The Dead Girls' Dance by Rachel Caine Page B

areas.
    But then again, maybe that was logical, from a vampire’s planning perspective. Even in the hot beat of the sunlight, Claire shuddered at that idea, and moved faster past a street that ended in a deserted field littered with piled-up lumber and assorted junk. It even smelled like decay, the ugly smell of dead things left to rot in the heat. Having too much imagination was sometimes a handicap. At least I’m not walking it at night….
    No power on earth was going to make her do that.
    The residential areas of Morganville were old, mostly run-down, parched and beaten by summer. It was bound to get cooler soon, but for now, Indian summer was broiling the Texas landscape. Cicadas sang in dull dental-drill whines in the grass and trees, and there was a smell of dust and hot metal in the wind. Of all the places to find vampires, this was pretty much the last she would have expected. Just not…Goth enough. Too run-down. Too…American.
    The next street was her turn, according to the map. She made it, stopped in the shade of a live oak tree, and took a couple of drinks from her water bottle as she considered how much longer a walk it would be. Not long, she thought. Which was good, because she was not going to miss another class. Ever.
    The street dead-ended. Claire came to a stop, frowning, and checked; nope, according to the map, it went all the way through. Claire sighed in frustration and started to turn back to retrace her path, then hesitated when she saw a narrow passage between two fences. It looked like it went through to the next street.
    Lose ten minutes or take a chance. She’d always been the lose-ten-minutes kind of girl, the prudent one, but maybe living in the Glass House had corrupted her. Besides, it was hot as hell out here.
    She headed for the gap between the fences.
    â€œI wouldn’t do that, child,’” said a voice. It was coming from the deep shadow of a porch, on a house to her right. It looked better cared for than most houses in Morganville—freshly painted in a light sea blue, some brick trim, a neatly kept yard. Claire squinted and shaded her eyes, and finally saw a tiny birdlike old lady seated on a porch swing. She was as brown as a twig, with drifting pale hair like dandelion fuzz, and since she was dressed in a soft green sundress that hung on her like a bag, she looked like nothing so much as a wood spirit, something out of the old, old storybooks.
    The voice, though, was pure warm Southern honey.
    Claire backed up hastily from the entrance to the passageway. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t mean to trespass.’”
    The tiny little thing cackled. “Oh, no, child, you’re not trespassin’. You’re bein’ a fool. You ever heard of ant lions? Or trapdoor spiders? Well, you walk down that path, you won’t be comin’ out the other side. Not this world.’”
    Claire felt a pure cold bolt of panic, followed by a triumphant crow from the prudent side of her brain: I knew that! “But—it’s daytime!’”
    â€œSo it is,’” the old woman said, and rocked gently back and forth on her swing. “So it is. Day don’t always protect round Morganville. You should know that, too. Now, go back the way you came like a good child, and don’t come here again.’”
    â€œYes, ma’am,’” Claire said, and started to back away.
    â€œGramma, what are you—oh, hello!’” The screen door to the house opened, and a younger version of the Stick Lady stepped out—young enough to be a granddaughter. She was tall and pretty, and her skin was more cocoa than wood brown. She wore her hair in braids, lots of them, and she smiled at Claire as she came to lay a hand on the old lady’s shoulder. “My gramma likes to sit out here and talk to people. I’m sorry if she bothered you.’”
    â€œNo, not at all,’” Claire said, and