Feast of Fools (19 page)

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.

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?''

‘‘I'll be there,'' Claire said. Her hands were shaking, fine little trembles that were a sign of the inner earthquake. ‘‘Thank you.''

‘‘Oh, don't thank me, child,'' Amelie said. ‘‘I shouldn't imagine you'll find anything I have to say will be of the least comfort to you.''

The house was empty when Claire got there. She checked every room, including the laundry room in the basement, to be absolutely sure. Eve was still at work; Michael was at the music store. Shane—she had no idea where Shane was, except that the house was Shane free.

Claire pressed the hidden button in the hallway on the second floor, and the paneling opened on the dusty steps leading up to the hidden room. She shut the opening behind her and trudged up, feeling sicker and more isolated with every single stair.

At the top, color spilled across the walls: Victorian lamps, all jeweled hues and pale, watery light. There were no windows, no exits here. Only a few nice pieces of dusty furniture, and Amelie.

And the bodyguards, of course. Amelie hardly ever went anywhere without at least one. There were two this time, lurking in the corners. One of them nodded to Claire. She was on nodding terms with scary bodyguard dudes. Great. She really was moving up in the social ladder of Morganville.

‘‘Ma'am,'' Claire said, and stayed standing. Amelie was seated, but she didn't look as though she was in any mood to indulge the fantasy that Claire was her equal. It was hard to determine Amelie's feelings, but Claire was pretty sure that this one qualified as impatient, with a possible upgrade to annoyed.

‘‘I have very little time for soothing your ruffled feathers,'' Amelie said. She shifted a little, which was surprising; Amelie was usually very still, very composed. That was almost fidgeting. There was something else unusual about her today—the color of her suit. It was still classic and beautifully tailored, but it was in a dark gray, much darker than Amelie usually preferred. It turned her eyes the color of storm clouds. ‘‘Yet you've done more than I asked with Myrnin. I am inclined to forgive your impertinence, if you understand that it's an indulgence on my part. Not a right on yours.''

‘‘I understand,'' Claire said. ‘‘I just—this masked ball. Myrnin called it a welcome feast. He acted like it had something important to do with Mr. Bishop.''

Amelie's eyes, which had been regarding her with impersonal focus, suddenly sharpened. ‘‘You've spoken with Myrnin regarding Bishop's arrival?''

‘‘Well—he asked me what was happening in town, and—'' Claire broke off, because Amelie was suddenly standing. And her bodyguards had moved out of the corners of the room and were very close, close enough to hurt. ‘‘You didn't tell me not to!''

‘‘I told you to stay out of my affairs!'' Something pale and hungry flickered in those eyes, as scary in its own way as Mr. Bishop. Amelie deliberately relaxed. ‘‘Very well. The damage is done. What did Myrnin tell you?''

‘‘He said—'' Claire wet her lips and glanced at the bodyguards hovering terrifyingly close. Amelie raised an eyebrow and nodded, and Claire felt rather than saw them move away. ‘‘He said you both thought Bishop was dead, so he was surprised to find out that he'd come to town. He said that Bishop wanted revenge. Against you.''