Feast of Fools (25 page)

Myrnin picked up half a dozen thick volumes and held them out on the palm of his hand. ‘‘I've read these in the past day and a half,'' he said. ‘‘Every word. I can answer any question you'd like about the contents.''

‘‘Not a good test. You already know those books.''

He seemed surprised. ‘‘Yes, that's true. Very well. How would you propose to test me?''

‘‘Read some of this,'' she said, and passed him a novel from her backpack. He glanced at the author's name and the title, flipped to page 1, and began. She watched his eyes flicker rapidly back and forth—faster than most humans could begin to comprehend words on a page. He was focused, and he seemed genuinely interested.

‘‘Stop,'' she said five minutes later. Myrnin obligingly closed the book and handed it back to her. ‘‘Tell me about what you read.''

‘‘It's rather clever of you to make it a novel about vampires,'' Myrnin said. ‘‘Although I think their avoidance of mirrors is a bit ridiculous. The main characters seemed interesting. I think I'd like to finish it.'' And then he proceeded to recite, at length, the descriptions and histories of the characters as they'd been given in the first fifty pages . . . and the plot. Claire blinked and checked his facts.

All correct.

‘‘See?'' Myrnin took off his spectacles and stowed them in a pocket of the purple satin vest he was wearing over a white dress shirt. ‘‘I am better, Claire. Truly.''

‘‘Well, we really should wait to see—''

‘‘No, I don't think so.'' He stood up, lithe and strong, and walked to the bars.

He took hold of them and heaved, and the lock— the lock that was supposed to hold the strongest, craziest vampires—snapped loudly. He rolled the bars aside on their groove and stood in the open doorway, smiling at her.

‘‘Are those for me?'' He nodded at the blood bags lying on top of her backpack. She realized that she was clutching the book in white-knuckled fingers, barely breathing.
I hope he didn't remove some part of his brain that stops him from attacking me
. . . .

‘‘Yes,'' she managed to say. She'd been intending to throw the blood to him, but somehow it didn't seem right. She picked up the first one and held it out.

Myrnin walked slowly toward her—deliberately slowly, making sure she got used to the idea—and took the plastic pack from her hand without so much as brushing her skin. He even turned away to bite into it, and although the sucking noises made her uncomfortable and a bit sick, when he turned around, there wasn't a speck of blood on him, or in the plastic packaging, either.

Claire held up the second one. He shook his head. ‘‘No need to stuff myself,'' he said. ‘‘One is plenty for now.'' Which was odd, too, because Myrnin was usually—how could she put it without making herself feel nauseous?—a hearty eater.

‘‘I'll put it back,'' she said, but before she could move, Myrnin had taken it from her palm. She hadn't even seen him move this time.

‘‘I'll do it.'' She shivered, listening and watching, but he was already gone into the shadows. She heard the creak of the massive refrigerator door open and close, and then suddenly he was back, strolling slowly out of the darkness. Arms crossed over his chest. He leaned against the wall across from her.

‘‘So?'' he asked. ‘‘Do I seem insane to you?''

She shook her head.

‘‘You wouldn't tell me even if I was, would you, Claire?''

‘‘Probably not. You might get angry.''

‘‘I might get angry if you lied,'' Myrnin said. ‘‘But I won't. I don't feel angry at all right now. Or hungry, or even anxious, and that never seemed to leave me the last few years. The drugs you gave me, Claire, I think they're taking hold. Do you know what that means?'' He flashed across the empty space, and when she was able to focus on him again, he was kneeling next to her chair, one pale hand gently resting on her knee. ‘‘It means my people can be saved. All of them.''

‘‘What about mine?'' Claire asked. ‘‘If yours get well, what happens to mine?''

Myrnin's face went carefully still and blank. ‘‘The fate of humans isn't really my area of responsibility,'' he said. ‘‘Amelie has worked hard to be sure Morganville is a place of balance, a place where our two kinds can live in relative harmony. I doubt she'd change all that based on the outcome of this experiment.''

He could doubt it all he wanted, but Claire knew Amelie better. She'd do whatever was best for her own first, humans second. In fact, Claire wasn't altogether sure, but she suspected Morganville
was
the experiment—and an experiment would be ended when an outcome was achieved.

If this was the outcome—what happened to the lab rats?

Myrnin's dark eyes were glowing now with sincerity. ‘‘I'm not a monster, Claire. I wouldn't allow you to be hurt. You've done us a great service, and you'll be looked after.''

‘‘What about other people?'' she asked.

‘‘Which people? Ah, your friends, your family. Yes, of course, they'll be safeguarded, as well, whatever happens.''

‘‘No, Myrnin, I mean
everybody else
! The guy who makes hamburgers at the Burger Dog! The lady who runs the used-clothing store!
Everybody!
''

He blinked, clearly taken aback. ‘‘We can't care about
everyone
, Claire. It isn't in our natures. We can only care about those we know, or those we're connected with. I appreciate your altruism, but—''

‘‘Don't talk to me about
our natures
! We're not the same!''

‘‘Aren't we?'' Myrnin patted her knee gently. ‘‘I'm a scientist. So are you. I have friends, people I care for and love. So do you. How are we different?''

‘‘I don't suck my dinner out of a bag!''

Myrnin laughed. He showed no trace at all of fangs. ‘‘Oh, Claire, do you imagine that eating slaughtered and mutilated animals is any less disgusting? We both eat. We both enjoy the company of others. We both—''

‘‘I don't dig
brain tissue
out of my skull! Oh, and I don't kill,'' she said. ‘‘You do. And you really don't mind it.''

He sat back a little, staring into her face. The glow of sincerity took on a harder edge. ‘‘I think you'll find I do mind it,'' he said. ‘‘Or else I wouldn't put up with this from—''

‘‘From a servant? Because that's what I am, right? Or worse—a slave? Property?''

‘‘You're upset.''

‘‘Yes! Of course I'm—of course I'm upset.'' She fought to keep it together, but she couldn't; the misery just boiled out of her like steam under pressure. ‘‘I'm sitting here debating the future of the human race, and my friends and family are going to that party, and I can't protect them—''

‘‘Hush, child,'' he said. ‘‘The feast. It's tonight, yes?''

‘‘I don't even know what it
is.
''

‘‘Amelie's formal recognition of Bishop. Every vampire in Morganville who is able will be present, all there to swear their obedience, and every one of them will bring a token gift.''

She sniffled, sat up, and wiped her face. ‘‘What kind of gift?''

Myrnin's dark eyes were steady on hers. ‘‘A token gift of blood,'' he said. ‘‘Specifically, a human. You're right to be worried for your friends, your family. He has the right to choose any human offered to him. The gesture is meant to be ceremonial—it's come down to us as a tradition from long ago—but it doesn't have to be.''

And Claire understood. She understood why Amelie had forbidden her to come; she understood why Michael had deliberately asked Monica Morrell instead of Eve.

It was chess, and the pawns were
people.
The vampires were playing with what they could afford to lose.

‘‘You—'' Her voice didn't sound steady. She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘‘You said that he could choose any human.''

Myrnin didn't blink. ‘‘Or all of them,'' he said. ‘‘If he so wishes.''

‘‘You know he'll do it. He'll kill someone.''

‘‘Most likely, yes.''

‘‘We have to stop this,'' she said. ‘‘Myrnin—why would she
do
this?''

‘‘Amelie is not a brave woman. If the odds are against her, she will surrender; if the odds are near even, she will play for time and advantage. She knows she can't defeat Bishop on her own; not even she and Oliver combined can do it. She has to play the long game, Claire. She's played it all her life.'' Myrnin's dark eyes were glowing again, and he began to smile. ‘‘Amelie reckons her odds without me, of course. With me at her side, she can win.''

‘‘You want to go. To the feast.''

Myrnin straightened his vest and brushed imaginary dust from his sleeves. ‘‘Of course. And I'm going with or without you. Now, are you going under those circumstances?''

‘‘I—Amelie said—''

‘‘Yes or no, Claire.''

‘‘Then . . . yes.''

‘‘We'll need costumes,'' he said. ‘‘Not to worry, I know just the place to get them.''

‘‘I look ridiculous,'' Claire said. She also looked completely
obvious.
‘‘Can't we do something in, I don't know, black? Since we're supposed to be sneaky?''

‘‘Stop talking,'' Myrnin commanded as he applied makeup to her face. He seemed to be enjoying himself a hell of a lot more than the situation called for, and she felt doubt once again that his cure was really a
cure.
There had been a good reason Amelie said he shouldn't be at the feast; there'd been a good reason, too, for leaving him out of her calculations for war or peace.

But Claire knew Amelie too well. If peace meant it had to come at the price of a few human deaths, even ones that were dear to Claire, she'd count it an acceptable cost.

Claire didn't.

‘‘There,'' Myrnin said. ‘‘Close your eyes.''

Claire did, and felt a soft brushing of powder over her face. When she opened her eyes, Myrnin stepped out of the way, and she saw some alien creature in the mirror reflecting back at her.

She
did
look ridiculous, but she had to admit she didn't look like Claire Danvers. Not at all. A white face that would have done Eve proud. Full red lips. Huge, black-rimmed eyes with funny little lines to draw attention to them.

A tight-fitting costume, top and tights, covered with red and black diamonds. A matador's hat. ‘‘What am I supposed to be?'' she blurted. Myrnin looked disappointed in her.

‘‘Harlequin,'' he said, and twirled like a crazy little girl. ‘‘I am Pierrot.'' Myrnin was dressed in white, and where her costume was tight, his was full, billowing around his body like choir robes with white pants beneath. He had an enormous white ruffle around his collar, and a white hat that looked like a traffic cone. The same manic makeup, which only made his dark eyes look wider and less sane. ‘‘Don't they teach anything in your schools?''

‘‘Not about
this.
''

‘‘Pity. I suppose that's what comes of your main education flowing from Google.'' He fitted something over her head. ‘‘Your mask, madam.'' It was a simple domino mask, but it was patterned in the same red and black as her costume. ‘‘Can you do cartwheels? Backflips?''

She gave him a hopeless look. ‘‘I'm a
science nerd
, not a cheerleader.''

‘‘Pity about that, too.'' He put on his own mask, which was plain black. He'd painted his face to match hers—dead white, huge red lips. It was eerie. ‘‘Well, then, we have costumes. Now all we need is something to tip the scales in our favor, should things go badly. As I'm sure they will, knowing Bishop.''

They were in the attic of the Glass House, surrounded by what looked like centuries of . . . stuff. Claire had never been up here; in fact, she hadn't known there was an entrance at all. Myrnin had taken her to the hidden Victorian room, and then pressed a few studs on the wall to pop loose yet another secret door, which led through a dusty, cramped hallway and opened out into a vast, dark storage space. He'd found the costumes packed in a trunk that looked old enough to have been carried through the Civil War. The dressing table, where Claire sat, was probably even older. The
dust
on it looked older.

Myrnin wandered off into the stacks of boxes and suitcases and discarded treasures, muttering in what sounded like a foreign language. He began rummaging around. Claire went back to staring at herself in the mirror. The makeup and costume made her look alien and cool, but her eyes were still Claire's eyes, and they were scared.

I can't believe we're going to do this,
she thought.

Myrnin popped up like some terrifying full-sized jack-in-the-box next to her, carrying a suitcase the width of Rhode Island. He dropped it to the wooden floor, where it hit with a shuddering thud.

‘‘Ta da!'' He threw it open and struck a heroic pose.

Inside were weapons.
Lots
of weapons. Crossbows. Knives. Swords. Crosses, some with crudely pointed ends.

Myrnin fished around in the chaos and came up with a dirty-looking bottle that had probably once held perfume, back around the Middle Ages. ‘‘Holy water,'' he said. ‘‘
True
holy water, blessed by the pope himself. Very rare.''

‘‘What
is
this? Where did these things come from?''