In the silence that followed, Theo Goldman sat back in his chair and looked at me with calm, unreadable eyes. “Go on,” he finally said. “What about Claire?”
What the hell had I just said? It wasn’t true, not at all. I didn’t mean it. I stared hard at my shoes, which were battered old work boots, the better to kick some vampire in the teeth with. In Morganville, Texas, you went with either the running shoes or the teeth-kicking shoes. I wasn’t much of a runner.
“Nothing,” I said. “It just came out, that’s all. Claire’s the best thing that ever happened to me. I’m not angry at her. I don’t even know why I said that.” That was good, that was calm and straightforward, and I checked my watch. God, had it only been fifteen minutes in here, in this nice paneled office, sitting on this comfy Softer Side of Sears couch? “Look, this is great and everything, but I really should be—”
“Why, then, did Claire come to your mind, with all of the terrible things I know you have experienced?” he asked. “You have another thirty minutes, by the way. We have plenty of time. Relax, Mr. Collins. I promise you, I’m here to help.”
“Help. Yeah, vampires are known for all their awesome counseling skills.”
“Does the fact that I am a vampire bother you?”
“Of course it bothers me! I grew up in Morganville—it’s kind of a big deal to sit down and play nice with one of you.”
Goldman’s smile was sad, and ghostly. “You do realize that just as all men are not the same, all vampires are not the same? The worst murderers I have ever met in my long life were breathing men who killed not for sustenance, but for sport. Or worse, for beliefs.”
“Don’t suppose we can just agree I’m screwed up and call it a day?”
He looked at me with such level, kind intensity that I felt uncomfortable, and then he said, “There are a surprising number of people who care about what happens to you. The fact that you are here, instead of behind bars, would seem to tell you that, I’d think. Yes?”
I shrugged. I knew it looked like I was the typical surly teen, but I didn’t much care what a vamp thought of me. So I kept insisting to myself, anyway. I’d gotten myself in it deep this time—deeper than it looked. Before, they’d let me slide because I was a messed-up kid, and then because I’d managed to end up on the right side (by their definition) of the problem, even against my own dad.
But this time I didn’t have any defense. I’d voluntarily gotten involved in the illegal fight club at the gym; I’d let myself get drugged up and stuck in cages to duke it out with vampires. For money. On the Internet.
It was that last part that was the biggest violation of all—breaching the wall of secrecy about Morganville. Sure, nobody on the Internet would take it seriously; it was all tricks, special effects, and besides, to the average visitor who wanted to come poke around, it was just another boring, roll-up-the-sidewalks-at-dusk town in America.
That didn’t change the fact that I’d risked the anonymity—the safety—of the vampires. I was lucky I hadn’t been quietly walled up somewhere, or buried in a nice, deep grave somewhere in the dark. The only reason I hadn’t been killed outright was that my girlfriend had some pull with the vamps, and she’d fought for me. Hard.
She was the reason I was sitting here, instead of taking up a slab in the local mortuary. So why had I said her name when he’d asked me about being angry?
I hadn’t answered, even though the silence stretched thin, so Dr. Goldman leaned back in his chair and tapped his pen against his lips a moment, then said, “Why do you feel you need to fight, Shane?”
I laughed out loud. It sounded wild and uncontrollable, even to me. “You’re not serious with that question, right?”
“I don’t mean fight when your life is in danger; that is a reasonable and logical response to preserve one’s safety. According to the records I’ve reviewed, though, you seem to seek out physical confrontation, rather than wait for it to come to you. It started in school, it seems. . . . Although you were never classified as a bully, you seemed to take special care to seek out those who were picking on others and—how would you say it?—teach them a lesson. You cast yourself as the defender of the weak and abused. Why is that?”
“Somebody’s got to do it.”
“Your father, Frank Collins—”
“Don’t,” I interrupted him flatly. “Just stay the hell off the topic, okay? No discussions about my freaking obvious daddy issues, or my mother, or Alyssa dying, any of that crap. I’m over it.”
He raised an eyebrow, just enough to tell me what he thought about that. “Then shall we discuss Claire?”
“No,” I said, but my heart wasn’t in it. Weirdly.
He must have sensed it, because he said, in that gentle and quiet tone, “Why don’t you tell me about her?”
“Why should I? You already know her.”