He helped her put her armload of supplies on the belt and nodded at the bored, overweight girl running things over the scanner. "Hey, Bettina."
"Hey, Shane." Bettina sighed.
"So, lot of drama today."
"Haven't had a delivery in two weeks," she said. "I'll be lucky if we're not closed by tomorrow. It's supposed to be payday. No sign of checks, either. This sucks."
"Hang in there," Shane said. He smiled at her, and she smiled back wearily. It occurred to Claire, with a bit of surprise, that he knew the girl, probably from his old neighborhood or school or something. "How's your brother?"
"Same jerkwad as he ever was, only now he's old enough to drink, all legal," she said. "Pretty much sucks."
"Tell me about it."
Bettina's eyes finally focused on Shane's throat, and the scarf. "Hey, is that a bruise? What happened?"
"Tattoo," he said, straight-faced. "It's hard-core."
She looked impressed. "I guess it must be."
Bettina silently bagged the groceries and handed them over, and Claire thanked her - sincerely, because it was obvious Bettina and everybody else at the Food King was going to have a pretty miserable time today - and walked with Shane back out into the cold.
"So, superspy, what did you learn hanging around the office door?" she asked him. Shane was hunched over, hands in his pockets, looking thoughtful.
"The manager called the cops," he said. "Filed a missing persons report. On a vampire."
"Seriously?"
"That's how desperate he is." Shane raised his eyebrows. "He gave them an address, if you're interested."
"That is not a good idea. We're supposed to stay quiet, remember?"
"We're not talking. We're just looking."
"You're going to get us killed," Claire said. "Well, yourself, anyway. Which will kill me, too, Shane. Please, let's go home, just this once! No poking around, no Scooby-Dooing, no taking crazy risks. I'm scared, and I think the less we have to do with whatever's going on, the better."
He shot a look over at her, a smile playing hide-and-seek with his lips. "Who are you, and what did you do with Claire?"
"I'm serious."
"I can see that." He sucked in a deep breath, as if playing for time, and after a moment, he said, "Claire, Myrnin's a few sandwiches short of a picnic, but he's got no reason to come after me. I could tell it wasn't his idea. He actually apologized to me before he choked the crap out of me. So . . . who gives Myrnin orders?"
"Shane - "
"C'mon. Help me out."
Claire sighed, and her breath puffed white in the fierce, cold wind that stung her skin. "Only one person."
"Yeah. Her. And then Oliver comes racing to stop him. Again, who gives Oliver orders, when he bothers to listen?"
"Amelie."
"And you think that by keeping our heads down, we're really going to get out of this? You want to believe in Santa and the Easter Bunny while we're at it?"
Claire jumped over a broken part of the sidewalk, which Shane's longer legs carried him effortlessly over. "Hey, you're the one who says the Easter Bunny is actually evil."
"Granted, but you're avoiding the point."
"I've thought about it," she said. "And I'm angry, Shane. I'm really angry. After everything we've done, everything we've risked, we're expendable. And it hurts. Believe me."
He stopped and looked at her for a moment, then put his arms around her. The street was empty except for a few passing cars, and it felt like they were all alone, against the world. That wasn't true, but in that moment, Claire was feeling particularly vulnerable.
Shane kissed her on the top of the head and said, "Welcome to Morganville. We grew up knowing that. You're just now realizing it."
She hid her face in the warm, rough weave of his jacket. Her voice came out muffled. "How do you stand it?"
"We get mean," Shane said. "And we get cynical. And we stick together. Always. Because first, last, and always, we rely on each other."
They stood there together, holding each other, until finally the wind got so cold Claire shivered even in his embrace.
Shane put his arm around her and walked her the rest of the way home. She forced herself to forget all they'd seen and said, and throw herself into salvaging Eve's engagement cake. It was actually fun, and three tubs of frosting later, they'd made it look, if not professional, presentable. The cakes were level, and the decoration was even; the red flowers looked sweet and just a bit in-your-face. Claire had decided to make the most of the amateurish clumsiness of the squeeze decorator stuff, so there was a funny lopsided heart with a childish arrow through it, and the initials MG and ER.
Simple, but fun.
Eve hugged her, hard. "It's beautiful," she said. "What happened to the old frosting?"
Shane, sitting at the table, raised his hand. "Took one for the team."
"Jesus, you ate it? All of it?"
"Nah." He held up the bowl that was sitting in front of him. There was still about half a cup left. "Couldn't finish it all."
Eve blinked and looked at Claire, who shrugged and said, "I always thought he was sweet."
The next day, they were all up early - hideously early, according to Eve, who looked hollow-eyed and desperate as she glugged down three cups of coffee before heading up to hog the bathroom for an hour and a half. Claire had wisely done all her showering and getting ready before Eve was even up.
She hadn't seen Michael at all yet, but Shane was up, yawning and looking almost as out of it as Eve. "Why are we doing this again?" he asked. "And where are all those doughnut things I bought?"
"Eaten," Claire said. "Besides, you ate about a pound of frosting last night. No sugar for you."
This time she got the finger, which was amusing; he never, ever shot it at her. She gave it right back, which made him smile. "So wrong. So what's Slave Driver Eve got us doing today?"
"We have to take the cake and flowers over to the ballroom," Claire said, ticking it off on her fingers. "Decorate the tables. Put out the plates and forks. Get the punch ready and set up the plasma table . . ."
"You cannot be serious."
"Relax - we're not managing the plasma table. The blood bank is doing that."
"Great. My two pints are going to be party food."
"Stay on target, Shane. What are you wearing?"
"Relax, Fashion Police. I'm dressing up. I've got a tuxedo T-shirt and everything." When her mouth opened in horror, he grinned. "Kidding. I'll look okay. Oh, and I'm wearing a turtleneck, so don't get on to me about the bruises not going with my shoes or anything." The bruises were, Claire had to admit, spectacular today, though his voice sounded more normal. "I promise, no lime green suits." He yawned. "I guess I'd better go bang on Michael's door. Dude's going to be late to his own party, and Eve would stake him right through the heart. Messy."
He took his coffee and ambled away, and Claire found herself standing there smiling like an idiot. She didn't know when it had happened, but something had changed in Shane - something important. It wasn't a big shift, from most perspectives, but he seemed . . . more responsible now. Less the rebel slacker and more someone who liked being thought of that way.
Progress.
She sucked down the rest of her coffee, fast, and washed up the mugs in the sink. She was wrist-deep in warm, soapy water when Shane's voice came from behind her, calling her name. She looked around, and saw him standing in the doorway, holding it open. He looked . . .
Odd was her first thought, but in the next second, she amended it to scared. She hadn't seen him scared very often.
"Shane?" She left everything where it was and reached for a towel to wipe her hands.
"You'd better come out here," he said. "We've got visitors."
"Who . . . ?" It wasn't even eight a.m. and someone had come calling? So not right.
"Sheriff Moses and Dick Morrell," Shane said. "They've got Michael with him. He never came home last night."
"Oh God," Claire breathed. "Is he okay?"
"Depends," he said. "Come on."
She threw the towel at the counter and didn't care where it landed as she followed him out, down the hall, and into the parlor room at the front, where Hannah Moses and Morganville's mayor, Richard Morrell, were waiting. Hannah was dressed in her crisp blue police uniform, holding the peaked cap under her arm; she was a tall African-American woman with a scar on her face that she'd earned in Afghanistan combat, and she was one of the most capable and practical people Claire knew. Richard Morrell was wearing a suit and tie, but the tie was pulled loose and it seemed like yesterday's clothing, from the wrinkles and the dark circles beneath his eyes. He and Hannah were both kind of young - under thirty, at least - and even though Shane had never gotten over Richard being Monica's brother, Claire thought he was sort of all right.