‘I thought it’d be safer here.’

Pete laughed. He had an odd kind of laugh, one that hitched in the middle. ‘You don’t get out much, Shane. That’s kind of cute. Take a walk in a genocide zone and tell me humans can’t be worse than bloodsuckers. We’re hardwired to be bastards, take it from somebody who did volunteer work in the Congo.’

Thing is, I already knew that perfectly well, because I knew what Amelie, the Founder of Morganville, was afraid of. She was most afraid of us. Humans. And our tendency to kill whatever we feared and/or hated.

Our ability to target things that were different.

I wasn’t any better, I thought. I’d hated vampires most of my life, and I still didn’t feel totally comfortable around them, even if Jesse had just joyously kicked some ass to save me.

Hardwired. Pete was probably right about that.

They got me into the somewhat deserted ER, and it took only about four hours (some kind of record, I was assured) to get me into X-ray and find out that yes, I still had a functioning, if lightly bruised brain, and that nothing important was busted in the rest of me. By that time, the beer’s comfortable cushion had evaporated, and with the cold light of dawn coming, Jesse had taken off and left me to Pete. He didn’t seem especially upset about losing his beauty sleep; maybe he was used to staying up until dawn, given the bar job and his clear alliance with Jesse, which seemed to be more about business than pleasure. Jesse had left him the car and gone her way on foot; she must have had some bolt-hole put away nearby, because she seemed pretty casual about the sunrise. Unless she was pretty old, she’d still be susceptible to the burns delivered by the daylight … and even if she was old, she wouldn’t enjoy being out in it.

Once I’d paid the bill (which ate up all my free cash, plus a loan from Pete, silently offered) I collapsed back in the car and let him drive me back to Florey’s. We passed Claire’s row house along the way, and I remembered the foggy, ill-formed plan to stagger up to her door and let her forgive me and drag me upstairs to bed. Wow. That had not been smart. It was almost good I’d wandered into a beating instead. At least I’d preserved my self-respect.

Because now, sober, I knew exactly how it would have played out. Claire would have been kind, and pitying, and given me aspirin and a blanket and pillow, and I’d have slept it off on some direly uncomfortable couch with her upstairs and unattainable. And then I’d have had the awkward awakening, the explanations, the apologies, and … what?

I was afraid that there would be nothing, afterward.