Feast of Fools (22 page)

‘‘Give me the key!'' she yelled. Monica dangled it in front of her—small, silver, and unreachable.

‘‘This key?'' Monica tossed it into the toilet in the first stall and flushed. ‘‘Oops. Wow, that's a shame. You wait here. I'll get help!''

They all laughed. Jennifer contemptuously shoved her backpack across the floor to her. ‘‘Here,'' Jennifer said. ‘‘You might want to cram for the test or something.''

Claire grimly opened her backpack and began looking for something, anything she could use as a lock-pick. Not that she knew the first thing about picking locks, exactly, but she could learn. She
had
to learn. She barely looked up as the three girls exited the restroom, still laughing.

Her choices were a couple of paper clips, a bobby pin, and the power of her fury, which unfortunately couldn't melt metal. Only her brain.

Claire took the cell phone out of her pocket and considered her choices. She wouldn't have been surprised to find out that Eve or Shane had experience with handcuffs—and getting out of them—but she wasn't sure she wanted to endure the questions, either.

She called the Morganville Police Department, and asked for Richard Morrell. After a short delay, she was put through to his patrol car.

‘‘It's Claire Danvers,'' she said. ‘‘I—need some help.''

‘‘What kind of help?''

‘‘Your sister kind of—handcuffed me in a bathroom. And I have a test. I don't have a key. I was hoping you—''

‘‘Look, I'm sorry, but I'm heading to a domestic-disturbance call. It's going to take me about an hour to get over there. I don't know what you said to Monica, but if you just—''

‘‘What, apologize?'' Claire snapped. ‘‘I didn't say
anything.
She ambushed me, and she flushed the key, and I have to get to class!''

Richard's sigh rattled the phone. ‘‘I'll get there as fast as I can.''

He hung up. Claire set to work with the bobby pin, and watched the minutes crawl by. Tick, tock, there went her grade in Andersonville.

By the time Richard Morrell showed up with a handcuff key to let her loose, the classroom was dark. Claire ran the whole way to Professor Anderson's office, and felt a burst of relief when she saw that his door was open. He
had
to give her a break.

He was talking to another student whose back was to Claire; she paused in the doorway, trembling and gasping for breath, and got a frown from Professor Anderson. ‘‘Yes?'' He was young, but his blond hair was already thinning on top. He had a habit of wearing sport jackets that a man twice his age would have liked; maybe he thought the tweed and leather patches made people take him seriously.

Claire didn't care what he looked like. She cared that he had the authority to assign grades.

‘‘Sir, hi, Claire Danvers, I'm in—''

‘‘I know who you are, Claire. You missed the test.''

‘‘Yes, I—''

‘‘I don't accept excuses except in the case of death or serious illness.'' He looked her over. ‘‘I don't see any signs of either of those.''

‘‘But—''

The other student was watching her now, with a malicious light in her eyes. Claire didn't know her, but she had on a silver bracelet, and Claire was willing to bet that she was one of Monica's near and dear sorority girls. Glossy dark hair cut in a bleeding-edge style, perfect makeup. Clothes that reeked of credit card abuse.

‘‘Professor,'' the girl said, and whispered something to him. His eyes widened. The girl gathered up her books and left, giving Claire a wide berth.

‘‘Sir, I really didn't—it wasn't my fault—''

‘‘From what I just heard, it was very much your fault,'' Anderson said. ‘‘She said you were asleep out in the common room. She said she passed you on the way to class.''

‘‘I wasn't! I was—''

‘‘I don't care where you were, Claire. I care where you weren't, namely, at your desk at the appointed time, taking my test. Now please go.''

‘‘I was
handcuffed!
''

He looked briefly thrown by that, but shook his head. ‘‘I'm not interested in sorority pranks. If you work hard the rest of the semester, you might still be able to pull out a passing grade. Unless you'd like to drop the class. I think you still have a day or two to make that decision.''

He just wasn't
listening.
And, Claire realized, he wasn't going to listen. He didn't really care about her problems. He didn't really care about
her.

She stared at him for a few seconds in silence, trying to find some empathy in him, but all she saw was self-absorbed annoyance.

‘‘Good day, Miss Danvers,'' he said, and sat down at his desk. Pointedly ignoring her.

Claire bit back words that probably would have gotten her expelled, and skipped the rest of her classes to go home.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a clock was ticking. Counting down to Bishop's masked ball.

There was one comforting thing about the theory of complete apocalypse: at least it meant she wouldn't have to fail any classes.

Just when she thought her Friday couldn't get any worse, visitors dropped by the house at dinnertime.

Claire peered out the peephole, and saw dark, curling hair. A wicked smile.

‘‘Better invite me in,'' Ysandre said. ‘‘Because you know I'll just go hurt your neighbors until you do.''

‘‘Michael!'' Claire yelled. He was in the living room, working out some new songs, but she heard the music stop. He was at her side before the echoes died. ‘‘It's her. Ysandre. What should I do?''

Michael opened the door and faced her. She smiled at him. François was with her, both of them sleek and smug and so arrogant it made Claire's teeth itch.

‘‘I want to talk to Shane,'' Ysandre said.

‘‘Then you're going to be disappointed.''

François raised his eyebrows, reached down, and pulled a bound human form from the bushes on the side of the steps. Claire gasped.

It was Miranda, looking completely terrified. Tied hand and foot, and gagged.

‘‘Let's put it another way,'' Ysandre said. ‘‘You can let us in to talk, or we have our dinner alfresco, right here on your veranda.''

There was absolutely no right answer to that, Claire thought, and saw Michael struggle with it, too. He let the silence stretch for so long that Claire was really afraid Miranda would be killed—François seemed glad to have the chance—but then Michael nodded. ‘‘All right,'' he said. ‘‘Come in.''

‘‘Why, thank you, honey,'' Ysandre said, and strolled in. François dropped Miranda on the wooden hallway floor and followed her. Claire knelt next to the girl and untied her hands.

‘‘Are you okay?'' she whispered. Miranda nodded, eyes as big as saucers. ‘‘Get out of here. Run home.
Go.
''

Miranda stripped off the ropes around her ankles, scrambled up, and escaped.

Claire shut the door and hurried to the living room.

François had shoved Michael's guitar out of the way and taken the chair. Ysandre sat on the couch, as comfortable as if she owned the world and everything in it. ‘‘How kind of you to ask us in, Michael. I didn't think we got off to a very good beginning. I want to start over.''

François laughed. ‘‘Yes,'' he said. ‘‘We should be friends, Michael. And you shouldn't be living with cattle.''

‘‘Is this all you have? Because if it is, I think we're all done.''

‘‘Oh, not quite,'' Ysandre said.

‘‘They're making dinner,'' François said. ‘‘That's ironic, don't you think? When they let ours go.''

‘‘These humans, all they do is eat,'' Ysandre said. ‘‘No wonder they're all fat and lazy.''

Shane came out of the kitchen. He wasn't surprised, Claire saw; he must have heard them. ‘‘You're not invited, '' Shane said. Ysandre kissed her lips toward him.

‘‘Oh, Shane, I really don't care whether I am or not, and you aren't anywhere near powerful enough to make me leave,'' she said. ‘‘It's Friday, my love. You received the costume I want you to wear for tomorrow?''

Shane nodded unwillingly, like his neck had frozen stiff. His eyes were more than a little crazy.

‘‘You need to go,'' Claire said to Ysandre, with a bravado she really didn't feel.

‘‘What do you think, Michael? Do I?'' Ysandre locked gazes with him, and there was something awful in her eyes. ‘‘Do I have to go?''

‘‘No,'' he said. ‘‘Stay.''

Claire gaped.

They make you feel things. Do things, whether you want to do them or not.
Shane had said it, but Claire hadn't imagined that they could do it to other vampires. Even one as young and inexperienced as Michael.

"Michael!"

He didn't look at her. He seemed completely caught in the web of Ysandre's attraction.

Claire dug her cell phone out of her pocket. She hesitated over the address book.

‘‘Deciding who to call for help?'' François yanked the cell phone out of her hands and threw it across the room. ‘‘Amelie won't thank you for distracting her from all her preparations. She's busy, busy, busy, making sure everything goes just right to welcome our beloved father properly.''

‘‘Maybe you ought to ask Michael what to do,'' Ysandre said, and laughed, showing fang. She pronounced it like
Michelle
. ‘‘I'm sure he'll help dispatch us. So
fierce
, isn't he?''

Michael's eyes were slowly turning crimson.

‘‘Shane,'' Claire said. ‘‘We need to get out of here. Now.''

‘‘I'm not leaving Michael.''

‘‘Michael's the problem.''

Ysandre laughed. ‘‘You really
are
clever,
ma chérie.
''

François snapped his fingers in front of Michael's face. ‘‘Dinner's ready.''

Michael opened his mouth and snarled. Full fangs.

And he turned and fixed his gaze on Claire.

‘‘Oh, crap,'' Shane breathed. He grabbed Claire's arm. ‘‘Kitchen!''

They retreated. Shane shoved the table against the swinging door, for all the good it would do, and they backed up toward the rear door.

Claire opened the refrigerator and took Michael's last two sealed bottles out of the back of the refrigerator.
Have to tell Michael to pick up more,
she thought, and how weird was that? Running short of blood was getting as normal as needing Coke or butter.

She was gibbering in her head, that was it. And yet, oddly calm.

Michael burst into the room and headed straight for them.

Claire stepped into his path, held out a bottle, and said, ‘‘You're not one of them. You're one of us. One of us, and we love you.''

‘‘Claire—'' Shane sounded agonized, but he didn't move. Maybe he knew it would have blown everything.

Michael stopped. His eyes were still blazing red, but he seemed to
see
her.

And the red flickered a little.

She held out the bottle.

‘‘Drink it,'' she said. ‘‘You'll feel better. Trust me, Michael. Please.''

He was staring into her eyes.

And this time, she was the one who challenged him.
See me. Know what you're doing.

His eyes flared white. He grabbed the bottle out of her hand, popped the cap, and tipped the bottle, guzzling the contents as fast as he could swallow.

He didn't look away.

Neither did she.

His eyes faded back to blue, and he lowered the bottle with a gasp. A thin line of blood dripped off his lip, and he wiped it with a trembling hand.

‘‘It's okay,'' Claire said. ‘‘She got in your head. She can do that. She—''

Shane was gone. While she'd been so focused on Michael, he'd just . . . disappeared.

The kitchen door was still swinging.

It'll be easier for her the next time,
Shane had told her.

Claire headed for the living room. Michael tried to stop her, but he seemed weak. Sick. She remembered how shaken Shane had been.

Maybe she couldn't.

Shane was sitting on the couch beside Ysandre, and his shirt was unbuttoned. Ysandre was running her hands up and down Shane's chest, tracing invisible lines, and as Claire watched, the vampire began to nibble on Shane's neck. Not seriously, as in not drawing blood, but little teasing nips. Licks.

Shane's face was still and blank, but his eyes were pools of panic.
He doesn't want this,
Claire realized.
She's making him.

Claire threw the second bottle of blood at Ysandre. The vampire's hand came up unbelievably fast to snatch it out of the air before it made contact with the side of her head.

‘‘If you're hungry, eat,'' she said. ‘‘And get your claws out of my boyfriend.''

Ysandre's eyes narrowed. Claire felt something brush at her mind, but it was like walking through a spiderweb, easily broken.

Ysandre flipped the cap from the bottle, sniffed it, and made a disgusted face. ‘‘Don't be so possessive. Shane is at my command. The invitation said so.''

‘‘He's at your command
tomorrow.
Not
today.
''