Somebody out in the corner of the room started clapping, and suddenly everybody was doing it, a wave of rhythmic noise.
Michael couldn’t possibly get any more pale, but Claire saw the outright doubt in his eyes. Eve did, too, and gave him a quick kiss.
‘‘You can do this, Michael,’’ she said. ‘‘Come on. Get out there. It’s what you do.’’
Claire nodded and smiled her support. Michael lifted the hinged section of the bar and stepped out, to a thunderous wave of applause. There was a small stage set up at the far end of the room, near the closed door that said OFFICE, and as Michael moved up on it, the stage lights caught and glittered in his golden hair, sparked an unearthly blue in his eyes.
Wow, Claire thought. That wasn’t Michael anymore. That was . . . something else.
Eve ducked under the bar and came to lean next to Claire, her arms folded. She had a wistful smile on her Evil Queen-red lips. ‘‘He’s beautiful,’’ she said. ‘‘Right? He is.’’
Claire could only agree with that.
Michael adjusted the microphone, tested it, played a couple of fast finger exercises she knew he used to calm himself, and then smiled out at the crowd. It was a different smile than she’d ever seen from him before—more, somehow. More intense, more joyous, more personal. She felt a hot flutter somewhere deep inside as his gaze brushed over her, and immediately felt embarrassed about it.
But man, he was hot. She understood now what Shane was talking about, and she wasn’t immune.
Shane touched her shoulder and handed her a drink just as Michael said, ‘‘I guess you all know who I am, right?’’
And about eighty percent of the room cheered like thunder. The others—college students, who’d either wandered in or come because they were bored— looked lost.
Michael gave the mike stand one last, precise adjustment. His hands were sure now, moving with confidence. ‘‘My name is Michael Glass, and I’m from Morganville. ’’
More cheers. Before they died away, Michael started to play, a fast and complicated song that Claire had heard him fooling around with at the house—but this wasn’t fooling around; this was serious talent. He glittered like white gold, and music flowed out of his hands like streams of light. It wrapped around Claire like a shining net, and she didn’t dare breathe, didn’t move, as Michael played like she’d never heard anyone play before, ever.
She managed to glance aside at Shane, whose eyes were wide and fixed on Michael, as well. She nudged him. He gave her a dumbfounded shake of his head.
Eve was smiling, as if she’d known it all along.
Michael brought the song to a liquid, blazing finish, and as the guitar strings rang in the silence, the crowd was utterly still. Michael waited, just as motionless, and then the room spontaneously erupted in applause and cheers.
Claire thought that the smile that spread across Michael’s face was worth everything about Morganville, right at that moment.
His next song was slower, sweeter, and Claire realized with a shock that it was a slowed-down version of the song he’d been writing the other night, when he’d been too busy to go to the store. It had lyrics, too, and Michael’s voice transformed them into sad, aching beauty.
It was a song for Eve.
Claire realized her chest was hurting, both from the pressure of unshed tears and the fact that she wasn’t breathing. She’d never known music could have that much power. As she glanced around the coffee shop, she saw the same thing in the others’ faces—common rapture. Even Oliver, standing behind the bar, was transfixed. And in the shadows, Claire glimpsed someone else—Amelie, nodding thoughtfully, as if she’d known all along, like Eve.
Sam’s eyes were full of tears, but he was smiling.
Michael’s voice drifted to a whisper, and he finished the song. This time, the applause didn’t stop, and the cheers were a full-throated roar.
Michael adjusted the mike stand again. ‘‘Save it, guys,’’ he said over the noise, and smiled. ‘‘We’re just getting started.’’
It was the best night Claire had ever had in Morganville. She’d never felt so much a part of something— never seen so much unity in a room full of people so diverse. Clueless students were backslapping Morganville natives with bracelets, vampires were smiling impartially at humans, and even Oliver seemed affected by the general euphoria.
When Michael came offstage, it was only after three encores and thunderous standing ovations. He made a beeline straight for Eve, folded her in a hug, and then kissed her so deeply Claire had to look away. When they came up for air, Michael was still grinning.
‘‘So?’’ he asked. ‘‘Didn’t suck, right?’’
Shane offered his hand. ‘‘Didn’t suck. Congratulations, dude.’’
Michael ignored the hand and hugged him, then turned to Claire. She didn’t hesitate to embrace him. He was warmer than usual, and sweaty; she hadn’t known vampires could sweat. Maybe they just usually didn’t exert themselves that much. ‘‘You were amazing,’’ Claire whispered. ‘‘I just—amazing. Wow. Did I say amazing?’’
He gave her a kiss on the cheek, and then turned away to the press of well-wishers coming to shake his hand. There were a lot of them, and many of them were pretty girls. Claire retreated back to Shane’s side.
‘‘See what I mean?’’ Shane said. ‘‘Good thing Eve’s here. This can go to a guy’s head.’’
‘‘Even a vampire’s?’’
‘‘Heh. Especially a vampire’s.’’
It took about fifteen minutes for the rush of instant fans to die down, and by then the tables had cleared out, leaving just a few hard-core caffeine addicts to close out the evening. Claire and Shane grabbed chairs and fresh drinks while Eve helped Michael get his things together.
‘‘Hey,’’ Claire said, and got Shane’s full attention. ‘‘Thank you.’’
His eyebrows rose. ‘‘What for?’’
‘‘For the best date I’ve ever had.’’
‘‘This? Nah. Just average. I can do much better.’’
She cocked her head. ‘‘Really?’’
‘‘Absolutely.’’
‘‘You willing to prove it?’’
Somehow, his hand had taken hold of hers, and his warm fingers stroked shivers down her palm. ‘‘Someday, ’’ he said. ‘‘Soon. Absolutely.’’
She found herself doing the not-breathing thing again, caught in all the possibilities. Shane smiled, slow and wicked, and she wanted to kiss him right then, for a very long time.
‘‘Ready?’’ Michael was standing at the table, gazing down at them. Some of the brilliance he’d had onstage had faded, and he was just regular Michael again—a little tired, too. Claire gulped down hot cocoa and nodded.
Even the best nights had to come to an end.
Claire was getting ready for bed when she heard Eve scream—not the shriek of Stop tickling me, you jerk, but a full-out cry of alarm, one that went through the house like a buzz saw. She pulled on her pajama top, grabbed her robe, and pelted out into the hall. Shane was already there, heading downstairs, still dressed in a pair of jeans and a loose T-shirt.
When they got to the front hall, they found Michael sitting on the floor, holding a bloody girl in his arms. Eve was snapping the locks on the front door shut.
‘‘Miranda,’’ Michael said, and moved the bloody hair away from her face. ‘‘Miranda, can you hear me?’’
Claire realized with a breathless shock that it was Eve’s sometime friend Miranda—just a kid, really, at that gawky stage where girls both yearned to be and feared to be women. Mir had filled out a little since the last time Claire had seen her—not quite as scary thin—but she still looked like a waif.
A wounded one. There was a gash in her head, and blood dripping down her neck to patter on Michael’s blue jeans and fingers.
‘‘Ow,’’ Miranda whispered, and began to cry. ‘‘Ow. I hit my head—’’
‘‘You’re okay, you’re safe now,’’ Eve said. She d
ropped to her knees across from Michael and held out her arms; Michael quickly transferred the girl over. His pupils had gone to pinpoints, and he seemed—different. ‘‘Michael, maybe you’d better go—wash up.’’
He nodded stiffly and pushed past Shane and Eve, heading upstairs so quickly he was just a blur.
‘‘Ambulance?’’ Shane asked.
‘‘No! No, I can’t!’’ Miranda sounded frantic. ‘‘Please, don’t send me there. You don’t know—you don’t know what they’ll do—the fire—’’
Eve kept hold of the girl, somehow, though Miranda was flailing like mad. ‘‘Okay, chill, we won’t. I promise. Relax. Shane—maybe the first aid kit? Towels and hot water?’’
‘‘I’ll help,’’ Claire said, and she and Shane took off for the kitchen. When she glanced back, she saw that Miranda had stopped fighting and was lying exhausted in Eve’s arms. ‘‘What the hell happened to her?’’
‘‘Morganville,’’ Shane said, and shrugged. He stiff-armed the kitchen door and went straight for the cabinets under the sink. The first aid kit was getting a lot of play, Claire thought as she turned on the hot water and gathered up some clean kitchen towels.
Miranda’s first aid session wasn’t as bad as Claire had feared—the head wound was bloody but superficial, and Eve fixed it with some butterfly bandages.
The holes in Miranda’s neck looked fresh, though. When Eve asked about them, Miranda looked embarrassed and pulled up the collar of her shirt. ‘‘None of your business,’’ she said.
‘‘It’s Charles, right? Son of a bitch.’’ Eve had a problem with vampires who preyed on the underage— in fact, from what Claire had gathered, so did a lot of the other vampires. There were laws against it, after all. She wondered whether Amelie knew about Charles and Miranda. Or cared. ‘‘You can’t let him gnaw on you like this, Mir! You know that!’’
‘‘He was so hungry,’’ Miranda said, and hung her head. ‘‘I know. But it didn’t hurt, not really.’’
That made Claire want to throw up. She exchanged a look with Shane.
‘‘There’s a guy who needs staking,’’ he said.
Miranda looked up sharply. ‘‘That’s not funny!’’
‘‘Do I have on my funny face? Miranda, the guy’s a pedophile. The fact that he just sucks your blood instead of—’’ Shane paused, staring at her. ‘‘It is instead of, right?’’
It was impossible to tell if Miranda even understood what he was getting at, but Claire thought she did, and it made the girl deeply uncomfortable. Miranda tried to get out of the chair they’d put her into. ‘‘I need to go home.’’
‘‘Whoa, whoa, you can barely stand up,’’ Eve said, and managed to get her settled again. ‘‘Claire, would you check on Michael? See if he’s okay?’’
In other words, there were questions Shane and Eve were about to ask, personal questions. Claire nodded and went upstairs. The bathroom door was closed. She knocked softly.
‘‘Michael?’’
No answer. She tried the handle. Locked.
Claire turned at what sounded like footsteps down the hall, but she saw no one. She didn’t hear the door unlock, but when she looked back, the bathroom door was open, and Michael was standing about two inches away from her.
She stumbled backward. Instead of just washing up, he’d showered; his hair was damp and curling and darker than usual, and he was wearing a towel around his waist. There was a lot more of Michael on display than she was used to, and it was . . . impressive.
Claire backed away, all the way to the wall.
‘‘Sorry,’’ he said. Not as if he really was. He sounded annoyed, stressed, and jittery. ‘‘She’s still here.’’ It wasn’t a question, but Claire nodded anyway. ‘‘She can’t stay. We need to get her out of here.’’
‘‘I don’t think she’s in any shape to go,’’ Claire offered. ‘‘She seemed pretty hysterical. Shane and Eve are—’’
‘‘I can still smell her blood,’’ Michael interrupted her. ‘‘I washed it off of me. I took off my clothes. I showered. None of that matters, I can still—she has to go. Now.’’
‘‘What’s wrong with you? I thought you’d—’’ She hesitated, then made a drinking motion.
‘‘I did.’’ Michael rubbed his face with both hands. ‘‘Guess I burned it off tonight at the show. I’m hungry, Claire.’’
It cost him a lot to say it. Claire gulped, and nodded. ‘‘Wait here.’’
She went downstairs, past where Shane and Eve were still earnestly talking with Miranda, and into the kitchen. At the very back of the bottom shelf of the refrigerator sat some bottles that might have been full of beer, and weren’t. There were three of them. She grabbed one without looking too closely at it and made sure it was concealed against her side as she passed the little downstairs group. Nobody really looked her way; they were too intent on keeping their own secrets.
Michael was still waiting, leaning against the bathroom doorframe, arms folded. He straightened when he saw what she had in her hand. She gave it to him silently. Michael never took his eyes off her as he popped the cap with his thumbnail and lifted the cold bottle to his lips. The contents moved more like syrup than blood, and Claire almost gagged.
Michael did gag. But he swallowed it. And kept on drinking until the bottle was empty.
His blue eyes flushed hot red, and then cleared back to their normal color.
She saw something like horror go through him. ‘‘I didn’t just do that in front of you.’’
‘‘Uh—yeah. You did.’’ And there had definitely been some kind of challenge in it, too. Some kind of come-on, even. Which was beyond yuck and creepy, and yet . . .
And yet.
Michael wiped his lips with the back of his hand, looked down at the faint smear, and went back to the washbasin to rinse it off.
He stared into the mirror at himself for so long, Claire thought he’d forgotten she was there, and then he said, ‘‘Thanks.’’
Claire tried to think of something not totally idiotic to say. ‘‘Pretty disgusting, isn’t it? When it’s cold?’’ That wasn’t it.
Luckily, Michael was relieved to have any kind of conversational lifeline, after that weird moment. ‘‘Yeah,’’ he said. ‘‘But it keeps the edge off. That’s what’s important.’’ He rinsed out the bottle carefully, then threw it away and took in a deep breath. ‘‘I’ll get dressed. Be there in a second.’’
It was a dismissal, but a nice one, and Claire took it at face value this time, and went back to the living room.
Where Shane and Eve were standing together, heads cocked at identical angles, staring.
‘‘What’s going on?’’ Claire whispered.
‘‘Shhh,’’ both Shane and Eve hissed, eerily in unison.
Because Miranda was talking in a strange monotone voice, and she looked . . . dead. Unconscious. Only talking.
‘‘I see the feast,’’ she was saying. ‘‘So much anger . . . so much lying. All dead, walking dead, falling down. It’s spreading. It’ll kill us all.’’
Claire felt a hot snap of alarm. Walking dead, falling down. It’s spreading. Miranda had psychic episodes— Claire knew that. It was part of the reason Eve let her hang around from time to time. Sometimes her visions were fake, but a lot of the time, they were as serious as a heart attack, and Claire somehow knew this one was real.
She was talking about the disease infecting the vampires, and she was talking about it spreading to humans. No, that can’t happen. Can it? They hadn’t even really been able to pinpoint what the disease was, only what it did, and what it did was erode the vampires’ sanity, carving steadily until what was left was unable to function at all.
The first thing to go—for all the vampires of Morganville—had been the ability to reproduce. To create new vampires. Only Amelie still had the strength, and creating Michael had almost destroyed her.
It’s spreading. Claire thought of all the humans in Morganville, all the families, all the
young people who’d been in the coffee shop tonight, and felt cold and unsteady.
It couldn’t be true.
‘‘Feast,’’ Miranda said again. ‘‘You’re all fools, all fools—don’t let him trick you. It’s not just three—it’s more—’’
‘‘Who?’’ Eve sank down next to Miranda’s chair and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘‘Mir, who are you talking about?’’
‘‘Elder,’’ she said, and now there were tears leaking down Miranda’s pale cheeks. ‘‘Oh no. Oh no . . . they’re turning. They’re all so hungry, can’t stop them—’’
Michael, who was coming down the steps, paused. He looked calm again, but worried. ‘‘What’s she talking about?’’
‘‘Shhh!’’ This time, all three of them shushed at the same time. Eve bent closer to Miranda. ‘‘Honey, are you talking about the vampires? What’s going to happen with the vampires?’’
‘‘Dying,’’ Miranda whispered. ‘‘So many dying. We think we’re safe but we’re not. They won’t listen— they won’t see us—’’ She restlessly turned the silver bracelet on her wrist and twisted in her chair. ‘‘He’s doing it. He’s making it happen.’’
‘‘Oliver?’’ Eve asked. Because Oliver was the only male vampire Elder on the town council.
But Miranda shook her head. She didn’t say another word, but she cried, cried so hard she shook herself out of her trance and clung to Eve like a thin little reed in the wind.
‘‘Bishop,’’ Michael said. They all looked at him. ‘‘It’s not Oliver. She’s talking about Bishop. He’s going to try to destroy Morganville.’’
Miranda ended up sleeping on the couch, and when Claire came downstairs the next morning, she found the girl huddled in a ball under mountains of blankets, still shivering but fast asleep. She looked even more frail. Her pale skin was translucent, and there were dark, exhausted circles around her eyes.
Claire felt sorry for her, but it was a distant kind of sorry—Miranda didn’t really invite a lot of devotion. She didn’t have any friends to speak of, or so Eve said; people tolerated her, but they didn’t exactly enjoy her company. That was hard on the kid, but Claire could understand it. Miranda was a mixture of denial and outright creepiness, and even in Morganville, she was going to have a hard time fitting in.
Feast of Fools Page 12
