Rachel Caine - Feast of Fools

It was a nightmare. Worse than Claire had ever seen it. Whatever the serum was doing to Myrnin, it was destroying him.

She checked slide eight again.

Slide seven.

“He’s the cure,” she said.

“Now you see,” Myrnin said, “why I was willing to risk everything and everyone to be sure.”

Myrnin’s health failed again after another hour— longer than Claire would have given him, based on what she saw under the slides. When he started tiring and mixing words, she unlocked the prison door and took him back to his cell.

“Damn,” she sighed, remembering the broken door. “We need to move you.”

That took some time, although she grabbed only what Myrnin pointed out as essentials—clothes, blankets, the rug, his books. By the time she’d gotten everything put into the next cell, and replaced the ancient filthy bunk with the clean cot, Myrnin was in the corner of the room, curled into a ball. Rocking slowly back and forth.

She approached him as carefully as she could. “It’s ready,” she said. “Come on. I’ll get you something to eat.”

Myrnin looked up, and she couldn’t tell if he’d understood her until he scrambled to his feet and waved her out of the way with a trembling hand.

He closed the cell door and tested the lock, then slumped onto his bed.

“Amelie,” he said. “Take care of Amelie.”

“We will,” Claire promised. She handed him a blood pack—not threw, handed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t understand.”

His nod was more of a convulsive tremble. His gaze was drawn to the blood, but he forced it back to her face. “Long game,” he said. “Use what Bishop wants. Let him think he’s winning. Play for time. Bring the doctor.”

“Dr. Mills?”

“Need help.”

“I’ll get him here somehow.” Claire didn’t want to leave Myrnin, but he was right. There were things to do. “Are you going to be okay?”

Myrnin’s smile was, once again, broken, but beautiful. “Yes,” he said softly. “Thank you for trusting me. Thank you for believing.”

She hadn’t, really. But she did now.

As she turned away, she heard him whisper, “I’m so sorry, child. So very sorry I left you.”

She pretended not to hear.

The portals were more confusing now, because the power was out in Morganville. Most places were completely dark, and no matter how hard Claire concentrated, she couldn’t pull up three of the destinations at all.

Which meant, she supposed, that they no longer existed.

She focused on the surroundings of home, but again got darkness. She heard people talking, though, and caught a glimpse of candles being lit.

Eve’s face caught by the glow.

Home.

She was getting ready to step through when something hit her from behind, silent and heavy. She lost control of the portal as she crashed forward, screaming. She heard Myrnin, far behind her, call out, “Claire? Claire, what’s wrong?”

She thought it was one of the inmates, until she felt a hand wind deep in her hair and lips brush her neck.

She heard Bishop’s mocking laughter. “Thank you,” he said. “For leading me to my fool.”

He threw her through the portal.

She hit the floor on the other side and rolled, then scrambled up and threw herself at the wall. It didn’t open for her. She battered at it with her fists.

Nothing.

Claire turned, because it didn’t feel like home. Darkness and utter silence.

“Hello?” No answer. “Shane? Mom?”

She wasn’t at the Glass House. Bishop had screwed up her destination when he’d thrown her through the portal, and she had no idea where she was.

Half-sobbing, Claire felt her way across the room. Her fingers brushed soft cloth, and she pulled. Curtain, she thought. She tugged, and caught a glimmer through a window.

Orange light.

Claire pulled back the curtains of the window, and looked out at Morganville, burning. It gave her enough light to see the inside of the room where she was standing. It was the same as the Glass House living room in shape, so it had to be a Founder House . . . one of the thirteen, then. But which one? Not Gramma Day’s; she’d been inside that one, and it had been crammed with furniture. This one was piled with boxes. . . .

Claire’s gaze fell on the familiar outline of a couch. She walked to it and brushed her hand over the soft curve of the arm. There was a slightly stiffer patch near where it joined with the back, where she’d spilled a soda two years ago but hadn’t ever quite gotten the stickiness out.

Some of the boxes in the corner were labeled CLAIRE.

It was Mom and Dad’s new house.

Claire mapped it in her head. This house was to the northwest, so if she went to the mirror of her own bedroom, she ought to be able to see toward the Glass House. She wasn’t sure what that would get her, except maybe a better idea of what her chances were to get back.

But she needed to see it. To know her friends and family were okay.

There was a house on fire that direction, but it was the same one that had been burning earlier. The Melville house. Claire couldn’t make anything out past the blaze except a few faintly lit windows.

They were, she thought, still safe.

A police car raced toward the fire, lights flashing, and Claire slapped her forehead in frustration. “Idiot,” she muttered. She’d lacked any pockets to put her phone, so she’d stowed it inside her hat.

Thanks to the elastic band, the silly little matador cap was still on her head.

Claire breathed a sigh of relief as she dug the phone from the hole in the lining, and dialed Richard Morrell.

“I need a ride.”

Richard was in the middle of a cell phone rant about how he wasn’t her taxi service, and how important it was to keep city services moving, when he screeched his patrol car to a halt at the curb just outside. Claire jumped down the steps of her parents’ house and raced for the car door as he threw it open.

She made it, slammed the door, and locked it. Richard looked her up and down. He no longer seemed pressed and perfect; he was smoke-stained, tired, and rumpled, and he was the most lovely thing she’d seen.

“What the hell are you supposed to be?” he asked.

“Harlequin.”

“Isn’t that a Batman villain?”

“I thought you were in a hurry.”

Richard slammed on the gas, and the car screeched away from the curb. “Strap in,” he said absently. She fastened her seat belt. “So. Nice night for you?”

“Peachy,” she said. “You?”

“Fantastic.” He jerked the wheel and nearly spun the car as he took a right-hand turn. “There are two of Amelie’s vampire buddies at the power station right now, refusing to turn on the lights. And three of them made us stand by while the DonationCenter burned. You have any idea what’s going on?”

“The long game,” Claire said. He sent her a look. “Not really, no. But in chess you create openings to make your opponent move the wrong way.”

“Chess,” Richard said in disgust. “I’m talking about lives. Kid, you’re starting to scare me.”

“I’m scaring myself,” Claire said. She didn’t feel like a kid. She felt a million years old, and very tired. “Just get me home.”

Because she was going to have to tell Amelie that she’d just left Myrnin, alone, at Bishop’s mercy.

Amelie was sitting up when Claire arrived, escorted in by Richard Morrell, who was instantly pounced on by his sister and father for hugs and information. She didn’t look good, but she looked alive.

Sort of.

Claire didn’t have any sympathy for her.

“Myrnin,” Claire said. “You used him.”

Sam, sitting on the arm of Amelie’s chair, frowned at her. “Don’t. She’s very tired.”