Feast of Fools

by Caine, Rachel

  3

  In the morning, it was ... the morning. For a precious few seconds when Claire woke up, nothing was wrong, nothing at all. Her body hummed with energy, and the birds were singing outside, and the sun burned in warm stripes across her bed.

  She squinted at the alarm clock. Seven thirty. Time to get up if she intended to make it to her first class and still have any margin for coffee.

  It wasn’t until she was in the shower, and the hot water was pounding sense back into her head, that she realized that all was not well. Her parents were in town. Her parents were on the radar screen of the monsters.

  And her parents wanted her to move back in with them.

  That put an end to her good mood, and by the time she padded down the steps, dragging her textbook-loaded backpack and carrying her shoes, she was frowning. The house was a mess. Nobody had done the chores, including her. The kitchen was still a wreck, with breakfast congealing in the pans. She muttered to herself as the coffee brewed, dumped filthy dishes and pans in the sink to soak in hot water, and left a snarky note for her housemates. Especially Shane, who’d slacked even more than was normal.

  Then she put on her shoes and walked to school.

  Morganville looked just like any other dusty, sleepy town in the daylight: people out driving to work, jogging, pushing strollers, walking dogs. College students with backpacks as she got closer to the campus. The casual visitor never knew, at least during the daytime, that this place was so vastly screwed up.

  Claire supposed that was the point.

  She spotted some trucks delivering to local businesses; did those drivers know? Did they just come and go without incident? Was there some off-limits rule for the vamps about whom they could hunt and whom they couldn’t? There would have to be. Having the state police descend on Morganville wouldn’t be helpful for the vamps. . . .

  ‘‘Hey.’’

  Claire blinked. A car was idling next to her, barely keeping pace as she walked. A red convertible, harsh and shiny as fresh blood in the sun. In it, three girls with identically false smiles.

  The driver was Monica Morrell, the daughter of the town’s mayor. Claire’s worst human enemy from day one of her tenure in Morganville. Monica had mostly recovered from her recent brush with death by drugs, or at least she looked that way—glossy as the car, and just as hard. Her blond hair was shiny and casually styled, her makeup perfect, and if she looked just a shade more pale than usual, it was hard to tell.

  ‘‘Hey,’’ Claire said, and made sure to drift farther over on the sidewalk, out of easy grabbing range. ‘‘How are you feeling, Monica?’’

  ‘‘Me? Great. Couldn’t be better,’’ Monica said brightly. There was something way darker in her eyes than in her tone. ‘‘You tried to kill me, freak.’’

  Claire stopped dead in her tracks. ‘‘No,’’ she said. ‘‘I didn’t do that.’’

  ‘‘You gave me that drug. It almost killed me.’’

  ‘‘You took it from me!’’ The red crystals, the ones that she’d stolen from Myrnin. The ones that, however briefly, had seemed like a good idea. Not so much once she’d seen their effect on Monica, and her own face in the mirror after taking them. They hadn’t hurt her, but their effect on Monica had been shocking.

  ‘‘Don’t give me that. You nearly killed me,’’ Monica said. ‘‘I’d file charges, but with you being the Founder’s pet and all, that won’t do any good. So we’ll just have to find some other way to make sure you pay. Just wanted to give you a heads-up, bitch—this isn’t done. It isn’t even started. It is on.’’

  She gave Claire a cold, hard smile, and accelerated away with a screech of rubber on pavement.

  Claire shifted her backpack nervously and looked around. Nobody had paid attention, of course. It didn’t pay, in Morganville, to get into anybody else’s business.

  She was on her own out here. Eve worked on campus, but Claire didn’t want to drag her friends into this. They had enough problems already, and Monica was all her own.

  Like it or not.

  But as she passed the recessed doorway of a boarded-up shop, she sensed someone watching her.

  She tried to dismiss it as imagination, but there really was someone watching her. She couldn’t make him out for a few seconds, and then she did, with another unpleasant shock. Heroin-addict-skinny, pale, stringy hair. Wearing black. Eve’s brother.

  ‘‘Jason,’’ she said, and involuntarily looked around for help. Nobody there, nobody she could turn to. Not even a passing police car—and the police definitely wanted to talk to Jason, after his run-in with Shane.

  It hit her again: He’d stabbed her boyfriend. Tried to kill him. The cops said it was self-defense, but she knew better.

  Jason took his hands out of his coat pockets and held them up. ‘‘Don’t scream,’’ he said. ‘‘Unless you really feel like it. I’m not going to hurt you. Not in broad daylight on a busy street, anyway.’’

  He sounded . . . different. Odder than usual, and that was a pretty high standard of odd.

  ‘‘What do you want?’’ She clutched the strap of her backpack in a white-knuckled fist. In an emergency, it would make a respectable blunt object. She might knock him down with it, or at least trip him. It was only about a block to Common Grounds—Oliver owed her Protection once she was inside the building, even from human enemies.

  ‘‘Stop freaking, genius. I’m not here to hurt you.’’ He put his hands back in his jacket pockets. ‘‘How’s Shane?’’

  ‘‘Why do you care?’’

  ‘‘Because—’’ He frowned and shrugged. ‘‘Look, that was self-defense, okay?’’

  ‘‘You baited him. You threatened me and Eve. You wanted him to come after you.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, well, granted, I was tweaking, but the guy took a home-run swing at my head, in case you missed it.’’

  Uncomfortably, that was true. ‘‘What about the other people you’ve killed? Were those all self-defense, too?’’

  ‘‘Who says I’ve killed people?’’

  ‘‘You did. Remember? You left a dead girl in our basement for Shane to find. You tried to put him in prison.’’

  Jason didn’t say a word to that. He just stared at her, and in the shadows his dark eyes were like holes in his still, pale face. He looked . . . dead. Deader than most vampires.

  ‘‘I need to talk to my sister,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Eve doesn’t want to talk to you, you psycho. Leave us alone!’’

  ‘‘It’s about our dad,’’ he said, and even though Claire was walking away, leaving him and all his psycho problems behind, she slowed to look back. ‘‘I need to talk to Eve. Tell her I’ll call. Tell her not to hang up.’’

  Claire nodded, once. She didn’t hate him any less, but there was something different about him right now—something that asked for a truce, but didn’t get down on its knees and beg for it, either. ‘‘No promises, ’’ she said.

  Jason nodded back. ‘‘Didn’t expect any.’’

  He didn’t say thanks. She kept walking.

  When she looked back, the doorway was empty. She caught a glimpse of a black jacket turning the corner at the end of the block. Damn, he moves fast, she thought, and that gave her another kind of chill. What if Jason had gotten his wish? What if someone had made him a full-fledged vampire, as hard as that seemed?

  She decided she’d ask Amelie, first chance she got.

  The morning classes came and went. It wasn’t like any of them were especially difficult, even the high-level physics courses she’d tested herself into. She’d traded out some of her lame core classes for a mythology course, or rather Amelie had insisted on it—that was a fairly cool thing, and she found herself looking forward to it. No discussions of vampires just now, unfortunately. It was all about zombies, voodoo, and popular media on the subject. They were going to watch Night of the Living Dead next week. Claire didn’t know nearly as much about zombies as most of the other students; except for the first-person-s
hooter game that Shane liked to play, she couldn’t remember ever really paying attention to the idea.

  Of course, since moving to Morganville, she wasn’t ruling anything out as unlikely.

  After mythology, which turned out to be a wealth of information about voodoo, if she ever needed that, Claire had a break before lab sessions began. She took herself off to the University Center. It was a sprawling building, home to a large study area with long tables and groupings of chairs, and it featured a bookstore, a cafeteria that served fantastic grilled cheese sandwiches and salads, and a pretty decent coffee bar.

  There wasn’t a line today. Claire paid for her mocha and moved around to the barista side, where Eve was working. Eve looked great today, and not just because of the care she’d taken with her outfit and makeup; she kind of radiated satisfaction.

  Oh. Right.

  Eve gave her an absolutely stunning smile and handed over her drink. ‘‘Hey, bookworm. Doing okay?’’

  ‘‘Sure. You?’’

  ‘‘Not bad. It’s even been kind of slow and steady today, after the morning rush.’’ That smile had a secret.

  ‘‘So? How was your night?’’ Claire prodded. The secret wanted to be shared, and besides, she was kind of . . . curious.

  ‘‘Fantastic,’’ Eve sighed. ‘‘I just—yeah. Since I was fourteen, I’ve had a crush on that boy, you know? And he never knew I existed. I went to every one of his concerts, from the time he first started playing, up to the last time he headlined at Common Grounds. I never thought—I just never thought it’d work out.’’

  ‘‘And how was . . . ?’’ Claire raised her eyebrows and left the question open to anything Eve wanted to make it mean.

  Eve’s smile got wicked. ‘‘Fantastic.’’

  They shared muffled squeals. Eve did a little happy-dance behind the counter, dumped shots in a drink, and twirled. Claire had never seen her look so full-stop happy.

  Reality came back, and she remembered why she’d come in the first place. She had the strong suspicion she was about to blow all that happiness sky-high.

  Eve’s smile was fading, like someone had turned down her dimmer switch. ‘‘Claire, you’re wearing the worried face. What’s wrong?’’

  ‘‘I . . .’’ Claire hesitated, then plunged in. ‘‘I saw Jason. This morning.’’

  Eve’s dark eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything. She waited.

  ‘‘He wanted me to tell you that he’s going to call. It’s something about your dad, he says. He says not to hang up.’’

  ‘‘My dad,’’ Eve repeated. ‘‘You’re sure.’’

  ‘‘That’s what he said. I told him, no promises.’’ Claire sipped her mocha, which was perfect, and watched Eve’s expression. Not too easy to read, right now. ‘‘He didn’t try to hurt me.’’

  ‘‘Broad daylight, on a main street? Yeah, well, he’s bug-out crazy, but he’s not stupid.’’ Eve seemed very far away, suddenly. And all her happy glow was gone. ‘‘I haven’t talked to either one of my parents since my eighteenth birthday.’’

  ‘‘Why not?’’

  ‘‘They tried to sell me to Brandon,’’ she said flatly. ‘‘Like a piece of meat on the hoof. I don’t know why Jason’s suddenly all nostalgic about the fam; it’s not like there were good times to remember.’’

  ‘‘But they’re still your parents.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, unfortunately. Look, here’s the story of the Rosser clan: we’re the original nuclear family. As in, nuclear bomb. Toxic even when it doesn’t explode.’’ Eve shook her head. ‘‘Whatever Dad’s damage is, I don’t care. And I don’t know why Jason would, either.’’

  Another student had paid for coffee, and Eve cast him an absent, empty smile and started pulling espresso shots with mechanical precision. ‘‘It’s nothing, ’’ she said. ‘‘And I’m hanging up on him when he calls. If he calls. And even if it’s something, I don’t give a damn anyway.’’

  Claire just nodded. She had no idea what to say. Eve was clearly upset, a lot more upset than she’d expected her to be. She waved good-bye and took herself off to a nearby study table, and began plowing through a book she’d borrowed from the library. Somebody’s PhD paper, which read like the guy had never bothered to attend a single English Composition class.

  Good equations, though. She was heavily involved in them when her cell phone rang.

  ‘‘Hello?’’ She didn’t recognize the number, but it was local, and not her parents.

  ‘‘Claire Danvers?’’

  ‘‘Yes, who’s this?’’

  ‘‘My name’s Dr. Robert Mills. I’m the one who treated your friend Shane in the hospital.’’

  She felt a piercing sensation of alarm. ‘‘Nothing’s wrong with—’’

  ‘‘No, nothing like that,’’ he broke in hastily. ‘‘Look, you were the one who had the red crystals, right? The ones that nearly killed the mayor’s daughter?’’

  Claire’s momentary relief burned away like flash paper. ‘‘I guess,’’ she said. ‘‘I gave them to the doctor.’’

  ‘‘Well, here’s the thing: I’ve been looking at those crystals. Where’d you get them?’’

  ‘‘I—found them.’’ Technically true.

  ‘‘Where?’’

  ‘‘In a lab.’’

  ‘‘I need you to show me this lab, Claire.’’

  ‘‘I don’t think I can do that, I’m sorry.’’

  ‘‘Look, I understand that you’re probably protecting someone—someone important. But if it helps, I already have approval from the Council to work on these crystals, and I really need more information about them—who developed them, how, the ingredients. I think I can help.’’

  Amelie was on the Elders’ Council. But she hadn’t said anything about working with the doctor. ‘‘Let me find out what I can tell you,’’ Claire said. ‘‘I’m sorry. I’ll call you back.’’

  ‘‘Soon,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ve been told the goal is to increase the effectiveness of the drug by at least fifty percent within the next couple of months.’’

  Claire blinked, surprised. ‘‘Do you know what it does?’’

  Dr. Mills—who sounded pleasant and normal— laughed. ‘‘Do I really know? Probably not. This is Morganville—we invented the concept of the secret around here. But I have a pretty decent idea that whatever it is, it’s not designed for human consumption. ’’

  That was as much as Claire wanted to talk about on the phone, no matter how friendly he seemed. After a quick excuse, she hung up and called Amelie. She intended to leave a message, and that, she thought, would probably be the end of it.

  Amelie picked up the call. Claire stammered, took a deep breath, and told her about Dr. Mills and his request.

  ‘‘I should have told you last evening. I have decided to concede to your request to have additional resources on this project,’’ Amelie said. ‘‘Dr. Mills is a trusted expert, a longtime resident of the town, and he won’t make the kind of value judgments others might. He’s also capable of keeping our secrets, and that is imperative. You understand why.’’

  Claire did, all too well. The crystals were a drug that helped vampires ward off the effects of a degenerative disease—a disease they all had, one that was robbing them of their ability to reproduce. Amelie was the strongest, but she was sick, too, and the worst cases were insane and locked away in cells beneath Morganville.

  And so far, few of the vampires knew about the illness. Once they did, there might be nothing to stop them from lashing out, blaming others. Innocent humans, probably.

  Just as bad would be the effect on the human population. Once they knew the vampires weren’t invincible, how many of them would really cooperate? Amelie had long ago figured that this could destroy Morganville, and Claire was pretty sure she was right.

  ‘‘But—he wants to see Myrnin’s lab,’’ Claire said. Myrnin, her mentor and sometimes even her friend, had slipped off the edge of sanity, and he was in one of the cells. Lucid someti
mes, and other times . . . dangerously not. ‘‘Should I take him there?’’

  ‘‘No. Tell him that you’ll bring what he needs to the hospital. I don’t want any human other than yourself in that lab, Claire. There are secrets that must be kept, and I rely on you to see to it. Restrict his research only to refining and enhancing the formula you’ve already created.’’ What Amelie meant, in that queen-cool way, was that if Claire spilled the beans, she’d end up dead. Or worse.

  ‘‘Yes,’’ Claire said faintly. ‘‘I understand. About my parents—’’

  ‘‘They are safe enough,’’ Amelie said. That wasn’t the same thing as saying they were safe. ‘‘You will not see Mr. Bishop for the time being. If you happen to see his two associates, be polite, but don’t fear; they are well in hand.’’

  Maybe by Amelie’s standards. Claire was a little bit more worried. ‘‘Okay,’’ she said doubtfully. ‘‘If anything happens—’’

  ‘‘Discuss it with Oliver,’’ Amelie said. ‘‘Curiously, I find the differences between us lessened dramatically once my sire paid a visit. Nothing like a common enemy to unite squabbling neighbors.’’ She paused for a moment, and then said, almost awkwardly, ‘‘You and your friends? You are well?’’

  We’re doing small talk now? Claire shivered. ‘‘Yeah, we’re fine. Thank you.’’

  ‘‘Good.’’ Amelie hung up. Claire mouthed a silent Oooo-kay, and pocketed the phone.

  As she was leaving, she saw Eve at the barista station, staring blankly at the levers as she worked. The happy glow hadn’t returned. In fact, she looked grim. And scared.

  Dammit. Why did I ruin her day like that? I should have just blown him off, the little psycho.

  Claire checked her watch, snagged her backpack, and jogged off to her lab class.

  When she met Dr. Mills later that afternoon, she did it at the hospital, in his office. He was a medium sort of guy—medium tall, medium age, medium coloring. He had a nice smile, which seemed to promise that everything would be okay, and despite the fact that Claire knew it was total fiction, she smiled back.