Rachel Caine - Feast of Fools

“What do you think we’re doing? They hauled me here in cuffs, man,” Shane snapped. “You think I’d be here if I had a choice?”

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.