SHANE
Michael had his arms around Eve, and that was going well for a change; Myrnin had already taken his goodies off to the lab, leaving the three of us behind. Hannah had ditched us, too, locked in her eerie calm. None of us had dared say anything to her.
Claire was looking at me with dull, tragic need, and I just couldn't ... I couldn't give her what she needed. Not yet. I couldn't feel it. But there was something I could feel, after all.
I said, "I need to tell Monica about her brother."
I heard Claire suck in a deep breath, as if she hadn't even thought that far ahead. "Oh," she said in a choked voice. "Should I go-?"
"No. Better if I do it alone." Because if I could feel anything real, it would be now, looking into Monica's eyes. It was karma. She deserved to hear about her brother from me; while my sister died, caught in our burning house, Monica had stood there and smiled and flicked a lighter. Mocking me. Mocking how helpless I was.
I'd always believed she'd set the fire, from that moment on; Richard had always insisted she hadn't, that she'd just been a troll and hadn't even known Alyssa was trapped inside. I didn't really believe him. Maybe he didn't even believe it himself.
I found Monica in what I guessed was some kind of vampire entertainment room. There was a TV, tuned now silently to static, and a leather couch. She was lying on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, and she was asleep.
I didn't think I'd ever seen Monica asleep, and the surprise was that when she wasn't actively being herself, she seemed ... normal. She looked tired, too; her hair was mussed, and she'd taken her makeup off. Without it, she looked her actual age, which was Michael's-no, she was still human. She was older than Michael now.
All of a sudden, real or not, the pain I was about to inflict didn't seem right-but she needed to know, and I'd volunteered.
Isn't it perfect, how you get to tell her about her brother? More wish fulfillment, Shane. You really think all this is the truth?
That damn stupid voice in my head wouldn't shut up. It was a constant, grinding monologue, a headache that wouldn't go away. And the worst thing was, I wasn't sure it was imagination. Wake up, Shane.
But I was awake. Wasn't I?
I crossed the room toward the couch. The lights had been turned down low, but on the coffee table there was a remote to turn them up, so I pressed the button. As the artificial sun came up, Monica moaned a little, mumbled, and tried to bury her face in the pillow.
Then, as I sat down on the edge of the table, staring at her, she suddenly sat bolt upright, and the fear that raced over her expression surprised me. I hadn't thought she was capable of that kind of vulnerability ... but then, she'd been born here, just as I'd been, and having strangers walk in on you asleep was rarely good.
Monica stared at me blankly, without recognition, for about two seconds, and then awareness overtook alarm, and she just looked annoyed. And angry. "Collins," she said, and ran her fingers through her hair, as if getting it settled was her first priority. "God, there's a new thing called knocking-look into it. If you're going to get all stalkery over me saving your life today, please don't. It wasn't my idea in the first place. Though if you want to dump your Playskool girlfriend, I might be persuaded to throw you a boner." She smiled at me, suddenly all inappropriate hormones and insanity.
I didn't know how to do this. The responsibility felt heavy and harsh, because I was about to totally destroy her world. I knew how it felt, and yeah, there was a certain justice to it, not denying that, but I found that I couldn't take any real joy, either. I just waited her out, until she was silent, frowning at me, clearly made uneasy by my lack of reaction.
And then I said, very quietly, "Monica, I have to tell you something. It's bad."
She wasn't stupid, and about one second after I said it, I saw the awful light start to dawn. "What happened?" she asked, and folded her arms together over her stomach. I remembered how that felt, the drop off the edge of the earth. "Is-is it my mom?" Because, I realized, news that her mother was dead, even a mother who no longer even spoke to or recognized her own kids, was the best-case scenario she could think of now.
"No," I said. Maybe I should have been taunting her, I don't know; maybe I'd have been fully within my rights to do it. But suddenly all I wanted out of this was to be kind, and to be quick, and to be out. I wanted to hold Claire, and forget how fragile we all were, just for a moment. "No, it's not your mom. I'm sorry. It's Richard."
"He's hurt," she said, and threw the blanket back. She was wearing sweatpants and a tank top, like a normal girl, and she reached for a pair of flat shoes. Her hands were trembling. "Is he here? Can I see him? He's going to be okay, right? God, these shoes don't even match, but I couldn't bring everything ...."
"No," I said, "he's not going to be okay." She stopped in the act of sliding one shoe on, but she didn't look up. After that hesitation, she finished, and donned the other shoe, and stood up. I stood too, not sure what to do now.
"What do you know, dumbass?" she said, and shoved past me, heading for the door. "When did you go to med school? You couldn't even pass bio, for God's sake. I'm sure he's fine."
"Monica," I said. Maybe it was the fact that I didn't insult her back, or raise my voice, or grab her; maybe it was just that she already knew. I don't have any idea what happened inside her head. But she stopped as if she'd run into an invisible wall, and waited. "I saw it. I'm sorry. Hannah was with him. They're going to bring him in soon. I thought you ought to know before-" Before you saw his body.
She whirled on me then, and the rage in her face took me by surprise. "You lying son of a bitch!" she screamed, and picked up the first thing she could reach-the TV's remote control-and flung it at me as hard as she could, which was pretty hard, actually. I batted it out of the way and didn't respond. She went for something heavier, a big marble bust of somebody I supposed I should have recognized, but she couldn't throw that nearly as well. It hit the carpet three feet from me and rolled.
And then she stumbled and fell on her knees. All the anger drained out of her, just as if someone had pulled a plug, leaving her pale and empty. Her eyes were open wide, pupils contracted to pinpoints, and she stared at me with her lips parted.
"I'm sorry," I said again. Seemed like all I could say. Had I thought this was a dream, a perfect revenge? Wish fulfillment? It wasn't. It was just ... sad. "He was okay, your brother. He always tried to be fair. And he cared about you."
It wasn't much, as eulogies go, but it was all I had. Whatever entertainment I'd thought I would get out of this had been pure fantasy, and all I felt now was sickness, and bone-deep discomfort. I should have let Michael do it. Michael would have been good at it; he was all sensitive and crap, knew what to say and when ...
Monica just stared at me. As if she was waiting for me to tell her it was all just a really nasty joke.
This should have been Oliver's job, I thought. Oliver was her vampire godfather Protector, wasn't he? Where was he?
Monica finally said, in a voice I would never have recognized as belonging to her, "You're a liar. He's not dead. He can't be dead. He's hurt, that's all, he got hurt and you're just a fucking liar. You're messing with me, you asshole. Because of your sister."
"I wish I was," I said. I shook my head and started for the door, because there was nothing else I could do here. Nothing but hurt and get hurt.
"Wait," she said. Her voice was shaking now, as her world fell apart inside. "Shane, wait. I didn't do it-I didn't start that fire. You don't have to be a jerk about this. This isn't funny ...."
"I know," I said. I wasn't sure which part of that I was acknowledging. Maybe all of it, with a sad kind of acceptance. "Sorry."
She'd always had her friends with her. Gina, Jennifer, any of a dozen other hangers-on circling the orbit of Monica, Center of the Universe. She'd always been invulnerable, armored up in attitude and trendy clothing and makeup and gloss. Always the one doing the damage.
Maybe I should have taken some satisfaction at having brought her to this, alone, on her knees.
I didn't.
"I'll-send somebody," I said. I didn't know who I could possibly send, but it didn't matter; she didn't hear me. I looked back to see her pitch forward in slow motion, catch herself on one arm, and then roll over on her side on the carpet. Her legs slowly pulled up toward her stomach.
She started to cry in hopeless, gulping whoops.
Jesus.
I pulled in a deep, resigned breath, and went back to the couch, where I retrieved the blanket. I settled it over her, found a box of tissues and brought them to her. Then I poured her a stiff drink from an open bottle of Scotch on the counter at the back of the room-vampires liked their alcohol as much as humans, but they had a much better class of the stuff. This was single malt, and it smelled like smoke.
"Come on," I said, and hauled her upright to lean against the sofa's corner. I pressed the Scotch into one hand, pulled a couple of tissues out and stuffed them in the other hand. "Drink."
She did, obeying like a child; she choked on the first sip, but got it down, and then took a second, between gasps and shudders. A little awareness came back into her eyes, and a flash of something like shame. She used the tissues to wipe her nose, then got another to blot at her eyes. The tears were still coming, and her eyes were red and swollen. Never mind what the movies say-girls don't get prettier when they cry. That made her more ... human.
"Why'd you come?" she asked, finally, when the whiskey was down to a thin amber line at the bottom of the glass. Calmer now, maybe artificially, but at least she wasn't shaking like she was about to come apart. "Why not Claire? She's the nice one." She tried to make it sound like an insult, but her heart wasn't in it.
"I figured maybe-"
"Maybe this would make you feel better about your sister?" she asked, and drained the last of the alcohol. "How's that going for you?" Her hand was trembling.
I didn't answer. I was seriously considering getting myself a shot, which was all kinds of wrong. Monica held out the empty glass to me, and I put it aside.
"I was hoping for a refill," she said.
"You don't need one. Last thing you need is to be drunk right now."
"Speaking from experience?"
"Yes," I said. I met her gaze solidly. "You're an evil bitch, and a bully, and I can't count the number of times I've wanted to break your neck. But I kind of liked your brother. That's why I came."
She took in a deep, fluttering breath, but she didn't break out in tears again. That was done, at least for now. I waited for the snappy comeback. It didn't make an appearance. Finally she said, "He always said that he hoped he was adopted." She made a weird little attempt at a laugh. "Most kids think that, but I think he was right. He deserved better." She swiped at her eyes again. "Shit. I can't believe I let you see me like this. You're never going to let me forget it, are you?"
I let that pass into silence, and then asked, "You going to be okay?"
This time the laugh was a little more recognizable, but hollow, as if she was empty inside. "No," she said. "But thanks anyway. For not-"
For not standing there smiling while she suffered, the way she'd done to me. She couldn't say that, but I figured it was what she meant.
"Is this where we hug and say we're BFFs?" I said. "Because I'd rather skip that part."
"Ugh. Absolutely." She blew her nose, threw the tissue at the coffee table, and pulled another from the box. "I guess I should-get dressed or something." She didn't know what to do, I could tell, but getting dressed was Monica's go-to coping mechanism. "So get out already."
I nodded and stood up. I put the glass on the coffee table, then said, "Richard wanted you to be less of a bitch. You might want to look into that, if you really loved him."
She said nothing, and finally I was able to escape.
The door shut behind me, and I leaned against the wall, eyes shut, breathing in deep, cool gasps. I felt weirdly feverish, and a little sick. No satisfaction at all.
In a strange sort of way, that was good.