"Yeah?" He was working out a chord progression, focused on the music; his response didn't mean he was listening, really.
"Shouldn't you be asleep? I mean, don't vampires -- ?"
He was listening after all. "Sleep during the day? Yeah, mostly. But I -- couldn't. I keep thinking ..." The chord progression turned minor, then wrong, and he grimaced. "I keep thinking that I should have fixed this crap with Shane by now. I don't know if he's going to get over it, not really. Not in the ways that count. And I hate it. I can't stop thinking -- I don't want him doing this stuff. Not without me watching his back."
Claire leaned her head against the battered black pillow on the corner of the couch. It smelled like spilled Coke, a little, but mostly it smelled like Shane, and she gladly turned her face into it and took a deep breath. It made it seem like he was here, at least for a second.
"He wouldn't hate you so bad if he didn't love you, at least a little bit," she said. "We'll be okay. We're going to stay together, right? The four of us?"
Michael looked up, and for a second she wasn't sure what he was going to say, but then he smiled a little and said, "Yeah. We'll stay together. No matter what."
It felt like a lie, and she wished he hadn't said it.
She fell asleep, listening to him compose a new song, and dreamed about vibrating strings and doorways that led nowhere, and everywhere. Someone was watching her, she could feel it, and it wasn't Michael, it wasn't warm and kind, it wasn't safe, she wasn't safe, and there was something wrong, wrong, wrong ...
She nearly fell off the couch, she jerked so hard. Michael wasn't there, and his guitar was in the case on the table. Claire squinted at the clock. It was nearly two o'clock, and she'd slept through lunch, but it wasn't hunger that had woken her up. She'd heard something.
It came again, a thumping knock on the front door. She yawned and pushed back the blanket that Michael had draped over her, and padded to the door still trying to rub the sleep out of her eyes.
She had to stand on tiptoes at the peephole to see out. Some guy, nobody that clicked any immediate recognition -- not Jason, at least. That was good. Claire looked over her shoulder, but there was no sign Michael had heard. She had no idea where he'd gone.
She opened the door. The guy standing outside looked up and held out a padded mailer with stickers on it; she took it and read her own name on it. "Oh," she said, preoccupied. "Thanks."
"No problem, Claire," he said. "Be seeing you."
There was something way too familiar about the way he said it. She jerked her head up, staring at him, but she still didn't know him. He was just ... normal. Average height, average weight, average everything. There was a silver bracelet on his wrist, so he was human, not vampire.
"Do I know you?" she asked. He tilted his head a little, but didn't answer. He just turned and walked away down the sidewalk, toward the street. "Hey, wait! Who are you?"
He waved and kept walking. She went a couple of steps outside into the early afternoon heat, frowning, but she'd left her shoes off and the concrete was blazing hot. No way could she run after him in bare feet, she'd fry like bacon.
She retreated back into the cool darkness of the house, and sighed in relief at the feeling of cool wood under her soles. She looked down at the envelope in her hand and suddenly wanted to drop it and step away. She didn't know who this guy was, and it was really strange that he wouldn't answer her. And strange, in Morganville, was rarely going to be a good thing.
She closed and locked the door, took a deep breath, and tore open the top of the envelope. No smell of blood or disgusting rotting things, which was a plus. She carefully squeezed the sides to open it up, and saw nothing in it but a note. She shook it out into her hand, and recognized the paper immediately -- heavy, expensive paper, cream-colored, embossed with the same logo that was on her gold bracelet.
It was a note from Amelie. Which meant the guy who'd dropped it off had to be somebody she trusted, at least that far.
"Everything okay?" Michael's voice from the end of the hall. Claire gasped, stuffed the paper back into the envelope, and turned to face him.
"Sure," she said. "Just mail."
"Good stuff?"
"Don't know yet, I haven't read it. Probably junk."
"Enjoy the fact that you don't have electricity, water, cable, internet and garbage to pay for," he said. "Look, I'm going upstairs. Yell if you need anything. There's stuff in the fridge if you're hungry." A brief pause. "Don't open the pitcher in the back on the top shelf."
"Michael, tell me you're not putting blood in our refrigerator."
"I told you not to open it. So you'll never know."
"You suck!" Of course he did, he was a vampire. "I mean, not in a good way, either!"
"Eat something! I'm sleeping." And she heard his door shut, so she was effectively alone.
Claire fumbled out the letter and unfolded it. A smell of faint, dusty roses came from the paper, like it had been stored in a trunk with dried flowers. She wondered how old it was.
It was a short, simple note, but it made her whole body turn cold.
It read, I am displeased with your progress in your advanced studies. I suggest you spend additional time learning all you can. Time is growing short. I do not care how you arrange this, but you will be expected to demonstrate at least a journeyman understanding of what you are being taught within the next two days. You cannot involve Michael. He is not to be risked.
Nothing else. Claire stared at the perfect handwriting for a few seconds, then folded the note up and put it back in the envelope. She still felt tired and hungry, but more than anything else, now she felt scared.