He couldn’t feel it. Maybe that was because he was famously blunted to psychic things; maybe he was just blocking it out. But he honestly had no idea that the house was screaming for help, and she couldn’t say no to its need. That house had saved her life at least once. She owed it.
But she came to a sudden and frozen halt as she heard Monica Morrell’s smoky, lazy voice say, “Stop right there or I’ll blow your head off, Preschool. This means you, too, Shane. Don’t get stupid.
Well, you know. Stupider.”
Monica was Morganville’s crown princess of mean— a pretty girl who’d grown up rich, powerful and entitled to whatever she wanted, and she’d wanted it all. She’d grown up a little in the past couple of years, but that had just taken her from actively evil to passively unpleasant, in Claire’s opinion. They’d never been friends, the three of them, but they’d had moments of not- quite- hatred.
This, however, wasn’t one of them.
Claire realized that they’d managed to somehow stage their parking lot argument standing right beside Monica’s shiny red car— the only one like it in Morganville, instantly recognizable if she’d been paying the slightest bit of attention. And of course, it was parked in front of Monica’s apartment. Monica herself was leaning against the open door’s frame, tall and sleek and party- ready in a peach- colored minidress that fluttered in the wind and threatened to go into R- rated areas at any second.
What mostly concerned Claire wasn’t the dress, but the gun.
It was, in Texas terms, a lady’s weapon— a small black automatic that most men would probably dismiss as a purse gun— and Monica had it aimed right at Claire’s chest. At this distance, it wasn’t too likely she’d miss. Purse gun or not, it’d definitely do damage.
Claire slowly put her hands up. Shane said, “Jesus, Monica—”
“Hands up, Collins,” she said, and gave them both an impar- tially happy smile. “I heard a rumor that you butchered some poor sucker in your house. But unfortunately it wasn’t a blood sucker, or everybody would have just shrugged and gotten over it. Too bad for you, I mean. I suppose I really ought to make a citizen’s arrest and put you back in jail. You know, public safety and shit. Plus I think there might be a reward. Totally bonus bucks.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Claire said.
“Damn right I am, and I have every right to love seeing the two of you wearing orange jumpsuits. It is just so your color, Shane.”
“Bite me, Bitch Queen.”
Monica blew him an air kiss. “Don’t think I wouldn’t leave a mark.” There was an evil, bright light in her pretty eyes. She’d always had some kind of perverse sadomasochistic crush on Shane, and the fact that Shane had shoved her away repeatedly had set her off in ways he’d never expected. Most people still assumed that Monica had been behind the fire that consumed Shane’s family home and killed his little sister, Alyssa. Claire had never been so sure, and she knew that Shane had mostly given up that conviction, too. Monica wasn’t above trolling in the wake of a tragedy, but she hadn’t started the fire.
It didn’t make her a better person, though.
“I’m only going to say this once,” Shane said, “and I can’t be- lieve I’m saying it at all, so never ever repeat it, but we need your help. Please.”
Monica blinked. That was obviously not what she’d expected— or, truthfully, what Claire had expected, either. Monica was an ef- fortless button- pusher, and Shane was usually way too easy to manipulate . . . but not this time. “Excuse me?” she asked, and cocked her head to one side. “Are you actually pretending that we’re friends?”
“Monica, I am pretty sure you have no idea how to have a friend who isn’t an empty- souled suck- up, but you’re not a fool. You know you’ve built up way too much bad karma around here, and it’s all coming back on you. The vamps are out, humans are in, and you’ve acted like the Queen of All Bitches for half your life. You’d better start counting up your allies. I’m pretty sure you won’t get past your middle finger.”
That got a long, measured look— much more thoughtful and adult than anything Claire could say she’d ever seen in Monica be- fore. Maybe even the eternally self- involved could sometimes grow up, at least enough to recognize their own danger. “I’m listening,”
Monica said.
“Could we do this inside?” Claire asked. She’d caught a glimpse in the distance of a Morganville police cruiser, search- lights flaring.
Monica debated a full fifteen seconds before she stepped back and lowered the gun. “Yeah,” she said. “But don’t expect me to go all Southern belle on you and offer an iced tea and cookies. I am not your grandma. And don’t touch my stuff.”
Neither of them hesitated. They moved fast, and were inside and locking the door behind them before she got the last words out. The relief was immense, and Claire turned to put her back against the door.
“Wow,” Shane said. “This is—” He ran out of words. Claire fully understood why.
It was the girliest room Claire had ever seen. Pale carpet, pink satin couch, pale yellow armchair, also silk. Fairy lights strung around the light fixtures. A bookcase filled not with books but with pictures of Monica, in blinged- out pink frames. A giant cus- tom Andy Warhol– style print, only Marilyn Monroe had been re- placed with Monica’s face. There was a sharp, high- pitched volley of barking, and Claire looked down to see a tiny little teacup Chi- huahua with a frilly pink collar and mean bulging eyes yapping at them from under the yellow chair.
“Channing, hush,” Monica said, and picked up the little thing.
It shivered constantly, studying Shane and Claire with frenzied in- tensity. It stopped barking, but kept growling, in a pitch that wouldn’t have intimidated a butterfly. “This is Channing. Chan- ning, this is Asshat and Nerd Girlfriend.”
“I think that’s my new band name,” Shane said. “Asshat and Nerd Girlfriend. It’s got a ring to it. Did you name your dog after Channing Tatum?”
“He has qualities,” Monica said, and put the Chihuahua down.
It immediately attacked Shane’s shoelaces. He watched it with a puzzled frown, as if he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or . . .