Feast of Fools

by Caine, Rachel

  He dropped the journal onto a pile scattered near the chair and walked away, moving with effortless grace around the piles of books and barriers of mismatched furniture. He didn’t seem to move quickly, but before she could blink, he was gone, a shadow on the steps.

  Claire let out a shaky breath, got the dart gun from her backpack, and went to see Myrnin.

  ‘‘Magnificent,’’ Myrnin said, staring down at his hands. He flexed them into fists, turned them over, extended his fingers. ‘‘I haven’t felt this good in—well, years. I had numbness in my hands—did you know?’’

  It was a symptom Myrnin had forgotten to mention, and Claire wrote it down in her notebook. She had the countdown clock—a new addition to the lab, one she’d ordered from the Internet—up on the wall, and the red flickering numbers reminded both of them that Myrnin had a maximum of five hours of sanity from the current formulation of the treatment.

  Myrnin followed her glance at the clock, and the giddy excitement in his expression faded. He still looked like a young man, except for his eyes; it was creepy to think he’d looked exactly that way for generations before she was born, and would long after she was dead and gone. He did so love the hunt, Oliver had said. There was really only one kind of hunt for vampires. Hunting people.

  He smiled at her, and it was the smile that had won her over in the first place—sweet, gentle, inviting her to share in some delightful secret. ‘‘Thank you for the clock, Claire. That’s a great help. There’s an alarm feature?’’

  ‘‘It starts sounding a tone fifteen minutes before the clock runs out,’’ she said. ‘‘And it has tones striking every hour, too.’’

  ‘‘Very helpful. Well, then. Now that I have use of my fingers—what shall we do?’’ Myrnin wiggled his thick black eyebrows suggestively, which was actually funny, coming from him. Not that he wasn’t cute—he was—but Claire couldn’t really imagine finding him sexy.

  She wondered if that would hurt his feelings.

  ‘‘How about if we start shelving some of these books?’’ she said. It really was getting to be a hazard; she’d tripped over stacks more than once even when it wasn’t an emergency. Myrnin, however, made a face.

  ‘‘I only have a few hours in my right mind, Claire. Housekeeping seems a poor way to spend them.’’

  ‘‘All right, what do you want to do?’’

  ‘‘I think we made great progress in this last formulation, ’’ he said. ‘‘Why not see if we can distill the essence further? Strengthen the effects?’’

  ‘‘I think we’d better do some chemical analysis on what happens in your blood before we do that.’’

  Before she could stop him, he strode over to a table, picked up a rusty knife, and slashed open his arm. She was just opening her mouth to scream when he grabbed a clean beaker from the rack on the table and caught the drizzling blood. The wound healed before he’d lost more than a few teaspoons.

  ‘‘There are—easier ways to do that,’’ she said weakly. Myrnin held the beaker out to her. The blood looked darker than regular human blood, and thicker, but then she supposed it would—he wasn’t as warm. She tried not to think about all those people donating blood, but she couldn’t help it. Was Shane’s blood going to end up in Myrnin’s veins? And how did that work, anyway? . . . Did vampires digest the blood, or just somehow pass it whole into their circulatory systems? Did blood types matter? Conflicting Rh factors? What about bloodborne diseases, like malaria and Ebola and AIDS?

  There were a lot of questions to answer. She thought Dr. Mills would be in heaven over the prospect.

  ‘‘Pain doesn’t matter much,’’ Myrnin said, and yanked his sleeve down over his pale, unmarked arm after wiping away the trickles of blood that were left. ‘‘One learns to ignore it, eventually.’’

  Claire doubted that, but she didn’t argue. ‘‘I’m going to take part of this back to the hospital,’’ she said. ‘‘Dr. Mills wanted blood samples. They’ve got a lot of cool equipment there, he can give us detailed information we can’t get here.’’

  Myrnin shrugged, clearly uninterested in Dr. Mills or any human beyond Claire. ‘‘Do as you like,’’ he said. ‘‘What kind of equipment?’’

  ‘‘Oh, all kinds. Mass spectrometers, blood-chemistry analyzers—you know.’’

  ‘‘We should get those things.’’

  ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘How can we possibly operate as we should if we don’t have the most current equipment?’’

  Claire blinked at him. ‘‘Myrnin, you don’t exactly have room down here. And I don’t think your current dinky little power situation is going to let you plug in an electron microscope. That’s not the way scientists work anymore, anyway. The equipment’s too expensive, too delicate. The big hospitals and universities buy the equipment. We just rent time on it.’’

  Myrnin looked surprised, then thoughtful. ‘‘Rent time? But how can you schedule such a thing when you don’t know what you’re looking for or how long it will take?’’

  ‘‘You have to learn to schedule your epiphanies. And be patient.’’

  That got a laugh out of him. ‘‘Claire, I am a vampire. We aren’t known for patience, you know. Your Dr. Mills—maybe we should pay him a visit. I’d like to meet him.’’

  ‘‘He’d—probably like to meet you, too,’’ she said slowly. She wasn’t at all sure how Amelie was going to feel about that, but she could tell that Myrnin had it in his head to do it whether she went along or not. ‘‘Next time, okay?’’

  They both glanced at the countdown clock. ‘‘Yes,’’ Myrnin said. ‘‘Next time. Ah! I meant to ask you. What did you hear about Bishop and the welcome feast?’’

  ‘‘Not much. I think Michael and Eve are going. Shane—Shane says he has to go.’’

  ‘‘With Ysandre?’’

  Claire nodded. Myrnin turned away from her, shoved over a stack of books with restless enthusiasm, then another. He gave a raw cry of delight and scrambled over the piled volumes to retrieve one that, to Claire’s eyes, looked just like any other.

  He threw it to her. Claire managed to grab it before it smacked into her chest. ‘‘Ow!’’ she complained. ‘‘Not so hard, please.’’

  ‘‘Sorry.’’ He wasn’t, really. There was a subversive, dark streak in him today.

  ‘‘What is this, anyway?’’

  Myrnin came back to her side, took the book, opened it, and flipped pages. He paused around the middle and handed it back.

  ‘‘Ysandre,’’ he said.

  The book was written in English, but it was from the eighteenth century, and not easy to make out, considering the stains on the pages.

  She was of a beauty so unusual and so marvelous that her grandfather was fascinated by the dazzling sight, and mistook her for an angel that God had sent to console him on his deathbed. The pure lines of her fine profile, her great black liquid eyes, her noble brow uncovered, her hair shining like the raven’s wing, her delicate mouth, the whole effect of this beautiful face on the mind of those who beheld her was that of a deep melancholy and sweetness, impressing itself once and for ever. Tall and slender, but without the excessive thinness of some young girls, her movements had that careless supple grace that recalls the waving of a flower stalk in the breeze.

  ‘‘Oh,’’ Claire said, surprised. That was Ysandre; he was right. ‘‘She was—’’

  ‘‘A very famous murderess. She helped her husband and cousins kill a king shortly after her grandfather’s death. She was hanged, in the end, but that was after she’d been made a vampire. Lucky timing, for her.’’

  The book contained a gruesome account of the king’s murder, and a whole lot of others. Claire shivered and closed the book. ‘‘Why did you show me this?’’

  ‘‘I don’t want you to do what her grandfather did— underestimate her because she has the look of an angel. Ysandre has destroyed more lives than you can begin to imagine, starting with her own.’’ Myrnin’s eyes were dark and very, very serious. �
�‘If she wants Shane, let her have him. She’ll be done with him soon enough. Amelie won’t allow her to kill him.’’

  ‘‘I think she wants other things,’’ Claire said.

  ‘‘Ah. Sexual, then. Or some version of it. Ysandre has always been a bit—odd.’’

  ‘‘How do I stop her?’’

  Myrnin slowly shook his head. ‘‘I’m sorry. I can’t help you. My only suggestion—which I’m quite certain you won’t like—is to let him deal with this in his own way. She’ll leave him alive, and largely intact, unless he resists her.’’

  ‘‘You’re right. I don’t like it.’’

  ‘‘Complain to the management, my dear.’’ His fit of seriousness passed off, like a cloud from the sun. ‘‘How about a game of chess, then?’’

  ‘‘How about we just analyze your blood, because you’ve only got a few more minutes before I have to put you back in your, ah, room?’’

  ‘‘Cell,’’ he corrected. ‘‘Perfectly all right to say so. And you work too hard for someone so young.’’

  She worked too hard, Claire thought in frustration, because somebody had to. Myrnin certainly didn’t.

  By Thursday, the upcoming masked ball was the buzz of Morganville. Claire couldn’t avoid hearing about it. At the university coffee shop, that was inevitable; people said the weirdest, most private things right out in public, like there was some invisible privacy wall around them. She’d heard way too much about her fellow students’ sexual adventures over the past few weeks; apparently, it was mating season, now that everybody was settling in for the semester. Girls rated guys. Guys rated girls. Both wanted what they couldn’t have, or had what they didn’t really want.

  But as Claire sipped her coffee and wrote out her physics essay on mechanics, heat, and fields—which didn’t have to do with auto shops, weather, or farming—she heard something that made her pen come to a stuttering stop on the page.

  ‘‘—invitation,’’ someone was saying. The someone was sitting behind her. ‘‘Can you believe it! My God, I actually got one! They say there are only three hundred invitations being sent out, you know. It’s really going to be amazing. I was thinking of going as Marie Antoinette—what do you think?’’

  They had to be talking about the masked ball. Claire shifted in her chair. That didn’t help—she still couldn’t see who was speaking.

  ‘‘Well, I think somebody might have actually known her, back in the day,’’ the other girl said. ‘‘So you might want to go with something safe, like Catwoman. I’ll bet none of them know Catwoman.’’

  ‘‘Catwoman’s good,’’ the first girl agreed. ‘‘Tight black leather is never out of style. I would look totally hot as Catwoman.’’

  Claire spilled her coffee, more or less deliberately, and jumped up to gather handfuls of napkins from the common dispenser at the creamer station. On the way back, she got a look at the two who were talking.

  Gina and Jennifer, Monica’s ever-present friends. Only, this time, no Monica to be seen. Interesting.

  Jennifer glared at her. ‘‘What are you looking at, klutz?’’

  ‘‘Absolutely nothing,’’ Claire said, deadpan. She wasn’t afraid of them, not anymore. ‘‘I wouldn’t go as Catwoman. Not with those thighs.’’

  ‘‘Oh, mee-yow.’’

  She gathered up books and coffee, and retreated to a table closer to the actual coffee bar. Eve was working. She looked perky today, bright-eyed and smiling; she had on red, and it totally worked for her. Goth, but somehow cheerful. She still grieved for her dad—Claire saw it in odd moments, when she thought nobody was watching—but Eve had pulled herself together, and was holding it together despite all the odds.

  She had a break in the coffee line, so she flashed her coworker a hand signal of five—a five-minute break, Claire guessed as Eve stripped off the apron and ducked under the bar to slip into the chair opposite her.

  ‘‘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?’’