Feast of Fools

by Caine, Rachel

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  About the Author

  Praise for the Morganville Vampires series

  "An electrifying, enthralling coming-of-age supernatural tale.’’ —The Best Reviews

  "A solid, utterly compelling story that you will find addictive and hypnotic. If Rachel Caine is not on your autobuy list, put her there immediately, if not sooner.’’

  —The Eternal Night

  ‘‘Rachel Caine brings her brilliant ability to blend witty dialogue, engaging characters, and an intriguing plot.’’ —Romance Reviews Today

  ‘‘A rousing horror thriller.’’ —Midwest Book Review

  Praise for Rachel Caine’s Weather Warden series

  ‘‘You’ll never watch the Weather Channel the same way again.’’ —Jim Butcher

  ‘‘The Weather Warden series is fun reading . . . more engaging than most TV.’’ —Booklist

  ‘‘A kick-butt heroine who will appeal strongly to fans of Tanya Huff, Kelley Armstrong, and Charlaine Harris.’’ —Romantic Times

  ‘‘Hugely entertaining.’’ —SF Crowsnest

  ‘‘A fast-paced thrill ride [that] brings new meaning to stormy weather.’’ —Locus

  ‘‘An appealing heroine with a wry sense of humor that enlivens even the darkest encounters.’’ —SF Site

  ‘‘I dare you to put this book down.’’

  —University City Review (Philadelphia)

  ‘‘Rachel Caine takes the Weather Wardens to places the Weather Channel never imagined!’’

  —Mary Jo Putney

  ‘‘A spellbinding . . . thought-provoking, action-packed thriller.’’ —Midwest Book Review

  THE MORGANVILLE VAMPIRE NOVELS

  Glass Houses

  The Dead Girls’ Dance

  Midnight Alley

  Feast of Fools

  NAL Jam

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  First published by NAL Jam, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, June 2008

  Copyright © Roxanne Longstreet Conrad, 2008

  All rights reserved

  NAL JAM and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To the Time Turners, who keep me moving

  forward . . .

  And to P. N. Elrod, who knows why.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Couldn’t have happened without Sondra Lehman, Josefine Corsten, Sharon Sams, and my friends at LSG Sky Chefs.

  Thanks also to Lucienne Diver and Anne Bohner, without whom . . . well, you know!

  THE STORY SO FAR . . .

  Claire Danvers was going to Caltech. Or maybe MIT. She had her pick of great schools ... but her parents were a little worried about sending a wide-eyed sixteen-year -old into such a high-pressure world. So they compromised and sent her to a safe place for a year—Texas Prairie University, a small school located in Morganville, Texas, just an hour or so from their home.

  One problem: Morganville isn’t what it seems. It’s the last safe place for vampires, and that makes it not very safe at all for the humans who venture in for work or school. The vampires rule the town . . . and everyone who lives in it.

  Claire’s second problem is that she’s gathered enemies, major ones, human and vampire. Now she lives with housemates Michael Glass (newly made a vampire), Eve Rosser (always been Goth), and Shane Collins (whose absentee dad is a vampire killer). Claire’s the normal one . . . or she would be, except that she’s deep into the secrets of Morganville. She’s become an employee of the Founder, Amelie, and befriended one of the most dangerous, yet most vulnerable, vampires of them all—Myrnin.

  And just when she thinks things can’t get any worse . . . they have.

  Amelie’s vampire father has come to town, and he’s not happy.

  When Daddy’s not happy . . . nobody’s happy.

  1

  It was hard to imagine how Claire’s day—even by Morganville standards—could get any worse ... and then the vampires holding her hostage wanted breakfast.

  ‘‘Breakfast?’’ Claire repeated blankly. She took a look at the living room window, just to prove to herself that, yes, it was still dark outside. Getting darker all the time.

  The three vampires all looked at her. It was bad enough having that kind of attention from the two she hadn’t properly met yet—man and woman, eerily pretty—but when the cold, old Mr. Bishop’s eyes focused her way, it made her want to curl up in a corner and hide.

  She held his stare for a full five seconds, then looked down. She could almost feel him smiling.

  ‘‘Breakfast,’’ he said softly, ‘‘is something to be eaten in the mornings. Mornings for vampires are not controlled by sunrise. And I like eggs.’’

  ‘‘Scrambled or over easy?’’ Claire asked, trying not to sound as nervous as she felt. Don’t say over easy. I don’t know how to make eggs over easy. I don’t even know why I mentioned it. Don’t say over easy. . . .

  ‘‘Scrambled,’’ he said, and Claire’s breat
h rushed out in relief. Mr. Bishop was sitting in the comfortable chair in the living room that her housemate Michael normally occupied while he was playing his guitar. Unlike Michael, Mr. Bishop made it look like a throne. Part of it was that everybody else stayed standing— Claire, with her boyfriend, Shane, hovering protectively by her side; Eve and Michael a little distance away, holding hands. Claire risked a glance at Michael. He looked . . . contained. Angry, sure, but under control, at least.

  Claire was more scared about Shane. He had a pretty well-documented history of acting before thinking, at least when it came to the personal safety of those he cared about. She took his hand, and he sent her a quick, dark, unreadable glance.

  No, she wasn’t sure about him at all.

  Mr. Bishop’s voice pulled her attention back to him with a cold snap. ‘‘Have you told Amelie that I’ve arrived, girl?’’

  That had been Bishop’s first command—to let his daughter know he’d come to town. His daughter? Amelie—the head vampire of Morganville—didn’t seem human enough to have family, not even family as scary as Mr. Bishop. Ice and crystal, that was Amelie.

  He was waiting for an answer, and Claire hastily got one together. ‘‘I called. I got her voice mail,’’ Claire said. She tried not to sound defensive. Bishop’s eyebrows drew together in a scowl.

  ‘‘I suppose that means you left some sort of a message. ’’ She nodded mutely. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair. ‘‘Very well. We’ll eat while we wait. Eggs, scrambled, as I said. We shall also have bacon, coffee—’’

  ‘‘Biscuits,’’ drawled the woman leaning on the arm of his chair. ‘‘I love biscuits. And honey.’’ The vampire had a molasses-slow accent, something that wasn’t quite Southern and wasn’t quite not, either. Mr. Bishop gave her a tolerant look, the kind a human would give a favorite pet. She had the icy glitter in her eyes, and moved so smoothly and quietly that there was no way she was regular-flavored human. Not hiding it, either, the way some of the vampires of Morganville tried to do.

  The woman kept smiling, dark eyes fixed on Shane. Claire didn’t like the way she was looking at him. It looked—greedy.

  ‘‘Biscuits,’’ Mr. Bishop agreed, with a quirk of a smile. ‘‘And I’ll indulge you further by agreeing to gravy, child.’’ The smile vanished when he turned back to the four standing in front of him. ‘‘Go about your business, then. Now.’’

  Shane grabbed Claire’s hand and practically dragged her toward the kitchen. However fast he was moving, Michael was there first, pushing Eve through the door. ‘‘Hey!’’ Eve protested. ‘‘I’m walking here!’’

  ‘‘And the faster, the better,’’ Michael said. His normally angelic face looked stark, all sharp edges, and he closed the kitchen door once they were safely inside. ‘‘Right. We don’t have a lot of choices. Let’s do exactly what he says and hope Amelie can sort all this out when she gets here.’’

  ‘‘I thought you were all Big Bad Bloodsucker these days,’’ Shane said. ‘‘It’s your house. How come you can’t just throw them out?’’ That was a reasonable question, and Shane managed to say it without making it seem like a challenge. Well, much of one. The kitchen felt cold, Claire noticed—as if the temperature of the whole house was steadily dropping. She shivered.

  ‘‘It’s complicated,’’ Michael said. He yanked open cabinets and began assembling the makings of fresh coffee. ‘‘Yeah, it’s our house’’—emphasis, Claire noted, on the our—‘‘but if I revoke Bishop’s invitation, he will still kick our asses, I guarantee you.’’

  Shane leaned his butt against the stove and crossed his arms. ‘‘I just thought you were supposed to be stronger than them on home ground—’’

  ‘‘Supposed to be. I’m not.’’ Michael spooned coffee into the filter. ‘‘Don’t be an asshole right now—we don’t have time for it.’’

  ‘‘Dude, I wasn’t trying to be.’’ And Claire could tell he actually meant it this time. Michael seemed to hear it, too, and sent Shane an apologetic glance. ‘‘I’m trying to figure out how big a pile of crap we’re in. Not blaming you, man.’’ He hesitated a second, then continued. ‘‘How do you know? Whether or not you have a chance?’’

  ‘‘Any other vampire I meet, I know where I stand with them. Who’s stronger, who’s weaker, whether or not I could take them in a straight-up fight if it came to that.’’ Michael poured water into the machine and switched it on to brew. ‘‘These guys, I know I haven’t got a chance in hell. Not against one of them, much less all three, not even with the house itself backing me up. They’re badass, man. Truly black hat. It’s going to take Amelie or Oliver to handle this.’’

  ‘‘So,’’ Shane said, ‘‘landfill-sized pile of crap. Good to know.’’

  Eve pushed him out of the way and began getting pots and pans out of the cabinets, clattering everything noisily. ‘‘Since we’re not fighting, we’d better get breakfast ready,’’ she said. ‘‘Claire, you get the eggs, since you volunteered us for short-order cooks.’’

  ‘‘Better than volunteering us for breakfast,’’ Shane pointed out, and Eve snorted.

  ‘‘You,’’ she said, and pressed a finger into the center of his well-worn T-shirt. ‘‘You, mister. You’re making gravy.’’

  ‘‘You do want us all to die, don’t you?’’

  ‘‘Shut up. I’ll do the biscuits and bacon. Michael—’’ She turned, looking at him with big dark eyes, made almost anime-wide by the Goth eyeliner. ‘‘Coffee. And I think you have to be the private eye here. Sorry.’’

  He nodded. ‘‘I’ll go make sure I know what they’re doing when I finish here.’’

  Assigning Michael the barista and spy duties made sense, but it left the three of them the majority of the work, and none of them were exactly future chefs in training. Claire struggled with the scrambled eggs. Eve cursed the bacon grease in a fierce whisper, and whatever Shane was making, it didn’t really look that much like gravy.

  ‘‘Can I help?’’

  They all jumped at the voice, and Claire whirled toward the kitchen door. ‘‘Mom!’’ She knew she sounded panicked. She was panicked. She’d forgotten all about her parents—they’d come in with Mr. Bishop, and Bishop’s friends had moved them into the not-much-used parlor at the front of the house. In the great scheme of scary things, Bishop had taken the forefront.

  But there was her mother, standing in the kitchen doorway, smiling a fragile, confused smile and looking . . . vulnerable. Tired.

  ‘‘Mrs. Danvers!’’ Eve jumped in, hurried over, and guided her to the kitchen table. ‘‘No, no, we’re just— ah—making some food. You haven’t eaten, right? What about Mr. Danvers?’’

  Her mother—looking every year of the forty-two she claimed not to be—seemed tired, vague, kind of out of focus. Worried, too. There were lines around her eyes and mouth that Claire couldn’t remember seeing before, and it scared her.

  ‘‘He’s—’’ Claire’s mom frowned, then leaned her forehead on the palm of her hand. ‘‘Oh, my head hurts. I’m sorry. What did you say?’’

  ‘‘Your husband, where is he?’’

  ‘‘I’ll find him,’’ Michael said quietly. He slipped out of the kitchen with the grace and quickness of a vampire—but at least he was their vampire. Eve settled Claire’s mom at the table, exchanged a helpless look with Claire, and chattered on nervously about what a long drive it must have been to Morganville, what a nice surprise it was that they were moving to town, how much Claire was going to enjoy having them here. Etc., etc., etc.

  Claire numbly continued to rake eggs back and forth in the skillet. This can’t happen. My parents can’t be here. Not now. Not with Bishop. It was a nightmare, in every way.

  ‘‘I could help you cook,’’ Mom said, and made a feeble effort to get up. Eve glared at Claire and mouthed, Say something! Claire swallowed a cold bubble of panic and tried to make her voice sound at least partly under control.

  ‘‘No, Mom,’’ Claire said. ‘�
��It’s fine. We’ve got it covered. Look, we’re making extra in case you and Dad are hungry. You just sit and relax.’’

  Her mom, who was usually a control freak deluxe in the kitchen, prone to take command of something as error free as boiling water, looked relieved. ‘‘All right, honey. You let me know if I can help.’’

  Michael opened the kitchen door, and ushered in Claire’s father. If her mom looked tired, her dad just looked . . . blank. Puzzled. He frowned at Michael, like he was trying to work out exactly what was happening but couldn’t put his finger on it.

  ‘‘What’s going on around here?’’ he barked at Michael. ‘‘Those people out there—’’

  ‘‘Relatives,’’ Michael said. ‘‘From Europe. Look, I’m sorry. I know you wanted to spend some time with Claire, but maybe you should just go on home, and we’ll—’’

  He paused, then turned, because someone was standing in the kitchen door behind him. Following him.

  ‘‘Nobody’s going anywhere,’’ said the other one of Bishop’s vampire companions—the guy. He was smiling. ‘‘One big happy family, eh, Michael? It’s Michael, isn’t it?’’

  ‘‘What, we’re on a first-name basis now?’’ Michael got Claire’s dad inside the kitchen and closed the door in the other vampire’s face.

  ‘‘Right. Let’s get you guys out of here,’’ he said to Claire’s parents, and opened the back door, the one that led out into the backyard. ‘‘Where’s your car? Out on the street?’’

  Outside the night looked black and empty, not even a moon showing. Claire’s dad frowned at Michael again, then took a seat at the kitchen table with his wife.

  ‘‘Close the door, son,’’ he said. ‘‘We’re not going anywhere.’’

  ‘‘Sir—’’

  Claire tried, too. ‘‘Dad—’’

  ‘‘No, honey, there’s something strange going on here, and I’m not leaving. Not until I know you’re all okay.’’ Her father transferred the frown back to Michael again. ‘‘Just who are these . . . relatives?’’