Surprised, Claire glanced down. She had a thing in her arm, and a tube, and there was red running through it. . . .
Her head fell back against the pillow, and she couldn't hear for the dark buzzing inside her skull. She thought someone was calling her name, but for the moment that didn't seem very important. She tried to breathe, slowly and steadily, and after what seemed like hours, the buzzing faded, and the world took on edges and bright colors again. There was a poster on the ceiling overhead, one of a kitten sitting in a tea-cup, looking adorable. She fixed on it and tried not to think about the blood that was draining out of her. This is what it's like, she couldn't help but realize. This must be what Michael felt when Oliver was draining his blood. This is what all those people feel when the vampires kill them.
It was only a little piece of death, hardly enough to matter.
The nurse slipped a warm blanket over her, smiled down, and said, "It's okay. You're not the first to pass out. That's why the seats recline, honey."
Claire hadn't passed out, not really, but she wasn't feeling her best, either. The nurse rolled her cart and stool around to Shane.
"Done," she announced, and Claire tried to turn her head that way, but she didn't want to see the needle coming out any more than she'd wanted to see it go in. Squeamish. She was squeamish about needles, and she'd never realized that before. Funny.
A warm hand covered hers, and when she opened her eyes, she saw that Shane was standing next to her, pale and hollow-eyed but upright.
"Shane," the nurse said. "Go get some juice."
"When she's done," he said.
The nurse must have realized there was no arguing about it, because she kicked her wheeled stool over to him. "Then at least sit down. I really don't want to be picking you up off the floor."
It probably took less time than it felt, but Claire was desperately glad when the nurse came back to remove the needle and apply bandages. She didn't look at the blood bag. The nurse said something nice, and Claire tried to respond in kind but wasn't absolutely sure what came out of her mouth. Shane led her to the next room, which was a sitting area with a plasma television tuned to a news channel, juice and sodas and water, and trays of crackers and cookies and fruit. Claire took an orange and a bottle of water. Shane went straight for the sugar shock - Coke and cookies.
Claire rubbed her fingers over the purple stretch bandage around her elbow. "Is it always like that?"
"Like what?" Shane mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate chips. "Scary? Guess so. They try to make it nice, but I never forget whose mouth that blood ends up in."
She felt a surge of nausea, and stopped peeling her orange. Suddenly, the thick pulpy smell was overwhelming. She chugged some water instead, which went down cool and heavy as mercury.
"They use it for the hospitals, though," she said. "For accident victims and things like that."
"Sure. Reusing the leftovers." Shane crammed another cookie into his mouth. "I hate this shit. I swore I'd never do it, but here I am anyway. Tell me again why I stay in this town?"
"They'll hunt you down if you leave?"
"Good reason." He dusted crumbs from his fingers. She peeled the rest of her orange, broke loose a slice, and ate it with methodical determination - not hungry, no sir, but well aware she was still shaky. She ate three more slices, then passed Shane the rest.
"Wait," she said. He paused in the act of biting into the orange. "You've never done this before, have you? I mean, you left town before you were eighteen, so you didn't have to. And then you've ducked it since coming back. Right?"
"Damn straight." He finished the orange and chugged the rest of his Coke.
"So you've never been inside the Bloodmobile."
"I didn't say that." Shane got that grim look again. "I went with my mother once - didn't have to donate, but she wanted me to get used to the idea. I was fifteen. They dragged in this guy - he was crazy, out of his head. Strapped him down and started draining him. They hustled the rest of us out of there, but when we left, he was still there. I watched. They drove away with him. Nobody ever saw him again."
Claire swallowed more water. She felt weak, but she wanted out of here. The comfortable room felt like a trap, a windowless, airless box. She tossed the rest of her water and the orange peel in the trash. Shane three-pointed his Coke can and took her hand.
"Is Eve going to stay at the hospital?" she asked.
"Not all night. It's pretty uncomfortable; her dad's sobered up, and he's doing the amends thing." Shane's mouth twisted. He clearly didn't think much of that. "Her mom just sits there and cries. She always was practically a bag of wet tissues."
"You don't like them much."
"You wouldn't, either."
"Any sign of Jason?"
Shane shook his head. "If he's showing up to do his family duty, he's sneaking around in the dead of night. Which, come to think of it, would probably work for him. Anyway, Michael said he'd bring Eve home. They're probably already there."
"I hope so. Did Michael say where he was, you know, before?"
"When he was missing? Something about this damn ball," Shane said.
I should ask him about the invitation. She almost did - she opened her mouth to do it - but then she remembered how Shane had looked last night, how deeply Ysandre had shaken him.
She didn't want to see him look like that again.
Maybe she ought to just leave it. He'd talk about it when he wanted to talk.
There were two doors - one that said EXIT, one that had nothing on it at all. Shane passed the unmarked door, hesitated, and backed up.
"What?" Claire asked. Shane took hold of the handle and eased the door open.
"Just a hunch," he said. "Shhhh."
On the other side was another waiting area, and there were people standing in line. This part of the Donation Center was darker, with fewer overhead lights. Three people were standing in front of a long white counter, like at a pharmacy, and behind it stood a tall woman wearing a lab coat. She didn't smile, and she was about as warm as a flask of liquid nitrogen.
"Oh crap," Shane breathed, and about the same time Claire realized that the blond guy first in line at the counter was Michael. He wasn't home. . . . He was here.
He finished signing something and shoved the clipboard back, and the woman handed him over a plastic bottle, about the size of the bottled water Claire had been drinking.
This one didn't hold water. Tomato juice, Claire told herself, but it didn't look at all like juice. Too dark, too thick. Michael tilted it one way, then another, and his face - he looked fascinated.