Feast of Fools (31 page)

Myrnin nodded. ‘‘Then it is my fault. That shouldn't have happened.''

‘‘And the rest of it
should have
?''

‘‘Long game,'' Myrnin whispered. ‘‘You don't understand.''

There was a chessboard, a familiar one, set up in the corner where Myrnin normally read. A game was frozen in midattack. Claire stared at it, and for a second she saw the specter of Amelie sitting with Myrnin, moving those pieces in white, cold fingers.

‘‘She knew,'' she said. ‘‘She helped you. Didn't she?''

Myrnin stood up, and Claire held up the cross between them. Myrnin didn't so much as look at it. She pushed it closer. Maybe it was a proximity thing?

Myrnin closed his hand over hers, and took the cross away. He held it on the open palm of his hand.

No sizzling. No reaction at all.

"Crosses don't work,'' he said. ‘‘We all pretend they do, but they don't."

Her mouth was hanging open. ‘‘Why?'' Great. Her last words were, as always, going to be questions.

‘‘Obviously, it keeps people from moving on to things that
will
hurt us.'' Myrnin lifted his eyebrows, but the dark eyes below them were cautious and sad. ‘‘Claire. I wasn't
supposed
to stay. I was to provide a distraction, get my sample, and leave.''

‘‘Sample.''

He pointed toward the lab table, and what he'd been doing. Claire saw the silver gleam of the knife he'd carried to the feast—clean now, no trace of blood.

But there was blood carefully mounted and fixed on glass slides, ranks of them.

‘‘Bishop's blood?''

Myrnin nodded. ‘‘We've never been able to obtain a sample from any vampire beyond Morganville. As far as we knew, there
weren't
any vampires beyond Morganville. Look.''

Claire didn't trust him. He stepped back, far back, and indicated the microscope with an apologetic bow.

‘‘Mind if I hold this?'' she asked, and grabbed the knife.

‘‘So long as you keep it pointed away from me,'' he said. The weight of it eased her jitters a little, but it still took her several tries to look into the microscope long enough to focus, instead of checking his position.

When she did, she immediately recognized the difference.

Bishop's blood cells were—for a vampire—healthy.

She stepped back and stared at Myrnin. ‘‘He's not infected.''

‘‘It gets better,'' Myrnin said, and nodded toward the ranks of slides. ‘‘Try number eight.''

She switched out the slides. ‘‘I don't see any difference.''

‘‘Exactly,'' he said. ‘‘That is my blood, mixed with Bishop's. Now check number seven—my blood, alone.''

It was a nightmare. Worse than Claire had ever seen it. Whatever the serum was doing to Myrnin, it was destroying him.

She checked slide eight again.

Slide seven.

‘‘He's the cure,'' she said.

‘‘Now you see,'' Myrnin said, ‘‘why I was willing to risk everything and everyone to be sure.''

Myrnin's health failed again after another hour— longer than Claire would have given him, based on what she saw under the slides. When he started tiring and mixing words, she unlocked the prison door and took him back to his cell.

‘‘Damn,'' she sighed, remembering the broken door. ‘‘We need to move you.''

That took some time, although she grabbed only what Myrnin pointed out as essentials—clothes, blankets, the rug, his books. By the time she'd gotten everything put into the next cell, and replaced the ancient filthy bunk with the clean cot, Myrnin was in the corner of the room, curled into a ball. Rocking slowly back and forth.

She approached him as carefully as she could. ‘‘It's ready,'' she said. ‘‘Come on. I'll get you something to eat.''

Myrnin looked up, and she couldn't tell if he'd understood her until he scrambled to his feet and waved her out of the way with a trembling hand.

He closed the cell door and tested the lock, then slumped onto his bed.

‘‘Amelie,'' he said. ‘‘Take care of Amelie.''

‘‘We will,'' Claire promised. She handed him a blood pack—not threw, handed. ‘‘I'm sorry. I didn't understand.''

His nod was more of a convulsive tremble. His gaze was drawn to the blood, but he forced it back to her face. ‘‘Long game,'' he said. ‘‘Use what Bishop wants. Let him think he's winning. Play for time. Bring the doctor.''

‘‘Dr. Mills?''

‘‘Need help.''

‘‘I'll get him here somehow.'' Claire didn't want to leave Myrnin, but he was right. There were things to do. ‘‘Are you going to be okay?''

Myrnin's smile was, once again, broken, but beautiful. ‘‘Yes,'' he said softly. ‘‘Thank you for trusting me. Thank you for believing.''

She hadn't, really. But she did now.

As she turned away, she heard him whisper, ‘‘I'm so sorry, child. So very sorry I left you.''

She pretended not to hear.

13

The portals were more confusing now, because the power was out in Morganville. Most places were completely dark, and no matter how hard Claire concentrated, she couldn't pull up three of the destinations at all.

Which meant, she supposed, that they no longer existed.

She focused on the surroundings of home, but again got darkness. She heard people talking, though, and caught a glimpse of candles being lit.

Eve's face caught by the glow.

Home.

She was getting ready to step through when something hit her from behind, silent and heavy. She lost control of the portal as she crashed forward, screaming. She heard Myrnin, far behind her, call out, ‘‘Claire? Claire, what's wrong?''

She thought it was one of the inmates, until she felt a hand wind deep in her hair and lips brush her neck.

She heard Bishop's mocking laughter. ‘‘Thank you,'' he said. ‘‘For leading me to my fool.''

He threw her through the portal.

She hit the floor on the other side and rolled, then scrambled up and threw herself at the wall. It didn't open for her. She battered at it with her fists.

Nothing.

Claire turned, because it didn't feel like home. Darkness and utter silence.

‘‘Hello?'' No answer. ‘‘Shane?
Mom?
''

She wasn't at the Glass House. Bishop had screwed up her destination when he'd thrown her through the portal, and she had no idea where she was.

Half-sobbing, Claire felt her way across the room. Her fingers brushed soft cloth, and she pulled.
Curtain,
she thought. She tugged, and caught a glimmer through a window.

Orange light.

Claire pulled back the curtains of the window, and looked out at Morganville, burning. It gave her enough light to see the inside of the room where she was standing. It was the same as the Glass House living room in shape, so it had to be a Founder House . . . one of the thirteen, then. But which one? Not Gramma Day's; she'd been inside that one, and it had been crammed with furniture. This one was piled with boxes. . . .

Claire's gaze fell on the familiar outline of a couch. She walked to it and brushed her hand over the soft curve of the arm. There was a slightly stiffer patch near where it joined with the back, where she'd spilled a soda two years ago but hadn't ever quite gotten the stickiness out.

Some of the boxes in the corner were labeled
CLAIRE
.

It was Mom and Dad's new house.

Claire mapped it in her head. This house was to the northwest, so if she went to the mirror of her own bedroom, she ought to be able to see toward the Glass House. She wasn't sure what that would get her, except maybe a better idea of what her chances were to get back.

But she needed to see it. To know her friends and family were okay.

There was a house on fire that direction, but it was the same one that had been burning earlier. The Melville house. Claire couldn't make anything out past the blaze except a few faintly lit windows.

They were, she thought, still safe.

A police car raced toward the fire, lights flashing, and Claire slapped her forehead in frustration. ‘‘Idiot,'' she muttered. She'd lacked any pockets to put her phone, so she'd stowed it inside her hat.

Thanks to the elastic band, the silly little matador cap was still on her head.

Claire breathed a sigh of relief as she dug the phone from the hole in the lining, and dialed Richard Morrell.

‘‘I need a ride.''

Richard was in the middle of a cell phone rant about how he wasn't her taxi service, and how important it was to keep city services moving, when he screeched his patrol car to a halt at the curb just outside. Claire jumped down the steps of her parents' house and raced for the car door as he threw it open.

She made it, slammed the door, and locked it. Richard looked her up and down. He no longer seemed pressed and perfect; he was smoke-stained, tired, and rumpled, and he was the most lovely thing she'd seen.

‘‘What the hell are you supposed to be?'' he asked.

‘‘Harlequin.''

‘‘Isn't that a Batman villain?''

‘‘I thought you were in a hurry.''

Richard slammed on the gas, and the car screeched away from the curb. ‘‘Strap in,'' he said absently. She fastened her seat belt. ‘‘So. Nice night for you?''

‘‘Peachy,'' she said. ‘‘You?''

‘‘Fantastic.'' He jerked the wheel and nearly spun the car as he took a right-hand turn. ‘‘There are two of Amelie's vampire buddies at the power station right now, refusing to turn on the lights. And three of them made us stand by while the Donation Center burned. You have
any
idea what's going on?''

‘‘The long game,'' Claire said. He sent her a look. ‘‘Not really, no. But in chess you create openings to make your opponent move the wrong way.''

‘‘Chess,'' Richard said in disgust. ‘‘I'm talking about
lives.
Kid, you're starting to scare me.''

‘‘I'm scaring myself,'' Claire said. She didn't feel like a kid. She felt a million years old, and very tired. ‘‘Just get me home.''

Because she was going to have to tell Amelie that she'd just left Myrnin, alone, at Bishop's mercy.

Amelie was sitting up when Claire arrived, escorted in by Richard Morrell, who was instantly pounced on by his sister and father for hugs and information. She didn't look good, but she looked alive.

Sort of.

Claire didn't have any sympathy for her.

‘‘Myrnin,'' Claire said. ‘‘You used him.''

Sam, sitting on the arm of Amelie's chair, frowned at her. ‘‘Don't. She's very tired.''

‘‘Yeah, well, we've all got problems.'' Claire shook off Michael's hand, too. ‘‘Bishop's blood is the cure. You and Myrnin were right.''

Amelie's expression didn't change. She looked cold, remote, unreachable.

All of a sudden, Claire felt a wild urge to hurt her. Badly.

So she did.

‘‘Bishop's there,'' she said. ‘‘He's got Myrnin.''

Amelie's eyes focused on hers, and all of Claire's fury melted away. ‘‘I know,'' Amelie said. ‘‘I can feel it. We knew it was a risk, using Myrnin as a stalking horse, but something had to be done.''

‘‘You can't leave him there. You can't.''

Amelie sighed. ‘‘No,'' she agreed. ‘‘I can't. I still need Myrnin, very much. It's far too early in the game to sacrifice him.''

Claire swallowed hard. ‘‘Do we mean anything to you? Any of us?''

Amelie looked around the room. At the humans, all wearing purple elastic bandages at their elbows, the sign they'd given blood to save her. At the other vampires, all waiting for commands.

‘‘You mean everything to me,'' she said. ‘‘The survival of my people, and yours, is all I have ever wanted, Claire. It's why I came here. It's all I've worked for.'' Her eyes grew chilly, and some of the old Amelie came back. ‘‘I would sacrifice Myrnin for it. Oliver. Sam. Even myself. But it's not enough.''

Everyone in the room was still. Shane moved up next to Claire, and she was aware of Eve and Michael just behind her.

But Amelie was staring right at
her.

‘‘What will you sacrifice, Claire?'' she asked. ‘‘To win?''

‘‘It's not a game,'' Claire said.

Amelie inclined her head. ‘‘True. It is war. And now we have to fight for all of our lives.''

Claire linked hands with her friends.

‘‘Then tell us what to do.''

Amelie was quiet for a moment, and then she stood. Claire thought that only those who knew her, really knew her, could tell what that cost.

She raised her voice to carry to every part of the room.

‘‘Our forces must be split,'' she said. ‘‘We must not lose the Founder Houses, the Bloodmobile, the university, and Common Grounds. We
will hold.
Those who follow Bishop have been promised the freedom to hunt. Those of us who are strong enough will deny them that right. Those who are prey will be armed to defend themselves.
This is not optional.
All humans will be armed and taught how to strike a vampire.''

‘‘There's no going back from that,'' Oliver said. His voice was neutral. His expression wasn't. ‘‘You're giving them too much.''