Feast of Fools tmv-4

by Rachel Caine

  On her arm was Jason Rosser. At least, Claire thought it was Jason. She’d never seen him after a bath and a haircut, but she recognized the stooped shoulders and the walk, if nothing else. He was wearing a hooded brown monk’s robe. She picked someone she could afford to lose, Claire thought. That’s why she didn’t pick me. It should have made her feel better about being left out, but somehow, it didn’t.

  Bishop entered, stage left. He was dressed all in Episcopal purple, in—what else?—a bishop’s costume, minus the cross. He even had the tall hat, the miter.

  On his arm, he had an angel. A woman dressed as one, anyway, with fine white feathery wings that were taller than she was, and swept the floor behind her.

  Claire slapped both hands over her mouth to hold in the shriek that threatened to erupt.

  It was her mother.

  “Steady,” Myrnin said. His cool hand pressed her arm. “What did I tell you? Control yourself! We have miles to go yet.”

  She didn’t want to listen to him. She wanted to get her mom and her dad, Shane and Michael and Eve. She wanted to get out of here, hit the borders of Morganville, and keep on going.

  She didn’t want to be here anymore.

  Other guests filled in the remaining seats at their table, and two of them were Charles and Miranda. Miranda looked dreadfully young and pallid under her snaky hair and Greek robes. She sat next to Claire, and under cover of the tablecloth, reached for her hand. Claire allowed it. Miranda’s felt as cool as Myrnin’s, and clammy with fear.

  “It’s happening,” Miranda said. “All the blood. All the fear. It’s really happening.”

  “Hush,” said Charles, seated next to her, and nodded at her plate. “Eat. Beef will build your strength.”

  Miranda, like Claire, picked at the prime rib on her plate. Claire tried a bite. It was good—smoky, tender, just the right warmth—but she had no appetite. Myrnin tucked into his with a frightening zeal. She wondered how long it had been since he’d had an actual meal, or wanted one. That led her to an erratic series of questions—were there vegetarians in the crowd? Did the vampires cater to food allergies? As she nibbled dully on the bread, Claire saw Amelie staring toward them. At this distance, it was impossible to really see her expression, but Claire was sure it wasn’t pleased.

  “I think Amelie’s going to have us thrown out,” she said to Myrnin. He chewed his last bite of prime rib.

  “She won’t,” he said with absolute confidence. “Aren’t you going to eat that?”

  Claire gave up and passed her plate. Myrnin began cutting up the meat.

  “Amelie can’t afford a scene,” he said. “And no doubt it will amuse Bishop to have me here.”

  He seemed odd again, almost happy. Claire eyed him doubtfully. “Do you feel okay?”

  “Never better,” he said. “Ah, dessert!”

  The servants—Claire never did catch more than a shadowy glimpse of them, so they must have been vampires—delivered exquisite little martini glasses full of berries and cream to each place. Berries and cream were something that even Claire couldn’t resist. She ate the whole thing, in between staring at Shane to see if he was eating. She didn’t think he was. He wasn’t moving at all.

  As after-dinner drinks were delivered—blood for the vamps, champagne and coffee for the hemoglobin intolerant—Claire felt her anxiety ratchet up another notch. There was murmuring in the room, a rising tide of it, and she felt the swell of excitement. “Myrnin? What’s happening?”

  Miranda’s hand grabbed hers again, squeezing so hard Claire almost yelped.

  “It’s coming,” Miranda said. “It’s almost over.”

  Before Claire could ask what she meant, Myrnin touched her shoulder and said, “They’re beginning the ceremony.”

  John of Leeds had come out of the wings behind the dais, and had taken up a post at a dark wooden podium. He was wearing a traditional herald’s tabard, Claire realized, just like in books and paintings. She half expected him to pull out a long, thin trumpet.

  He opened the book that he’d been holding outside the room instead.

  “Behold,” he said in a deep, velvety smooth voice, “there comes to us on this day one who is worthy of our fealty, and as one, we welcome him to our house.”

  Bishop stood up. A curtain pulled back onstage, and behind it was a huge dark wooden throne, heavily carved.

  Bishop walked up the steps to take his seat on it.

  Claire’s mother stayed where she was, at the table.

  "What’s happening?” Claire asked. Myrnin shushed her.

  “As I speak your name, come forward with your tribute,” John said. “Maria Theresa.”

  A tall Spanish woman dressed in a glittering matador’s costume rose from her chair, took hold of the man she’d brought to the feast, and escorted him up onto the dais. She bowed to Amelie and then turned to Bishop on his throne. She bowed again.

  “I give you my fealty,” she said. “And my gift.”

  She looked at the man standing next to her. He seemed . . . stunned. Frozen.

  Bishop looked at him and smiled. “Princely,” he said. “I thank you for your gift.”

  And he flicked his fingers at them, and just like that, it was over.

  “Vassily Ivanovich,” John of Leeds called, and the parade went on.

  Nobody got killed. It was just like Myrnin had said . . . a token. A gesture.

  Claire let out her breath. She hadn’t even been aware how hard she’d been holding it, but her whole rib cage ached. “He could kill them. Right? If he wanted?”

  “Right,” Myrnin said. “But he isn’t doing so.” He looked grave and focused under his clown’s makeup. “I wonder what’s stopping him.”

  It was, Claire saw, going to stretch on for hours. She was glad they had seats, because standing would have been torture. As John of Leeds called each name, a vampire would rise and lead his or her human up to be presented to Bishop; Bishop would nod; and that would be it.

  As life-and-death confrontations went, it was really boring.

  And then it suddenly wasn’t.

  The first hint came when Sam mounted the dais with his “gift”—he bowed to Amelie, but he only nodded to Bishop. Myrnin made a slight sound and leaned forward, dark eyes intent, and Bishop sat up straighter in his chair.

  “I welcome you to Morganville,” Sam said. “But I’m not going to swear my loyalty to you.”

  The hall went absolutely still, not even the little rustles of fabric and clinks of cups on china that had been noticeable to that point. Amelie, Claire noticed, had moved closer to Sam than she had to the other vampires.

  “No?” Bishop asked, and beckoned Sam forward. Sam obliged by one single step. “Your lady will acknowledge me. Why won’t you?”

  “I have other oaths.”

  “To her,” Bishop said. Sam nodded. “Well, then, her oath to me will bind you, as well, Samuel. I believe that will do.” He eyed the girl. “Leave the gift.”

  Sam didn’t move. “No.”

  Amelie murmured something to him, but it was soft enough that it didn’t carry to Claire’s ears despite the excellent acoustics of the room.

  “She’s my responsibility,” Sam said, “and if you want a gift, take what Morganville offers you. Freedom.”

  He reached in the pocket of his rope-belted Huck Finn blue jeans and pulled out a blood pack.

  Ysandre leaped from her seat. So did François. “You dare!” François snarled, and knocked the blood pack out of Sam’s hand. “Take that filthy thing away!”

  Ysandre grabbed hold of Sam’s date by the hair and yanked her away. “She’s the tribute,” Ysandre said, “and you have no right to deny her to him.”

  “He has no right,” Amelie said. Every word was clear as crystal. “But I do.”

  Bishop’s eyes locked with hers, and for a long, long moment, nobody moved.

  Then Bishop smiled, sat back in his chair, and waved. “Take her, Samuel,” he said. “I find she’s not to my t
aste, after all.”

  Sam grabbed the girl’s hand, shoved François out of the way, and descended the steps back to the banquet-hall floor. Murmurs bloomed in the darkness as he passed. He headed straight for the table where Michael sat, leaned over, and said something. Michael replied, looking strained and a little bit desperate. Whatever the argument was about, it was ripping Michael apart to take the other side.

  Sam yanked Michael to his feet, and this time Claire heard what he said. “Just come with me!”

  Whether Michael might have or not, it was too late, because John of Leeds said, “Michael Glass of Morganville, ” and everybody waited to see what the youngest vampire in town was going to do.

  Michael took Monica’s hand and walked to the dais. He mounted the steps, nodded to Amelie, and nodded to Bishop. Not much in the way of obedience either direction.

  “Ah, the Morrell girl,” Bishop said. “I’ve heard so much about you, child.”

  Monica, the idiot, seemed pleased about that. She risked her tall wig by doing a deep curtsy in those mile-wide Marie Antoinette skirts. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Did I tell you to speak?” he asked, and transferred his attention to Michael again. “Your kinsman refused to swear fealty. What say you, Michael?”

  “I’m here,” Michael said. “But I’m not swearing anything.”

  There was a long, tense moment, and then Bishop impatiently waved him offstage.

  Monica dragged her feet, simpering at the big, bad vampire. “What an idiot,” Claire muttered under her breath, and Myrnin chuckled.

  “There are always a few,” he said. “Thankfully.” The next vampire was already onstage. He was a little more politic than Michael—he welcomed Bishop as a guest to Morganville, but again, no pledges of loyalty. Bishop looked sour. “Well, this is taking a turn for the interesting. I wonder how long he’ll tolerate it.”

  Not long, it seemed, because Oliver was next. And even though Oliver bowed, there was something forced about it. Something militant. Bishop sensed it.

  “What say you, Oliver of Heidelberg?”

  “I bid you welcome,” Oliver said. “And nothing more.” He bowed again, mockingly. “Your days of ordering us about are done, Master Bishop. Haven’t you noticed?”

  Bishop stood up. So did François and Ysandre. “Bring your tribute,” Bishop said. “And walk away, while I allow you to walk at all.”

  And Oliver, the coward, dropped Eve’s hand and left the stage. Abandoning her.

  Michael, down on the floor, tried to go to her rescue, but Sam tackled him and held him down. “Get off me!” Michael yelled, and the two of them rolled into a table and sent the expensive china and glasses flying. “You can’t let him—”

  François and Ysandre were closing in on Eve like hunting tigers. And she was standing, petrified, caught in Bishop’s stare.

  Shane stood up and took off the dog mask Ysandre had made him wear. He walked over to stand next to Eve, unhooked the leash, and let it fall to the floor in a slither of leather.

  “I’m so done with this crap,” he said, and extended his elbow toward Eve. “How about you?”

  “So done,” she agreed. “Though I do love a good dress-up party. Can I have the collar when you’re done with it?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  They were trying to be cool, but Claire could feel the menace up there, the hair-trigger violence just waiting to erupt. And Shane couldn’t win. He couldn’t even hurt them. All he could do was get himself killed.

  She fought to get out of her chair. Myrnin’s hand crushed her shoulder hard, forcing her down again. “No,” he said. “Wait.”

  “They’re my friends!”

  “Wait!”

  He was right. Amelie stepped forward, between Shane and Eve and Bishop. “They belong to me,” she said. “They are not Oliver’s to give.”

  “That argument could be made for anyone in this town,” Bishop said. “Will you deny me any tribute at all?”

  She smiled slowly. “I never said that. Be careful, Father. You sound desperate.”

  Claire saw Bishop’s eyes flare red, then white-hot.

  Amelie didn’t back down. She turned her head slightly, and nodded at Shane and Eve. Shane hustled Eve off the stage and down to the banquet-hall floor. François seemed to get some silent message from Bishop, because he backed out of their way.

  Sam let Michael up, and in seconds, Michael was across the room to join them as Shane and Eve descended the stairs from the dais.

  Sam followed. That made a small group in the noman’s -land in the center of the tables on the floor.

  “It’s starting,” Myrnin said. “We’re at the tipping point now. He knows he’s losing. He’ll have to act.”

  And John of Leeds said, in that perfectly calm voice, “Lord Myrnin of Conwy.”

  There was that head-turning thing again. Myrnin got up from his chair and held out his hand to Claire. His eyes were bright, a little too bright. A little too manic.

  His smile scared her, and she didn’t think it was just the makeup. “Ready?” he asked.

  She didn’t really have a choice. She stood and put her hand in his, and walked toward the last thing in the world she wanted to do.

  Chapter 12

  Going up the steps felt like the proverbial march to the gallows. Amelie stood to one side, glittering like a chandelier, and she was glaring at Myrnin with fierce displeasure.

  He took her pale, perfect hand and kissed it. “Oh, don’t look so distressed, my old friend,” he told her. “I’m perfectly fine.”

  “No,” Amelie said. “You’re not. And you’re about to be a good deal less so.” She turned to Bishop. “I regret that Lord Myrnin is unwell. He must leave, for his own health.”

  “He looks well enough,” Bishop replied. “Let him come forward.”

  “You fool,” Amelie whispered as Myrnin did his Pierrot twirl and ended in a dancer’s perfect floor-scraping bow. “Oh, my lovely fool.” Claire couldn’t tell if she was appalled, angry, or sad. Maybe all three.

  Bishop seemed amused. “It’s been years,” he said. “And how have you fared, Myrnin?”

  “As well as you’d expect,” Myrnin said.

  “Pierrot. How . . . odd for you. You’re much more the Harlequin, I should think.”

  “I’ve always thought that Pierrot was the secretly dangerous one,” Myrnin said. “All that innocence must hide something.”

  Bishop laughed. “I’ve missed you, fool.”

  “Truly? Odd. I haven’t missed you at all, my lord.”

  That stopped Bishop’s laughter in its tracks, and Claire felt the fear close around her, like suffocating cold. “Ah, I remember now why you ceased to amuse, Myrnin. You use honesty like a club.”

  “I thought it more like a rapier, lord.”

  Bishop was all done with the witty conversation. “Will you swear?”

  And Myrnin said, shockingly, “I will.” And he proceeded to, a string of swearwords that made Claire blink. He ended with, “—frothy fool-born apple-john! Cheater of vandals and defiler of dead dogs!” and did another twirl and bow. He looked up with a red, red grin that was more like a leer. “Is that what you meant, my lord?”

  Claire gasped as hands closed cold around her throat from behind. She was pulled backward. It was Ysandre holding her, and the vampire woman bent to whisper, “Yes, please do struggle. I lost your boyfriend before I could get a taste. I’ll have you instead.”

  Claire didn’t hesitate. She reached under her tunic, got out the ancient glass perfume bottle that Myrnin had given her, and thumbed off the cap.

  And she dumped the holy water right on Ysandre’s head.

  Ysandre screamed in registers so high the crystal on the tables shivered. She spun away clawing at her hair, shedding drops that landed on François, who was moving toward her. He screamed, too. Where the drops touched, they ate away into skin. Claire stared, appalled. She’d hurt them, all right. Badly.

  Myrnin laughed
, deep in his throat, and took out the thin, sharp knife he’d worn at his side. As Bishop advanced on him, he cut at him, still laughing.

  He connected.

  It was a minor little wound to Bishop’s arm, barely a nick, but Clare saw the cut on the older vampire’s robes, and a thin film of blood on the knife.

  Bishop looked surprised enough to stop to examine the damage to his costume.

  Myrnin’s laughter ratcheted higher and higher, and he twirled again, faster, almost a blur.

  “Myrnin!” Claire yelled. She was backing away from Ysandre, burned and furious, who was stalking toward her. She tripped and fell flat on her back. “Myrnin, do something!”

  He stopped twirling and looked at the bloody knife in his hand.

  “I told Sam before, you have to know when to let go,” he said. “It’s time, Claire.” He blew her a kiss, and leaped over the table.

  And ran away, shrieking with laughter, still holding the knife. Right out of the hall.

  For a few seconds, nobody moved. Claire stared at Ysandre, who seemed just as surprised, and glanced at Bishop.

  Who flicked his fingers against the cut in his robe, and chuckled.

  “My fool,” he said, almost fondly. “Madmen are the laughter of God, don’t you agree?”

  He sat down on his throne, smiling. “Ysandre, leave the child. I’m inclined to allow our friends their small acts of defiance tonight.”

  “She burned me!” Ysandre snarled.

  “And you’ll heal. Don’t whine like a kicked dog. It’s no more than you deserve.”

  Amelie, Claire realized, hadn’t moved at all. Not even when Claire’s life had been in danger. Now she did, leaning down to help Claire to her feet.

  “Enough of this,” she said. “You’ve had your fun, Father. End this.”

  “Very well,” he said. “It’s time for the test, my child. Swear fealty to me, and it will all be over.”

  “If I swear fealty, it will never be over,” Amelie corrected him. “I never have sworn an oath to you. Did you really think tonight that would change?”