Feast of Fools

by Caine, Rachel

‘‘I’ll be there,’’ Claire said. Her hands were shaking, fine little trembles that were a sign of the inner earthquake. ‘‘Thank you.’’

  ‘‘Oh, don’t thank me, child,’’ Amelie said. ‘‘I shouldn’t imagine you’ll find anything I have to say will be of the least comfort to you.’’

  The house was empty when Claire got there. She checked every room, including the laundry room in the basement, to be absolutely sure. Eve was still at work; Michael was at the music store. Shane—she had no idea where Shane was, except that the house was Shane free.

  Claire pressed the hidden button in the hallway on the second floor, and the paneling opened on the dusty steps leading up to the hidden room. She shut the opening behind her and trudged up, feeling sicker and more isolated with every single stair.

  At the top, color spilled across the walls: Victorian lamps, all jeweled hues and pale, watery light. There were no windows, no exits here. Only a few nice pieces of dusty furniture, and Amelie.

  And the bodyguards, of course. Amelie hardly ever went anywhere without at least one. There were two this time, lurking in the corners. One of them nodded to Claire. She was on nodding terms with scary bodyguard dudes. Great. She really was moving up in the social ladder of Morganville.

  ‘‘Ma’am,’’ Claire said, and stayed standing. Amelie was seated, but she didn’t look as though she was in any mood to indulge the fantasy that Claire was her equal. It was hard to determine Amelie’s feelings, but Claire was pretty sure that this one qualified as impatient, with a possible upgrade to annoyed.

  ‘‘I have very little time for soothing your ruffled feathers,’’ Amelie said. She shifted a little, which was surprising; Amelie was usually very still, very composed. That was almost fidgeting. There was something else unusual about her today—the color of her suit. It was still classic and beautifully tailored, but it was in a dark gray, much darker than Amelie usually preferred. It turned her eyes the color of storm clouds. ‘‘Yet you’ve done more than I asked with Myrnin. I am inclined to forgive your impertinence, if you understand that it’s an indulgence on my part. Not a right on yours.’’

  ‘‘I understand,’’ Claire said. ‘‘I just—this masked ball. Myrnin called it a welcome feast. He acted like it had something important to do with Mr. Bishop.’’

  Amelie’s eyes, which had been regarding her with impersonal focus, suddenly sharpened. ‘‘You’ve spoken with Myrnin regarding Bishop’s arrival?’’

  ‘‘Well—he asked me what was happening in town, and—’’ Claire broke off, because Amelie was suddenly standing. And her bodyguards had moved out of the corners of the room and were very close, close enough to hurt. ‘‘You didn’t tell me not to!’’

  ‘‘I told you to stay out of my affairs!’’ Something pale and hungry flickered in those eyes, as scary in its own way as Mr. Bishop. Amelie deliberately relaxed. ‘‘Very well. The damage is done. What did Myrnin tell you?’’

  ‘‘He said—’’ Claire wet her lips and glanced at the bodyguards hovering terrifyingly close. Amelie raised an eyebrow and nodded, and Claire felt rather than saw them move away. ‘‘He said you both thought Bishop was dead, so he was surprised to find out that he’d come to town. He said that Bishop wanted revenge. Against you.’’

  ‘‘What did he tell you about the feast?’’

  ‘‘Only that it was part of some kind of ceremony to welcome Bishop to town,’’ Claire said. ‘‘And that you weren’t going to fight him if you were putting on the feast.’’

  Amelie’s smile was quick and cold. ‘‘Myrnin knows something about the world and its politics. No, I’m not going to fight him. Not unless I must. Did he tell you anything else?’’

  ‘‘No.’’ Claire sucked up her courage. ‘‘Ysandre’s taking Shane. And Michael—I just found out he’s going, and he’s taking Monica. Not Eve.’’

  ‘‘Do you imagine I have the slightest concern for how your friends arrange their romantic affairs?’’

  ‘‘No, it’s just—I want you to invite me. Please. All the vampires are taking humans. Why don’t you take me?’’

  Amelie’s eyes widened. Not much, but it was enough to make Claire think she’d scored a big-time surprise. ‘‘Why would you possibly wish to attend?’’

  ‘‘Monica says it’s the social event of the season,’’ Claire said. She wasn’t sure a joke was the way to go; she knew Amelie had a sense of humor, but it was obscure.

  Today, it was apparently nonexistent.

  ‘‘All right, the truth is, I’m worried about Michael and Shane. I just want to be sure—sure they’re okay.’’

  ‘‘And how would you go about ensuring that, if I cannot?’’ Amelie didn’t wait for an answer, because there obviously wasn’t one. ‘‘You want to watch the boy, to be sure he doesn’t fall prey to Ysandre. Is that it?’’

  Claire swallowed and nodded. That wasn’t all, but that was a lot of it.

  ‘‘It’s a waste of time. No,’’ Amelie said. ‘‘You will not attend, Claire. I tell you this, explicitly, so that we are understood: I cannot risk you in this. You will not be at this event. Neither you nor Myrnin. Is that clear?’’

  ‘‘But—’’

  Amelie’s voice rose to a shout. ‘‘Is that clear?’’ The fury cut like knives, and Claire gasped and nodded. She wanted to take a step back from the horrible glow in Amelie’s eyes, but she knew that would be a very bad idea. She’d been around Myrnin enough to understand that retreat was a sign of weakness, and weakness triggered attack.

  Amelie continued to stare at her, fixed and silent, and there was a wildness to her that Claire couldn’t understand.

  ‘‘Mistress,’’ said one of the bodyguards. ‘‘We should go.’’ He made it sound as if they had someplace to be, but Claire had the eerie feeling that he was intervening deliberately. Providing Amelie an excuse to back off.

  ‘‘Yes,’’ Amelie said. There was a husky tone to her voice Claire had never heard before. ‘‘By all means, let us be done with this. You have heard my words, Claire. I warn you, don’t test me on this. You’re valuable to me, but you are not irreplaceable, and you have friends and family in this town who are far less useful.’’

  There was no mistaking that for anything but an outright threat. Claire nodded slowly.

  ‘‘Say the words,’’ Amelie said.

  ‘‘Yes. I understand.’’

  ‘‘Good. Now don’t bother me again. You may go.’’

  Claire backed away toward the stairs. She even backed down two steps before turning and hurrying down the rest, and when she was halfway there, she realized that the control to open the door from inside lay at the top, in the couch where Amelie sat.

  If Amelie didn’t want to let her out, she wasn’t going anywhere.

  Claire reached the landing at the bottom. The door was still closed. She looked back up the stairs and saw shadows moving, but heard nothing.

  The lights went out.

  ‘‘No,’’ she whispered, and fear came down like a bucket of freezing water, from head to toe. Her hand reached out blindly to stroke the closed door. ‘‘No, don’t do this—’’

  Something had changed in Amelie. She wasn’t the cool, remote queen she’d been before. She was more—animal. More angry.

  And Claire finally admitted it to herself: Amelie was more hungry.

  ‘‘Please,’’ she said to the dark. She knew there were ears listening. ‘‘Please let me go now.’’

  She heard a sharp click, and the door moved under her fingertips, swinging inward. Claire grabbed the edge with both hands and pulled it open. She was suddenly in the hall, and when she looked back, the door was closing.

  She collapsed against the wall, trembling.

  That went well, she thought sarcastically. She wanted to scream, but she was almost sure that would be a very, very bad idea.

  Downstairs, the front door opened and closed, and Claire heard the clump of heavy shoes on the wood floor.

  ‘‘Eve?’’
she called.

  ‘‘Yeah.’’ Eve sounded exhausted. ‘‘Coming.’’

  She looked even worse than she sounded. The red outfit that had flattered her so much before seemed to scream now, overpowering her; she seemed ready to drop, and from the state of her makeup, she’d already shed a lot of tears.

  ‘‘Oh,’’ Claire said. ‘‘Eve . . .’’

  Eve tried for a smile, but there wasn’t much left. ‘‘Pretty stupid to be upset about Monica, right? But I think that’s why it hurts so bad. It’s not like he’s taking somebody halfway nice or anything. He has to pick the walking social disease.’’ Eve wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. Her eyeliner and mascara had made a true Gothic mess, trickling in dirty streaks down her pale cheeks. ‘‘Don’t try to tell me he was ordered to do it. I don’t care if he was—he could have told me first. And why aren’t you arguing with me?’’

  ‘‘Because you’re right.’’

  ‘‘Damn right I’m right.’’ Eve kicked open the door to her room, walked in, and threw herself facedown on the black bed. Claire clicked on the lights, which mostly consisted of strings of dim white Christmas lights and one lamp with a bloodred scarf draped over the shade. Eve screamed into her pillow and punched it. Claire perched on the corner of the bed.

  ‘‘I’m going to kill him,’’ Eve said, or at least that was what it sounded like filtered through the pillow. ‘‘Stake him right in the heart, shove garlic up his ass, and—and—’’

  ‘‘And what?’’

  Michael was standing in the doorway. Claire jumped off the bed in alarm, and Eve sat up with her pillow clutched in both hands. ‘‘When did you get home?’’ Claire demanded.

  ‘‘Apparently just in time to hear my funeral plans. I especially like the garlic up the ass. It’s . . . different.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, well, I’m not finished,’’ Eve said. She slithered off the bedspread, dropped the pillow, and faced Michael with her arms crossed. ‘‘I’m also going to stake you outside in the sun, on top of a fire ant mound. And laugh.’’

  ‘‘What did I do?’’

  ‘‘What did you do?’’ Eve’s glare was fierce enough to rip even a vampire’s heart right out of his chest. ‘‘You can’t be serious.’’

  Michael went very still, and Claire thought the expression in his eyes was the definition of busted. ‘‘Monica. She told you.’’

  ‘‘Duh. Why wouldn’t she take the chance to rub my face in it, you loser? And speaking of that, Monica? Did you lose a bet or something? Because that’s really the only reason I can think of for you to humiliate me like this.’’

  ‘‘No,’’ Michael said. His gaze flickered to Claire in an unmistakable plea for her to leave. She didn’t. ‘‘I can’t explain, Eve. I’m sorry, I just can’t. But it’s not what it—’’

  ‘‘Don’t you even say it’s not what it looks like, because it’s always what it looks like!’’ Eve lunged forward, shoved Michael square in the chest, and drove him a foot backward, out of her room. ‘‘I can’t talk to you right now. Get out! And stay out!’’

  She slammed the door and locked it. Not, Claire reflected, that a lock would do any good, considering how strong Michael was. But he probably wouldn’t go around battering down doors in his own house, at least.

  ‘‘Eve, you have to listen to me. Please.’’

  Eve threw herself back on the bed, grabbed her iPod from the drawer, and shoved headphones over her ears as she hit the play button. Claire could hear the thundering metal all the way across the room.

  ‘‘Eve?’’

  Claire opened the door and looked at Michael. ‘‘I don’t think she’s listening,’’ she said. ‘‘You really screwed this up—you know that, right? At least Shane got ordered to do what he did. You chose, didn’t you?’’

  ‘‘Yeah,’’ Michael agreed softly. ‘‘I chose. But you really don’t have any idea of what my choices were, do you?’’

  She watched him walk away, enter his room at the end of the hall, and shut the door.

  Maybe he was right. Maybe it really wasn’t what it looked like. Not that Eve was going to listen. Claire stood there for a while, listening to the cold and stony silence, and then shook her head and went downstairs.

  Chili dogs weren’t the same eaten alone.

  Shane got home after dark, and the second Claire saw him, she knew something was wrong. He looked— distracted. Different.

  And he barely nodded to her on his way through the living room to the kitchen. She was curled up on the sofa highlighting text in her English book, wondering for the thousandth time why anybody thought knowing about the Brontë sisters was important and multitasking by not really watching a cooking show on cable TV.

  ‘‘Hey,’’ she called after him. ‘‘I left the chili on for you!’’

  He didn’t answer. Claire capped her marker pen and went to the kitchen door. She didn’t open it, but she stood and listened. Shane wasn’t making the normal dish noises of a guy desperate for dinner; in fact, he wasn’t making any noise at all.

  Claire was debating whether to return to studying when she heard him open the back door of the house. Voices, hushed and muffled. She eased the door open just a little, and listened harder.

  ‘‘You’re lucky I don’t call the cops,’’ Shane was saying. ‘‘Walk away, man.’’

  ‘‘I can’t. I need to talk to her.’’

  ‘‘You’re not coming near either one of the girls, got me?’’

  ‘‘I’m not going to hurt anyone!’’

  She knew that voice, or thought she did. But that couldn’t be right, it just couldn’t be.

  Shane could not be talking to Eve’s brother, Jason, especially not at the back door. She had to be imagining things. Maybe it was someone else, someone who just sounded like Jason Rosser. . . .

  Claire eased the door open enough to get a tiny slice of a view.

  No, that was Jason. There was absolutely no doubt about it. He was even wearing the same skanky, stained jeans and leather jacket. His hair was lank and even greasier than the last time she’d seen him, and he looked sallow and sick.

  ‘‘Come on, man,’’ he said. ‘‘Just let me talk to Claire. You keep me waiting out here in the dark, I’m lunch meat.’’

  ‘‘Good to know.’’

  Jason put out a hand to stop Shane from closing the door on him. ‘‘Please, man. I’m asking.’’

  Shane hesitated. Claire couldn’t really imagine why. Jason had stalked Eve; he’d killed—or at least he said he’d killed—innocent girls out of some misguided attempt to get the vampires to sign him up for service. He’d stabbed Shane in the guts.

  Shane did swing the bat at him first, Claire’s prim little voice of conscience said. She told it to shut up. Jason had engineered that fight, he’d provoked Shane into it, and it was only the fact that they’d gotten an ambulance there so fast that had saved Shane’s life.

  Jason didn’t look like a crazy killer just now. He looked like a half-starved scared junkie kid who was terrified out of his mind. And desperate.

  Claire came into the kitchen. Jason’s face lit up. ‘‘Claire! Claire, tell him—tell him it’s okay. I promise, I’m not going to hurt anybody. Tell him it’s okay to let me in so I can talk to you.’’

  ‘‘It’s not okay,’’ Claire said. ‘‘But he already knows that.’’

  Shane nodded. He shoved Jason backward, off-balance, off the porch. Jason tripped over a brick and fell flat on his ass. He glared up at Shane and rolled slowly to his feet. ‘‘Claire, I’m supposed to tell you something. From Oliver.’’

  ‘‘Oliver’s got nothing to tell us that we want to hear, man. Especially from you.’’

  ‘‘You sure about that?’’

  Shane grinned. ‘‘Pretty sure. Good luck with that survival thing out there in the dark.’’

  Shane started to shut the door. He almost made it before Jason blurted out, ‘‘Bishop’s setting a trap. We can tell you where and when.’’
/>   Claire put a hand on Shane’s shoulder, and he kept the door open, just a crack. ‘‘What are you talking about?’’

  ‘‘Let me in and I’ll tell you.’’ Jason looked desperate enough to claw paint off the door. ‘‘Please, Claire. I swear, I’m on the level here.’’

  ‘‘No,’’ she said. ‘‘If Oliver’s got something to say, I’ll talk to him, not to you.’’

  Resentment flickered in Jason’s dark eyes like oil on fire, and he got up and shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘‘Yeah? You gonna play it like that?’’

  ‘‘I’m not playing at all,’’ Claire said.

  ‘‘I think you are. So maybe we do it the hard way after all.’’ Jason threw himself against the door with such force that Shane was knocked backward, and Claire lost her footing and ended up flat on her back on the kitchen floor. As she twisted around to try to get up, she felt Jason’s hand close on her hair, painfully tight. He yanked her up to her knees and dragged her out into the night. She yelled and fought, but he had a lot of experience with making girls do what he wanted.

  And she stopped fighting when he put a gun to her head.

  ‘‘Good,’’ he said in her ear, and even in a blind, black rage she thought his breath was disgusting enough to peel paint. ‘‘Calm down, I’m not going to hurt you. I was serious. You need to listen to me.’’

  Shane followed them outside, moving slowly but never taking his eyes off Jason. Off the gun. ‘‘Let her go.’’

  Jason laughed, and dragged her backward to the driveway, where a big black car was waiting. Shane followed at a safe distance. Don’t, Claire mouthed. She’d seen Jason nearly kill Shane before. She couldn’t stand to see it happen again. I’ll be okay.

  Jason opened the driver’s-side door of the car, shoved her inside, and pushed in after. She immediately lunged for the other door.

  Locked.

  Jason slammed the car door and turned the key to start the engine. He took a firmer grip on Claire’s hair. ‘‘Stay still!’’

  Something heavy fell on the roof of the car, denting it down almost to the level of their heads; Claire and Jason both ducked, and Claire yelped at the thought that panic might make him squeeze the trigger.