Feast of Fools Read online

  ‘‘Soon?’’

  ‘‘As soon as I can.’’

  ‘‘But I need to find him! What if he’s—’’ Eve leaned even closer, dropping her voice to a whisper. ‘‘What if someone has him?’’

  ‘‘Who?’’

  ‘‘Bishop!’’

  Sam’s eyes widened, and all over the coffee shop, other heads snapped up. Mostly vampires, Claire thought, who knew the name, or at least knew of it. And who could hear a whisper across a crowded room.

  ‘‘Quiet,’’ Sam said. ‘‘Eve, stay out of it. It’s nothing for any of you to get involved in. It’s our business.’’

  ‘‘It’s our business, too. The guy was in our house. He threatened us, all of us,’’ Eve said. ‘‘Can’t you find out right now? Because otherwise I’m going to call up Homeland Security and tell them that we’ve got a whole bunch of terrorists skulking around in the dark.’’

  ‘‘You wouldn’t.’’

  ‘‘Oh, I so would. With glee. And I’d tell them to bring tanning beds and conduct interviews at noon out in the parking lot.’’

  Sam shook his head. ‘‘Eve—’’

  Eve slammed her hand down on the table. It sounded like a gunshot, and every head turned in their direction. ‘‘I’m not kidding, Sam!’’

  ‘‘Yes, you are,’’ he said, deliberately quiet. ‘‘Because if you were serious, you would be making a threat against people who control the destiny of your next heartbeat, and that would be very, very stupid. Now, say you’ll let me handle this.’’

  Eve’s dark eyes didn’t blink. ‘‘Is this about Bishop? Why is he here? What’s he doing? Why are you so scared of him?’’

  Sam stood up, and there was something remote and cold about him just then. Something that reminded Claire, very strongly, that he was a vampire first.

  ‘‘Go home,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ll find Michael. I doubt he’s in any trouble, and I doubt it has anything to do with Bishop.’’

  Eve stood up, too, and for the first time, Claire saw her as an adult—a woman, facing him on equal terms.

  ‘‘You’d better be right,’’ she said softly. ‘‘Because if anything happens to Michael, that won’t be the end of it. I swear to that.’’

  Sam watched them all the way out of the coffee shop. So did everyone else. Some of them looked worried; some looked gleeful. Some looked angry.

  But nobody ignored the two of them as they left. Nobody. And that was . . . unsettling.

  They got in the car, and Eve started it up without a word. Claire finally ventured a question. ‘‘Where are we going?’’

  ‘‘Home,’’ Eve said. ‘‘I’m giving Sam a chance to keep his word.’’

  That, Claire thought, was going to involve Eve chewing the corners off the walls and pacing holes in the floor. And Claire had absolutely no idea what to do to help her.

  But that was basically what friends were for . . . to be there to keep you from doing the crazy.

  They’d been home for exactly one hour when the phone rang. Shane was sitting next to the phone— he’d appropriated the place, because he was worried Eve would keep picking up the receiver to check the line—and answered on the first chime. ‘‘Glass House,’’ he said, and listened. Claire watched every muscle in his body go tense and still. ‘‘Go screw yourself.’’

  And he hung up.

  Claire and Eve both gaped at him. ‘‘What the hell—?’’ Eve blurted, and lunged for the phone. She flicked the contact switch.

  ‘‘Star sixty-nine,’’ Claire suggested. ‘‘Shane—who was it?’’

  He didn’t answer. He crossed his arms over his chest. Eve frantically punched in the code. ‘‘It’s ringing, ’’ she said—and then, like Shane, she went still.

  She sank down in a chair.

  ‘‘Should’ve left it alone,’’ Shane said.

  Eve closed her eyes, and her shoulders slumped. ‘‘Yeah, I’m here,’’ she said tightly. ‘‘What is it, Jason?’’

  Claire caught Shane’s look, and she must have seemed suspiciously in the know, because he frowned at her. ‘‘Have you seen him?’’ Shane asked.

  Truth, or lie? ‘‘Yes,’’ Claire said, even though that definitely wasn’t the path of least resistance. ‘‘I saw him yesterday morning on the way to school. He said he wanted to talk to Eve.’’

  Oh, that look. It could have melted steel. ‘‘And you forgot about chatting with the local serial killer? Sweet, Claire. Very smart.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t forget. I—never mind.’’ There was no explaining the vibe she had gotten from Jason, not to Shane, whose most vivid memories of the little creep had to do with Jason sinking a knife into his guts. ‘‘I’m sorry. I should have told you.’’

  Eve made a shushing motion at them and hunched over the phone, listening hard. ‘‘He said what? You’re not serious. You can’t be serious.’’

  Apparently, he was. Eve listened another few seconds, and then said, ‘‘Okay, then. No, I don’t know. Maybe. Bye.’’

  She put the phone back in the cradle and stared at it. Her face looked frozen.

  ‘‘Eve?’’ Claire asked. ‘‘What is it?’’

  ‘‘My dad,’’ Eve said. ‘‘He’s—he’s sick. He’s in the hospital. They don’t think—they don’t think he’s going to make it. It’s his liver.’’

  ‘‘Oh,’’ Claire whispered, and leaned across the table to take Eve’s right hand. ‘‘I’m sorry.’’

  Eve’s fingers were cool and limp. ‘‘Yeah, well—he asked for it, you know? My dad was an ugly drunk, and he—me and Jason didn’t exactly have the greatest childhood.’’ She locked gazes with Shane. ‘‘You know.’’

  He nodded. He took her left hand and stared at the table. ‘‘Our dads were drinking buddies sometimes,’’ he said. ‘‘But Eve’s was worse. Lots worse.’’

  Claire, having met Shane’s dad, couldn’t really imagine that. ‘‘How long—?’’

  ‘‘Jason said a couple of days, maybe. Not long.’’ Eve’s eyes filled with tears that didn’t fall. ‘‘Son of a bitch. What does he expect from me, anyway? To come running and sit there and watch him die?’’

  Shane didn’t answer. He didn’t lift his head. He just . . . sat. Claire had no idea what to do, how to act, so she followed his example. Eve’s hands suddenly closed on theirs, hard.

  ‘‘He threw me out,’’ she said. ‘‘He told me that if I didn’t let Brandon fang me, I couldn’t be his daughter. Well, so he’s dying, boohoo. I don’t care.’’

  Yes, you do, Claire wanted to say, but she couldn’t. Eve was trying to convince herself, that was all, and in about thirty seconds she shook her head, and the tears broke free to run in dirty streaks down her pale face.

  ‘‘I’ll take you,’’ Shane said quietly. ‘‘That way, you don’t have to stay unless you want to.’’

  Eve nodded. She couldn’t seem to get her breath. ‘‘I wish—Michael—’’

  Claire remembered, with a shock, that they were still waiting for Sam’s call. ‘‘I’ll stay,’’ she said. ‘‘I’ll call you when I hear from Sam. I’ll get Michael to come there, okay?’’

  ‘‘Okay,’’ Eve said weakly. ‘‘I—need my purse, I guess.’’

  She swiped at her eyes and walked into the other room. Shane looked at Claire, and she wondered what all this was bringing up for him—memories of his father, of his dead mother and sister, of a family he didn’t really even have anymore.

  You’re a deep, dark mystery, she’d said to him, and now, more than ever, that was true.

  ‘‘Take care of her,’’ Claire said. ‘‘Call me if you need anything.’’

  He kissed her on the lips, and in a few minutes she heard the front door bang shut. Locks clicked. Claire sat by the phone and waited.

  She’d rarely felt so alone.

  The phone rang after ten minutes. ‘‘He’s coming home,’’ Sam said, and hung up. No explanation.

  Claire gritted her teeth and settled in to wait.


  It took another twenty minutes for Michael’s car to pull into the driveway. He crossed the short distance from garage to back door in a few fast strides, covering his head with a black umbrella he left by the steps. Even then, when he entered the kitchen, Claire smelled a faint burned reek coming from him, and he was shivering.

  His eyes looked hollow and exhausted.

  ‘‘Michael? You okay?’’

  ‘‘Fine,’’ he said. ‘‘I need to rest, that’s all.’’

  ‘‘I—where were you? What happened?’’

  ‘‘I was with Amelie.’’ He scrubbed his hands over his face. ‘‘Look, there’s a lot going on. I should have left a note for you guys. I’m sorry. I’ll try to keep you in the loop next time—’’

  ‘‘Eve’s at the hospital,’’ Claire blurted. ‘‘Her dad’s dying.’’

  Michael slowly straightened. ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Something about his liver, I guess because of his drinking. Anyway, they say he’s dying. She and Shane went to see him.’’ Claire studied him for a few seconds. ‘‘I told her I’d call when you got home. If you don’t want to go—’’

  ‘‘No. No, I’ll go. She needs—’’ He shrugged. ‘‘She needs people who love her. It’s going to be hard, facing her parents.’’

  ‘‘Yeah,’’ Claire agreed. ‘‘She seemed upset.’’ Of course she was upset. What a stupid thing to say. ‘‘I think she’d like it if you were there for her.’’

  ‘‘I will be.’’ Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘‘What about you? You okay to stay here?’’

  Claire glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘‘Could you drop me off somewhere?’’

  ‘‘Where?’’

  ‘‘I need to see Myrnin. Sorry, but I promised.’’

  Not that visiting her crazy vampire mentor was going to be any more pleasant than going to the hospital.

  5

  Someone had done a makeover on Myrnin’s cell, and it wasn’t Claire; she’d thought about it, but she hadn’t been sure about what Amelie would allow him to have.

  So when she stepped through the doorway from the laboratory to the cells, where the sickest and most disturbed vampires of Morganville were warehoused, she was surprised to see the glow of electric light coming from the end . . . from Myrnin’s cell. As she got closer, she noted other things. Music. Something classical was playing softly, from a stereo set up outside the bars. There was a television, as well, currently turned off.

  Myrnin’s cell, which had been as bare as a monk’s in the beginning, was floored with a plush, expensive-looking Turkish rug. His narrow cot had been replaced with a much more comfortable bed. There were books stacked waist-high in the corners of the cell.

  Myrnin was lying on the bed, hands folded across his stomach. He looked young—as young as Michael, really—but there was something indefinably old about him, too. Long, curling black hair, a sense of style far out-of-date. He was dressed in a blue silk dressing gown with dragons on it—neat and clean.

  Someone had been here before her to take care of him. She felt guilty.

  His eyes didn’t open, but he said, ‘‘Hello, Claire.’’

  ‘‘Hi.’’ She hung back, watching him. He seemed calm enough, but Myrnin wasn’t all that predictable. ‘‘How are you?’’

  ‘‘Bored,’’ he said, and laughed. ‘‘Bored, bored, bored. I had no idea a cell could be such a prison.’’

  His eyes opened, and his pupils were huge. There was a fey look in his eyes that made the skin along her backbone shiver and tighten.

  ‘‘Did you bring me anything to eat?’’ he asked. ‘‘Someone juicy?’’

  He was definitely not right. She hated it when he got this way—cruel and lazy, willing to say or do anything. It was as if the Myrnin she liked had just . . . disappeared, leaving behind nothing but the dark shell.

  Myrnin slithered off his bed, boneless and silent as a reptile. He took hold of the bars in his white, strong fingers and fixed his black-hole eyes on her face.

  ‘‘Sweet, sweet Claire,’’ he murmured. ‘‘So brave, to come here. Come on, Claire. Come closer. You’ll have to if you want to help.’’

  He smiled, and even though he wasn’t showing vampire teeth, she felt the predator’s breath on the back of her neck.

  ‘‘I have some new medicine,’’ she said, and set her backpack down. She unzipped it and took out the bottle with the crystals—a plastic bottle, thankfully, so she could throw it without fear of breakage. She tossed it underhand through the bars of the cage. It skidded to a stop against Myrnin’s pale feet. ‘‘I need you to take it, Myrnin.’’

  He didn’t even bend down for it. ‘‘I don’t think I like your tone,’’ he said. ‘‘You don’t order me, slave. I order you.’’

  ‘‘I’m not your slave.’’

  ‘‘You’re property.’’

  Claire opened up her backpack, took out the dart gun that Dr. Mills had given her, and shot him.

  Myrnin staggered back, staring down at his stomach, and brushed his fingers over the yellow bristle of a hypodermic dart. ‘‘You little bitch,’’ he said, and sat down heavily on the bed.

  His eyes rolled back as the drug delivered itself into his bloodstream, and he slumped back flat on the mattress.

  ‘‘I may be a bitch, but I’m not your property,’’ Claire said. She didn’t move from where she stood as she loaded a second dart, just in case. She watched his body as his muscles twitched and contracted, then relaxed. ‘‘Myrnin?’’

  His eyes blinked, and she saw the pupils begin to shrink down to normal-sized black dots. ‘‘Claire?’’ He reached down and pulled the dart from his stomach. ‘‘Ouch.’’ He examined the dart curiously, then laid it carefully aside. ‘‘That was interesting.’’

  Well, he sounded saner, anyway. ‘‘How are you feeling?’’

  ‘‘Sore?’’ He brushed his fingers over the healing puncture wound. ‘‘Ashamed?’’ His dark gaze lifted to brush across hers. ‘‘I have the feeling I’ve been—unpleasant.’’

  ‘‘I wouldn’t know,’’ Claire said. ‘‘I just got here. Hey, who brought you all the stuff?’’

  Myrnin glanced around, frowning. ‘‘I—to be honest, I’m not really certain. I think it might have been one of Amelie’s creatures.’’ He didn’t sound at all sure. ‘‘I was cruel to you just now, wasn’t I?’’

  ‘‘A little,’’ she agreed. ‘‘But then again, I did shoot you.’’

  ‘‘Ah, yes. By the way, is there any particular reason you shot me in the stomach rather than the chest?’’

  ‘‘Less bone,’’ she said. ‘‘And my hands were shaking. How are you now?’’

  He sighed and sat up. ‘‘Better,’’ he said. ‘‘Don’t trust me, though. We don’t know how long this will last, do we?’’

  ‘‘No.’’ Claire put the gun away, and came closer to the bars. Not close enough to grab, though.

  ‘‘That’s a new formulation? In liquid?’’

  She nodded. ‘‘It’s stronger, but I’m not sure it will last as long. Your body may break it down faster, so we have to be careful.’’

  ‘‘Start the clock,’’ he said. He looked down at himself and laughed softly. ‘‘My dark side dresses better than I do.’’ He stood up and reached for clothes folded neatly on a table to the side as he loosened the tie on his robe. He hesitated, smiled, and raised his eyebrows. ‘‘If you don’t mind, Claire . . . ?’’

  ‘‘Oh. Sorry.’’ Claire turned her back. She didn’t like turning her back on him, even with the cell door locked. He was better behaved when he knew she was watching. She focused on the faint, distorted image of his reflection on the TV screen as he shed the dressing gown and began to pull on his clothing. She couldn’t see much, except that he was very pale all over. Once she was sure his pants were up, she glanced behind her. He had his back to her, and she couldn’t help but compare him with the only other man she’d really studied half-naked. Shane was broad, strong, solid. Myrnin looked f
ragile, but his muscles moved like cables under that pale skin—far stronger than Shane’s, she knew.

  Myrnin turned as he buttoned his shirt. ‘‘It’s been a while since a pretty girl looked at me with such interest,’’ he said. She looked away, feeling the blush work its heat up through her neck and onto her cheeks. ‘‘It’s all right, Claire. I’m not offended.’’

  She cleared her throat. ‘‘Any side effects from the new mixture?’’

  ‘‘I feel warm,’’ he said, and smiled. ‘‘How pleasant.’’

  ‘‘Too warm?’’

  ‘‘I have no idea. It’s been so long since I felt anything like it, I’m not sure I’d be able to tell the difference. ’’ He looped his hands loosely around the bars. ‘‘How long are you going to wait?’’

  ‘‘The first time, we wait until the effects start to fade, so we can have a good baseline and we’ll know how long it’ll allow you to be out. Safely.’’

  ‘‘And you’ll keep your dart pistol ready at all times, yes?’’ He leaned casually against the bars, elegant and relaxed. There was still a faint glow in his eyes, just a little unsettling. ‘‘What shall we talk about, then? How are your studies, Claire?’’

  She shrugged. ‘‘You know.’’

  ‘‘They’re still too simple, I would expect.’’

  ‘‘See? You do know.’’ Claire hesitated. ‘‘We have visitors in town.’’

  ‘‘Visitors?’’ Myrnin didn’t seem overly interested. ‘‘Is it homecoming already? Why on earth Amelie tolerates these human traditions, I’ll simply never understand—’’

  ‘‘Vampire visitors,’’ she said. That got his full attention.

  For a frozen second, he didn’t speak, only stared, and then he said, low in his throat, ‘‘In the name of God, who?’’ His fingers tightened on the bars, squeezing so tightly she was afraid his bones might snap. Or the steel. ‘‘Who?’’

  She hadn’t expected that reaction. ‘‘His name is Bishop,’’ she said. ‘‘He says he’s Amelie’s father—’’

  Myrnin’s face went as still and pale as a plaster mask. ‘‘Bishop,’’ he repeated. ‘‘Bishop’s—here. No. It can’t be.’’ He took in a deliberate breath—one he didn’t need—and let it slowly out. His hands relaxed on the bars. ‘‘You said visitors. Plural.’’