Glass Houses Page 0,11
mattress and box spring with massive wooden columns at the corners, dark and solid. There was a dresser along one wall big enough to hold, well, four or five times the clothes that Claire had ever owned. Plus a closet. Plus...
"Is that a TV?" she asked in a faint voice.
"Yeah. Satellite cable. You'd pitch in, though, unless you want to take it out of the room. Oh, and there's Internet, too. Broadband, over there. I should probably warn you, they monitor Internet traffic around here, though. You have to be careful what you say in messages and stuff." Eve put the backpack on top of the dresser. "You don't have to decide right now. You probably ought to rest first. Here, here's your ice pack." She followed Claire to the bed and helped her pull back the covers, and once Claire had pulled off her shoes and settled, she tucked her in, like a mother, and put the ice pack on her head.
"When you get up, Michael'll probably be awake. I have to get back to work, but it'll be okay. Really."
Claire smiled at her, a little fuzzily; the painkillers were starting to take effect. She got another chill.
"Thank you, Eve," she said. "This is - wow."
"Yeah, well, you look like you could use a little wow today." Eve shrugged, and gave her a stunning smile back. "Sleep well. And don't worry, the vampires won't come in here. This house has Protection, even if we don't."
Claire turned that over in her mind for a few seconds as Eve left the room and shut the door, and then her mind wandered off in happy clouds of noticing the softness of the pillow and how good the bed felt, and how crisp the sheets were....
She dreamed about the strangest thing: a silent room, with someone pale and quiet sitting on a velvet sofa, turning pages in a book and weeping. It didn't scare her, exactly, but she felt cold, on and off, and the house...the house seemed like it was full of whispers.
Eventually, she fell into a deeper, darker place, and didn't dream at all.
Not even about Monica.
Not even about vampires.
Chapter Three
She woke up in the dark with a panicked flinch that sent the ice pack - water sloshing in a bag now - thumping off her pillow and onto the floor. The house was quiet, except for the creaky, creepy noises houses made at night. Outside, wind rattled the dry leaves on the trees, and she heard music coming from the other side of the bedroom door.
Claire slid out of bed, fumbled for a lamp, and found one next to the bed - Tiffany-style glass, really nice - and the colorful glow chased away any nightmare fears she'd been trying to have. The music was slow and warm and contemplative, kind of guitar alternative. She got her shoes on, took a look in the dresser mirror, and got a nasty shock. Her face still hurt, and it was obvious why - her right eye was swollen, the skin around it purple. Her split lip looked shiny and unpleasantly thick, too. Her face - always pale - looked even paler than normal. Her short pixie-cut black hair had a serious case of bed-head, but she fluffed it out into something like order. She'd never really been much for makeup, even when she'd been stealing Mom's to try on, but today maybe a little foundation and concealer couldn't hurt.... She looked ragged, and beaten, and homeless.
Well. It was nothing but the truth, after all.
Claire took a deep breath and opened her bedroom door. Lights were on in the hall, warm and glowing gold; the music was coming from downstairs, in the living room. She checked a clock hanging on the wall at the far end; it was after midnight - she'd slept for more than twelve hours.
And missed all her classes. Not that she'd have wanted to show up looking like this, even if she hadn't been so paranoid about Monica following her around...but she'd need to hit the books later. At least the books didn't hit back.
Her bruises felt better, and in fact her head hurt only a little. Her ankle was still the worst of it, sending sharp glassy jabs of pain up her leg with every step down the stairs.
She was halfway down when she saw the boy sitting on the couch, where Shane had been sprawled before. He had a guitar in his hands.
Oh. The music. She'd thought