Feast of Fools (12 page)

‘‘You have no idea what he wants, or what he would do.'' He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the picture of earnestness. ‘‘Bishop comes from a time before there were concepts among vampires of cooperation and self-sacrifice, and he'll have nothing but contempt for them. As you would say, he's old-school evil, and all that matters to him is his own power. He won't tolerate Amelie having her own.''

‘‘Then what do we do?''

‘‘First, you let me out of here,'' he said. ‘‘Amelie is going to need her friends around her.''

Claire slowly shook her head. The minutes were ticking by, and Myrnin seemed stable, but she had to abide by the rules.

‘‘Claire.''

She looked up. Myrnin's face was still and sober, and he seemed utterly in control of himself. This was a Myrnin she rarely saw—not as charming as the manic version, not as terrifying as the angry one. A real, balanced person.

‘‘Don't let yourself be drawn into this,'' he said. ‘‘Humans don't exist for Bishop except as pawns, or food.''

‘‘I didn't think we did for too many of you,'' she said. Myrnin's eyes widened, and he smiled.

‘‘You do have a point. As a species, we do have an—empathy gap,'' he replied. ‘‘But at least we're trying. Bishop and his friends won't bother.''

The formula was much, much better than the last one—Myrnin's stability lasted for nearly four long hours, a score that delighted him almost as much as it did her. But once he'd tired, and begun sliding back into confusion and anger, Claire stopped the clock, made her notes, and checked the massive refrigerator in the center of the prison. She thought it had probably been built as central storage for the kitchens— kitchens that had gotten ripped out long ago—but it had the feeling of a giant, stainless-steel morgue.

Someone had forgotten to restock the supplies of blood inside. Claire made a note as she retrieved supplies for Myrnin, and tossed the blood packs into his cell. She didn't wait to watch him rip into them.

That always made her sick.

The other vampires were mostly beyond conversation— silent, reduced to basic survival instincts. She loaded up a cart and made the rounds delivering the last of the blood. Some of them had enough control left to nod a silent thanks to her; some only stared with mad, empty eyes, seeing her as just a giant, walking version of the blood bag.

It always gave her the creeps, but she couldn't stand to see them starve. It was somebody else's responsibility to feed them and keep the cells clean—but she wasn't sure that somebody did a very good job.

By the time she was done, it was late afternoon. Claire walked to the shimmering door in the prison wall, concentrated, and formed the portal back to Myrnin's lab. It was empty. She was tired and upset about what Myrnin had said about Bishop, and considered resetting the portal to take her directly to the Glass House . . . but she didn't like using it; it took too much out of her. She also didn't want to explain to the others about why she was stepping out of a blank wall, either.

‘‘Guess I'm walking,'' she said to the empty lab. She climbed the stairs to the rickety, leaning shack that covered the entrance, and exited into the alley behind Gramma Day's Founder House. It was another mirror of the Glass House—slightly different trim, different curtains in the windows. Gramma Day had a front-porch swing, and she liked to sit outside with her lemonade and watch people, but she wasn't out today. The empty swing creaked in the faint, cooling wind.

The sun still felt fierce, although the temperatures were dropping steadily, day by day; Claire was sweating by the time she'd negotiated Morganville's tortuously twisted avenues and turned onto Lot Street.

The sweat turned icy as she saw the police car parked in front of the house. Claire broke into a run, slammed through the white picket fence, and pounded up the stairs. The door was shut and locked. She fumbled out her keys and let herself in, then followed the sound of voices down the hallway.

Shane was sitting on the couch, wearing what Eve liked to call his Asshole Face. He was staring at Richard Morrell, who was standing in front of him. The contrast was extreme—Shane looked like he'd forgotten he owned a hairbrush, his clothes were rumpled from sitting in a laundry basket for a week, and his whole body language screamed
SLACKER
.

A whole different person from the one who'd been so quietly concerned about Eve earlier.

Richard Morrell, on the other hand, was a Morganville success story. Neat and sharp in his dark blue police uniform, every crease perfect, every hair at regulation length. The gun on his hip looked just as well cared for.

He and Shane both transferred their stares to Claire. She felt sweaty, disheveled, and panicked. ‘‘What's happened?''

‘‘Officer Dick dropped by to remind me I'd missed some appointments,'' Shane said. He had a flat, dark look in his eyes, the kind he got when he was committed to a fight. ‘‘I was just telling him I'd get around to it.''

‘‘You're months behind in donations,'' Richard said. ‘‘You're lucky it's me standing here, not somebody a lot less sympathetic. Look, I know you don't like this, and you don't have to. What you
do
have to do is get your ass up and down to the Donation Center.''

Shane didn't move. ‘‘You going to make me,
Dick
?'' ‘‘I don't understand,'' Claire said. ‘‘What are you talking about?''

‘‘Shane's not paying his taxes.''

‘‘Taxes—'' It came together suddenly. The blood she'd just tossed into the cells of ravenous, maddened vampires.
Oh.
‘‘Blood donations.''

Shane held up his wrist. His hospital tag, marked with a red cross, was still on. ‘‘Nobody gets to touch me for another two weeks. Sorry.''

Richard didn't move. He didn't even blink. ‘‘No, I'm sorry, but that doesn't hold up. Your hospital exemption protects you from attack. It doesn't excuse you from civic duty.''

‘‘Civic duty,''
Shane mocked. ‘‘Right. Whatever, man. Tell you what, you delivered your message. Go bust some crime or something. Maybe arrest your sister—she probably deserves it today, if it's a day that ends in
y.
''

‘‘Shane,'' Claire said, with just a little pleading in her voice. ‘‘Where's Eve?''

‘‘At the hospital,'' Shane said. ‘‘I left her there with Michael. It's pretty rough on her, but she's coping. I came back to make sure you were okay.''

‘‘I am,'' she said. Not that either of them was listening to her anymore. Richard and Shane had locked stares again, and it was a guy thing. A contest of wills.

‘‘So you're refusing to accompany me to the Donation Center,'' Richard said. ‘‘Is that right?''

‘‘ 'Bout the size of it, Dick.''

Richard reached behind his back, unhooked the shiny silver handcuffs from the snap on his belt, and held them at his side. Shane still didn't move.

‘‘Up,'' Richard said. ‘‘Come on, man, you know how this is going to go. Either you end up in the jailhouse or you spend five minutes with a needle in your arm.''

‘‘I'm not letting any vamp eat me, not even by remote control.''

‘‘Not even Michael?'' Richard asked. ‘‘Because when supplies run low, the younger the vampire, the lower he is in the priority list. Michael's the last one in Morganville to get blood. So you're doing nothing but hurting your own, man.''

Shane's fists clenched, trembled, relaxed. He glanced at Claire, and she saw the mixture of rage and shame in his eyes. He hated this, she knew. Hated the vampires, and wanted to hate Michael but couldn't.

‘‘Please,'' she whispered. ‘‘Shane, just do it. I'll go, too.''

‘‘You don't have to,'' Richard said. ‘‘College students are exempt.''

‘‘But I can volunteer, right?''

He shrugged. ‘‘No idea.''

Claire turned to Shane. ‘‘Then we'll both go.''

‘‘The hell we will.'' Shane folded his arms. ‘‘Go on, handcuff me. I'll bet you're dying to use that shiny new Taser.''

Claire dropped her backpack, crossed to him, and got in his face. ‘‘Stop,'' she hissed. ‘‘We don't have time for this, and I don't need you in jail right now, okay?''

He stared right into her eyes, for so long that she was afraid he was going to tell her to mind her own business—but then he sighed and nodded. She stepped away as he stood and held out his wrists to Richard Morrell.

‘‘Guess you've got me, Officer,'' he said. ‘‘Be gentle.''

‘‘Shut up, Shane. Don't make this harder than it is.''

Claire trailed along behind, uncertain what she ought to be doing; Richard didn't seem interested in her at all. He used the radio clipped to his shoulder to make some kind of police call on the way down the hall, in code. She wasn't sure she liked that. Morganville wasn't big enough to need codes, unless it was something really nasty.

As she stopped to lock the front door behind them, a big, shiny black RV rounded the corner—so sleek it looked almost predatory. It had a red cross painted on the nose, and on the side, below its blind, dark-tinted windows, red letters spelled out MORGANVILLE BLOODMOBILE. In cursive script below that, it said,
No appointment necessary.

Shane stopped moving. ‘‘No,'' he said. ‘‘I'm not doing that.''

Richard used leverage to get him going again at a stumble down the steps. ‘‘It's this or the Donation Center. Those are your choices, you know that. I was trying to make it easier.''

Claire swallowed hard and hurried down the steps. She got in front of Shane, blocking his path, and met his eyes. He was furious, and scared, and something else, something she couldn't really understand.

‘‘What's wrong?''

‘‘People get in that damn thing and don't come out,'' he said flatly. ‘‘I'm not doing it. They strap you down, Claire. They strap you down and nobody can see inside.''

She felt a little ill herself at the mental image. Richard Morrell's face was carefully blank. ‘‘Sir?''

He didn't much care for her asking him; she could tell. ‘‘I can't give you an opinion, but one way or another, he has to do this.''

‘‘What if you drive us both to the Donation Center instead?''

Richard thought about it for a few seconds, then nodded. He unhooked the radio from his shoulder again, muttered some quiet words, and the engine on the Bloodmobile started up with a smooth hum.

It glided away like a shark, looking for prey. All of them watched it go.

‘‘Crap, I hate that thing,'' Shane said. His voice trembled a little.

‘‘Me, too,'' said Richard, to Claire's surprise. ‘‘Now get in the car.''

6

The Donation Center was still open, even though it was getting dark. As Richard pulled his police cruiser to the curb, two people Claire vaguely recognized came out, waved to each other, and set off in separate directions. ‘‘Does everybody come here?'' she asked.

‘‘Everybody who doesn't use the Bloodmobile,'' Richard answered. ‘‘Every human who's Protected has to donate a certain number of pints per year. Donations go to their Patron first. The rest goes to whoever needs it. Vampires who don't have anyone to donate for them.''

‘‘Like Michael,'' Claire said.

‘‘Yeah, he's our most recent charity project.'' Richard got out and opened the back door for her and Shane. She slid out. Shane, after a hesitation long enough to make her worry, followed. He stuck his hands in his pockets and stared up at the glowing red cross sign above the door. The Donation Center didn't look exactly inviting, but it was far less terrifying than the Bloodmobile. For one thing, there were bright windows that offered a clear view of a clean, big room. Framed posters on the wall—the same kind you could find in any town, Claire thought—listed the virtues of giving blood.

‘‘Does any of it get to other humans?'' she asked as Richard held the door open for Shane. He shrugged.

‘‘Ask your boyfriend,'' he said. ‘‘They used quite a few units on him after his stabbing, as I remember. Of course it gets used for humans. It's our town, too.''

‘‘You're dreaming if you really think that,'' Shane said, and stepped inside. As Claire followed, she felt a definite change of atmosphere—not just the air, which was cool and dry, but something else. A feeling, barely contained, of desperation. It reminded her of the way hospital waiting areas felt—industrial, impersonal, soaked with large and small fears. But it was still clean, well lit, and full of comfortable chairs.

Nothing at all scary about the place. Not even the motherly-looking older lady sitting behind the wooden desk at the front, who gave them all the same bright, welcoming smile.

‘‘Well, Officer Morrell, it's nice to see you!''

He nodded to the lady. ‘‘Rose. Got a truant for you here.''

‘‘So I see. Shane Collins, isn't it? Oh, dear, I'm so sorry to hear about your mother. Tragedy has come to your door too often.'' She was still smiling, but it was muted. Respectful. ‘‘Can I put you down for two pints today? To make up some of what you're behind?''

Shane nodded. His jaw was clenched, his eyes brilliant and narrowed. He was fighting for control, Claire thought. She slipped her fingers in his where they were handcuffed behind his back.

‘‘You remember me, don't you?'' Rose continued. ‘‘I knew your mother. We used to play bridge together.''