shane had forgiven his father for all his crazy stunts. That the Collins boys were together again, united in their hatred of Morganville in general.
That Shane was back in the vampire-slayer fold. If that happened Bishop would never let him out of his cell.
Shane read it in her face. ”Not like that,” he said, and shook his head. ”It's pretty close quarters in here. We have to get along, or we'd kill each other. We decided to get along, that's all.”
”Yeah,” said a deep, scratchy voice from the other bunk. ”It's been one big, sloppy bucket of joy, getting to know my son. I'm all teary-eyed and sentimental.”
Shane rolled his eyes. ”Shut up, Frank.”
”That any way to talk to your old man?” Frank rolled over, and Claire saw the hard gleam of his eyes. ”What's your collaborator girl doing here? Still running errands for the vampires?”
”Dad, Christ, will you shut up?”
”This is the two of you getting along?” Claire whispered.
”You see any broken bones?”
”Good point.” This was not how she'd imagined this moment going, except for the kissing. Then again, the kissing was better than she'd dared believe was possible. ”Shane-”
”Shhhh,” he whispered, and pressed his lips to her forehead. ”How's Michael?” She didn't want to talk about Michael, so she just shook her head. Shane swallowed hard. ”He's not . . . dead?”
”Define dead around here,” Claire said. ”No, he's okay. He's just . . . you know. Not himself.”
”Bishop's?” She nodded. He closed his eyes in pain. ”What about Eve?”
”She's working. I haven't seen her in a couple of weeks.” Eve, like everyone else in Morganville, treated Claire like a traitor these days, and Claire honestly couldn't blame her. ”She's really busted up about Michael. And you, of course.”
”No doubt,” Shane said softly. He seemed to hesitate for a heartbeat. ”Have you heard anything about me and my dad? What Bishop has planned for us?”
Claire shook her head. Even if she knew-and she didn't, in detail-she wouldn't have told him. ”Let's not talk about it. Shane- I've missed you so much-”
He kissed her again, and the world melted into a wonderful spinning blend of heat and bells, and it was only when she finally, regretfully pulled back that she heard Myrnin's mocking, steady clapping.
”Love conquers all,” he said. ”How quaint.”
Claire turned on him, feeling fury erupt like a volcano in her guts. ”Shut up!”
He didn't even bother to glance at her, just leaned back against the wall and smiled. ”You want to know what he's got planned for you, Shane? Do you really?” ”Myrnin, don't!”
Shane reached through the bars and grabbed Claire's shoulders, turning her back to face him. ”It doesn't matter,” he said. ”This matters, right now. Claire, we're going to get out of this. We're going to live through it. Both of us. Say it with me.”
”Both of us,” she repeated. ”We're going to live.”
Myrnin's cold hand closed around her wrist, and he dragged her away from the bars. The last thing she let go of was Shane's hand.
”Hey!” Shane yelled, as Claire fought, lost, and was pulled through the door. ”Claire! We've going to live! Say it! We're going to live!”
Myrnin slammed the door. ”Theatrical, isn't he? Come on, girl. We have work to do.”
She tried to shake him off. ”I'm not going anywhere with you, you traitor!”
Myrnin didn't give her a choice; he half dragged, half marched her away from the first vampire guard, then the second, and then pulled her into an empty, quiet room off the long hallway. He shut the door with a wicked boom and whirled to face her.
Claire grabbed the first thing that came to hand-it happened to be a heavy candlestick-and swung it at his head. He ducked, rushed in, and effortlessly took it away from her. ”Girl. Claire!” He shook her into stillness. His eyes were wide and very dark. Not at all crazy. ”If you want the boy to live, you'll stop fighting me. It's not productive.”
”What, I should just stand here and let you bite me? Not happening!” She tried to pull away, but he was as solid as a granite statue.
Her bones would break before his grip did.
”Why on earth would I bite you?” Myrnin asked, very reasonably. ”I don't work for Bishop, Claire. I never have. I thought you certainly had enough brains to understand that.”