Daylighters

FOURTEEN

They commandeered a police car from Hannah, and Shane hit the lights and sirens while Michael drove, ignoring stoplights and weaving around other cars as if he’d plunged into a real-life video game. Claire and Eve, on the other hand, just clung to their seats in the back. It didn’t take long to spot their house.

And the massive bulldozer that was heading relentlessly for it.

“Oh, God,” Eve said. As they made the turn, the treads of the giant yellow monster mowed down and crushed their mailbox, hit the white picket fence, splintered it, and crushed it into the nice, neat grass. It wasn’t neat for long. The treads chewed the yard into muck as the bulldozer moved forward, raising its bucket. It was aimed right at the corner of the house, and as Michael brought the car to a screeching halt at the curb Claire saw Miranda’s face at the window, eyes wide in terror, staring at the thing that was coming to destroy their home.

And her.

There were no plans made for this contingency, and Claire knew there was no time for any; Shane and Michael bailed out the front, and Shane remembered—barely—to yank open Claire’s door in the back before he dashed after Michael, too.

“Get the driver!” Michael yelled, but it wasn’t going to be that easy, because the driver wasn’t alone—he had a couple of other burly construction-hardened guys with him. Shane veered off and made a running leap for the cab of the bulldozer. It was brand-new, barely dirty yet, and it had an enclosed, probably air-conditioned cab . . . with a locking door.

And the driver, of course, had it locked.

Shane yanked on the door, but that was useless; he tried driving his elbow into the glass, but it was thick, designed to resist flying debris. And then the bulldozer, which had slowed down as the operator assessed the threat Shane represented, sped up again, and the lurch threw him off to roll on the grass.

There wasn’t time for anything too fancy, but Claire stopped, ran back to the police car, and frantically searched around the seats . . . and found an expandable, flexible baton. She raced past Shane, who was rising to head for the bulldozer again.

“Help Michael!” she yelled. He and Eve were in the middle of a scrum with the two other construction men, and Michael still hadn’t realized the limitations of his all-too-human body yet. “I’ve got this!”

He gave her a quick, worried look, but he didn’t argue. Besides, he loved a good fistfight, and this was shaping up to be one he’d remember fondly.

Claire took a deep breath, a running jump, and landed on the rubber-coated step next to the cab. The driver gave her an irritated, smug look; he sneered and didn’t bother to put the machine in idle this time.

At least, not until she drew back and smashed the heavy baton into the window glass, cracking it into frost. A second blow rained chunks of safety glass all over him, and he let out a yelp and took his hand off the throttle—which automatically shut the bulldozer down to an idle again, five feet from the corner of the house. He swore at her, loudly, and shoved the door open, which pushed her off and onto the grass, where she hit and rolled to her feet, breathing hard.

She’d been hoping he’d jump out and come after her, but he’d done what he intended to do by brushing her off, and now he slammed the door again and jammed the throttle forward.

“No!” Claire screamed, and leaped back on. She collided with the metal door. He hadn’t locked it properly this time, and she stepped back and yanked it open, holding on for dear life. She’d dropped the baton somewhere, but she didn’t have room to wield it inside the cab anyway.

“Are you crazy? Get the hell out! Don’t make me hurt you!” the man said, and shoved at her. She clung on, so he let off the throttle to get a better grip on her with both hands . . . and she let him. He had hard, strong hands, and she knew it was going to leave bruises, but that was okay right now. Bruises were fine.

Because she was able to lean over across him and grab the key from the ignition before he threw her out of the cab and off the machine.

The bulldozer coughed and died, locked in its muddy tracks, and Claire shook off the fall and got to her feet, grinning. He didn’t get what had happened for a moment. He kept jamming his thumb on the button to start the engine, but then he must have spotted what was missing, because he leveled a black, furious look at Claire and jumped down from the cab to come after her.

She ran for the messy brawl that was spilling all over the lawn—Michael and Eve were tag-teaming one of the construction guys, who looked furious and frustrated, not to mention a little worried. His fellow neon-vested buddy was throwing punches at Shane, which Shane was easily dancing around while snapping hard, accurate blows to the man’s midsection, and—as Claire dashed past them—a stunning right hook that spun the guy halfway around to spiral limply to the ground.

“Hey, Claire!” Shane called to her, and then spotted the furious bulldozer operator, hard in pursuit. He stepped in the way.

That was a mistake, because the bulldozer guy had evidently paused to pick up Claire’s fallen baton, which he whipped out to its full length and smacked into Shane’s leg. Shane yelled and went down to his other knee, and his grab for the man’s foot failed to slow the guy down.

Claire ran up the steps to the house. The door opened ahead of her, because Miranda had been waiting, and the instant Claire was clear, the door tried to slam shut.

The tip of the riot baton got in the way, and the front door sprang back open, banging hard into the hallway wall.

The construction guy stepped into the Glass House, flexed his wrist, and lifted the baton as he bared his teeth at Claire and Miranda.

That was when all hell broke loose.

Miranda must have had some warning, because she grabbed Claire and pulled her down to the hardwood floor an instant before the battered little table they used as a backpack/purse/key depository lifted up off the floor and smashed hard into the intruder’s chest. He yelled in surprise, but it didn’t do much damage; he grabbed it and flung it off to the side, into the parlor, then came after the two of them with murder in his eyes.

Claire felt the equally furious surge of energy rising up—out of the floor beneath her, swirling in from the walls, down from the ceiling, a thick but invisible cloud of power that raised goose bumps and tingles all over her body.

And then the coffee table from the parlor upended itself and body-slammed him into the wall, hard enough to leave cracks in the plaster. He dropped the baton and staggered.

An old, weirdly shaped vase in a particularly unpleasant shade of brown flew off a shelf and smashed into bits against his head.

And then he was down, sagging down the wall. Groaning.

The house seemed satisfied with that—Claire felt the surge of triumph and knew it hadn’t come from her or Miranda. She scrambled up, moved the coffee table out of the way (it was heavier than she remembered), and kicked the sharp pieces of the vase aside as she picked up the riot baton.

The construction worker looked up at her woozily through bloodshot eyes. She stuck the bulldozer keys in her pants pocket and said, “Are you okay?”

He mumbled something that sounded rude, so she just assumed he was, and looked outside. Jenna’s car was screeching to a crooked halt at the curb ahead of their police cruiser; she must have sensed the house’s distress, or Miranda’s. The fight on the lawn was still going, but it was just about over, and as Jenna got out of her car and strode over to help Shane to his feet, the remaining construction worker raised his hands to signal surrender. “Okay, okay,” he yelled, as Michael and Eve paused, fists raised. “Enough already. They don’t pay us enough for this!”

“Surprise,” Jenna said crisply. “They aren’t paying you at all for this. If you think the Daylight Foundation is writing you a check, you’re in for a surprise. They just shut their doors for good.”

He must have been the foreman, Claire thought, because he just looked disgusted. “Well, crap,” he said. “I ain’t paying for that broken fence, lady. I had my orders.”

“Let’s call it even,” Eve said. “I never did like that fence, anyway. What do you think, Michael? Something Gothic, like wrought iron? With spikes?”

“Spikes are good,” he said, and grabbed her to look her over. He ran a thumb over her chin. “You’re going to have a bruise.”

“Jeez, I hope so. Didn’t do my part if I don’t.”

He kissed her, looped an arm around her shoulders, and walked her toward the house.

Shane was limping, but when he got to the door with Jenna, he gave Claire a reassuring grin. “It’s a bruise; I’ll shake it off,” he said. “You might have to kiss it better later.”

She rolled her eyes. “Dream on,” she said, but she reached up to push back the sweaty, thick hair from his face. “Look at that. Still handsome.”

“Damn straight.” Shane nudged the bulldozer guy with his foot. “Hey. Want to get the hell out of our house, fool? Don’t make me tell you that you’re not welcome. Bad things happen.”

No kidding, Claire thought. The house was practically vibrating, it was so upset. She shook her head, helped the guy up (seemed like the least she could do, really), and pushed him out the door into his foreman’s arms. “I think you’d better call it a day,” she told him.

He nodded. “You got it, kid. It’s beer o’clock.”

Claire dug the keys out of her pocket and tossed them to him. “Then get that thing off our lawn.” She hesitated, holding his stare. “You understand that if you even think about putting it in gear the wrong direction . . .”

“Oh, I get it,” he said. “Trust me. Far as I’m concerned, this damn house can stay standing until the whole town falls down around it.”

That seemed like an acceptable way to look at it, but Claire checked her friends to be sure. Miranda nodded gravely, and hugged Jenna tight. Michael raised his eyebrows at Eve, who polled Shane, and then spoke for all of them when she said, “Sounds good. Oh, and I’d get your friends checked out at the hospital just in case.”

“Them? What about me?” He rubbed his jaw. “You kick like a mule, Mrs. Glass.”

He retreated with his two weaving, staggering buddies.

Eve smiled and relaxed against Michael, who wrapped his arms around her. “We’re home. I like the sound of that,” she said, and looked up at him. “Wait, weren’t we talking about a wedding before all this?”

“We were,” he said. “Let’s go discuss it. In private.” He grabbed Eve’s hand and towed her off down the hall. Eve waved back toward the rest of them, and all the Goth makeup in the world couldn’t have concealed the blush in her cheeks.

“We should go,” Miranda said to Jenna, in a very businesslike tone. “Because they get weird about me being here when they’re, you know.”

“I’ve been thinking that maybe we should make you a bedroom at my house,” Jenna said. “I’ve got a spare room. You’ll have to visit here to keep your connection, but you’re welcome anytime.”

Miranda’s eyes widened, and she looked so bright and hopeful that it almost hurt Claire to look at her. After all the kid’s misery, maybe things were starting to finally, finally look up. “Yeah, that sounds okay,” she finally said, and managed to make it sound teen-indifferent, even though she definitely wasn’t. “Can I bring my posters?”

“Of course. I love posters.” Jenna smiled at her with genuine warmth and walked her toward the door. “You going to be okay until we get home? Not feeling too weak?”

“No,” Miranda’s voice drifted back, as they picked their way across the destroyed lawn. “The house is happy. I feel strong.”

Shane put his arms around Claire from behind, and kissed her in a place just behind her ear, a place he knew made her shiver. “Hmmm, so there’s going to be a wedding. What do you think?” he asked her.

“You mean Michael and Eve’s wedding?”

“Yes. And no.”

She turned in his arms and looked up into his eyes. Felt as if she was falling, and falling, and falling, but it wasn’t frightening, not at all. It transformed into a feeling of flying. Of freedom. Of possibilities.

She took a deep breath and said, “Yes.”

None of it happened instantly. Couldn’t, because even though Fallon had been taken into custody and the vampires released from the prison, there were . . . issues. Of course. Morganville was never without them.

“I frigging hate politicians,” Eve sighed as she dumped her coffin purse on the kitchen table and dropped into a chair next to Claire, who was surfing the Web on her laptop.

“How was the mayor?”

Eve gave her a look. Then an eye roll. “Mayor Ramos is resigning. She says she can’t serve in a council with vampires. Guess we should have seen that coming, right? I waited for two hours for her to show up, and then she told me she couldn’t help straighten out the mess with our marriage license. I mean, how hard can it be to get married, involuntarily divorced, and remarried? Don’t they want me to be happy? Don’t answer that.”

Claire didn’t. The old, bitter lines of Morganville would never completely go away; with the vampires back, if not back in charge exactly, some people blamed Eve (and the rest of them) for screwing things up just when they were going right. If by right they meant horribly wrong, then Claire supposed they were correct. She found that she didn’t mind being thought of as a villain quite so much, after the fact, because the people who were blaming her for the generally crap state of their lives had a lot to answer for in general.

“So, no date yet?”

For answer, Eve slapped a piece of paper down in front of her, onto the keyboard. Claire looked up, then down at the document. It looked official, all right. “I didn’t say that,” Eve said, and smiled in slow delight. “I got an Amelie-class override. Plus, Ramos is cleaning out her desk, and the incoming mayor said he’d stamp it the second he took over the office.”

“Charlie Kentworth? Really?” There had been a very hasty two-day campaign and election for the suddenly open mayoral chair, and Officer Kentworth had been the fairly obvious choice. Especially since his sole opponent, recycling her campaign materials from her last failed attempt, had been Monica Morrell. She’d gathered about five percent of the vote, mainly from the irony demographic, but she was still determined to find something to be in charge of. She’d talked about buying the old Daylight Foundation building—locked up tight now—and making it into a dog boarding facility. Shane had found that weirdly, hilariously appropriate.

“He’s a pretty decent guy when he’s not finding dead bodies in your house,” Eve said. “Speaking of that, I’m not going into the basement anymore.”

“The laundry room’s in the basement.”

“Then you are on laundry duty.”

“Hey!” Claire poked at her, and Eve poked back. “So . . . the date?”

“We were thinking next Saturday. You busy?”

“I might be,” Claire said. She kept her poker face well enough that Eve looked momentarily crushed, and then she reached into her backpack to pull out another piece of paper, which she slid across to Eve.

Who unfolded it, read it, squealed in ranges that only dolphins could hear, and practically knocked Claire’s laptop off the table in her haste to hug her.

“Wait, am I late to the orgy?” Shane asked as he came through the kitchen doorway carrying two Cokes. “I didn’t get the Evite. Man, I hate slow Internet.”

“Shut up,” Eve said. She wiped her eyes, carefully because of her extremely expert makeup, and hugged him, too, before he even had the chance to set down the glasses. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Uh . . . did I mention slow Internet? Wait, what?”

Eve brandished the marriage license in his face, and he gave Claire a quick glance before he said, “Because you were all knee-deep in the paperwork swamp. It took us about an hour. I didn’t want to rub it in, because you get all blotchy when you angry-cry.”

“Idiot,” Eve said, and kissed his cheek. Then she kissed Claire’s. “Now I’m all blotchy.”

“Can’t even tell,” he said, and finally set down the Cokes. “What with all the layers of spackle on your face.”

“It’s nice to know that being on the verge of losing your freedom hasn’t made you any less juvenile.”

“Excuse me, you’re dressing like a Living Dead Doll, and who exactly is—”

“Hey,” Claire said, and held out both hands to stop the comebacks. “I love you both.”

“Let the orgy begin,” Shane said. “Who brought tacos?”

“Michael.”

“And he left them unattended? What a fool.” Shane grabbed two from the bag, along with a paper plate, and dumped them on it. “More for me.”

As he was taking his first bite, Michael came down the steps, guitar case in hand, and set his instrument down on his armchair before he said, without even looking, “Those better not be my tacos, bro.”

“They’re not yours anymore,” Shane mumbled around a mouthful. “Chill. You have a bagful.”

Michael gave Eve a quick kiss on his way to the table, sorted out tacos onto three more plates, and took his seat. “I heard squealing. What did I miss?”

“Matching licenses,” Eve said, and displayed them. When he reached for them, she smacked his hand. “Oh, no, you don’t. Your hands are greasy.”

“You’re actually going to marry this taco thief?” Michael said, and shook his head. “Disappointed.”

“Hey, man,” Shane protested. He took the hot sauce when Michael reached for it, and then tossed it in his direction. Michael fielded it with almost as much grace as he’d had as a vampire. “So when’s the do-over?”

“Do-over?”

“What do you call it when you get second-time-fake-married?”

“Excuse me—that’s real married,” Eve said, smacking his hand when he tried to take another taco off her plate. He took it anyway. “When’s yours?”

“Um . . .” He chewed, swallowed, and shrugged. “Actually, I was going to talk to you about that. About maybe . . .”

“Doing it together?”

“Are we back to the orgy talk? Because I’m—”

“God, be serious a second,” Eve said, and rolled her eyes. “Claire?”

“I’d love it if we could have our weddings together,” she said. “If you’re okay with it.”

“As long as Shane gives me the taco he just straight up snaked off my plate.”

Shane solemnly put it back. They all looked at each other, and then Michael took Eve’s hand, and then Shane’s, and Shane took Claire’s, and Claire took Eve’s . . .

...and it was a little like a prayer, and a little like a hug, and a lot like home.

“So,” Shane said after the silence went on just a beat too long. “Tacos, or orgy?”

“Tacos,” the rest of them said, all together.

“I knew you were going to say that.”

Somehow Claire hadn’t expected to be quite so scared.

She’d faced down humans, vampires, and draug. She’d regularly done things that most people would go a lifetime without ever having to deal with even once. And yes, she’d been scared, even terrified from time to time. . . .

But not like this.

“Breathe,” Eve advised her, and tugged slightly at her dress. It felt heavy and close around her, and in the warm air of the church’s dressing room, Claire was afraid she might pass out if she tried to move. The person in the mirror was someone else entirely—someone dressed in a long white gown of satin, with a high-waisted beaded bodice that managed to make her look tall and regal and still gave her curves. A long fall of sheer fabric cascaded from the back, almost touching the floor. Along with the fancy necklace and sparkly bracelet (both lent from Amelie’s no doubt vast collection), and with her hair worn up and fixed with glittering pins, she felt like a princess.

She felt like a woman, and somehow she’d never thought of herself that way before. She’d never stopped being a girl, had she? Well, she had, but gradually, so gradually that she hadn’t even noticed.

Her mother was sitting in the corner of the room, and now she came forward to put her arms around Claire and rock her slowly, side to side. “You look amazing, honey,” she said. “I could not be happier for you.”

“Really?” Claire turned to look at her, trying to remember not to cry. Eve had been very strict about that rule, because of the makeup. “I didn’t think you totally approved of Shane. You or Dad.”

“He’s . . . changed,” her mother said. “And you love him. And I think your dad’s smart enough to know that you’re the second most stubborn person in the world, and he’d be wise not to cross you.”

“Only the second?”

“Well, you did get it from me. Someday, when you’re older, I’ll tell you all about how I convinced your father to marry me,” her mom said. She picked up the bouquet from the table—red roses wrapped with white ribbons. Eve’s bouquet, of white roses wrapped with red ribbons, beautifully complemented her totally nontraditional red dress. Of course, it looked awesome on her and even showed off her tattoos well. “If you’re ready, dear, I just heard the knock on the door.”

“Mom—” Claire didn’t know what to say, or what to do, so she just lunged forward and hugged her mother. Hard. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she forced them away. Because, mascara. “I love you.”

“Love you, too, sweetie,” her mother said, and kissed her cheek, then rubbed the lipstick away in an absent gesture so familiar it melted Claire’s heart. “I’m so proud of you. Always.”

She opened the door, and Claire almost couldn’t take the step, except that her dad was standing right there, looking tall and trim and—for the first time in a long time—healthy, despite his heart condition. Maybe it was the suit he was wearing, or just the pleasure of the day, but she’d take it—she’d take every day she had with her parents gladly.

Her dad gave her the biggest, most amazing smile she’d ever seen, and then offered her his arm.

It wasn’t so much like walking as gliding through a dream . . . Eve was walking ahead of her, vivid in her dramatic red dress with its train. And she had a vampire giving her away, remarkably enough: Oliver. He was wearing some extremely old-fashioned tuxedo thing with a gold sash over it, and he looked feral and handsome and slightly bored, but when he left her at the altar next to Michael, he kissed her hand, and that looked honestly nice. He took his place to the side, next to Amelie. Out of deference to the brides, she’d forgone the white suit she normally wore and instead had chosen a tailored teal blue that still looked like it cost more than the jewels heavy around Claire’s neck.

The church was packed with people. Regular humans and vampires. And one hundred percent Morganville.

She hardly felt the steps down the aisle, though she did feel the weight of all the eyes on her as she walked. It was over in what seemed far too little time, and then her dad handed her off to Shane, and her heart almost stopped as his eyes met hers.

She hadn’t seen Shane all morning, and sometime since she’d seen him last, he’d gotten his hair cut—not short, but shorter. It suited him, brought out the strong lines of his face and made him look fierce and amazing. He’d never, ever looked so good, she thought; he probably hated the tuxedo, but he utterly rocked it, even down to the ruby pin in the lapel.

Then he winked at her, and she knew that he was still Shane, and the tension in her eased. She had to fight the sudden, dizzying urge to giggle.

The service passed in a blur of words she wasn’t sure she got out right, and then the cool touch of the ring sliding onto her finger, and then the warm pressure of Shane’s lips on hers, and the sudden dizzy rush as he bent her backward, because, of course, and the laughter from the audience.

She didn’t completely get her breath or her sanity back until they were in the reception hall, and Myrnin, resplendent in an utterly (for a change) appropriate suit and tie, pressed a cup of punch into her hands and said, “Nonalcoholic. Also not containing actual blood. You seem to need it.”

“Oh,” she said, and looked down blankly at the red liquid. She sipped; he was right. It was just fruit juice with a sizzle kick of ginger ale. “Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome,” he said, and leaned against the wall beside her. “So. Happy?” He crossed his arms, staring out at the people milling about the buffet and taking seats at round tables. “Truly?”

She thought about it for a few seconds, and then said, very quietly, “Yes.” She resisted the urge to apologize for it, and he nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Clearly, that’s good.” He was watching someone, she realized, and after searching for a second Claire spotted Lady Grey—Jesse—talking with Amelie; two queens, chatting together like friends, although there was just a little stiffness between them if you knew what to look for. Jesse had on a black leather dress, probably just to be sure that she thoroughly contrasted; her red hair was loose around her shoulders, like a coat of fire.

Claire sipped her punch again. “She looks pretty today.”

“Doesn’t she?” he said, and sighed. “Terrifyingly so.”

Up on the raised stage, Michael finished tuning his guitar and pulled the mike close to say, “So, welcome to the afterparty,” which made quite a few people laugh. “This is a song I wrote for my wife. Feel free to get out there and dance.”

He started playing, and it was an aching, amazing song that poured out of him, and Claire was so intent on the music, the passion of it, that she was surprised when Myrnin took the cup out of her hands, put it aside, and pulled her out onto the dance floor. He twirled her around in a rush, and then settled into an easy, effortless glide.

Myrnin could dance. Who could have predicted that?

Claire caught her breath on a laugh, and fell into the rhythm.

“I’ll miss you,” she said. She didn’t know where it came from, but this close to him, it needed to be said.

“No, you won’t,” Myrnin said, and smiled at her. “Since I shall expect you at your table in the laboratory at ten a.m. sharp next Monday. Oh, and I’m to tell you that you will need to repeat some credit hours at the university. Apparently, some problem with your transcripts.”

“What?”

He shrugged. “Oh, don’t pretend you don’t love class, Claire. We both know better.”

Shane tapped Myrnin on the shoulder, and just for a second the two of them stared at each other . . . and then Myrnin gracefully, flamboyantly, bowed himself out. “Let me just say this once,” Shane said, as he slipped into place to whirl Claire away on the dance floor. “No more flirting with the crazy.”

She kissed him, and even though they stopped dancing, even though the world spun around them on its axis, even though things would never be exactly right, and vampires would fall short of their promises, and humans would be mean and spiteful and murderous . . . even with real life looming all around them, for that moment . . .

Everything was perfect.

“Mrs. Collins,” Shane whispered in her ear. “Let’s blow this party and go home while we can have it to ourselves.” He was right. Jenna was here, and Miranda was alongside her, looking sweet and pretty in a pink dress and getting invitations to dance from high school boys. She’d never looked so happy. Or so alive. Michael was onstage playing, while Oliver whirled Eve around the dance floor in an impressive show of grace.

Her heart pounded hard against her chest, and the beautiful white wedding dress felt too tight to hold her. Too tight to hold all the emotions that rioted inside her.

“Yes,” she said. “Let’s go home.”