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"Hey, sis," he said, and the knife turned, and turned, and turned. "I knew you'd be coming this way. Soon as I heard you left the party without your bloodsucking bodyguard, I knew the time was right."
"Jason -- " Eve let go of Claire and stepped in between the two of them. "This isn't her problem. Let her go."
Claire was torn -- watch Jason, who was terrifying, or pay attention to what was happening behind her, because Shane was fighting now, fighting for his life, and he was already hurt. She risked a glance back and saw Shane grab the baseball bat from his attacker, hit a home run to the guy's shoulder, and send him spinning into the brick wall. The frat guy went down, screaming, but Shane was clearly not doing well either -- he lurched, off balance, and went down to his hands and knees. The bat rolled away.
"Oh God," Claire whispered. There was blood running down his face, dripping in a wet thread to the pavement. "Shane!"
Shane shook his head, and the blood flew in a spray to splatter the concrete around him. He looked up, saw her, and blinked.
Then he saw Eve, and behind her, with the knife, Jason.
Shane fumbled for the bat, found it, and climbed to his feet. He stumbled forward, grabbed Claire and pushed her behind him, then yanked Eve away from Jason as well. He set his feet wide apart and took up a batting stance.
He looked pale and shaken and half-dead, but Claire knew he wasn't backing down.
"Leave them alone," he said. Not a yell, not a threat, just a low, quiet voice with absolute control. "Walk away, Jason."
Jason lost his smile. He put the knife in his pocket and held up his hands. "Sure. Sorry, man. Don't go all Sammy Sosa on me." He lowered his hands again and stuffed them in his coat pockets, looking casual, but there was an avid glitter to his eyes, and a cruel twist to his thin lips. "I heard you found a present in your basement. Something girl-shaped."
Eve groaned, and Claire reached out to steady her when she swayed. "Jason," Eve whispered, and she looked awful, like she was going to throw up. "Oh God, why?"
Shane took a step forward, bat raised and ready, and Jason backed up again. "Doing it there, that was just fun," he said. "But it's not about the girls. It's so I get noticed."
"Noticed?" Claire echoed faintly.
"Yeah, so they see I'm capable. Ready to be one of them."
"Oh God, Jase, is that what this is about? You're just some pathetic wannabe vampire making his bones?" Eve sounded so freaked it made Claire's guts knot up. "You're trying to impress them? By killing?"
"Sure," Jason shrugged. He looked thin and weedy, almost lost inside that black leather jacket. "How else do you get attention around here? And I'm going to get lots of attention. Starting with you, Claire."
Shane yelled -- it wasn't even words, just a yell of pure fury -- and swung at him.
There was a sharp, loud sound, and the smell of something burning, and Claire stared stupidly at the wisp of smoke rising from Jason's coat pocket.
There was a hole in the leather.
It wasn't until the bat hit the pavement with a noisy rattle, and Shane collapsed to his knees, that she realized that there was a gun, and Jason had fired it.
And Shane had just been shot.
Shane didn't seem to understand it either. He was panting, trying to say something, but he couldn't get the words out. His eyes were wide and confused.
Jason turned and walked away, hands still in his pockets. People were coming out Common Grounds, looking puzzled and alarmed, and at the forefront was Oliver. Oliver's head turned quickly, and he focused on them.
Claire dropped to her knees next to Shane. He looked desperately into her face, and slowly collapsed to his side.
His hands were clutching his stomach, and there was so much blood ...
Eve hadn't moved. She was just -- standing there, in her lovely black dress, staring blindly after her brother.
Oliver grabbed her and shook her. Her black hair flew wildly, and when he let go, Eve sank down to a defeated slump against the building's brick wall. Oliver shook his head impatiently and turned to Claire, and Shane.
Claire looked up, mute with misery, and saw Oliver staring down at them.
For just a second, she thought she saw something in him. Maybe just a tiny glimmer of empathy.
"Someone is calling the ambulance," he said. "You should put pressure on the wound. He's losing a lot of blood. It's a waste." The blood, he meant. Not Shane.
"Help me," Claire said. Oliver shook his head. "Help me!"
"You'll find that vampires aren't particularly good with the wounded," he said. "I'm doing you a favor by staying away. And don't try to order me, little girl. That gold bracelet of yours means almost nothing to me except that I shouldn't leave witnesses behind."
Shane coughed, wet and hard, and blood trickled out of his mouth. He looked as pale as Michael. Vampire-pale.
Claire cradled him in her arms. Oliver glanced at Eve, frowned, and went away. People were coming closer, murmuring, asking questions, but Claire couldn't make any sense out of it. She pressed down on the wet bloody mess of Shane's shirt, felt him tense and try to squirm away, and didn't let him. Pressure on the wound. It seemed to take forever until she heard the distant sound of sirens approaching.
Shane was still breathing when they loaded him inside the ambulance, but he wasn't moving, and he wasn't talking.
Claire went to Eve, got her on her feet, and put an arm around her shoulders. "Come on," she said. "We should ride with Shane."
Oliver was staring at the wet, dark smears of blood on the concrete, and as Claire helped Eve up into the back of the ambulance, he looked at one of his coffee shop employees and nodded toward the mess.
"Clean it up," he said. "Use bleach. I don't want to smell it all night."
Chapter Eleven
Shane survived the trip, and they rushed him right into surgery. Eve sat silent in her black velvet dress, looking more Goth than ever, and wildly out of place in the soothing neutral waiting room. Claire kept getting up and washing her hands, because she kept finding more of Shane's blood on her clothes and skin.
Eve was crying quietly, almost hopelessly. For some reason Claire didn't cry at all. Not at all. She wasn't even sure she could. Did that make her sick? Screwed up? She wasn't sure who she could ask. She couldn't seem to feel anything right now except a vague sense of dread.
Richard Morrell came to take their statements. It was simple enough, and Claire had no hesitation in turning in Jason for the shooting. "And he confessed," Claire added. "To killing those girls."
