Then he said, "You are the historian."
Kim smiled. "Bingo, dude. I'm the historian. And you're kinda new, am I right? I have got to get you on camera. Make an appointment, okay? Here. Here's my number." She dug in the small black bag strapped to her wrist, came out with some kind of business card, and handed it to him. Pennywell took it - mostly in self-defense - and tucked it in his coat pocket. "Word of advice? Nehru jackets went out with the groovy sixties. Go for Brooks Brothers. You do not want to be preserved for posterity in a bad look, right? Also, maybe some work with the hair, butch you up some. Think about it."
While she was talking, Shane took Claire's elbow and quietly hustled her around Pennywell, whose eyes remained fixed on Kim as she chattered. By the time the vampire realized what was happening and thrust Kim aside, Shane and Claire were slipping through the door into the hall, out of his reach.
Hopefully.
"Did she do that on purpose?" Claire asked.
"Don't know," Shane said. "But I wasn't about to waste the chance. Call Oliver. Find out if he was really wanting to see us."
Claire nodded. The crowd in the hall was still buzzing around, and the noise level was high. Nobody would notice her on the phone; there had to be a hundred or more of them glowing like jewels in the tiers of seats as people caught up with their friends, gossiped, made dates.
Claire speed dialed a vampire and got voice mail. Oliver didn't bother to identify himself, but just told the caller to leave a message, which she did, and then she put her phone on vibrate.
Shane kept looking at the closed doors they'd come through. Claire suppressed the urge to grit her teeth. "You're worried about her?" she asked, and tried to keep her voice neutral.
"We left her alone with Pennywell," he said. "Dammit. I thought she was following us."
Well, Kim hadn't followed them. Claire tried to be more worried, but the best she could really summon up was a dim sense of annoyance. And that really wasn't like her; she was always trying to find excuses for the worst people, and somehow, she just couldn't get on Kim's side, no matter what.
But she knew the right thing to do. "We should go look for her."
"No," Shane said. "You stay here. I'm just going to see if she's out there. I just want to be sure she's all right."
Because you don't at all care, Claire thought, but had enough sense to keep it to herself. She just nodded. Shane let go of her hand and moved to the doors, which he eased open and looked out. After a moment of hesitation, he let it close and came back. "Not there," he said.
"Which one?"
"Both." Shane sounded tense, and she couldn't blame him. He tended to take a lot on himself, and if something ended up going badly with Kim, he'd see it as his failure, which was nonsense, but it was how Shane rolled. "I need to - "
"Need to what?"
Kim again, coming up from right behind Claire. Claire squeezed her eyes shut and almost screamed in frustration - not relief - but she managed to control herself, turn, and say, very calmly, "Need to be sure you were okay. Which you are. Obviously."
Kim looked at her for a moment; then a knowing smile slowly spread over her lips. "Obviously," she almost purred. She transferred the look to Shane. And the smile. "You were worried about me? That's sweet, but gender-bender vamp back there wasn't about to hurt me."
"Why not?" Claire asked.
Kim shrugged. "Eh, you know. Damn, I really haven't seen you in forever, Collins. What you been up to?"
"Not much," he said, and reached out for Claire's hand again. "We've got seats down there. Sorry. Thanks for the intervention out there."
"Sure," Kim said. "Catch you later, then."
Their seats were close to the front, and by the time they'd reached them, the lights were going down. Claire looked back, but couldn't see Kim anywhere in the shadows.
"I think I might really hate that girl," she said.
Shane kissed her fingers lightly. "Don't be jealous. I'm not into her. Now or later."
Claire wished she could believe that, but there was still some small, difficult part of herself that was too aware of her own flaws.
Then the spotlights came up, the house lights went down, and Michael walked onto the stage, to a sudden rush of applause, and he wasn't the Michael Claire knew - he wasn't the one who hung out in the living room and played video games and noodled around on his guitar and picked terrible Westerns for movie night.
This was someone else.
Someone almost frightening, the way he grabbed and held the spotlight. He'd looked good earlier, but now Claire saw him the way that Michael Glass had always been meant to be seen . . . center stage. The light turned his hair brilliant gold, made his pale skin glow like moon-stone, turned him into something exotic and fabulous and untouchable - and, at the same time, something you wanted to touch. Badly.
Someone pushed into the chair next to Claire. Eve. She'd put on her best, mostly backless black velvet gown, fixed her hair into a chic, gleaming black cap, and when she crossed her legs, the slit in her dress revealed an acre of leg and stiletto heels.
She was out of breath.
"Oh God, I thought I'd never make it," she whispered to Claire, and snapped open a black silk fan, which she fluttered to cool herself off. "That's my boyfriend, you know."
"I know," Claire said. She'd been prepared to not talk to Eve, but in two sentences, she found herself smiling. There was something so happy in sharing her joy. "He's okay, I guess."
Eve smacked her with the folded-up fan. "Bite your tongue. My boyfriend is a rock god, baby."