Feast of Fools (5 page)

Michael held up his hands in surrender. He'd had enough, and Claire couldn't really blame him.

Eve, though, cleared her throat and waded right into the conversational swamp. ‘‘Mr. Danvers, honest, Claire's perfectly fine with us. We all look after her, and Shane's not the kind of guy who'd take advantage—''

‘‘Wouldn't say that,'' Shane said, way too mildly. ‘‘I'm exactly that kind of guy, really.''

Eve sent him a dirty look. ‘‘—and besides, he knows we'd both kill him if he tried. But he wouldn't do it. Claire's fine where she is. And she's happy, too.''

‘‘Yes,'' Claire agreed. ‘‘I'm
happy
, Dad.''

Michael still hadn't spoken. He was, instead, watching Claire's father with a strange kind of intensity; at first she thought,
He's trying to put some kind of vampire whammy on him,
but then she changed her mind. It was more like Michael was honestly puzzled, and trying to figure out what to say next.

Her father hadn't heard a word that anyone had said. ‘‘I want you to move home, Claire, and that's that. I don't want you staying in that house anymore. End of discussion.''

Her mother wasn't talking, which was unusual, too; she just stirred her coffee slowly and tried to look interested in the food on the plate in front of her.

Claire opened her mouth to shoot back a heated, not very respectful reply, but Michael shook his head and put his hand over hers. ‘‘Don't waste your breath,'' he said. ‘‘This isn't their idea. Bishop planted the suggestion.''

‘‘What? Why would he do that?''

‘‘No idea. Maybe he wants us separated. Maybe he just likes messing with people. Maybe he wants to piss off Amelie. But the important thing is, I don't think you ought to let this get to you—''

‘‘Not
get to me
? Michael, my father is saying I have to
move
!''

‘‘You don't,'' Michael said. ‘‘Not if you don't want to.''

Claire's father, who'd been frowning, turned a dark, unhealthy color of red in the face. ‘‘You damn well
do
,'' he snapped. ‘‘You're my daughter, Claire, and until you turn eighteen, you'll do what I tell you. And
you—
'' He leveled a finger at Michael. ‘‘If I have to bring charges against you—''

‘‘For what?'' Michael asked mildly.

‘‘For—look, don't think I don't know what's going on here. If I find out that my daughter's been— been . . .'' Dad didn't seem to be able to work up the words. Michael continued to watch him steadily, with no sign of comprehension.

Claire cleared her throat.

‘‘Dad,'' she said. She felt color blazing in her cheeks, and her voice was barely steady. ‘‘If you're asking if I'm still a virgin, I am.''

‘‘Claire!'' Her mom's voice cracked sharply across the last of her sentence. ‘‘That's enough.''

Total silence at the table. Not even Michael seemed to know where to take the conversation from there. Eve looked like she was having a hard time deciding whether to laugh or wince, and finally dug into her chocolate sundae as the best possible response.

Michael's cell phone rang. He opened it, spoke softly, listened, and closed it without replying. He signaled the waitress. ‘‘We have to go,'' he said.

‘‘Where?''

‘‘Back to the house. Amelie wants to see us.''

‘‘You're coming home with us,'' Dad said to Claire, who shook her head. ‘‘Don't argue with me—''

‘‘I'm sorry, sir, but she has to come with us right now,'' Michael said. ‘‘If Amelie says it's the right thing to do, I'll bring her to your house myself. But we'll drop you off on the way, and I'll let you know as soon as possible.'' It was said respectfully, but without any room for argument, and there was something about Michael in that moment that just couldn't be pushed.

Dad's face set, still red, and very hard. ‘‘This isn't over, Michael.''

‘‘Yes sir,'' he said. ‘‘That much I know. We haven't even started yet.''

The drive back was even more uncomfortable, and not just physically; Claire's father was livid, her mother embarrassed, and Claire herself was so mad she could barely stand to look at either of them. How
could they?
Even if Mr. Bishop had done something to them, screwed with their heads, they'd bought into it completely. They'd always said they trusted her, always said that they wanted her to make her own decisions, but when it came right down to it, they wanted her to be their helpless little girl, after all.

Well, it wasn't going to happen. She'd come too far for that.

Michael pulled to a stop in front of her parents' new house—another big Gothic-style house, looking almost exactly like their own except for the landscaping out front. Her parents' Founder House had a spreading live oak tree towering over the property that rustled like dry paper in the evening breeze, and the trim was painted what looked like, in the dark, a dull black.

Claire's dad leaned in to give her one last look. ‘‘I expect to hear from you tonight,'' he said. ‘‘I expect you to tell me when you're coming home. And by home, I mean here, with us.''

She didn't answer. After extending the look for way too long, her dad shut the car door, and Michael accelerated smoothly away—not too quickly, but not slowly, either.

And they all breathed an audible sigh of relief when the house faded into the darkness behind the car. ‘‘Wow,'' Shane said. ‘‘Dude's got a glare on him. Maybe he really does belong here in Morganville.''

‘‘Don't say that,'' Claire said. She was fighting with all kinds of emotions—anger at her parents, frustration with the situation, worry, outright fear. Her parents
didn't
belong here. They'd been just fine where they were, but Amelie had to uproot them and bring them here. Having Claire's parents where she could control them gave her more leverage.

And now it gave Mr. Bishop leverage, too.

Shane took her hand. ‘‘Easy,'' he said. ‘‘Like Michael said, you don't have to go if you don't want to go. Not that I wouldn't feel better if you were someplace a hell of a lot safer.''

‘‘I don't think the Danvers house will be safer,'' Michael said. ‘‘They don't understand the rules, or the risks—they're too new here. I think Bishop's trying to play with Amelie's head, and whatever we think about her, he's worse. I guarantee it.''

Claire shuddered. ‘‘Was it Amelie who called you at the restaurant?''

‘‘No,'' Michael said, and there was a grim tone in his voice. ‘‘That was Oliver. I have to admit, I'm not feeling real good about this. Oliver's never really been on her side—maybe he's taken Bishop's. In which case we could be going home to a trap.''

‘‘Do we have a choice?'' Shane asked.

‘‘Don't think so.''

‘‘Then screw it. I'm getting tired.'' Shane yawned. ‘‘Let's go get eaten. At least then I can get some sleep.''

Nobody thought it was funny—least of all Shane, Claire suspected—but they didn't have any better ideas, and Michael drove home. Morganville was silent outside the dark-tinted windows; Claire could barely see dim gleams of lights, and they might have been the few and far-between streetlamps, or the glow from house porch lights. It was a lot like being in a space capsule, but with better upholstery.

Michael parked and turned off the car. As Eve reached for her door handle, he said, ‘‘Guys.'' She waited. They all waited. ‘‘I didn't exactly get any instant upgrade on knowledge when I—when I changed, but I'm damn sure of one thing. This Bishop, he's real trouble. Trouble like maybe we've never seen before. And I'm worried. So watch each other's backs. I'll try—''

He didn't seem to know how to finish that. Eve reached out to touch his face, and he turned toward her, lips parted. The look that went between them was so naked it felt wrong to see it. Shane cleared his throat.

‘‘We're all on it, man,'' he said. ‘‘We'll be okay.''

Michael didn't answer, but then, Claire figured maybe there wasn't much to say. He got out of the car, and the others followed. The evening was getting cold, and the wind fluttered around Claire's hair and clothes, looking for skin to chill. Finding it, too. She wrapped her jacket closer and hurried after Michael toward the back door.

Inside, the kitchen was exactly as they'd left it— messy. Pots and pans still on the stove, though thankfully they'd remembered to turn off the burners before they'd left. The smell of stale bacon grease and rubbery gravy hung heavy in the air, barely cut by the aroma of old, overcooked coffee.

They didn't stop. Michael led them straight through the kitchen door, into the living room.

Bishop was gone. So were his two pretty hangers-on. It was just Amelie and Oliver, sitting alone at the large wooden table. They'd carelessly shoved aside plates and cups and glasses into a tottering pile, and between them was a chessboard. Nothing Claire recognized that belonged in the house; it looked old, and well used. Beautiful, too.

Amelie was playing white. She ignored their entry as she contemplated the chessboard. Across from her, Oliver leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and sent the four of them an unreadable look. He seemed right at home, which made Claire fume, and she could only imagine how Michael felt about it. Oliver had killed Michael—ripped away his human existence and trapped him in a twilight state between human and vampire— right here in this house. In fact, almost on this very
spot.
It had been brutal, and murderous, and Michael had never for a second forgotten who and what Oliver was, however he appeared.

Amelie had offered Michael the chance to escape from that trap, and he'd taken it even at the cost of becoming a true vampire. So far, he didn't seem to regret it. Much.

‘‘You're not welcome here,'' Michael said to Oliver, who raised his eyebrows and smiled.

‘‘Waiting for the house to evict me? Keep waiting,'' he said. ‘‘Amelie, you really should teach your pets manners. Next thing you know, they'll be clawing the carpet and spraying the drapes.''

She didn't look up. ‘‘Do try to be civil,'' she replied. ‘‘You're a guest in their house.
My
house.'' She moved a piece on the chessboard. ‘‘Be seated, all of you. I dislike having people stand.''

It had the force of royal command, and before she could think about it, Claire was sliding into one of the dining-table chairs, and Shane was settling in next to her. Eve hesitated, then took a chair as far away from Oliver as possible.

That left one empty chair, and it was next to Oliver. Michael shook his head, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned against the wall.

Amelie gave him a glance, but didn't force the issue. ‘‘So you have met Mr. Bishop,'' she said. ‘‘And he has most assuredly met you. I wish this had not happened, but since it has, we must find ways to guard you against him and his associates.'' Oliver took one of her bishops and set it aside. She had no visible reaction. ‘‘Otherwise, I fear this house will be in the market for new tenants soon.''

Oliver laughed. He stopped laughing when Amelie made her next move, and concentrated on the chessboard with a fierce, blank expression.

‘‘Who is Bishop?'' Michael asked.

‘‘Exactly who he says he is. He has no reason to lie.''

‘‘So he's your father?'' Claire asked. There was a long silence, one not even Oliver broke; Amelie raised her cool gray eyes and focused on Claire's face until Claire felt the urge, not just to look away, but to
run.

Amelie finally said, ‘‘In a sense, at least, as you might understand such things. Both my human and immortal bloodlines flow through him. Oliver, do hurry. I feel the need to go home before the sun rises.''

The sun wasn't anywhere close to rising, which must have been Amelie's bone-dry idea of a joke. Oliver moved a pawn. Amelie took it effortlessly.

Michael chimed in. ‘‘Maybe the better question is,
where
is Mr. Bishop?''

‘‘Gone,'' Oliver said. ‘‘I packed him off in a nice limousine with a driver. He'll be staying at one of the Founder Houses.''

‘‘Which one?'' Claire felt a sudden surge of illness, one that got worse as neither of the vampires answered. ‘‘It isn't my parents' house, right? Right?''

‘‘I'd rather you not be aware of his exact location,'' Amelie said, which wasn't an answer, certainly not the right answer. She moved her white queen in a long, deliberate scrape down the chessboard. ‘‘Checkmate.''

Oliver studied the board, then studied her with equal annoyance as he tipped over his doomed black king. ‘‘We need to discuss this,'' he said. ‘‘Obviously.''

‘‘Your tragic lack of strategic skills?'' Amelie's frost-colored brows slowly rose. ‘‘I am deliberating what to do about our guests. For now, go home, Oliver. And thank you for coming.''

She said it without a trace of irony—she could dismiss him like a servant, but at least she thanked him. Oliver's eyes went even darker, but he got up without comment and walked out into the kitchen. Claire heard the door slam behind him.

Amelie took in a deliberate breath, then let it out. She rose to her feet and nodded to Michael. ‘‘I think you'll be safe enough here tonight,'' she said. ‘‘Let no one enter, not for any reason.'' A quick, almost invisible flicker of a smile. ‘‘Except for me, of course. Me, you cannot stop.''