Feast of Fools

Richard reached behind his back, unhooked the shiny silver handcuffs from the snap on his belt, and held them at his side. Shane still didn’t move.

“Up,” Richard said. “Come on, man, you know how this is going to go. Either you end up in the jailhouse or you spend five minutes with a needle in your arm.”

“I’m not letting any vamp eat me, not even by remote control.”

“Not even Michael?” Richard asked. “Because when supplies run low, the younger the vampire, the lower he is in the priority list. Michael’s the last one in Morganville to get blood. So you’re doing nothing but hurting your own, man.”

Shane’s fists clenched, trembled, relaxed. He glanced at Claire, and she saw the mixture of rage and shame in his eyes. He hated this, she knew. Hated the vampires, and wanted to hate Michael but couldn’t.

“Please,” she whispered. “Shane, just do it. I’ll go, too.”

“You don’t have to,” Richard said. “College students are exempt.”

“But I can volunteer, right?”

He shrugged. “No idea.”

Claire turned to Shane. “Then we’ll both go.”

“The hell we will.” Shane folded his arms. “Go on, handcuff me. I’ll bet you’re dying to use that shiny new Taser.”

Claire dropped her backpack, crossed to him, and got in his face. “Stop,” she hissed. “We don’t have time for this, and I don’t need you in jail right now, okay?”

He stared right into her eyes, for so long that she was afraid he was going to tell her to mind her own business—but then he sighed and nodded. She stepped away as he stood and held out his wrists to Richard Morrell.

“Guess you’ve got me, Officer,” he said. “Be gentle.”

“Shut up, Shane. Don’t make this harder than it is.”

Claire trailed along behind, uncertain what she ought to be doing; Richard didn’t seem interested in her at all. He used the radio clipped to his shoulder to make some kind of police call on the way down the hall, in code. She wasn’t sure she liked that. Morganville wasn’t big enough to need codes, unless it was something really nasty.

As she stopped to lock the front door behind them, a big, shiny black RV rounded the corner—so sleek it looked almost predatory. It had a red cross painted on the nose, and on the side, below its blind, dark-tinted windows, red letters spelled out MORGANVILLE BLOODMOBILE. In cursive script below that, it said, No appointment necessary.

Shane stopped moving. “No,” he said. “I’m not doing that.”

Richard used leverage to get him going again at a stumble down the steps. “It’s this or the DonationCenter. Those are your choices, you know that. I was trying to make it easier.”

Claire swallowed hard and hurried down the steps. She got in front of Shane, blocking his path, and met his eyes. He was furious, and scared, and something else, something she couldn’t really understand.

“What’s wrong?”

“People get in that damn thing and don’t come out,” he said flatly. “I’m not doing it. They strap you down, Claire. They strap you down and nobody can see inside.”

She felt a little ill herself at the mental image. Richard Morrell’s face was carefully blank. “Sir?”

He didn’t much care for her asking him; she could tell. “I can’t give you an opinion, but one way or another, he has to do this.”

“What if you drive us both to the DonationCenter instead?”

Richard thought about it for a few seconds, then nodded. He unhooked the radio from his shoulder again, muttered some quiet words, and the engine on the Bloodmobile started up with a smooth hum.

It glided away like a shark, looking for prey. All of them watched it go.

“Crap, I hate that thing,” Shane said. His voice trembled a little.

“Me, too,” said Richard, to Claire’s surprise. “Now get in the car.”

Chapter 6

The DonationCenter was still open, even though it was getting dark. As Richard pulled his police cruiser to the curb, two people Claire vaguely recognized came out, waved to each other, and set off in separate directions. “Does everybody come here?” she asked.

“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.”