Feast of Fools

by Caine, Rachel

  ‘‘Can I go with him?’’ Claire asked, and Richard looked at her in surprise.

  ‘‘Claire, they’re not going to hurt him. It’s just like blood donation anywhere else. They stick a needle in your arm and give you a squeezy ball. Orange juice and cookies at the end.’’

  ‘‘So I can donate?’’

  He looked to Rose for help.

  ‘‘How old are you, child?’’

  ‘‘I’m not a child. I’m almost seventeen.’’

  ‘‘There’s no legal requirement for anyone under the age of eighteen to donate blood,’’ Rose said.

  ‘‘But is there a law against it?’’

  She blinked, started to answer, and stopped herself. She pulled open a drawer and retrieved a small book that was titled Morganville Blood Donations: Regulations and Requirements. After flipping a few pages, she shrugged and looked at Richard. ‘‘I don’t think there is,’’ she said. ‘‘I’ve just never had anyone donate voluntarily at the Donation Center. Oh, we take the Bloodmobile to the university from time to time, but—’’

  ‘‘Great,’’ Claire interrupted. ‘‘I’d like to donate a pint, please.’’

  Rose immediately became all business.

  ‘‘Forms,’’ she said, and thumped down a clipboard and pen.

  To say that Shane was surprised to see her was an understatement.

  To say he was pleased would have been a lie.

  As she took the couch next to his, Shane hissed, ‘‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Are you crazy?’’

  ‘‘I’m donating blood,’’ she said. ‘‘I don’t have to, but I don’t mind.’’ At least, she didn’t think she minded. She’d never actually done it before, and the sight of the red tube snaking out of Shane’s arm and down to the collection bag was a little bit terrifying. ‘‘It doesn’t hurt, right?’’

  ‘‘Dude, they’re sticking a big-ass needle in your vein—of course it hurts.’’ He looked pale, and she didn’t think it was all from the fact that he was on his second pint. ‘‘You can still say no. Just get up and tell them you changed your mind.’’

  The same friendly-looking nurse who’d called Shane to the back rolled up a wheeled stool and a cart. ‘‘He’s right,’’ she said. ‘‘If you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to. I saw your paperwork. You’re a little young.’’ The nurse’s bright brown eyes focused beyond her, to Shane, and then back again. ‘‘Doing it for moral support?’’

  ‘‘Kind of,’’ Claire admitted. Her fingers felt ice-cold, and she shivered as the nurse took her hand. ‘‘I’ve never done this before.’’

  ‘‘You’re in luck. I have. Now, I’m going to stick your finger and run a quick test, and then we’ll get started. Okay?’’

  Claire nodded. Lying on the couch seemed to have effectively sapped away her will to move. The finger stick came as a sharp, bright flash, there and gone, and Claire lifted her head from the pillow to see the nurse using a tiny glass pipette to gather blood from her fingertip. It was about five seconds, and then the stick was bandaged up. The nurse did some things with items on her cart, nodded in satisfaction, and smiled at Claire. "O negative,’’ she said. ‘‘Excellent.’’

  Claire gave her a weak thumbs-up. The nurse took her arm and fastened the rubber tourniquet above the elbow. ‘‘Talk to your boyfriend,’’ she advised. ‘‘Don’t watch.’’

  Claire turned her head. Shane was staring at her with dark, intense eyes. He smiled slightly, just enough, and she returned it.

  ‘‘So,’’ she asked, ‘‘come here often?’’

  He laughed quietly. She felt something hot slip into her arm, a jolt that faded to discomfort, and then tape being applied. A ball was pressed into her hand, and the tight pressure of the tourniquet snapped loose. ‘‘Squeeze,’’ the nurse said. ‘‘You’re good to go.’’

  Surprised, Claire glanced down. She had a thing in her arm, and a tube, and there was red running through it. . . .

  Her head fell back against the pillow, and she couldn’t hear for the dark buzzing inside her skull. She thought someone was calling her name, but for the moment that didn’t seem very important. She tried to breathe, slowly and steadily, and after what seemed like hours, the buzzing faded, and the world took on edges and bright colors again. There was a poster on the ceiling overhead, one of a kitten sitting in a tea-cup, looking adorable. She fixed on it and tried not to think about the blood that was draining out of her. This is what it’s like, she couldn’t help but realize. This must be what Michael felt when Oliver was draining his blood. This is what all those people feel when the vampires kill them.

  It was only a little piece of death, hardly enough to matter.

  The nurse slipped a warm blanket over her, smiled down, and said, ‘‘It’s okay. You’re not the first to pass out. That’s why the seats recline, honey.’’

  Claire hadn’t passed out, not really, but she wasn’t feeling her best, either. The nurse rolled her cart and stool around to Shane.

  ‘‘Done,’’ she announced, and Claire tried to turn her head that way, but she didn’t want to see the needle coming out any more than she’d wanted to see it go in. Squeamish. She was squeamish about needles, and she’d never realized that before. Funny.

  A warm hand covered hers, and when she opened her eyes, she saw that Shane was standing next to her, pale and hollow-eyed but upright.

  ‘‘Shane,’’ the nurse said. ‘‘Go get some juice.’’

  ‘‘When she’s done,’’ he said.

  The nurse must have realized there was no arguing about it, because she kicked her wheeled stool over to him. ‘‘Then at least sit down. I really don’t want to be picking you up off the floor.’’

  It probably took less time than it felt, but Claire was desperately glad when the nurse came back to remove the needle and apply bandages. She didn’t look at the blood bag. The nurse said something nice, and Claire tried to respond in kind but wasn’t absolutely sure what came out of her mouth. Shane led her to the next room, which was a sitting area with a plasma television tuned to a news channel, juice and sodas and water, and trays of crackers and cookies and fruit. Claire took an orange and a bottle of water. Shane went straight for the sugar shock—Coke and cookies.

  Claire rubbed her fingers over the purple stretch bandage around her elbow. ‘‘Is it always like that?’’

  ‘‘Like what?’’ Shane mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate chips. ‘‘Scary? Guess so. They try to make it nice, but I never forget whose mouth that blood ends up in.’’

  She felt a surge of nausea, and stopped peeling her orange. Suddenly, the thick pulpy smell was overwhelming. She chugged some water instead, which went down cool and heavy as mercury.

  ‘‘They use it for the hospitals, though,’’ she said. ‘‘For accident victims and things like that.’’

  ‘‘Sure. Reusing the leftovers.’’ Shane crammed another cookie into his mouth. ‘‘I hate this shit. I swore I’d never do it, but here I am anyway. Tell me again why I stay in this town?’’

  ‘‘They’ll hunt you down if you leave?’’

  ‘‘Good reason.’’ He dusted crumbs from his fingers. She peeled the rest of her orange, broke loose a slice, and ate it with methodical determination—not hungry, no sir, but well aware she was still shaky. She ate three more slices, then passed Shane the rest.

  ‘‘Wait,’’ she said. He paused in the act of biting into the orange. ‘‘You’ve never done this before, have you? I mean, you left town before you were eighteen, so you didn’t have to. And then you’ve ducked it since coming back. Right?’’

  ‘‘Damn straight.’’ He finished the orange and chugged the rest of his Coke.

  ‘‘So you’ve never been inside the Bloodmobile.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t say that.’’ Shane got that grim look again. ‘‘I went with my mother once—didn’t have to donate, but she wanted me to get used to the idea. I was fifteen. They dragged in this guy—he was crazy, out of his
head. Strapped him down and started draining him. They hustled the rest of us out of there, but when we left, he was still there. I watched. They drove away with him. Nobody ever saw him again.’’

  Claire swallowed more water. She felt weak, but she wanted out of here. The comfortable room felt like a trap, a windowless, airless box. She tossed the rest of her water and the orange peel in the trash. Shane three-pointed his Coke can and took her hand.

  ‘‘Is Eve going to stay at the hospital?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘Not all night. It’s pretty uncomfortable; her dad’s sobered up, and he’s doing the amends thing.’’ Shane’s mouth twisted. He clearly didn’t think much of that. ‘‘Her mom just sits there and cries. She always was practically a bag of wet tissues.’’

  ‘‘You don’t like them much.’’

  ‘‘You wouldn’t, either.’’

  ‘‘Any sign of Jason?’’

  Shane shook his head. ‘‘If he’s showing up to do his family duty, he’s sneaking around in the dead of night. Which, come to think of it, would probably work for him. Anyway, Michael said he’d bring Eve home. They’re probably already there.’’

  ‘‘I hope so. Did Michael say where he was, you know, before?’’

  ‘‘When he was missing? Something about this damn ball,’’ Shane said.

  I should ask him about the invitation. She almost did—she opened her mouth to do it—but then she remembered how Shane had looked last night, how deeply Ysandre had shaken him.

  She didn’t want to see him look like that again.

  Maybe she ought to just leave it. He’d talk about it when he wanted to talk.

  There were two doors—one that said EXIT, one that had nothing on it at all. Shane passed the unmarked door, hesitated, and backed up.

  ‘‘What?’’ Claire asked. Shane took hold of the handle and eased the door open.

  ‘‘Just a hunch,’’ he said. ‘‘Shhhh.’’

  On the other side was another waiting area, and there were people standing in line. This part of the Donation Center was darker, with fewer overhead lights. Three people were standing in front of a long white counter, like at a pharmacy, and behind it stood a tall woman wearing a lab coat. She didn’t smile, and she was about as warm as a flask of liquid nitrogen.

  ‘‘Oh crap,’’ Shane breathed, and about the same time Claire realized that the blond guy first in line at the counter was Michael. He wasn’t home. . . . He was here.

  He finished signing something and shoved the clipboard back, and the woman handed him over a plastic bottle, about the size of the bottled water Claire had been drinking.

  This one didn’t hold water. Tomato juice, Claire told herself, but it didn’t look at all like juice. Too dark, too thick. Michael tilted it one way, then another, and his face—he looked fascinated.

  No, he looked hungry.

  Claire wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. Michael unscrewed the cap on the bottle as he stepped out of line, put the blood to his lips, and began to drink. No, to guzzle. Claire was distantly aware that Shane’s grip on her hand was so tight it was painful, but neither of them moved. Michael’s eyes were shut, and he tilted the bottle back and drank until it was empty except for a thin red film on the plastic.

  He licked his lips, sighed, and opened his eyes, and looked straight at the two of them.

  His eyes were a bright, brilliant, glowing red. He blinked, and it went away, replaced by an eerie shine. Another blink, and it was all gone, and he was back to being Michael again.

  He looked as horrified as Claire felt. Betrayed and ashamed.

  Shane shut the door and dragged Claire toward the exit. They hadn’t reached it before Michael came barreling in after them.

  ‘‘Hey!’’ he said. His skin had taken on a flush, a faint pink tone, that Claire remembered seeing before. ‘‘What are you doing here?’’

  ‘‘What do you think we’re doing? They hauled me here in cuffs, man,’’ Shane snapped. ‘‘You think I’d be here if I had a choice?’’

  Michael stopped in his tracks, and his gaze flashed down to the stretchy bandages on their arms. Recognition flashed, and then he looked . . . sad, somehow. ‘‘I—I’m sorry.’’

  ‘‘What for? Not like we didn’t already know how much you crave the stuff.’’ Still, Claire heard the betrayal in Shane’s voice. The revulsion. ‘‘Just didn’t expect to see you chugging it down like a drunk at happy hour, that’s all.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t want you to see it,’’ Michael said quietly. ‘‘I drink it here. I only keep some at home for emergencies. I never wanted you to watch—’’

  ‘‘Well, we did,’’ Shane said. ‘‘So what? You’re a bloodsucking vampire. That’s not a news flash, Michael. Anyway, it’s no big thing, right?’’

  ‘‘Yeah,’’ Michael agreed. ‘‘No big thing.’’ He focused on Claire, and she couldn’t fit the two things together—Michael with those terrifying red eyes, gulping down fresh blood, and this Michael standing in front of her, with that sad hope in his expression. ‘‘You okay, Claire?’’

  She nodded. She didn’t trust herself to talk, not even a word.

  ‘‘I’m taking her home,’’ Shane said. ‘‘Unless that was your appetizer, and now you’re looking for the main course.’’

  Michael looked sick. ‘‘Of course not. Shane—’’

  ‘‘It’s all right.’’ The fight dropped out of Shane’s voice. He sounded resigned. ‘‘I’m okay with it.’’

  ‘‘And that bugs the crap out of you, doesn’t it?’’

  Shane looked up, startled. The two of them stared it out, and then Shane tugged on Claire’s arm again. ‘‘Let’s go,’’ he said. ‘‘See you at home.’’

  Michael nodded. ‘‘See you.’’

  He was still holding the empty bottle, Claire realized. There was a tiny trickle of blood left in the bottom.

  As the door shut between them, she saw Michael realize what he had in his hand, and throw it violently in the trash can.

  ‘‘Oh, Michael,’’ she whispered. ‘‘God.’’ In that one gesture, she realized something huge.

  He really did hate this. He really did, on some level, hate what he’d become, because of what he saw in their eyes.

  How much did that suck?

  The rest of the night passed quietly. The next morning, they woke up to a ringing phone.

  Eve’s dad was gone.

  ‘‘The funeral’s tomorrow,’’ Eve said. She wasn’t crying. She didn’t look much like herself this morning— no makeup, no effort at all put into what she’d thrown on. Her eyes were veined with red, and her nose almost glowed. She’d cried all night; Claire had heard her, but when she’d knocked on the door, Eve hadn’t wanted company. Not even Michael’s.

  ‘‘Are you going?’’ Michael asked. Claire thought that was a funny question—who wouldn’t go? But Eve just nodded.

  ‘‘I need to,’’ she said. ‘‘They’re right about that closure thing, I guess. Will you . . . ?’’

  ‘‘Of course,’’ he said. ‘‘I can’t do graveside, but—’’

  Eve shuddered. ‘‘So not going there, anyway. The church is bad enough.’’

  ‘‘Church?’’ Claire asked, as she poured mugs of coffee for the three of them. Shane, as usual, had slept through the phone. ‘‘Really?’’

  ‘‘You’ve never met Father Joe, have you?’’ Eve managed a weak smile. ‘‘You’ll like him. He’s— something.’’

  ‘‘Eve had the hots for him when she was twelve,’’ Michael said, and got a dirty look. ‘‘What? You did, and you know it.’’

  ‘‘It was the cassock, okay? I’m over it.’’

  Claire raised her eyebrows. ‘‘Is Father Joe a . . . ?’’ She did the teeth-in-neck mime. They both smiled.

  ‘‘No,’’ Michael said. ‘‘He’s just nonjudgmental.’’

  Eve got through the day without too much trouble; she did the normal things—helping with the laundry, taking half the cleaning job
s for the day. It was her day off from work. Claire had a few classes, but she skipped three that she knew she’d already built up enough momentum in, and attended only the one that seemed critical. Michael didn’t go in to teach private guitar lessons, either.

  It was nice. It was like . . . family.

  The funeral was held at noon the next day, and Claire found herself trying to pick out what to wear. Party clothes seemed too . . . festive. Jeans were too informal. She borrowed a pair of Eve’s black tights and wore them with an also-borrowed black skirt. Paired with a white shirt, it looked moderately respectful.

  She wasn’t sure how Eve planned to dress, because at eleven a.m., Eve was still sitting in front of her vanity mirror, staring at her reflection. Still in her black dressing gown.

  ‘‘Hey,’’ Claire said. ‘‘Can I help?’’

  ‘‘Sure,’’ Eve said. ‘‘Should I do my hair up?’’

  ‘‘It’d look nice that way,’’ Claire said, and picked up the hairbrush. She brushed Eve’s thick black hair until it shone, then twisted it into a knot and pinned it up at the back of her head. ‘‘There.’’

  Eve reached for her rice-powder makeup, then stopped. She met Claire’s eyes in the mirror.

  ‘‘Maybe not the right time,’’ she said.

  Claire didn’t say anything at all. Eve applied some lipstick—dark, but not her usual shade—and began searching through her closet.

  In the end, she went with a black high-necked dress, one long enough to hang to the tops of her shoes. And a black veil. It was subdued, for Eve.

  The four of them were at the church with fifteen minutes to spare, and as Michael pulled into the parking garage, Claire saw that several vampire-tinted cars were already present. ‘‘Is this the only funeral?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘Yeah,’’ he said, and turned off the engine. ‘‘I guess Mr. Rosser had more friends than we thought.’’

  Not that many, as it turned out; when they entered the vestibule of the church, it was nearly empty, and there weren’t many names noted in the register. Eve’s mother stood by the book, waiting to pounce on anyone who came in the door.