Feast of Fools (27 page)

People clapped and laughed, then turned back to their own conversations. All except Oliver, who stared intently.

But at least he kept his distance.

There was no sign of Bishop or Amelie, but Claire gradually identified most of the vampires she knew. Sam arrived, dressed as Huckleberry Finn, which went well with his red hair and freckles. He'd brought a girl Claire knew slightly from Common Grounds, one of Oliver's employees. Probably the one who'd replaced Eve when she'd quit. For Sam's sake, Claire hoped she was someone Oliver could afford to lose.

Miranda was there, dressed in ancient Greek robes with snakes for hair, and with her was a faded, small man in a Sherlock Holmes costume. ‘‘Charles,'' Myrnin confirmed when Claire asked. ‘‘He always did have a weakness for the damaged ones.''

‘‘She's only fifteen!''

‘‘Modern standards, I'm afraid. Charles comes from a time when twelve was a good age to be married, so he takes your age-of-eighteen rules a little lightly.''

‘‘He's a
pedophile.
''

‘‘Probably,'' Myrnin said. ‘‘But he's not on Bishop's side.''

Sam spotted them, frowned, and gradually made his way through the crowd to them. Myrnin pulled off the comical bow again, but Claire was glad to note he didn't require a cartwheel this time. ‘‘Samuel,'' he said. ‘‘How lovely to see you.''

‘‘Are you—?'' Sam visibly checked himself, because the question had probably been,
Are you crazy?
and that answer was self-evident. ‘‘Didn't Amelie tell you to stay away? Claire—''

‘‘He was coming anyway,'' she said. ‘‘He broke the lock. I thought I ought to at least come along.'' Which was a true—if cowardly—explanation of how they'd come to be standing here. Still, Myrnin gave her a look. One that clearly said,
Confess.
‘‘I probably would have done it anyway,'' she said in a rush. ‘‘I can't let my friends and my parents be here without me. I just can't.''

Sam looked grim, but he nodded like he understood. ‘‘Fine, you've been here. You've seen. It's time to go, before you're announced. Myrnin—''

Myrnin was shaking his head. ‘‘No, Samuel. I can't do that. She needs me.''

‘‘She needs you to
stay out of it
!'' Sam stepped up, right into Myrnin's personal space, and Myrnin's eyes turned a muddy crimson. So did Sam's. ‘‘Go home,'' Sam said. ‘‘Now.''

‘‘Make me,'' Myrnin said in a silky whisper. Claire had never seen him look so deadly, and it was terrifying.

She nudged him. Carefully. ‘‘Myrnin. What happened to biding our time? Sam's not the enemy.''

‘‘Sam would protect our enemy.''

‘‘I'm protecting
Amelie.
You know I'd die to protect her.''

That sobered Myrnin up, at least to the extent that he took in a breath and stepped back. The white froufrou of the Pierrot costume made him look like the scariest clown she'd ever seen, especially when he smiled. ‘‘Yes,'' Myrnin said. ‘‘I know you would, Sam. That will destroy you, one day. You have to know when to let go. It's an art the oldest of us have been forced to master, again and again.''

Sam gave them both frustrated looks and turned away.

The crowd had thickened, filling the circular room, and Claire heard a distant grandfather clock striking the hour. It seemed to go on forever in deep, sonorous bongs, and when it finished, there was silence in the room except for the rustle of fabric as people jostled for position.

The gilt-edged double doors to Claire's right opened, and a smell of roses drifted out. She knew that smell, and that room. A vampire's body had been laid in state on that stage. She and Eve and Shane had been terrorized there.

Not her favorite place, or her favorite memory.

‘‘The lady Muriel and her attendant, Paul Grace,'' said a deep, echoing voice near the door. It carried to all corners of the room. Claire craned her neck and saw a short, round vampire dressed as an Egyptian being escorted through the doors by a tall man dressed in Victorian costume. The man doing the announcing was standing to one side, a gilded book open in both hands, though he wasn't consulting it.

The maître d' of the undead.

‘‘John of Leeds,'' Myrnin whispered to her. ‘‘Excellent choice. He was herald to King Henry, as I remember. Impeccable manners.''

The next name was already being spoken, and another couple moved forward. Claire couldn't see what was beyond the door from her angle, but she saw the glow of candlelight. ‘‘It's going to take forever,'' she said.

‘‘Ceremony is part of the joy of life,'' Myrnin said, and handed her a glass of something that sparkled. ‘‘Drink.''

‘‘I shouldn't.''

He raised an eyebrow. She put her lips to the champagne and tasted it—not sweet, not bitter, just right. Like light, bottled.

Maybe just one sip.

The glass was empty by the time she and Myrnin had drifted up to the front of the line; Claire felt hot and a little off-balance, and she was glad Myrnin had taken her arm. The herald, John, stood to Myrnin's left, and he seemed mildly surprised for a bare second, then said with his usual smoothness, ‘‘Lord Myrnin of Conwy, with his attendant, Claire Danvers.''

So much for the subtle approach.

Heads turned.
Lots
of heads turned, and although vampires weren't given much to gasping, Claire heard the whispers start as she and Myrnin swept into the room. It was a cavernous, dark place set up ballroomstyle, with round tables and chairs, and a large dais on the stage. Fine white linens. Floral arrangements on each table. Glittering glass and gleaming china. The entire room was lit by candles—thousands of them, in massive crystal displays.

It would have been magical, if it hadn't been so scary. The pressure of all that attention—hundreds of eyes watching their every move—made Claire's knees feel like bags of water.

Myrnin seemed to sense it. ‘‘Steady,'' he said softly. ‘‘Smile. Head up. No sign of weakness.''

She tried. She wasn't sure how she managed it, but when he released her next to a chair, she sank down fast. They were at an empty table near the back of the room. As she looked around, she saw that Sam was seated not far away, and so was Oliver. Eve was with him, staring wide-eyed at Claire.

She couldn't see Michael. Unfortunately, she could see Shane all too clearly, because Ysandre was on the dais on the stage, and she'd brought Shane on his leash up the steps so that everyone could see him, too. They were seated at a long table on one side; François and his date were on the other.

Still no sign of Amelie, or Bishop.

Claire's father started to get up from his seat across the room, but the vampire with him took his arm and pulled him back into his chair. So the rules were no mingling, apparently. She wanted to go to him, very badly, but when she glanced at Myrnin, he shook his head. ‘‘Wait,'' he said. ‘‘You wanted to play the game, Claire. Now we'll find out if you really have the gall for it.''

‘‘That's my
dad
!''

‘‘I told you, this will be a test of nerves. Yours are on display. Calm yourself.''

Fine talk from a guy who'd let his eyes turn red when somebody as unthreatening as
Sam
got in his face. But Claire concentrated on deep, slow breaths, and kept her gaze turned down, away from temptation.

‘‘Ah,'' Myrnin said, in a voice full of satisfaction. ‘‘They're here.''

He meant, of course, Amelie and Bishop. Amelie entered first from the right of the stage, a glittering sculpture all in a white so cold it hurt the eyes. She'd come as some sort of ice spirit, which was appropriate in so many ways. Her platinum hair was woven into a crystalline tower, and she looked delicate and fragile.

On her arm was
Jason Rosser.
At least, Claire thought it was Jason. She'd never seen him after a bath and a haircut, but she recognized the stooped shoulders and the walk, if nothing else. He was wearing a hooded brown monk's robe.
She picked someone she could afford to lose,
Claire thought.
That's why she didn't pick me.
It should have made her feel better about being left out, but somehow, it didn't.

Bishop entered, stage left. He was dressed all in Episcopal purple, in—what else?—a bishop's costume, minus the cross. He even had the tall hat, the miter.

On his arm, he had an angel. A woman dressed as one, anyway, with fine white feathery wings that were taller than she was, and swept the floor behind her.

Claire slapped both hands over her mouth to hold in the shriek that threatened to erupt.

It was her
mother.

‘‘Steady,'' Myrnin said. His cool hand pressed her arm. ‘‘What did I tell you? Control yourself! We have miles to go yet.''

She didn't want to listen to him. She wanted to get her mom and her dad, Shane and Michael and Eve. She wanted to get out of here, hit the borders of Morganville, and keep on going.

She didn't want to be here anymore.

Other guests filled in the remaining seats at their table, and two of them were Charles and Miranda. Miranda looked dreadfully young and pallid under her snaky hair and Greek robes. She sat next to Claire, and under cover of the tablecloth, reached for her hand. Claire allowed it. Miranda's felt as cool as Myrnin's, and clammy with fear.

‘‘It's happening,'' Miranda said. ‘‘All the blood. All the fear. It's really happening.''

‘‘Hush,'' said Charles, seated next to her, and nodded at her plate. ‘‘Eat. Beef will build your strength.''

Miranda, like Claire, picked at the prime rib on her plate. Claire tried a bite. It was good—smoky, tender, just the right warmth—but she had no appetite. Myrnin tucked into his with a frightening zeal. She wondered how long it had been since he'd had an actual meal, or wanted one. That led her to an erratic series of questions—were there vegetarians in the crowd? Did the vampires cater to food allergies? As she nibbled dully on the bread, Claire saw Amelie staring toward them. At this distance, it was impossible to really see her expression, but Claire was sure it wasn't pleased.

‘‘I think Amelie's going to have us thrown out,'' she said to Myrnin. He chewed his last bite of prime rib.

‘‘She won't,'' he said with absolute confidence. ‘‘Aren't you going to eat that?''

Claire gave up and passed her plate. Myrnin began cutting up the meat.

‘‘Amelie can't afford a scene,'' he said. ‘‘And no doubt it will amuse Bishop to have me here.''

He seemed odd again, almost happy. Claire eyed him doubtfully. ‘‘Do you feel okay?''

‘‘Never better,'' he said. ‘‘Ah, dessert!''

The servants—Claire never did catch more than a shadowy glimpse of them, so they must have been vampires—delivered exquisite little martini glasses full of berries and cream to each place. Berries and cream were something that even Claire couldn't resist. She ate the whole thing, in between staring at Shane to see if he was eating. She didn't think he was. He wasn't moving at all.

As after-dinner drinks were delivered—blood for the vamps, champagne and coffee for the hemoglobin intolerant—Claire felt her anxiety ratchet up another notch. There was murmuring in the room, a rising tide of it, and she felt the swell of excitement. ‘‘Myrnin? What's happening?''

Miranda's hand grabbed hers again, squeezing so hard Claire almost yelped.

‘‘It's coming,'' Miranda said. ‘‘It's almost over.''

Before Claire could ask what she meant, Myrnin touched her shoulder and said, ‘‘They're beginning the ceremony.''

John of Leeds had come out of the wings behind the dais, and had taken up a post at a dark wooden podium. He was wearing a traditional herald's tabard, Claire realized, just like in books and paintings. She half expected him to pull out a long, thin trumpet.

He opened the book that he'd been holding outside the room instead.

‘‘Behold,'' he said in a deep, velvety smooth voice, ‘‘there comes to us on this day one who is worthy of our fealty, and as one, we welcome him to our house.''

Bishop stood up. A curtain pulled back onstage, and behind it was a huge dark wooden throne, heavily carved.

Bishop walked up the steps to take his seat on it.

Claire's mother stayed where she was, at the table.

"What's happening?'' Claire asked. Myrnin shushed her.

‘‘As I speak your name, come forward with your tribute,'' John said. ‘‘Maria Theresa.''

A tall Spanish woman dressed in a glittering matador's costume rose from her chair, took hold of the man she'd brought to the feast, and escorted him up onto the dais. She bowed to Amelie and then turned to Bishop on his throne. She bowed again.

‘‘I give you my fealty,'' she said. ‘‘And my gift.''

She looked at the man standing next to her. He seemed . . . stunned. Frozen.

Bishop looked at him and smiled. ‘‘Princely,'' he said. ‘‘I thank you for your gift.''

And he flicked his fingers at them, and just like that, it was over.

‘‘Vassily Ivanovich,'' John of Leeds called, and the parade went on.

Nobody got killed. It was just like Myrnin had said . . . a token. A gesture.

Claire let out her breath. She hadn't even been aware how hard she'd been holding it, but her whole rib cage ached. ‘‘He could kill them. Right? If he wanted?''