Feast of Fools

“Why?”

“It’s my business to know where the troublemakers are.”

“We’re not troublemakers!” Richard gave her a look. One she had to admit she deserved. “Your sister’s going, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. She’s been preening around the house for days. Spent a fortune on that damn costume of hers. Dad’s going to kill her if she gets anything on it. I think he’s pla

Claire waved the fresh coffeepot inquiringly, and Richard nodded and sat down at the kitchen table. She slid a mug over to him, and watched as he sipped. He seemed—different today. Everything’s changing. Richard seemed more vulnerable, too. He’d always been the steady one, the sane Morrell. Today, he looked barely older than Monica.

“I think something’s going to happen,” Claire said. “Don’t you?”

Richard nodded slowly. There were lines of tension around his eyes, and bags under his eyes big enough to hold changes of clothes. “This Bishop, he’s not like the others,” he said. “I met him. I—saw something in him. It’s not human, Claire. Not even a little bit. Whatever humanity he ever owned, he sold a long time ago.”

“What are you going to do?”

Richard shrugged. “What the hell can I do? Stick with my family. Look out for the people of this town. Wish I was a million miles away.” He was quiet for a few seconds, sipping coffee. “Thing is, I think we’re going to be asked to promise him some kind of loyalty, and I don’t think I can do that. I don’t think I want to do that.”

Claire swallowed. “Do you have a choice?”

“Probably not. But I’ll do my best to keep people safe. That’s all I know how to do.” His eyes skimmed past hers, as if he didn’t dare to really look too deeply. “The others are going, aren’t they?”

She nodded.

“Did you know your parents are going?”

Claire gasped, covered her mouth with her hands, and shook her head. “No,” she said. “No, they’re not. They can’t be.”

“I saw the list,” Richard said. “Sorry. I figured you were just on another page. I couldn’t believe you were left off. That’s good, though, that you can stay home. It’s—I think it’s going to be dangerous.”

He drained the rest of his coffee and pushed the mug back toward her.

“I’ll watch out for your friends and your parents,” he said. “As much as I can. You know that, right?”

“You’re nice,” Claire said. She was surprised that she said it out loud, but she meant it. “You really are, you know.”

Richard smiled at her, and even though she’d developed a partial immunity to hot guys smiling at her, thanks to Shane and Michael, some part of her still went Oooooooooh.

“I’m hiring you as my press agent,” Richard said. “Lock up and stay inside, all right?”

She saw him to the door and dutifully turned all the dead bolts, since he was standing there waiting to hear it. He waved and got back in his police cruiser, and silently backed out of the drive to the street.

Which was, Claire realized, eerily deserted. Morganville was usually active in the afternoons, but here it was prime walking-around time, and she couldn’t see a soul out there. Not walking, not driving, not weeding a garden. Even the next-door neighbor had powered down the mower and locked up tight.

It was like everyone just . . . knew.

Claire booted up her laptop and checked her e-mail, which was really more like checking her spam. Today, come-ons from sad Russian girls and Nigerian businessmen desperate to get rid of millions of tax-free dollars didn’t amuse her all that much. Neither did random surfing or the I’m Feeling Lucky Google feature. She had hours to kill, and her whole body was aching with tension.

You could visit Myrnin. Myrnin’s not going, either.

Oh, that was way too tempting. Myrnin was work. And work was a great distraction.

Richard told me to lock myself in. Yeah, but he hadn’t said where, had he? Myrnin’s lab was pretty safe. So was the prison where Myrnin was kept. And at least she’d have company.

“Nope,” Claire said. “Can’t do it. Too dangerous.”

Except it was still daylight outside. So, not nearly as dangerous as it could be.

The sensible side of her threw up its hands in disgust. Whatever. Go on, get yourself killed. See if I care.

Claire grabbed a few things and shoved them in the backpack—textbooks, of course, but a couple of novels that she’d been meaning to take to Myrnin, since he was always interested in new things to read.

And a bread knife. Somehow, that seemed like a wise thing to pack, too. She put it in her history textbook, like the world’s most dangerous bookmark.

And then, with one last glance around the house, she left.

I hope I come back, she thought, and turned to look at the house as she fastened the front gate. I hope we all come back.

She felt like the house was hoping that, too.

It was a long walk to Myrnin’s lab, but she wasn’t in any danger, except from dying of the creepies. She saw one or two cars, but they were full of frightened, anxious people heading to some safe haven—work, home, school. Nobody else was outside. Nobody else was walking.

Claire followed the twisting streets of Morganville into a run-down older area. At the end of the street sat a duplicate of the Glass House—the Day House, where a lovely old lady named Katherine Day still lived. Today, her battered rocking chair was empty, nodding in the breeze. Claire had been kind of hoping that Gramma Day, or her fiercer granddaughter, would be hanging out; they’d have invited her up to the porch for a lemonade, and tried to talk her out of what she was doing. But if they were home at all, they were inside with the curtains drawn.

Just like everybody else in town.

Claire turned down the dark alley next to the Day House. It was bordered with tall fences, and it got narrower the farther it went. She’d come here by accident the first time, and on purpose ever since, and it still struck her as a terrifying place, even in broad daylight.

Gramma Day had known about Myrnin. She’d called him a trap-door spider.

Gramma Day, in Claire’s experience, had been right about a lot of things, and that was one of them. As sweet and kind and gentle as Myrnin could be, when he turned, he turned all the way.

Claire reached the end of the alley, which was a rickety shed barely large enough to qualify as one room. The door was locked with a new, shiny padlock. She dug in her pocket and found her keys.

Inside, the shack wasn’t any better—nothing but a square of floor, and steps leading down. What little light there was spilled in through the grimy windows. Claire grabbed a flashlight from the corner—she always kept a supply there—and flicked it on as she descended the steps into Myrnin’s lab.

She’d half expected to find Amelie here, or Oliver, or somebody else—but it was just as she’d left it. Deserted and quiet, with only a couple of dim electric lights burning. Claire pushed aside the bookcase that stood against the right-hand wall—it was rigged to move easily—and behind it was a door. It was locked, too, and she got the keys out of the drawer under the journal shelves.

As she was unlocking it, she could have sworn she heard a rustle from the shadows. Claire turned, and felt the stupid impulse to ask who it was; all that stopped her was pure shame, and a determination not to be as stupid as the girls in horror movies. There was nobody here. Not even Oliver.

Instead, she slipped the lock from the door, took a deep breath, and concentrated.

The physics of Myrnin’s special doorways still eluded her, although she thought she was begi