Morganville Vampires [01] Glass Houses by Rachel Caine

his fever-hot skin burning through the thin cloth, and heard him make a sound like nothing she’d ever heard in her life.
    Like someone dying, she thought in panic, and opened her mouth to scream for Shane, Eve, anybody .
    Her hand suddenly went right through him. The scream, for whatever reason, locked tight in her throat as Michael— transparent Michael—looked up at her with despair and desperation in his eyes.
    “Oh, God, don’t tell them.” His voice came from a long, long way off, a whisper that faded on the shafts of morning sun.
    And so did he.
    Claire, mouth still open, utterly unable to speak, waved her hand slowly through the thin air where Michael Glass had been standing. Slowly, then faster. The air felt cold around her, like she was standing in a blast from an air conditioner, and the chill slowly faded.
    Like Michael.
    “Oh my God,” she whispered, and clapped both hands over her mouth.
    And muffled the scream that she had to let out or explode.
    She might have blacked out a little, because next thing she knew, she was sitting on the couch, next to Michael’s guitar case, and she felt kind of funny. Bad funny, as if her brain had turned liquid and sloshed around in her head.
    Weirdly calm, though. She reached over and touched the leather cover of his guitar case. It felt real. When she flipped up the latches and pulled her shaking fingers across the strings, they made a wistful sort of whisper.
    He’s a ghost. Michael’s a ghost.
    He wasn’t a ghost. How could he be a ghost, if he sat here—right here!—at the table and ate dinner? Tacos! What kind of ghost ate tacos? What kind of…?
    Her hand went right through him. Right through him.
    But he was real. She’d touched him. She’d—
    Her hand went right through him.
    “Don’t panic,” she said numbly, out loud. “Just…don’t panic. There’s some explanation….” Yeah, right. She’d stumble over to Professor Wu’s physics class and ask. She could just imagine how that would go over. They’d toss a net over her and pump her full of Prozac or whatever.
    He’d said, Oh, God, don’t tell them . Tell who? Tell…? Was he gone? Was he dead ?
    She was about carried away by panic again, and then something stopped it cold. Something silly, really.
    The alarm clock sitting on the table next to the sofa. The one that had gone off just a few minutes ago.
    The one that had warned Michael that sunrise was coming.
    This happens…every day. He hadn’t acted like it was odd, just painful.
    Shane and Eve had both said that Michael slept days. They were both night owls; they were sound asleep right now, and wouldn’t be up for hours yet. Michael could have…disappeared…daily like this with nobody paying attention.
    Until she came along, and got nosy.
    Don’t tell them. Why not? What was so secret?
    She was crazy. That was the only rational explanation. But if she was crazy, she wasn’t rational….
    Claire curled up on the sofa, shivering, and felt cold air brush over her again. Ice-cold. She sat up. “Michael?” she blurted, and sat very still. The chill went away, then brushed over her again. “I—I think I can feel you. Are you still here?” Another second or two without the icy draft, and then it drifted across her skin. “So—you can see us?” Yes, she figured, since the warm-cold cycle repeated. “You don’t go away during the day? Oh—um, stay where you are if it’s no, okay?” The chill stayed steady. “Wow. That’s—harsh.” A yes, and weirdly, she felt a little cheered. Okay, she was having a conversation with a breeze, but at least she didn’t feel alone. “You don’t want me to tell Shane and Eve?” Clearly, a no. If anything, it got colder. “Is there anything—anything I can do?” Also a no. “Michael—will you come back?” Yes. “Tonight?” Yes, again. “We are so going to talk.”
    The chill withdrew completely. Yes.
    She collapsed back on the sofa, feeling giddy and strange and exhausted. There