"How'd you get it out of impound?"
"Trade secret," Jason said. "But it involves not actually asking. Same with the phones. Speaking of which ..." He dug in the pocket of his hoodie and came up with them, which he handed over to Shane. They didn't tap fists or high-five or anything, but Shane nodded, and Jason nodded back. "No signal," Claire said, checking hers. "Man, the Morganville provider network sucks."
"It works when Amelie wants it to work," Shane said. "Apparently, she doesn't want it working right now."
"Michael needs to call the guy in Dallas. You know, let him know we're on the way."
"Let him know we got trapped in a vampire town and fought off a vampire zombie army, you mean?"
"I was thinking maybe car problems."
"Boring, but effective," Shane said. "I'll go see if we can make it work. Maybe cell phone wastage doesn't apply to vampires." As they were talking, Jason walked across to the library, head down, looking like a thin stick in blue jeans. Claire wondered if maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for Eve's brother. Not much of one, but ... maybe. EPILOGUE "It's you," Eve said, and gave the wig a final tug on Claire's head, setting it just right. All of a sudden, it looked right-not just some random collection of plastic threads stuck on top of her scalp, but ... hair. Pretend hair, sure, but, it looked ... Claire couldn't decide how it looked. She cocked her head first one way, then the other. Tried a pose. "Is it cool? I think it's cool. Maybe?" The girl looking back at her wasn't just a mousy, skinny girl anymore. The new, improved Claire Danvers was taller, a little more filled out, and she was wearing a new hot pink shirt layered over black, a pair of low-rise jeans with skulls on the pockets, and pink and white hair. She was rocking the streaked wig. It flowed down over her shoulders in careless waves, and made her look mysterious and fragile and smoky, and Claire just knew she had never been smoky or mysterious in her entire life. "That is absolutely so you," Eve said with a happy sigh, and jumped around in hoppy circles in her new patent leather black shoes with red skull imprints. "You have got to get it. And wear it. Trust me, Shane will go nuts. You look so dangerous!"
"Shane's already nuts." Claire laughed. "Did you see him in the T-shirt aisle? I thought he was going to cry. So many sarcastic sayings; so few days of the week to wear them. And I'm not sure I really feel comfortable looking, y'know, dangerous. " Eve gave her a long, serious look. "You are, you know. Dangerous."
"Am not."
"It's not the hair. You just--you're something else, Claire. It's like when all the rest of us don't know where to go, you ... just go. You're not afraid."
"That is so not true," Claire said with a sigh. "I'm scared all the time. Down to my bones. I'm lucky I don't run away like a little screaming girl." Eve smiled. "That's my job. You're the heroic one."
"Not!"
"Oh, just shut up and get the wig already," Eve said. "No."
"Get it get it get it!"
"Okay! Jeez, you're scaring the other freaks!" They both broke into manic giggles, because it was true; a couple of very Gothy Goths were edging away, casting them both odd, apprehensive little looks. Being from Morganville gave you an attitude, Claire guessed. And that wasn't a bad thing, especially when you were in a scary-big city like Dallas, where everything seemed to move ten times faster than she was used to, including the traffic. She didn't know how Eve had managed to get them to the hotel, or get Michael to his studio appointment after dark, but she had, and it was fabulous. The hotel rooms had free soaps and shampoos and robes. It was amazing. And they were all modern, with flat-screen, high-definition TVs, and beds so soft that sleeping on them was like sleeping on angel wings. It was so not like the life she was used to living, which was, she supposed, what made it extra special cool. "I am a rock star," Claire said to her reflection. Her reflection seemed to agree, although it still made her laugh inside to think it. She remembered Morley's surprise when she'd actually shot him, and Oliver's laughter, his genuine approval. Maybe she was, a little tiny bit. She flipped the hair over her shoulders and thought about makeup. "What do you think about heavy eyeliner?" Claire asked, which was totally redundant, because Eve never went anywhere without heavy eyeliner. It was her number one fashion tool. Instantly, Eve whipped out her Mac tools and began doing Claire's eyes for her. When she checked again, Claire looked ... really mysterious. Her face had taken on depth, shadows, secrets. Wow. It was amazing what a little change could do. And a little sleep, Claire thought. She felt better than she had in months, knowing there was nobody lurking around the corner to kidnap her, munch her neck, or otherwise present a serious danger. "You look absolutely fantastic," Eve said. "Drop-dead gorgeous."
"Not literally, hopefully."
"The idea is to knock other people dead, sweetie. I didn't think I really had to explain that part." Shane rounded the corner of the aisle with a double armload of T-shirts, every one of them bound to offend someone in Morganville, and skidded to a stop at the sight of the two of them. His mouth opened and closed. Eve stepped away, but Shane didn't notice; his eyes were fixed on Claire, and he looked as if he'd been hit in the forehead with a two-by-four. "How do I look?" she asked, which was a completely ridiculous question, given how he was staring at her. He dropped the T-shirts and kissed her, long and sweet and hard, and she felt a fierce kind of joy blow into a storm inside, wild and crazy and free. The Gothy McGoth twins, in their leather and spikes and dyed hair, sniffed and walked off, clearly offended by the sight of so much happiness in one place. When Shane let her up for air, Claire said, "Maybe we should actually buy the stuff before we celebrate?"
"Why wait?" And he kissed her again.
Chapter Eighteen
Dallas was amazing. All the lights, the dizzying buildings, the crazy amounts of traffic, the noise, the people. After a long morning of shopping, Claire was dog-tired, too tired and dazed to even properly admire how awesome their hotel was, with all the glass and marble and fancy furniture. Michael wasn't due to be in the studio until eight p.m., so she fell into bed and slept in her clothes, for a long time. When she woke up, Eve was just finishing her makeup--back to Goth Girl Gone Wild--and checking her lace skull-patterned minidress in the mirror. Her legs looked taller than Claire's entire body. "Wow," Claire mumbled, and sat up. The mirror showed her just how horrible her bed head could be. "Ack."
"The shower is amazing," Eve said, and turned to the side, smoothing down her dress. "Is it too much?"
"For Morganville? Yeah. For Dallas? No idea. But you look fantastic." Eve smiled, that secret little smile, and her eyes glittered brightly. She was thinking about Michael, obviously. Claire yawned, slipped off the bed, and went to try the shower. Thirty minutes later, her hair fluffed into relative cuteness, she was clean, dry, and dressed in jeans and her best cute blue top, the one Shane said he liked. She even stopped for a little makeup, although she knew it was a lost cause, considering Eve's outfit. Shane rapped on their door ten minutes later, and when she answered, he looked sleepy but relaxed. Freshly showered, which was always a look she loved on him; his hair was even more insane than usual, as if he'd toweled it dry and then forgotten about it. She smoothed it down. He kissed her and called, "Yo, Eve? Crazy train's leaving the station!"
"I'm coming!" Eve yelled breathlessly, and came out of the bathroom, again, smoothing down her dress. Shane blinked, but he didn't say anything. "Michael's waiting. He's freaking out that he's going to be late."
"Well, he won't be," Eve said. "Do I look okay? Like a rock star's girlfriend?"
"No," Shane said, and when she looked hurt, he laughed. "You look much better than that, scary girl." She blew him a kiss and set off down the hall. Michael was pacing next to the elevators, crackling with nervous energy; his gear was piled next to the wall, and he had a strange, closed expression on his face that disappeared the second he saw Eve. Claire sighed in sympathetic happiness as Michael kissed his girlfriend and leaned over to whisper something in her ear--something that made Eve laugh and cuddle even closer. Shane rolled his eyes. "I thought you were in a hurry, man."
"Never in that much of a hurry," Michael said, and picked up one of the guitars. Shane picked up the other and offered him a fist to bump. "Let's go rock it, Mikey." Michael just looked at him for a second. Shane held steady, and said, "Michael. You can do it. Trust me." Michael took a deep breath, returned the fist bump, and nodded as he pushed the elevator call button. There was a car downstairs--a big black town car, like a limousine only not as fancy--with a driver in a black jacket. He gave Eve a hand in, then Claire; Michael and Shane took the facing bench seat. The guitars, Claire assumed, went in the trunk. Michael was looking pale, but then, when didn't he? He reached across the open space and took Eve's hand as the car began to roll. "Love the dress," he said. "Love you," she said, very simply. His eyebrows rose a little, and he smiled. "I was getting to that part."
"I know." Eve patted his hand. "I know you were. But you're a boy. I thought I'd just cut to the chase. You're going to be great, you know." They didn't say anything the rest of the short drive; the roof overhead was clear, and it gave them an amazing view of the tall buildings and the colored lights. Claire felt her heart pounding. This was really happening. She couldn't imagine what was going on in Michael's head--or heart. It seemed like a dream. Morganville seemed like a dream, one that had happened to someone else, and the idea that they'd leave this reality and go back to that one... Shane didn't have to, Claire thought again. Of the four of them, he was the one who could walk away, and there was nothing in Morganville to hold him. Nothing but her, anyway. At the studio, which was in a plain-looking industrial building at the edge of downtown, the driver unloaded the guitars and saw them inside, where two people waiting immediately focused on Michael. Claire, Eve, and Shane suddenly became his entourage, which was funny and kind of awesome, and trailed along as the two recording people explained the process to Michael. Shane carried both the guitars. He did it with a smile, too, that said clearly how proud he was of his friend. Michael looked fierce--he was concentrating on every word, and Claire could see him already putting himself into performance mode, that place that made him so different when he was onstage. At the studio door, one of the two studio guys turned and held out a hand to Eve, Claire, and Shane. "You guys need to wait in the box," he said. "Through that door." He pointed to a thick metal door with a window inset, and took the guitars from Shane. Then he flashed them a quick grin. "He'll be great. Trust me, he wouldn't be here if he wasn't."
"Damn right," Shane said, and led the two girls into the box--which, it turned out, was the recording studio's control room. A big man with frizzy hair was sitting at the mixing board, which looked more complicated than the inside of the Space Shuttle. He said hello and gestured for them to take a seat on the big, plush couch at the back of the room. It was an amazing place, the studio, full of people who were all just really, really great at their jobs. The engineer behind the giant, complicated mixing board was relaxed, calm, and very easygoing, and the two on the other side of the glass helped Michael get set up, did some sound checks, and then left him alone to join the rest of them in the control room. "Right," the engineer said, and nodded to his two assistants--if that was what they were; Claire wasn't sure. "Let's see what he's got." He flipped a switch. "Michael ? Go ahead, whenever you're ready." He started out playing a slow song, head down, and Claire felt the mood in the room change from professional to really interested as he settled into the music. It flowed out of him, silky smooth, beautiful, as natural as sunshine. It was an acoustic guitar thing, and it put tears into Claire's eyes; there was something so soft and sad and aching about it. When he finished, Michael held the chord for a long moment, then sighed and sat back on his stool, looking through the glass toward them. The engineer's mouth was open. He closed it, cleared his throat, and said, "What's that called, kid?"
"`Sam's Song,"' Michael said. "It's for my grandfather." The engineer closed the microphone, looked at the other two, and said, "We've got a live one." How darkly hilarious, Claire thought. If only he knew. "He's great," Shane said softly, as if he'd never actually realized it before. "Seriously. He's great. I'm not crazy, right?"
"You're not crazy," the engineer said. "Your buddy has insane skills. They're going to love him out there." Out there. In the world. In the real world. Where Michael couldn't really go for long. The booth door opened, and Oliver walked in. He was in a normal human mode, looking fatherly and inoffensive. The aging hippie, complete with tie-dyed T-shirt and faded jeans and sandals. Claire bet that if she'd told the engineer Oliver was a vampire, he'd have laughed and told her to lay off the crack. Oliver perched on the arm of the sofa, listening. They all scooted over, because even Claire didn't really want to lean against him, no matter how nice he was apparently being. He said nothing at all. After a while, they all relaxed a little, as Michael continued to pour out the amazing rivers of music on the other side of the studio glass. Fast, slow, hard rocking--he could do it all. When the last song was over, two hours later, the engineer hit the microphone into the studio and said, "Perfect. That was perfect; that's a keeper. Okay, I think we're done. Congratulations. You are officially on your way, my man." Michael stood up, smiling, holding his guitar in one hand, and caught sight of Oliver watching him. His smile almost faded, but then he moved his gaze over to Eve, who was on her feet, blowing him kisses. That made him laugh. "Rock star!" Eve yelled, and clapped. Claire and Shane stood up and clapped, too. Oliver sat quietly, no expression at all on his face, as they celebrated Michael's success. It was their last night in Dallas. Oliver had allowed them to have a nice dinner out, at a fantastically expensive restaurant where all the waiters were better dressed than Claire ever had been. He didn't go, of course, but somehow Claire could feel his presence, feel him watching. It was still an amazing meal. She tried everything on her plate, on Shane's, even off Michael's and Eve's. They laughed and flirted, and after the dinner--which went on Oliver's credit card --they went to a dance club across the street, full of beautiful people and spinning lights. No liquor allowed for them, thanks to the glowing wristbands they didn't get, but they danced. Even Shane, although he mainly held on to Claire as she danced--which was fantastic. Hot, sweaty, exhausted, happy, the four of them piled into a cab and headed back to the hotel. It was on the elevator ride up when Shane asked, "Are we really going back?" It was a long ride; their rooms were on the very top floor of a very tall building. Nobody spoke, not even Michael. He rested his chin on top of Eve's head and held her close, and she put her arms around him. Shane looked at Claire, the question plain in his eyes. She felt the heavy weight of it, the absolute vital importance of it. The claddagh ring on her right hand felt cold, suddenly. "Seriously," Shane said. "Can you leave all this? Just go back to that? Michael, you've got a future out here. You really do."