Feast of Fools (14 page)

Michael stopped in his tracks, and his gaze flashed down to the stretchy bandages on their arms. Recognition flashed, and then he looked . . . sad, somehow. ‘‘I—I'm sorry.''

‘‘What for? Not like we didn't already know how much you crave the stuff.'' Still, Claire heard the betrayal in Shane's voice. The revulsion. ‘‘Just didn't expect to see you chugging it down like a drunk at happy hour, that's all.''

‘‘I didn't want you to see it,'' Michael said quietly. ‘‘I drink it here. I only keep some at home for emergencies. I never wanted you to watch—''

‘‘Well, we did,'' Shane said. ‘‘So what? You're a bloodsucking vampire. That's not a news flash, Michael. Anyway, it's no big thing, right?''

‘‘Yeah,'' Michael agreed. ‘‘No big thing.'' He focused on Claire, and she couldn't fit the two things together—Michael with those terrifying red eyes, gulping down fresh blood, and this Michael standing in front of her, with that sad hope in his expression. ‘‘You okay, Claire?''

She nodded. She didn't trust herself to talk, not even a word.

‘‘I'm taking her home,'' Shane said. ‘‘Unless that was your appetizer, and now you're looking for the main course.''

Michael looked sick. ‘‘Of course not. Shane—''

‘‘It's all right.'' The fight dropped out of Shane's voice. He sounded resigned. ‘‘I'm okay with it.''

‘‘And that bugs the crap out of you, doesn't it?''

Shane looked up, startled. The two of them stared it out, and then Shane tugged on Claire's arm again. ‘‘Let's go,'' he said. ‘‘See you at home.''

Michael nodded. ‘‘See you.''

He was still holding the empty bottle, Claire realized. There was a tiny trickle of blood left in the bottom.

As the door shut between them, she saw Michael realize what he had in his hand, and throw it violently in the trash can.

‘‘Oh, Michael,'' she whispered. ‘‘God.'' In that one gesture, she realized something huge.

He really did hate this. He really did, on some level, hate what he'd become, because of what he saw in their eyes.

How much did that suck?

The rest of the night passed quietly. The next morning, they woke up to a ringing phone.

Eve's dad was gone.

‘‘The funeral's tomorrow,'' Eve said. She wasn't crying. She didn't look much like herself this morning— no makeup, no effort at all put into what she'd thrown on. Her eyes were veined with red, and her nose almost glowed. She'd cried all night; Claire had heard her, but when she'd knocked on the door, Eve hadn't wanted company. Not even Michael's.

‘‘Are you going?'' Michael asked. Claire thought that was a funny question—who wouldn't go? But Eve just nodded.

‘‘I need to,'' she said. ‘‘They're right about that closure thing, I guess. Will you . . . ?''

‘‘Of course,'' he said. ‘‘I can't do graveside, but—''

Eve shuddered. ‘‘So not going there, anyway. The church is bad enough.''

‘‘Church?'' Claire asked, as she poured mugs of coffee for the three of them. Shane, as usual, had slept through the phone. ‘‘Really?''

‘‘You've never met Father Joe, have you?'' Eve managed a weak smile. ‘‘You'll like him. He's— something.''

‘‘Eve had the hots for him when she was twelve,'' Michael said, and got a dirty look. ‘‘What? You did, and you know it.''

‘‘It was the cassock, okay? I'm over it.''

Claire raised her eyebrows. ‘‘Is Father Joe a . . . ?'' She did the teeth-in-neck mime. They both smiled.

‘‘No,'' Michael said. ‘‘He's just nonjudgmental.''

Eve got through the day without too much trouble; she did the normal things—helping with the laundry, taking half the cleaning jobs for the day. It was her day off from work. Claire had a few classes, but she skipped three that she knew she'd already built up enough momentum in, and attended only the one that seemed critical. Michael didn't go in to teach private guitar lessons, either.

It was nice. It was like . . . family.

The funeral was held at noon the next day, and Claire found herself trying to pick out what to wear. Party clothes seemed too . . . festive. Jeans were too informal. She borrowed a pair of Eve's black tights and wore them with an also-borrowed black skirt. Paired with a white shirt, it looked moderately respectful.

She wasn't sure how Eve planned to dress, because at eleven a.m., Eve was still sitting in front of her vanity mirror, staring at her reflection. Still in her black dressing gown.

‘‘Hey,'' Claire said. ‘‘Can I help?''

‘‘Sure,'' Eve said. ‘‘Should I do my hair up?''

‘‘It'd look nice that way,'' Claire said, and picked up the hairbrush. She brushed Eve's thick black hair until it shone, then twisted it into a knot and pinned it up at the back of her head. ‘‘There.''

Eve reached for her rice-powder makeup, then stopped. She met Claire's eyes in the mirror.

‘‘Maybe not the right time,'' she said.

Claire didn't say anything at all. Eve applied some lipstick—dark, but not her usual shade—and began searching through her closet.

In the end, she went with a black high-necked dress, one long enough to hang to the tops of her shoes. And a black veil. It was subdued, for Eve.

The four of them were at the church with fifteen minutes to spare, and as Michael pulled into the parking garage, Claire saw that several vampire-tinted cars were already present. ‘‘Is this the only funeral?'' she asked.

‘‘Yeah,'' he said, and turned off the engine. ‘‘I guess Mr. Rosser had more friends than we thought.''

Not that many, as it turned out; when they entered the vestibule of the church, it was nearly empty, and there weren't many names noted in the register. Eve's mother stood by the book, waiting to pounce on anyone who came in the door.

True to Michael's earlier description, Mrs. Rosser couldn't seem to stop crying; she was wearing all black, like Eve, only it was much more theatrical— dramatic sweeps of black satin, a big formal hat, gloves.

And, Claire reflected, when you were more theatrical than
Eve,
you definitely had issues.

Mrs. Rosser had gone in heavy for mascara, and it was in messy streams all down her cheeks. Her hair was dyed blond, and straggling around her face. If she was going for the role of Ophelia in the town production of
Hamlet,
Claire thought she probably had it in the bag.

Eve's mother threw herself on Claire like a wet blanket, sobbing on her shoulder and smearing mascara on her white shirt. ‘‘Thank you for coming!'' she wailed, and Claire awkwardly patted her on the back. ‘‘I wish you'd known my husband. He was such a
good
man, such a
hard
life—''

Eve stood there looking remote and a little sick. ‘‘Mom. Get off her. She doesn't even know you.''

Mrs. Rosser drew back, gulping back another sob. ‘‘Don't be cruel, Eve, just because you didn't love your father—''

Which was just about the coldest thing Claire had ever heard. She exchanged a stricken look with Shane.

Michael got between mother and daughter, which was damn brave of him. Maybe it was the vampire gene. ‘‘Mrs. Rosser. I'm sorry about your husband.''

‘‘
Thank you
, Michael, you've always been such a good boy. And thank you for taking care of Eve when she went out on her own.''

Mrs. Rosser blew her nose, which was how she missed Eve saying caustically, ‘‘You mean, when you threw my ass out on the street?''

‘‘Sign us in,'' Michael said to Claire, and took Eve's arm and led her into the church. Claire hastily scribbled their names in the book, nodded to Mrs. Rosser—who was staring after her daughter with an expression that turned Claire's stomach—and grabbed Shane's arm to follow.

She'd been in the church before. It was nice—not overly fancy, but peaceful in its simplicity. No crosses anywhere in sight, but just now, the focus was the big, black casket at the end of the room. She was struck by the smooth curve of the wood, and how much it reminded her of the Bloodmobile.

That made Claire shiver and grip Shane's arm even more tightly as they slid into the pew beside Michael and Eve.

There were about fifteen people scattered through the sanctuary, and more arrived as the minutes ticked by. A couple of men in suits—from the funeral home, Claire supposed—set up more floral displays on either side of the casket.

It somehow didn't seem real. And the sounds of Mrs. Rosser's continued sobs and wails, responding to every mourner who entered, made it even weirder.

Eve slid out of the pew and walked up to the coffin. She stared down into it for a few long seconds, then bent and put something in it and came back to take her seat. She had her veil down, but even with the softening blur, her expression looked frozen and hard.

‘‘He was a son of a bitch,'' she said when she saw Claire watching her. ‘‘But he was still my dad.''

She leaned against Michael's shoulder, and he put his arm around her.

Mrs. Rosser finally entered the sanctuary and took a seat in the front row, ahead of where the four of them were. One of the funeral home attendants handed her an entire box of tissues. She pulled out a handful and continued to sob.

And a tall, good-looking man in a black cassock and white surplice, with a purple stole around his neck, came out from behind the floral displays and knelt down next to her, patting her hand. The fabled Father Joe, Claire supposed. He seemed nice—a little earnest, and younger than she'd expected. Brown hair and golden eyes that were very direct behind a pair of square gold-rimmed spectacles. He listened to Mrs. Rosser's ode to her husband with a sympathetic, if distant, expression, nodding when she paused. His glance flicked away once or twice, to the clock, and he finally bent forward and whispered something to her. She nodded.

More people had come in at the last minute, enough to fill about half the church. Claire, turning, spotted familiar faces: Detectives Joe Hess and Travis Lowe, who nodded in her direction as they took their seats at the back of the room. She recognized a few more people, including a total of four vampires in dark suits and sunglasses.

One of them was Oliver, looking bored. Of course— Eve's family had been under Brandon's Protection, and when Brandon had died, they'd come under his superior's authority. Oliver's appearance here had less to do with genuine feeling than public relations.

Father Joe stepped to the pulpit and began eulogizing a man Claire had never met, and one she doubted Eve recognized; except for the facts and figures of his life, his character seemed way better than anything his daughter had ever mentioned. From the way Mrs. Rosser nodded and cried, she was buying into the fiction wholesale.

‘‘What a load of crap,'' Shane whispered to Claire. ‘‘Her dad hit her, you know. Eve.''

Claire sent him a startled look.

‘‘Just keep that in mind,'' he finished. ‘‘And don't shed any tears. Not for this.''

Shane could, Claire thought, be one of the hardest people she'd ever met. Not that he was wrong. Just—hard.

But it helped. The emotion swirling through, amped higher by Eve's mother, washed over her and away without doing more than making her eyes sting. When Father Joe finished his eulogy, the organ started, and Mrs. Rosser was the first to the casket.

‘‘Oh, God,'' Eve sighed under her breath as her mother draped herself dramatically over the wood and screamed. Bloodcurdling, theatrical screams. ‘‘I guess I'd better—''

Michael went with her, and whether it was his male presence or his angelic face or his vampire blood, he was able to pry Mrs. Rosser away and lead her back to the pew, where she sat in a complete collapse, blubbering.

Eve stood there at the casket for a few seconds, back straight, head inclined, and then walked away.

Tears dripped from under her veil and pattered on her black dress, but she didn't make a sound.

Claire filed by, but gave Eve's dad only a quick glance; he looked—unnatural. Not disgusting, but clearly not alive. She shivered and took Shane's arm, and followed Eve as she passed her mother without a word and headed for the exit.

Eve almost ran into her brother.

Jason had slipped in the back. As far as Claire could tell, the kid hadn't changed his clothes at all—ever— and the unwashed smell of him was evident from three feet away.

He looked high, too. ‘‘Nice disguise, Sis,'' he smirked.

Eve stopped, staring at him, and scraped the veil back from her face. ‘‘What are you doing here?''

‘‘Mourning.'' He laughed under his breath. ‘‘Whatev.''

Eve deliberately looked to the side, where Detectives Hess and Lowe were sitting. ‘‘I think you'd better go.'' They hadn't noticed him yet, but they would. All it would take would be a raised voice, or Eve snapping her fingers.

‘‘He's my dad, too.''

‘‘Then show him some respect,'' she said. ‘‘Leave.''

She went around him. The rest of them followed, though Shane slowed down, and Claire had to tug at his arm to keep him moving.

Jason made a
bring it
motion. Shane shook his head. ‘‘Really not worth the trouble,'' he said.

And then they were out in the vestibule, away from the choking smell of flowers and the subtle smell of death, and all Claire could think was,
How is that closure?