Rachel Caine - Feast of Fools

“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 DonationCenter 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.”

“I remember,” Shane choked out. Nothing else. Richard raised his eyebrows, got a mirrored look from Rose, and tugged on Shane’s elbow to lead him away to one of the empty chairs. They were all empty, Claire noticed. She’d seen a couple of people leaving the building, but nobody coming inside.

One thing about the DonationCenter, they were better than most medical places about keeping their magazines up-to-date. Claire found a brand-new edition of Seventeen and began reading. Shane sat stiffly, in silence, and watched the single wooden door at the end of the room. Richard Morrell chatted with Rose at the desk, looking relaxed and friendly. Claire wondered if he came here to donate his blood, or if he used the Bloodmobile. She supposed that whatever he chose, the vampires wouldn’t be crazy enough to hurt him—son of the mayor, respected police officer. No, Richard Morrell was probably safer than just about anybody in Morganville, Protected or not.

Easy for him to be relaxed.

The door at the end of the room opened, and a nurse stepped through it. She was dressed in bright floral surgical scrubs, complete to the cap over her hair, and like Rose, she had a nice, unthreatening smile. “Shane Collins?”

Shane took in a deep breath and struggled up out of his chair. Richard turned him around and unfastened the handcuffs. “Good behavior, Shane,” he said. “Trust me, you don’t want to start trouble here.”

Shane nodded stiffly. He glanced at Claire, then fixed his attention on the nurse who was waiting. He walked toward her with slow, deliberate calm.

“Can I go with him?” Claire asked, and Richard looked at her in surprise.

“Claire, they’re not going to hurt him. It’s just like blood donation anywhere else. They stick a needle in your arm and give you a squeezy ball. Orange juice and cookies at the end.”

“So I can donate?”

He looked to Rose for help.

“How old are you, child?”

“I’m not a child. I’m almost seventeen.”

“There’s no legal requirement for anyone under the age of eighteen to donate blood,” Rose said.

“But is there a law against it?”

She blinked, started to answer, and stopped herself. She pulled open a drawer and retrieved a small book that was titled Morganville Blood Donations: Regulations and Requirements. After flipping a few pages, she shrugged and looked at Richard. “I don’t think there is,” she said. “I’ve just never had anyone donate voluntarily at the DonationCenter. Oh, we take the Bloodmobile to the university from time to time, but—”

“Great,” Claire interrupted. “I’d like to donate a pint, please.”

Rose immediately became all business.

“Forms,” she said, and thumped down a clipboard and pen.

To say that Shane was surprised to see her was an understatement.

To say he was pleased would have been a lie.

As she took the couch next to his, Shane hissed, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Are you crazy?”

“I’m donating blood,” she said. “I don’t have to, but I don’t mind.” At least, she didn’t think she minded. She’d never actually done it before, and the sight of the red tube snaking out of Shane’s arm and down to the collection bag was a little bit terrifying. “It doesn’t hurt, right?”

“Dude, they’re sticking a big-ass needle in your vein—of course it hurts.” He looked pale, and she didn’t think it was all from the fact that he was on his second pint. “You can still say no. Just get up and tell them you changed your mind.”

The same friendly-looking nurse who’d called Shane to the back rolled up a wheeled stool and a cart. “He’s right,” she said. “If you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to. I saw your paperwork. You’re a little young.” The nurse’s bright brown eyes focused beyond her, to Shane, and then back again. “Doing it for moral support?”

“Kind of,” Claire admitted. Her fingers felt ice-cold, and she shivered as the nurse took her hand. “I’ve never done this before.”

“You’re in luck. I have. Now, I’m going to stick your finger and run a quick test, and then we’ll get started. Okay?”

Claire nodded. Lying on the couch seemed to have effectively sapped away her will to move. The finger stick came as a sharp, bright flash, there and gone, and Claire lifted her head from the pillow to see the nurse using a tiny glass pipette to gather blood from her fingertip. It was about five seconds, and then the stick was bandaged up. The nurse did some things with items on her cart, nodded in satisfaction, and smiled at Claire. "O negative,” she said. “Excellent.”

Claire gave her a weak thumbs-up. The nurse took her arm and fastened the rubber tourniquet above the elbow. “Talk to your boyfriend,” she advised. “Don’t watch.”

Claire turned her head. Shane was staring at her with dark, intense eyes. He smiled slightly, just enough, and she returned it.

“So,” she asked, “come here often?”

He laughed quietly. She felt something hot slip into her arm, a jolt that faded to discomfort, and then tape being applied. A ball was pressed into her hand, and the tight pressure of the tourniquet snapped loose. “Squeeze,” the nurse said. “You’re good to go.”

Surprised, Claire glanced down. She had a thing in her arm, and a tube, and there was red running through it. . . .