Feast of Fools tmv-4

by Rachel Caine

  “So,” she said, “I heard from Billy Harrison that his dad got an invitation to this ball thing, from Tamara—the vamp who owns all those warehouses on the north side, and runs the paper? And he said that vamps all over town are going, and taking humans as their—I don’t know, dates? That’s weird, right? That they’re all bringing humans?”

  “It’s never happened before?”

  “Not that I know of,” Eve said. “I asked around, but nobody’s seen anything like it. It’s become the hot-ticket event of the year.” Her smile dimmed slightly. “I guess Michael forgot to send me mine. My invitation. I should remind him.”

  Claire felt a tight little knot tug inside. “He hasn’t asked you?”

  “He will.”

  “But . . . it’s the day after tomorrow, isn’t it?”

  “He will. Besides, it’s not like I have to come up with some elaborate costume or anything. Have you seen my closet? Half of what I wear qualifies as dress-up. ” Eve glanced at her, then down. “You?”

  “Nobody’s asking me to go.” Yeah, the bitterness was there in her voice. Claire couldn’t keep it out. “You know who Shane’s going with.”

  “It’s not his fault. It’s hers. Ysandre.” Eve made a face. “What kind of a name is that, anyway?”

  “French. Myrnin gave me a book about her,” Claire said. “I knew she was dangerous, but honestly, she’s worse than I thought. She might have started out just trying to get by, but she was a real player, back when politics was war.”

  “What about the guy? François?” Eve rolled her eyes when she said his name, doing her best foo-foo French pronunciation. “He thinks he’s hotter than the surface of the sun. Who’s he taking?”

  “No idea,” Claire said. “But—it’s not a date, you know. It’s—” She had no real idea what it was. “It’s something else.”

  “Looks like a date, dresses like a date, dates like a date,” Eve said. “And I intend to be arm candy for Michael and protect him from all the big, bad social climbers out there looking to grab on to the newest vamp in town.”

  “He’s not, though,” Claire said. “The newest. Not anymore. Bishop and his crew are newer than he is, at least in terms of novelty factor.”

  Eve frowned. “Yeah,” she said. “I guess that’s true.”

  A shadow fell across their table, but before they could look up, something hit the surface between them, and both Claire and Eve involuntarily focused on it.

  It was one of the cream-colored invitations.

  They looked up. Monica. She swept her perfect blond hair back over her shoulders, raised her eyebrows, and gave Eve a slow, evil smile.

  “Too bad,” she said. “I guess your hottie boyfriend knows where his social bread is buttered, after all.”

  Eve’s eyes widened. She turned the invitation around to read it, but even upside down, Claire saw the incriminating evidence.

  You have been summoned to attend a masked ball and feast to celebrate the arrival of Elder Bishop, on Saturday the twentieth of October, at the Elders’ Council Hall at the hour of midnight.

  You will attend at the invitation of Michael Glass, and are required to accompany him at his pleasure.

  The name jumped out at her like a fanged surprise attack. Michael Glass. Michael was inviting Monica.

  Eve didn’t say another word. She shoved the invitation back at Monica, got up, and ducked behind the coffee bar to don her apron again. Claire stared after her, stricken. She could see the jittery anguish in her friend’s movements, but not her face. Eve was keeping carefully turned away, and even when she went to the espresso machine again to pull shots, she kept staring down, hiding her pain.

  Claire’s shock thawed into a nice warm glow of anger. “You’re a total bitch, you know that?” she said. Monica raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Not my fault you freaks can’t hang on to your men. I heard Shane was boy-toying around with Ysandre. Too bad. I’ll bet you never even got him between the sheets, did you? Or wait . . . maybe you did. Because I’ll bet that would drive him straight into somebody else’s bed.”

  Claire fantasized for a few seconds about planting her physics textbook squarely in the middle of Monica’s pouty, lip-glossed smile. She glared, instead, remembering how effective Oliver’s periods of icy silence could be. Monica finally shrugged, picked up the invitation, and tucked it in the pocket of her leather jacket.

  “I’d say ‘See you,’ but I probably won’t,” Monica said. “I guess you can hold your own Loser Party on Saturday, with special shots of cyanide or something. Enjoy.”

  She joined up with Gina and Jennifer, and the three girls walked away, turning heads. The golden, fortunate girls, tight and toned and perfect.

  Laughing.

  Claire realized she was clenching her fists, forced herself to relax and breathe, and picked up her pen again. The details of the essay kept slipping away, because all she could see was Monica preening at Michael’s side, rubbing Eve’s face in the humiliation. And even when she looked past that, there was Ysandre, and Shane, and that hurt even more.

  “Why?” she whispered. “Michael, why would you do that to her?” Had they had a fight of some kind? Eve didn’t seem to think so. She acted like it had come as a bolt from the blue sky.

  With a feeling that she was making a terrible mistake, she dialed the first speed-dial number on her phone.

  “Yes, Claire,” Amelie said.

  “I need to talk to you. About this masked-ball thing. What’s going on?”

  For a few seconds Claire was sure Amelie would hang up on her, but then the vampire said, “Yes, I suppose we must talk about it. I will meet you upstairs at your home. You know where.”

  She meant the hidden room. “When?”

  “I am, of course, at your convenience,” Amelie said, which was winter cold and utterly untrue. “Would an hour suffice?”

  “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 par
t. 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.