by Rachel Caine
‘‘Hush, child,’’ he said. ‘‘The feast. It’s tonight, yes?’’
‘‘I don’t even know what it is.’’
‘‘Amelie’s formal recognition of Bishop. Every vampire in Morganville who is able will be present, all there to swear their obedience, and every one of them will bring a token gift.’’
She sniffled, sat up, and wiped her face. ‘‘What kind of gift?’’
Myrnin’s dark eyes were steady on hers. ‘‘A token gift of blood,’’ he said. ‘‘Specifically, a human. You’re right to be worried for your friends, your family. He has the right to choose any human offered to him. The gesture is meant to be ceremonial—it’s come down to us as a tradition from long ago—but it doesn’t have to be.’’
And Claire understood. She understood why Amelie had forbidden her to come; she understood why Michael had deliberately asked Monica Morrell instead of Eve.
It was chess, and the pawns were people. The vampires were playing with what they could afford to lose.
‘‘You—’’ Her voice didn’t sound steady. She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘‘You said that he could choose any human.’’
Myrnin didn’t blink. ‘‘Or all of them,’’ he said. ‘‘If he so wishes.’’
‘‘You know he’ll do it. He’ll kill someone.’’
‘‘Most likely, yes.’’
‘‘We have to stop this,’’ she said. ‘‘Myrnin—why would she do this?’’
‘‘Amelie is not a brave woman. If the odds are against her, she will surrender; if the odds are near even, she will play for time and advantage. She knows she can’t defeat Bishop on her own; not even she and Oliver combined can do it. She has to play the long game, Claire. She’s played it all her life.’’ Myrnin’s dark eyes were glowing again, and he began to smile. ‘‘Amelie reckons her odds without me, of course. With me at her side, she can win.’’
‘‘You want to go. To the feast.’’
Myrnin straightened his vest and brushed imaginary dust from his sleeves. ‘‘Of course. And I’m going with or without you. Now, are you going under those circumstances?’’
‘‘I—Amelie said—’’
‘‘Yes or no, Claire.’’
‘‘Then . . . yes.’’
‘‘We’ll need costumes,’’ he said. ‘‘Not to worry, I know just the place to get them.’’
‘‘I look ridiculous,’’ Claire said. She also looked completely obvious. ‘‘Can’t we do something in, I don’t know, black? Since we’re supposed to be sneaky?’’
‘‘Stop talking,’’ Myrnin commanded as he applied makeup to her face. He seemed to be enjoying himself a hell of a lot more than the situation called for, and she felt doubt once again that his cure was really a cure. There had been a good reason Amelie said he shouldn’t be at the feast; there’d been a good reason, too, for leaving him out of her calculations for war or peace.
But Claire knew Amelie too well. If peace meant it had to come at the price of a few human deaths, even ones that were dear to Claire, she’d count it an acceptable cost.
Claire didn’t.
‘‘There,’’ Myrnin said. ‘‘Close your eyes.’’
Claire did, and felt a soft brushing of powder over her face. When she opened her eyes, Myrnin stepped out of the way, and she saw some alien creature in the mirror reflecting back at her.
She did look ridiculous, but she had to admit she didn’t look like Claire Danvers. Not at all. A white face that would have done Eve proud. Full red lips. Huge, black-rimmed eyes with funny little lines to draw attention to them.
A tight-fitting costume, top and tights, covered with red and black diamonds. A matador’s hat. ‘‘What am I supposed to be?’’ she blurted. Myrnin looked disappointed in her.
‘‘Harlequin,’’ he said, and twirled like a crazy little girl. ‘‘I am Pierrot.’’ Myrnin was dressed in white, and where her costume was tight, his was full, billowing around his body like choir robes with white pants beneath. He had an enormous white ruffle around his collar, and a white hat that looked like a traffic cone. The same manic makeup, which only made his dark eyes look wider and less sane. ‘‘Don’t they teach anything in your schools?’’
‘‘Not about this.’’
‘‘Pity. I suppose that’s what comes of your main education flowing from Google.’’ He fitted something over her head. ‘‘Your mask, madam.’’ It was a simple domino mask, but it was patterned in the same red and black as her costume. ‘‘Can you do cartwheels? Backflips?’’
She gave him a hopeless look. ‘‘I’m a science nerd, not a cheerleader.’’
‘‘Pity about that, too.’’ He put on his own mask, which was plain black. He’d painted his face to match hers—dead white, huge red lips. It was eerie. ‘‘Well, then, we have costumes. Now all we need is something to tip the scales in our favor, should things go badly. As I’m sure they will, knowing Bishop.’’
They were in the attic of the Glass House, surrounded by what looked like centuries of . . . stuff. Claire had never been up here; in fact, she hadn’t known there was an entrance at all. Myrnin had taken her to the hidden Victorian room, and then pressed a few studs on the wall to pop loose yet another secret door, which led through a dusty, cramped hallway and opened out into a vast, dark storage space. He’d found the costumes packed in a trunk that looked old enough to have been carried through the Civil War. The dressing table, where Claire sat, was probably even older. The dust on it looked older.
Myrnin wandered off into the stacks of boxes and suitcases and discarded treasures, muttering in what sounded like a foreign language. He began rummaging around. Claire went back to staring at herself in the mirror. The makeup and costume made her look alien and cool, but her eyes were still Claire’s eyes, and they were scared.
I can’t believe we’re going to do this, she thought.
Myrnin popped up like some terrifying full-sized jack-in-the-box next to her, carrying a suitcase the width of Rhode Island. He dropped it to the wooden floor, where it hit with a shuddering thud.
‘‘Ta da!’’ He threw it open and struck a heroic pose.
Inside were weapons. Lots of weapons. Crossbows. Knives. Swords. Crosses, some with crudely pointed ends.
Myrnin fished around in the chaos and came up with a dirty-looking bottle that had probably once held perfume, back around the Middle Ages. ‘‘Holy water,’’ he said. ‘‘True holy water, blessed by the pope himself. Very rare.’’
‘‘What is this? Where did these things come from?’’
‘‘People who were unsuccessful in using them,’’ he said. ‘‘I wouldn’t recommend the vials of flammable liquid, the green ones. They do work, but you’re as apt to kill your own allies as your enemies. Holy water will hurt, but it won’t destroy. I would rather you were armed with nonfatal methods.’’
‘‘Why?’’
‘‘Even if we win, Amelie will be forced to bring to trial any human who kills a vampire. You know how well that ends.’’ Claire did, and she shuddered. Shane had nearly been killed for a murder he hadn’t committed. ‘‘So if there’s any killing to be done, let me or another vampire do it. We’re better suited in any case.’’ He folded cloth over his hand and picked up a medium-sized ornate cross with a pointed end, which he handed over with care. ‘‘Self-defense only. Now, for me . . .’’
Myrnin picked up a wickedly sharp knife and eyed the edge critically, then slipped it back into its leather scabbard. It went under his tunic and against his side.
He closed the lid on the suitcase.
‘‘That’s all?’’ Claire asked, surprised. There had been an arsenal just waiting for him.
‘‘It’s all I need. Time to go,’’ he said. ‘‘That is, if you’re certain you want to do this.’’
‘‘I’m sure.’’ Claire looked down at herself, and the tight costume. ‘‘Um . . . where are my pockets?’’
11
The Glass House was on what Claire had com
e to think of as the Impossible Travel Network.... Myrnin’s doorway system led to a total of twenty places in town that she’d been able to identify, and one of them was in their living room. One, of course, was to the prison where he’d been making his residence lately. One was to the Day House, and she suspected most if not all the Founder Houses had similar connections.
There was also a doorway to Amelie’s castle—or at least, Claire thought of it as a castle; she had no idea what it looked like on the outside. She didn’t even know where it was in town. But inside, it felt and looked old and very, very strong. There were exits in the system to the university administration building, to the library, to the town hall, and to the Elders’ Council building.
Which was where the ball was being held.
‘‘I can’t believe we’re doing this,’’ Claire whispered as Myrnin contemplated the blank wall in the Glass House living room. ‘‘Myrnin, are you sure? Maybe we should take a car or something.’’
‘‘This is faster,’’ he said. ‘‘Not afraid, are you? No need. You’re with me.’’ He said it with effortless arrogance, and once again, she had that flash of chilly doubt. Was he okay? He seemed to be stringing thoughts together just fine, but there was something . . . off. The sweet-natured Myrnin who normally emerged during his brief bouts of sanity was gone, and she didn’t really know this Myrnin at all.
But he’d given her holy water and a cross, and he didn’t have to do that. Besides . . . she needed him.
Didn’t she?
It was too late for second thoughts. The area of wall where Myrnin was staring fluttered and melted into gray fog. The fog swirled, took on color, and became darkness with a line of hot gold light barely visible at the bottom.
It looked like the interior of a closet.
‘‘Come on,’’ Myrnin said, and extended his hand to her. She took it, and they stepped through together into the darkness. Behind them, she felt the portal seal itself, and when she turned to look, there was nothing there.
The place smelled like cleaning supplies, and as Claire swept her hand around, she came into contact with the wooden shaft of a mop. Janitor’s closet. Well, she supposed it made arrivals a little less noticeable.
Except for the part about sneaking out of the janitor’s closet.
Myrnin hadn’t stopped. He reached out and turned the knob of the door, then eased it open just a crack.
‘‘Clear,’’ he said, and opened it wide. He stepped out first. Claire hurried to follow, and shut the door behind them. They were in what looked like a utility hallway, plain white walls and dark red carpet.
All the doors were unmarked. And identical. Claire tried to count, to be sure she could find the room again.
‘‘This way,’’ Myrnin said, and strode down the hallway to the right. His white tunic billowed as he walked, and he ought to have looked ridiculous in that traffic-cone hat, but somehow . . . somehow, he didn’t. ‘‘I should have let you be Pierrot, little Claire. Pierrot is known for his sweet, innocent nature. Not like Harlequin. Libitor frenzy, Claire.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘I said, I should have let you be Pierrot—’’
‘‘No,’’ she said slowly. ‘‘You said libitor frenzy. What does that mean?’’
‘‘I said what?’’ Myrnin sent her an odd look. ‘‘That’s nonsense. Aqua lace that.’’
She stopped dead in her tracks, and after a couple of steps on, he realized she’d been left behind and turned impatiently. ‘‘Claire, iguana time.’’ Claire, we don’t have time.
‘‘Myrnin, you’re not making sense. I—think the serum is wearing off.’’
‘‘I feel acting.’’ I feel fine.
‘‘Can you hear yourself? What you’re saying?’’
He held up his hands. He couldn’t tell that he was making word salad. Neurological complications, she thought, and wished she could talk to Dr. Mills. Of course, he did carve out part of his brain. That could have done some damage. Then again, he’d been talking fine right up until these last few moments.
Claire tried to keep her voice as calm as possible. ‘‘I think you need another shot. Please. I don’t think we should wait to see how much worse you get, do you?’’
Myrnin silently held out his arm and pulled up his sleeve. His exposed skin was alabaster pale, and as she took hold, it felt less like a human arm than soft leather over marble. Claire took out the small case she’d stuck in the waistband of her tights—the one Dr. Mills had given her, with the syringe and vials of medicine. She’d practiced giving injections with the needle on an orange, but this was different.
‘‘I’ll try not to hurt you,’’ she said. Myrnin rolled his eyes.
Her hands trembled as she slipped the needle into the rubber stopper of the vial and filled up the syringe. She squirted a few drops of the liquid from the needle and took a deep breath.
She hoped Myrnin would let her do this without a fight.
He didn’t seem inclined to act out, at least not yet; he stood passively as she positioned the needle over the cold blue of his vein.
‘‘Ready?’’ she asked. She was really asking herself, not him. He seemed to know that, because he smiled.
‘‘I trust you,’’ he said.
She pushed, and the needle popped through his skin and slipped deep. There was a second of resistance against the surface of his vein, and then it was in.
She quickly pressed the plunger and yanked out the needle. A thin drop of blood marked where it had come out, and she wiped it away with her thumb, leaving a faint smear on his perfect skin.
She looked up and saw his pupils shrink to nothing, and a feeling of utter terror swept over her, freezing her in place. Myrnin’s mouth was wide and red and smiling, and there was something about him that really, really wasn’t at all right—
Then it was gone, as he blinked, and his pupils began to expand again to normal size. He shuddered and heaved a sigh.
‘‘Unpleasant,’’ he said. ‘‘Ah, there comes the warmth. Now, that’s pleasant.’’
‘‘It didn’t hurt, though?’’
‘‘I don’t like needles.’’
Which was funny enough to make her laugh. He frowned at her, but she kept giggling and had to cover her mouth with her hand as the laughter ratcheted higher and thinner, toward hysteria. Get it together, Claire.
‘‘Better?’’ she asked him. Myrnin’s arrogance was back, obvious in the look he sent her as she packed away the supplies.
‘‘I wasn’t bad,’’ he said. ‘‘But I appreciate your concern.’’
The hallway ended up ahead in a pair of white swinging doors, and Myrnin took her hand and practically dragged her toward them. ‘‘Wait! Slow down!’’
‘‘Why?’’
‘‘Because I want to be sure you’re—’’
‘‘Compos mentis? That’s Latin, Claire. It means—’’
‘‘In your right mind, yes, I know.’’
‘‘I’m not babbling nonsense. And I don’t think I needed the shot in the first place.’’ He sounded huffy about it. That was, Claire thought, the scariest part of it—Myrnin really couldn’t tell when he was slipping away.
She hoped that was the scariest part, anyway. From the eagerness in Myrnin’s face, she was afraid it might get a lot worse.
On the other side of the doors was the round foyer of the Elders’ Council building, and it was packed. People stood talking, holding flutes of champagne or wine or something that was too red to be wine. All in costume, all masked.
‘‘You were right,’’ she said to Myrnin. ‘‘I think every vampire in town is here.’’
‘‘And every one brought a little human friend,’’ he said. ‘‘But I think you’re the only one who was told the true reason.’’
Claire caught sight of Jennifer first, who was preening on the arm of François, Bishop’s protégé. She was wearing a sixties costume of a tie-dyed halter top and tiny miniskirt, platform shoes, peace-sign jewelry. He
r mask was an afterthought. Clearly, her whole costume’s point was to show as much skin as possible without actually going nude. Good job, Claire thought. François clearly approved. He was dressed as Zorro, all in black satin and leather, with a flat Spanish hat.
Near Jennifer was Monica, who’d gone as Marie Antoinette, from low-cut bodice to wide skirts. She’d tied a red ribbon around her throat, which made Claire feel a little queasy, and had a miniature guillotine in her hand. She was clinging to the arm of . . . Michael. Who looked, even with the mask, like he wished he was far, far away and anywhere but next to Monica. He was dressed as a priest, in a plain black cassock and white collar. No cross visible.
Claire followed Michael’s eyeline across the room to a tall scarecrow—straight out of the scariest corn-field movie she could imagine—and a girl dressed as Sally from Tim Burton’s Nightmare Before Christmas . . . Oliver, and Eve. Eve looked like the perfect Sally— wistful, sad, stitched together by nothing but hope.
And she was staring at Michael, too.
Oliver, on the other hand, was ignoring her to focus on everyone else. Looking around, Claire slowly picked out a few more she recognized. Her mother wasn’t anywhere to be seen, but her father was dressed in a bear costume, looking intensely uncomfortable as he stood next to a middle-aged woman— vampire?—dressed as a witch.
‘‘Do you see Shane?’’ Claire asked Myrnin anxiously. He nodded toward the other side of the room. She’d already looked there, but she tried again, and after skipping over him three times, she finally figured it out.
Does your costume involve leather? she’d asked. And he’d said, Actually, yeah, it might.
It really did. It involved a leather dog collar, leather pants and a leash, and the leash was held by Ysandre, who was in skintight red rubber, from neck to thigh-high boots. She’d topped it off with a pair of devil horns and a red trident.
