by Rachel Caine
Claire didn’t have time to brood about it, because just then the first vampires arrived, cold and icily polite. Claire handed carnations to the ladies, who accepted them with disdainful grace as they glided in, heading straight for the plasma refreshments. Next came a group of cautious-looking townies, dressed in ill-fitting fancy dresses and suits, all prominently wearing their bracelets of Protection. These weren’t the rebel underground; these were the humans with a vested stake (no pun intended) in the status quo, and they had a certain beaten look to them that made Claire’s heart ache. She’d tried to use her influence with Amelie—such as it was—to make things better for them, but she couldn’t counteract lifetimes of oppression in a couple of years.
“Claire,” Shane said quietly. When she looked around, there was a vampire standing right in front of her, wearing an elaborate black satin coat with enormous long tails that reached to his heels, a red brocade vest, a ruffled white shirt....
Myrnin.
He looked deeply worried and very uncomfortable. “My dear girl, I really feel I need to—”
“Go away,” she said. Not loudly, but she meant it. “Don’t talk to me. Not ever again.”
“But—”
She pushed him back, hard. “Never!” She didn’t shout it, although she felt like screaming it; the fury that boiled up inside her made her shake and see red. “Don’t you ever come near me or Shane again!”
He couldn’t have looked more heartbroken, but she didn’t care. She didn’t. Her eyes filled with tears, but she made herself believe that they were tears of anger, not sadness. Not disappointment.
Myrnin bowed from the waist, old-fashioned and very correct, and said, “As you wish, Claire.” Then he turned toward Shane and gave another bow, not quite as deep. “I regret the necessity of my actions.” He didn’t wait for Shane to say anything, not that Shane would have, anyway; he was busy watching Claire as she hastily wiped the tears from her eyes.
Myrnin walked away. He looked . . . small, somehow. And defeated, although he tried to keep his head upright. And even though she was angry—she was—it still hurt to see him like that. And deep down, she felt lost thinking that she’d never see him again. Never roll her eyes at his insane leaps of conversation. Never see those stupid bunny slippers again.
He did it. Not me.
Then why was it so awful?
She couldn’t dwell on it, because more people were arriving, a lot more, and she had all she could do forcing smiles and saying polite things and handing out carnations to the ladies. This influx was a mixture of townies and a few wary, tense people she was sure were in Morganville but not of it—the resistance, maybe, come to scope out the situation. Shane recognized a few, and she saw him exchange some quick words with a couple.
There was a brief lull in arrivals, and Claire caught her breath and checked her carnation supply—getting low. Then again, the ballroom was now teeming with people—more than a hundred, for sure. Quite a crowd, in this town.
More vampires this time, at least twenty of them. One of the women accepted a flower with a charming, graceful smile; another lifted her chin and glided right by, refusing to even acknowledge Claire’s existence.
So much fun.
“I believe that’s for me,” said a low, cool voice, and Claire jerked her attention back front and center just as Amelie plucked the carnation from her hand. “Do forgive Mathilde. She’s not been the same since the French Revolution.”
“You came,” Claire blurted.
Amelie raised a single eyebrow in a sharp curve. “Why would I not? I was invited. It’s only polite to attend.”
“I thought you weren’t in favor of—this.”
“It would be hypocritical of me to say that it pleases me. But it suits my purposes to be here.” Amelie nodded her good-byes and started to move on.
Claire took in a breath and asked, “Did you order Myrnin to kill Shane?”
Amelie stood there silently with the white carnation turning in her cool, long fingers, then turned and took Oliver’s offered elbow as he entered the room, looking very much not himself in a suit that was almost as beautiful as what Michael was wearing. “Ah. There you are. Shall we proceed?”
“I suppose we must,” he said. He didn’t seem happy about it.
Claire said, “Wait! You didn’t answer—”
Amelie turned back to Claire just for a moment, and said, “What I do for this town, I do without regard to my own feelings, much less yours. Is that clear?” Her voice was cold, low, and very clear, and then she was gone, the queen walking off to greet her subjects.
So, it hadn’t really been Myrnin’s choice. No wonder he was so wounded; he’d been ordered, and he’d obeyed, and Claire had dumped the blame on him (well, he was to blame—he could have refused!), but Amelie was definitely the puppet master pulling his strings. As hurtful as Myrnin’s betrayal was, it didn’t scare her nearly as much now.
Amelie had told her long ago that she would do anything, sacrifice anyone, for the safety of Morganville, but it still felt like betrayal.
Eve peeked around the door and gestured at Claire, who moved closer. “Is everybody here?” she asked. She looked terrified and excited all at once. “Is it ready?”
“Ready,” Claire said. “Everyone’s waiting on you.”
Eve took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and whispered something to herself, then disappeared behind the edge of the door again. Thirty seconds later, she swept in on Michael’s arm.
Claire thought that she had never seen them look better, especially together; Eve’s dramatic long red dress clung to her figure and made her look even taller, while Michael had put on a really great suit. His blond hair blazed in the light, and was the perfect counterpoint to Eve’s black.
They looked at each other, and Eve smiled a slow, delighted smile that Michael echoed.
Claire stepped forward and pinned on Eve’s corsage, and then the two swept on into the crowd, full of people murmuring and whispering. Everyone watched them, and Claire moved back to grip Shane’s hand tightly. It was Eve and Michael’s party, but somehow, it felt like a test.
Nobody spoke to them directly as they made their way across the room, until Myrnin stepped into their path. He was silent for a few seconds, then reached for Eve’s hand. He raised it to his lips and bent over it, and Claire could hear him say, even where she stood by the door, “Congratulations to you both, my dear. May your happiness last forever.”
“I’ll drink to that!” someone said, and a number of people laughed, and the spell was broken. People mixed and mingled. More came up to shake Michael’s hand and offer Eve a hug or a smile.
It was going to be all right.
“Uh-oh,” Shane said. He jerked his chin toward the far edge of the crowd. “She’s not joining in.” By she he meant Amelie, who stood in regal isolation with Oliver. They were talking together, ignoring what was going on in the center of the room. It looked intense. “I don’t like the look of that.”
“She practically admitted she ordered—” Claire didn’t dare say more, not in a room full of vampire ears, so she touched the soft fabric of his turtleneck, and he nodded. “I don’t know if we can count on her help.”
“I never have,” he said. “Or anybody else’s, except yours, Eve’s, and . . .” He hesitated, but he smiled and finished anyway. “Michael’s. Safer that way, CB. You get wrapped up in the politics of this town and you get dragged under.”
Richard Morrell arrived late, and he brought his sister. Monica Morrell took the very last carnation Claire had, made a face, and handed it to her brother. “Cheap,” she said. “I should have known they wouldn’t have orchids, but I expected something better than that.” As if Claire weren’t standing right there. “Ugh, I’ll bet they don’t even have an open bar.”
“How exactly would that matter to you, since you can’t drink legally?” Richard asked. He sounded worn-out and sharp, and Monica fell into a pout. She wore a low-cut, thigh-high shimmering blue
dress that emphasized her long legs, and had probably cost more than Claire had saved for her college fund. “You wanted to come, and you promised you’d be civil. If you’re not, you go home. No arguments.”
“Oh, try not to sound so much like Mom—you don’t have the ovaries,” Monica said. She threw Claire a nasty smile as she strode past them, tossing the carnation to the floor and crushing it beneath her fancy stiletto-heeled shoes. “Isn’t there supposed to be dancing? Knowing Eve, it’ll probably be that crappy death metal and emo ballads, but I came to dance.”
“Shut up and put the gift on the table, Monica,” Richard said. He handed her a nicely wrapped box, which she held at arm’s length as if it held live cockroaches. Claire pointed her to the gift table, already loaded up with presents. Monica stalked over and dropped it on the pile, then turned a dazzling smile and hair-flip on the nearest man.
“God,” Richard sighed. “I’d apologize, but you know by now that you can’t expect anything else out of her.”
“In a weird sort of way, it’s comforting,” Shane said. “Nice to know some things never change. Plagues, death, taxes, Monica.”
“I guess we can stop playing greeters,” Claire said. “I’m all out of flowers.” She picked up the one Monica had trampled and tossed it back in the box, which she shoved under a handy table. “I need punch.”
“May I escort you to get it?” Richard asked, and offered her his arm. She blinked and looked at Shane, who shrugged.
“I’d be honored,” she said.
It felt weird, being led around by the mayor.... People talked to him freely, and gave her odd looks; she was well aware of Shane moving along behind them, and wondered if she should have done this, after all. Morganville was a gossip hotbed. Next thing, she’d probably find out she’d dumped her boyfriend for Richard, which was so not going to happen; Richard was nice enough, but not when compared with Shane. Besides, that meant getting Monica as a relative. Terrifying.
Richard steered her to the punch, released her, and went off to talk to constituents; Claire filled two cups and handed one to Shane, who took a long drink, then winced and touched his throat.
“Hurts?”
He nodded. “Burns,” he said. “Somebody spiked the punch, FYI. Maybe you should stick to water—that tastes like Ever-clear.”
“Ugh.” Claire put her punch down, untasted, and went for bottled water instead. Safer, anyway; she hadn’t forgotten Miranda’s words about her dress. Her throat was dry, and the water tasted cool and sweet. She nibbled a bell-shaped cookie and eyed the cake, which looked considerably better than it had when the bakers had shoved it on Eve as professional work; she was, in fact, kind of proud of it. “Should we do something about the punch?”
“Don’t take all the fun out of things,” Shane said. “Besides, I’m not lugging that all the way to the kitchen.” He was right—the punch bowl was enormous, and full. Not much that could be done about it.
She was still worrying about it when a fight broke out, somewhere near the middle of the room.
Where Michael and Eve were.
The first warning was a shout of alarm, then a woman’s scream, and the crowd between Claire and whatever was happening closed ranks. Shane, who was taller, gazed in that direction and said, “Crap.”
“What?”
“Stay here!”
He took off, shoving his way through the crowd.
No way was she staying behind. Where he went, she went. Claire squirmed through the close-packed bodies of humans (on this side of the room) and suddenly was in the open area, which held Eve, Michael, the newly arrived Shane, and two men.
The two men—part of that not-quite-townie crew Claire had wondered about earlier—had ganged up on Michael. The fight was already over; one was down flat on his back, and Eve’s sharp high heel was planted in the center of his chest, holding him down (although he looked unconscious, and not likely to give anybody trouble). As Claire arrived and skidded to a halt, the second man that Michael was fighting stabbed in with a stake aimed at Michael’s heart.
Michael easily slapped it out of his hand and shoved him backward. His attacker tripped over the downed body of his partner, and Michael loomed over him, beautiful as an avenging angel, practically glowing in the lights. His fangs were down.
“Don’t you ever raise a hand to Eve again!” he said, and bent down to grab the man’s tie. With a single, effortless yank, Michael raised him back to his feet and shook him like a rag doll. “Don’t you even look at her!”
Shane yelled, “Behind you!” and threw himself into a full tackle, just as a woman lunged out of the onlookers with another stake aiming for Michael’s back. He knocked her down, and the stake went flying. Shane bounced back upright and grabbed up the length of sharpened wood. “Hey! Sorry, lady, but nobody’s staking anybody at this party! I hung a disco ball for this!”
Michael looked over at him.
“Yo,” Shane said, and nodded toward the man Michael was dangling. “He’s turning kinda purple. I think you made the point.”
Michael dropped him. His fangs disappeared, and he held out his hand to Eve. She left her own fallen attacker and took it.
Claire left the safety of the crowd and went to join Shane. The four of them, surrounded.
“Anybody got anything to say now?” Shane said. “Any crap about mixed marriages? The floor’s open; say your piece!”
The vampires, Claire realized, hadn’t come rushing to Michael’s defense. In fact, they were standing in a clump next to the blood supply, sipping from crystal cups, looking utterly uninvolved. She looked around for Oliver and Amelie and Myrnin. Myrnin was sitting down at a table, running his fingernails slowly over the cloth, shredding it into fluff.
Amelie and Oliver were still standing at the edge of the crowd, watching.
“All right.” A woman pushed through the crowd—a townie. Claire recognized her. The older clerk who’d refused to wait on Eve at the party supply store. She looked even stiffer and less fun today, in her boxy pastel blue dress and lacquered hair. “I’ll say something. I know you invited us here, and I think that was brave, but you know this is wrong. He’s one of them. No offense to them, but we keep ourselves to ourselves. Always have.”
“As much as I hate to stand in agreement, she’s correct,” drawled a well-dressed vampire, who sipped at his blood with perfect calm. “A master doesn’t marry the livestock. That’s simply perverse.”
Monica Morrell pushed her way through the crowd, teetering on heels that were even higher and thinner than Eve’s. “Hey! Who are you calling livestock, freak?” Her brother grabbed her by the shoulder to haul her back, but she shook him off. “I am not your cow.”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” the vampire said, and brushed imaginary dirt from his wine red velvet lapel. “You seem to have forgotten your place. And if you won’t be a cow, perhaps being a pig is more acceptable.”
That woke dry, sharp laughter from the vampire contingent, like the clatter of breaking crystal.
“Pig?” Monica yelped, and tried to twist free of Richard. “Let go. That asshole called me a pig! I’m not a nobody like her, you know!” She jerked her chin at Eve. “I’m a Morrell!”
“Excuse me, then,” the vampire said. “You are therefore a prize pig.”
Monica lurched forward on those high heels, scooped up the fallen knife from the floor, and stood next to Eve. A few steps away, but approximately next, anyway. “I have a Protector!” she snapped. “Hello? Protect me already!”
“From what?” Oliver’s voice echoed through the ballroom. “Insults? I’m not obliged to defend your dignity. Provided you have any. Stop this, all of you.” He didn’t have to push through the crowd; people got out of the way for him.
Amelie, Claire noticed, did not come with him. She stayed where she was, remote and cold.
“Enough of this. Look at you, squabbling like spoiled children,” Oliver said. He leveled a finger at the vampire in the dark red coat. “You wil
l be respectful. And you—” The finger turned to point at Monica. “You will learn to hold your tongue.”
“Like a good little pet?” she asked acidly. “Oink.”
“If you don’t want my Protection, feel free to take off the bracelet,” Oliver said, and stared at her with fierce eyes. “Go ahead, Monica. See how it feels to be naked in the cold.”
Claire thought for a second she would actually do it. Monica lifted her wrist and ran a finger over the silver bracelet she wore, the one with Oliver’s sigil on it....
. . . And then she stepped back, head bowed. Richard pushed her behind him.
“Better,” Oliver said. He pointed at the vampire again. “More from you, Jean?” He gave it the French pronunciation, Zhon. Jean shrugged and sipped his blood. “Now. We are going to behave like civilized individuals.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at the two men on the ground. Two of Amelie’s ever-present bodyguards walked through the hole he’d made in the crowd, gathered them up, and dragged them off. “I do hope nobody else here has any other surprises planned, because if you so much as think about harming one another, I will oblige them. This is neutral ground. Violators will be gruesomely and violently shown the error of their ways. Clear?”
Nobody said a word. Not even Eve, which was surprising.
And then Amelie walked forward, moving through the parted crowd like an iceberg through dark seas—gleaming with cutting edges.
Oliver turned as she approached behind him, and Claire saw the look on his face. The dread, quickly stamped out into an even, expressionless mask.
“The Founder will speak,” he said, and stepped back to give her the floor.
“I come today at the request of two Morganville residents,” Amelie said. She stood in the very center of the room, facing Michael and Eve, who still had their hands clasped tightly together. “I come to deliver judgment on whether this planned union may proceed.”