Feast of Fools (10 page)

‘‘Where'd you come from?'' she asked. Claire gestured vaguely toward the staircase. ‘‘I just came from there.''

‘‘Bathroom,'' Claire said. And got a frown, but Eve let it go.

‘‘It's Michael,'' she said. ‘‘He's gone.''

‘‘Gone to work?''

‘‘No,
gone.
As in, he took off in the middle of the night and didn't tell me where he was going, and he hasn't come back. I checked—he's not at the music store. I'm worried, especially—'' Eve's train of thought switched tracks, and her eyes widened. ‘‘Oh my
God
, are you wearing the same thing you had on yesterday? You're not doing the walk of shame, are you? Because I totally cannot face your parents if you are.''

‘‘No, no, it's not like that—'' Claire felt a hot blush work its way up from her neck to vividly light up her face. ‘‘I just—we were talking, and we fell asleep. I swear, we didn't, um—''

‘‘Yeah, you'd better not have
umm
ed, because if you did, that would be—'' Eve struggled not to smile. ‘‘That would be
bad.
''

‘‘I know, I know. But we didn't. And we aren't going to until—''
Until I can convince him it's okay.
‘‘Whatever. About Michael—what do you want to do?''

‘‘Go ask some questions. Common Grounds is a place to start, much as I hate it; Sam's probably there, or we can leave a message for him. I heard he's back out in public again.'' Sam was Michael's grandfather— and a vampire. He'd nearly been staked dead, and it had taken Amelie's help to save him. But he'd been left weak. Claire was glad to hear that he was better— Sam was, she felt, one of the best of the vampires. One she could trust. ‘‘Well? Are we going or what?''

Shane still hadn't come out of the bathroom. ‘‘Five minutes,'' Claire said, resigned. No chance of a hot shower, or even clean clothes—the best she had available were cleanish, and not slept in. She might be able to find that last-picked pair of underwear hiding in a drawer. . . .

There was a knock downstairs at the front door. An authoritative, urgent sort of knock. It was still early, and the number of drop-in visitors in Morganville was generally pretty small anyway; Claire dragged the least wrinkled of the two T-shirts over her head, pulled on the fresh underwear and old jeans, and hurried out into the hall still zipping up. Eve was ahead of her, already going down the stairs, and as Claire passed the bathroom, Shane opened the door and stuck his wet head out. ‘‘What's going on?''

‘‘Don't know!'' she shot back, and hurried after Eve.

What was going on was the delivery of an envelope, which Eve had to sign for. As she turned it over, Claire made out the name, neatly written in an antiquely beautiful hand:
Mr. Shane Collins.
There was even a decorative little flourish underneath his name. The envelope was heavy cream-colored paper. On the back flap there was a gold seal with some kind of shield on it.

Eve lifted it to her nose, sniffed, and raised her eyebrows. ‘‘Wow,'' she said. ‘‘Expensive perfume.''

She waved it in Claire's direction, and she caught a hint of the dark, musky fragrance—full of promise and danger.

Shane padded downstairs, barefoot and wearing only his jeans except for the towel draped around his neck. He slowed as they both turned toward him. ‘‘What?''

Eve held up the envelope. ‘‘Mr. Shane Collins.''

He took it from her fingers, frowned at it, and then ripped open the back flap. Inside was a folded card of the same expensive cream paper, with raised black printing. Shane looked at it for a long second, then put it back in the envelope and handed it back to Eve. ‘‘Burn it,'' he said.

And then he went upstairs.

Eve lost no time digging the card out, and since she did, Claire didn't feel too guilty about reading over her shoulder.

‘‘Who's Ysandre?'' Eve asked.

Claire was too busy worrying about the phrase
at her pleasure.

They located Sam Glass at Common Grounds, sitting and talking with two others Claire didn't recognize, but Eve clearly did, from the nods they exchanged. Humans, because they were wearing bracelets. They said their good-byes and cleared the chairs for Eve and Claire.

Sam looked a lot like Michael—a little older, maybe, with a slightly wider chin. He had red hair to Michael's bright gold, but a similar build and height.

That had nearly gotten him killed, not so long ago, when he'd taken a stake meant for Michael. He still looked drawn, Claire thought—tired, too. But his smile was genuine as he nodded his greeting. ‘‘Ladies, '' he said. ‘‘It's good to see you. Eve, I didn't think you'd ever come in here again, not voluntarily. ''

‘‘Believe me, if it wasn't for you, I wouldn't,'' she said, and tapped dark purple fingernails on the scarred table in agitation. ‘‘Do you know where Michael is?''

Sam's ginger eyebrows rose. ‘‘He's not at work?''

‘‘He left last night, didn't say where he was going. We haven't seen him, and he's not at work. So? Ideas?''

‘‘Nothing good,'' Sam said, and sat back in his chair. ‘‘Does he have his car?''

‘‘Yeah, as far as I know. Why?''

‘‘GPS. All of our cars are trackable.''

‘‘Wow, good to know in case I ever go into the grand-theft-auto business around here,'' Eve said. ‘‘Who's got the supersecret-spy tracking gear, and how do I get my hands on it?''

‘‘You don't,'' Sam said. ‘‘I'll take care of it.''

‘‘Soon?''

‘‘As soon as I can.''

‘‘But I need to find him! What if he's—'' Eve leaned even closer, dropping her voice to a whisper. ‘‘What if someone has him?''

‘‘Who?''

Sam's eyes widened, and all over the coffee shop, other heads snapped up. Mostly vampires, Claire thought, who knew the name, or at least knew
of
it. And who could hear a whisper across a crowded room.

‘‘Quiet,'' Sam said. ‘‘Eve, stay out of it. It's nothing for any of you to get involved in. It's our business.''

‘‘It's our business, too. The guy was in our
house
. He threatened us, all of us,'' Eve said. ‘‘Can't you find out right now? Because otherwise I'm going to call up Homeland Security and tell them that we've got a whole bunch of terrorists skulking around in the dark.''

‘‘You wouldn't.''

‘‘Oh, I so would. With glee. And I'd tell them to bring tanning beds and conduct interviews at noon out in the parking lot.''

Sam shook his head. ‘‘Eve—''

Eve slammed her hand down on the table. It sounded like a gunshot, and every head turned in their direction. ‘‘I'm not kidding, Sam!''

‘‘Yes, you are,'' he said, deliberately quiet. ‘‘Because if you were serious, you would be making a threat against people who control the destiny of your next heartbeat, and that would be very, very stupid. Now, say you'll let me handle this.''

Eve's dark eyes didn't blink. ‘‘Is this about Bishop? Why is he here? What's he doing? Why are you so scared of him?''

Sam stood up, and there was something remote and cold about him just then. Something that reminded Claire, very strongly, that he was a vampire first.

‘‘Go home,'' he said. ‘‘I'll find Michael. I doubt he's in any trouble, and I doubt it has anything to do with Bishop.''

Eve stood up, too, and for the first time, Claire saw her as an adult—a woman, facing him on equal terms.

‘‘You'd better be right,'' she said softly. ‘‘Because if anything happens to Michael, that won't be the end of it. I swear to that.''

Sam watched them all the way out of the coffee shop. So did everyone else. Some of them looked worried; some looked gleeful. Some looked angry.

But nobody ignored the two of them as they left. Nobody. And that was . . . unsettling.

They got in the car, and Eve started it up without a word. Claire finally ventured a question. ‘‘Where are we going?''

‘‘Home,'' Eve said. ‘‘I'm giving Sam a chance to keep his word.''

That, Claire thought, was going to involve Eve chewing the corners off the walls and pacing holes in the floor. And Claire had absolutely no idea what to do to help her.

But that was basically what friends were for . . . to be there to keep you from doing the crazy.

They'd been home for exactly one hour when the phone rang. Shane was sitting next to the phone— he'd appropriated the place, because he was worried Eve would keep picking up the receiver to check the line—and answered on the first chime. ‘‘Glass House,'' he said, and listened. Claire watched every muscle in his body go tense and still. ‘‘Go screw yourself.''

And he hung up.

Claire and Eve both gaped at him. ‘‘What the hell—?'' Eve blurted, and lunged for the phone. She flicked the contact switch.

‘‘Star sixty-nine,'' Claire suggested. ‘‘Shane—who was it?''

He didn't answer. He crossed his arms over his chest. Eve frantically punched in the code. ‘‘It's ringing, '' she said—and then, like Shane, she went still.

She sank down in a chair.

‘‘Should've left it alone,'' Shane said.

Eve closed her eyes, and her shoulders slumped. ‘‘Yeah, I'm here,'' she said tightly. ‘‘What is it, Jason?''

Claire caught Shane's look, and she must have seemed suspiciously in the know, because he frowned at her. ‘‘Have you seen him?'' Shane asked.

Truth, or lie? ‘‘Yes,'' Claire said, even though that definitely wasn't the path of least resistance. ‘‘I saw him yesterday morning on the way to school. He said he wanted to talk to Eve.''

Oh, that look. It could have melted steel. ‘‘And you forgot about chatting with the local serial killer? Sweet, Claire. Very smart.''

‘‘I didn't forget. I—never mind.'' There was no explaining the vibe she had gotten from Jason, not to Shane, whose most vivid memories of the little creep had to do with Jason sinking a knife into his guts. ‘‘I'm sorry. I should have told you.''

Eve made a shushing motion at them and hunched over the phone, listening hard. ‘‘He said
what
? You're not serious. You can't be serious.''

Apparently, he was. Eve listened another few seconds, and then said, ‘‘Okay, then. No, I don't know. Maybe. Bye.''

She put the phone back in the cradle and stared at it. Her face looked frozen.

‘‘Eve?'' Claire asked. ‘‘What is it?''

‘‘My dad,'' Eve said. ‘‘He's—he's sick. He's in the hospital. They don't think—they don't think he's going to make it. It's his liver.''

‘‘Oh,'' Claire whispered, and leaned across the table to take Eve's right hand. ‘‘I'm sorry.''

Eve's fingers were cool and limp. ‘‘Yeah, well—he asked for it, you know? My dad was an ugly drunk, and he—me and Jason didn't exactly have the greatest childhood.'' She locked gazes with Shane. ‘‘You know.''

He nodded. He took her left hand and stared at the table. ‘‘Our dads were drinking buddies sometimes,'' he said. ‘‘But Eve's was worse. Lots worse.''

Claire, having met Shane's dad, couldn't really imagine that. ‘‘How long—?''

‘‘Jason said a couple of days, maybe. Not long.'' Eve's eyes filled with tears that didn't fall. ‘‘Son of a bitch. What does he expect from me, anyway? To come running and sit there and watch him die?''

Shane didn't answer. He didn't lift his head. He just . . . sat. Claire had no idea what to do, how to act, so she followed his example. Eve's hands suddenly closed on theirs, hard.

‘‘He threw me out,'' she said. ‘‘He told me that if I didn't let Brandon fang me, I couldn't be his daughter. Well, so he's dying, boohoo. I don't care.''

Yes, you do,
Claire wanted to say, but she couldn't. Eve was trying to convince herself, that was all, and in about thirty seconds she shook her head, and the tears broke free to run in dirty streaks down her pale face.

‘‘I'll take you,'' Shane said quietly. ‘‘That way, you don't have to stay unless you want to.''

Eve nodded. She couldn't seem to get her breath. ‘‘I wish—Michael—''

Claire remembered, with a shock, that they were still waiting for Sam's call. ‘‘I'll stay,'' she said. ‘‘I'll call you when I hear from Sam. I'll get Michael to come there, okay?''

‘‘Okay,'' Eve said weakly. ‘‘I—need my purse, I guess.''

She swiped at her eyes and walked into the other room. Shane looked at Claire, and she wondered what all this was bringing up for him—memories of his father, of his dead mother and sister, of a family he didn't really even have anymore.

You're a deep, dark mystery,
she'd said to him, and now, more than ever, that was true.

‘‘Take care of her,'' Claire said. ‘‘Call me if you need anything.''