Feast of Fools

“Well, to be honest, I didn’t think you’d believe me,” Claire said. “And out-of-town calls are monitored. They told you that, right?”

“Yes, they did. So you were protecting us.” Her mom laughed shakily. “Parents are supposed to protect their children, Claire. We’ve done a bang-up job of that, haven’t we? We really thought that it would be so much safer for you here than off in Massachusetts or California on your own. . . .”

“It’s okay. I’ll get there someday.”

They moved the conversation to easier things—to unpacking, to the vase that had gotten broken during the move (“Honestly, I hated that thing anyway—your aunt gave it to us for Christmas that year, remember? ”), to how Claire intended to spend her day. By the end of it, Mom seemed more or less stable, and Claire’s coffee was hopelessly cold. So was her toast.

“Claire,” Mom said. “About moving out of that house—”

“I’m not moving,” Claire said. “I’m sorry, Mom. I know it’s going to upset Dad, but these are my friends, and this is where I belong. I’m staying.”

There was a short silence on the other end, and then her mother said, very softly, “I’m so proud of you.”

She hung up with a soft click. Claire stood for a moment, tears prickling in her eyes, and then said to the silent line, “I love you.”

And then she picked up her stuff and went to class.

Chapter 8

Days passed, and for a change, there were no further emergencies. Normal life—or what passed for it, anyway—set in. Claire went to class, Eve went to work, Michael taught guitar lessons—he was a lot more in demand since the concert at Common Grounds—and Shane . . . Shane slacked, although Claire thought he seemed preoccupied.

It finally dawned on her that he was thinking about Saturday, and the invitation. And that he didn’t want to talk to her about it at all.

“So what should I do?” she asked Eve. “I mean, can’t he just call in sick for the party or something?”

“You’re kidding,” Eve said. “You think they’d buy an excuse? If you get an invitation to something like this, you go. End of story.”

“But—” Claire, who was getting glasses out of the cabinet while Eve put out plates, nearly dropped everything. “But that means that creepy little bi—”

“Language, missy.”

“—witch is going to make him go with her!” That made her blindly furious, and not entirely because of how upset Shane had been before. It was the whole idea of Shane going along with it. Of Ysandre putting those pale, thin fingers on his chest, feeling his heartbeat.

Shane hadn’t said a word to her about it. Not a single word. And she didn’t know how to help.

Eve stared at her thoughtfully for a few seconds before she said, “Well, she’s not the only one who’s going, of course. Shane won’t be all by himself.”

“What?”

“Michael’s going, too. I recognized the invitation when it came in. Didn’t open it, though.”

Still, Eve had every reason to expect that Michael would at least ask her to go with him. Claire, on the other hand, was completely shut out.

Which made her irrationally angry again, and this time for herself. You’re jealous, she realized. Because you don’t want him going anywhere without you.

She so did not want to be that person, but there it was. And she had no idea what to do about it.

When she set Shane’s glass of Coke down in front of him, she did it with probably a little too much emphasis; he glanced up at her with a question-mark expression. Eve had already settled into her chair across the table. Michael wasn’t home, but Eve didn’t seem bothered about it this time. Maybe he’d talked to her about where he was going.

Nice to know somebody’s talking, Claire thought.

“What?” Shane asked her, and took a drink. “Did I forget to say thanks? Because, thanks. Best Coke ever. Did you make it yourself? Special recipe?”

“Got any plans for Saturday night?” she asked. “I was thinking maybe we could go to the movies, or—”

Too transparent. Shane knew instantly, and Eve choked on her forkful of microwave lasagna. The silence stretched. Claire poked at her own meal, just for something to do.

“I can’t,” Shane finally said. “I guess you know why.”

“You’re going to that ball thing,” Claire said. “With Bishop’s—friend.”

“I don’t exactly have a choice.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Of course I’m sure—why are we talking about this exactly?”

“Because—” She stuck the fork into her lasagna so deep it scraped the plate. “Because Michael’s going. I guess Eve is, too. And what am I supposed to do, exactly?”

“You’re kidding. Are you on crack? Because I thought you just implied that you wanted to go to the scary vampire thing. Which, by the way, I don’t.”

Claire tried not to glare. “I thought you hated her. Ysandre. But you’re going with her.”

“I do. And I am.” Shane shoveled food into his mouth, a blatant excuse to end the conversation, or at least avoid it.

Eve cleared her throat. “Maybe I should, I don’t know, leave? Because this is starting to sound like one of those reality shows I don’t want to be in. Maybe you guys want to take turns in the confessional booth.”

Shane and Claire ignored her. “I didn’t tell you because there’s nothing you can do,” Shane said. “There’s nothing anyone can do.”

“Stop talking with your mouth full.”

“Dude, you asked!”

“I—” Claire felt a sudden burn of tears in her eyes. “I just wanted you to talk to me, that’s all. But I guess you can’t even do that.”

She picked up her uneaten lasagna and drink and took it upstairs to her room. It was her turn to throw a fit, slam a door, and sulk, and dammit, she was going to do it well.

She burst into tears the second the door was closed, put everything down on the dresser, and collapsed into a soggy heap in the corner. She hadn’t cried like this in a long time, not over something so stupid, but she just couldn’t—didn’t—

There was a knock at the door. “Claire?”

“Go away, Shane.” Her heart wasn’t in it, though, and he must have heard that. He opened the door. She kind of expected him to rush to her and sweep her up in a hug, but instead Shane just . . . stood there. Looking like some mixture of a

“Why is this about you?” he asked her. It was a perfectly reasonable question, so absolutely logical it made her gasp and cry harder. “I have to get dressed up in a stupid outfit. I have to pretend I don’t want to shove a stake in this bitch’s heart. You don’t.”

“But you’re going! Why are you going? You—I thought you hated her—”

“Because she said she’d kill you if I didn’t show up. And because I know it’s not a threat. She’d do it. Happy now?”

He closed the door quietly. Claire couldn’t get her breath. The hurt in her chest seemed to be smothering her, as if every heartbeat might be her last. She heard herself make a sound, but she couldn’t tell if it was tears or anger or anguish.

Eventually, the tears stopped, and Claire wiped the wet streaks from her cheeks. She felt sore, alone, and utterly to blame for everything. Her di

But she couldn’t do that.

When she opened her door, she found Shane sitting outside, back against the wall. He looked up at her.

“You done?” he asked. His eyes were red, too. Not exactly tearful, but—something. “Because it’s not like this floor’s real comfortable.”

She sank down next to him. He put his arm around her, and her head fell against his chest. There was something so soothing about the stroke of his fingers through her hair, the soft rhythm of his breathing. The reassurance of his solid warmth next to her.

“Don’t let her hurt you,” she whispered. “God, Shane—”

“No worries. Michael will be there, and I’m pretty sure he’d get into it if she tried. But I want you safe. Promise me that while we’re gone, you’ll go stay with your parents or something. No—” Because she was already trying to protest. “No, promise me. I need to know you’ll be okay.”