Feast of Fools

She smiled slowly. “I never said that. Be careful, Father. You sound desperate.”

Claire saw Bishop’s eyes flare red, then white-hot.

Amelie didn’t back down. She turned her head slightly, and nodded at Shane and Eve. Shane hustled Eve off the stage and down to the banquet-hall floor. François seemed to get some silent message from Bishop, because he backed out of their way.

Sam let Michael up, and in seconds, Michael was across the room to join them as Shane and Eve descended the stairs from the dais.

Sam followed. That made a small group in the noman’s -land in the center of the tables on the floor.

“It’s starting,” Myrnin said. “We’re at the tipping point now. He knows he’s losing. He’ll have to act.”

And John of Leeds said, in that perfectly calm voice, “Lord Myrnin of Conwy.”

There was that head-turning thing again. Myrnin got up from his chair and held out his hand to Claire. His eyes were bright, a little too bright. A little too manic.

His smile scared her, and she didn’t think it was just the makeup. “Ready?” he asked.

She didn’t really have a choice. She stood and put her hand in his, and walked toward the last thing in the world she wanted to do.

Chapter 12

Going up the steps felt like the proverbial march to the gallows. Amelie stood to one side, glittering like a chandelier, and she was glaring at Myrnin with fierce displeasure.

He took her pale, perfect hand and kissed it. “Oh, don’t look so distressed, my old friend,” he told her. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“No,” Amelie said. “You’re not. And you’re about to be a good deal less so.” She turned to Bishop. “I regret that Lord Myrnin is unwell. He must leave, for his own health.”

“He looks well enough,” Bishop replied. “Let him come forward.”

“You fool,” Amelie whispered as Myrnin did his Pierrot twirl and ended in a dancer’s perfect floor-scraping bow. “Oh, my lovely fool.” Claire couldn’t tell if she was appalled, angry, or sad. Maybe all three.

Bishop seemed amused. “It’s been years,” he said. “And how have you fared, Myrnin?”

“As well as you’d expect,” Myrnin said.

“Pierrot. How . . . odd for you. You’re much more the Harlequin, I should think.”

“I’ve always thought that Pierrot was the secretly dangerous one,” Myrnin said. “All that i

Bishop laughed. “I’ve missed you, fool.”

“Truly? Odd. I haven’t missed you at all, my lord.”

That stopped Bishop’s laughter in its tracks, and Claire felt the fear close around her, like suffocating cold. “Ah, I remember now why you ceased to amuse, Myrnin. You use honesty like a club.”

“I thought it more like a rapier, lord.”

Bishop was all done with the witty conversation. “Will you swear?”

And Myrnin said, shockingly, “I will.” And he proceeded to, a string of swearwords that made Claire blink. He ended with, “—frothy fool-born apple-john! Cheater of vandals and defiler of dead dogs!” and did another twirl and bow. He looked up with a red, red grin that was more like a leer. “Is that what you meant, my lord?”

Claire gasped as hands closed cold around her throat from behind. She was pulled backward. It was Ysandre holding her, and the vampire woman bent to whisper, “Yes, please do struggle. I lost your boyfriend before I could get a taste. I’ll have you instead.”

Claire didn’t hesitate. She reached under her tunic, got out the ancient glass perfume bottle that Myrnin had given her, and thumbed off the cap.

And she dumped the holy water right on Ysandre’s head.

Ysandre screamed in registers so high the crystal on the tables shivered. She spun away clawing at her hair, shedding drops that landed on François, who was moving toward her. He screamed, too. Where the drops touched, they ate away into skin. Claire stared, appalled. She’d hurt them, all right. Badly.

Myrnin laughed, deep in his throat, and took out the thin, sharp knife he’d worn at his side. As Bishop advanced on him, he cut at him, still laughing.

He co

It was a minor little wound to Bishop’s arm, barely a nick, but Clare saw the cut on the older vampire’s robes, and a thin film of blood on the knife.

Bishop looked surprised enough to stop to examine the damage to his costume.

Myrnin’s laughter ratcheted higher and higher, and he twirled again, faster, almost a blur.

“Myrnin!” Claire yelled. She was backing away from Ysandre, burned and furious, who was stalking toward her. She tripped and fell flat on her back. “Myrnin, do something!”

He stopped twirling and looked at the bloody knife in his hand.

“I told Sam before, you have to know when to let go,” he said. “It’s time, Claire.” He blew her a kiss, and leaped over the table.

And ran away, shrieking with laughter, still holding the knife. Right out of the hall.

For a few seconds, nobody moved. Claire stared at Ysandre, who seemed just as surprised, and glanced at Bishop.

Who flicked his fingers against the cut in his robe, and chuckled.

“My fool,” he said, almost fondly. “Madmen are the laughter of God, don’t you agree?”

He sat down on his throne, smiling. “Ysandre, leave the child. I’m inclined to allow our friends their small acts of defiance tonight.”

“She burned me!” Ysandre snarled.

“And you’ll heal. Don’t whine like a kicked dog. It’s no more than you deserve.”

Amelie, Claire realized, hadn’t moved at all. Not even when Claire’s life had been in danger. Now she did, leaning down to help Claire to her feet.

“Enough of this,” she said. “You’ve had your fun, Father. End this.”

“Very well,” he said. “It’s time for the test, my child. Swear fealty to me, and it will all be over.”

“If I swear fealty, it will never be over,” Amelie corrected him. “I never have sworn an oath to you. Did you really think tonight that would change?”

His cold, cold eyes narrowed. “Blood traitor,” he said. “Murderous witch. Do you welcome me to your little town? Do you grant me leave to walk your streets and take your peasants? I don’t think you dare. You know me too well.”

“I grant you nothing,” she said. “I won’t swear loyalty to you. I won’t give you welcome. I won’t give you anything, Father.” It didn’t seem possible, but as Claire watched her, Amelie seemed . . . human. Vulnerable. Fragile and waiting to be broken.

“You will give me one thing if you want to keep what you’ve built here,” he said. “I want my book. The one you stole as you rolled me into my hasty grave, daughter.”

She froze, eyes widening. Amelie, who couldn’t be surprised, had been completely taken for a ride this time. “The book.”

“You think I want your pathetic town? Your ridiculous peasants?” Bishop’s contemptuous gaze swept over Claire, over the room beyond. “I want my property . Give it to me, and I’ll leave. There. Now all our cards are up, child. What say you?”

“The book isn’t yours,” Amelie said.

“I took it from the dead hands of a rival,” Bishop said. “That makes it mine. Right of conquest.” He gave her a cold, slow stare. “The same way you took it from me, if you remember, except that I wasn’t quite dead enough. A pity you didn’t make sure, eh?”

It was all going wrong. Myrnin had run away, and he was supposed to stay, supposed to fight. Amelie couldn’t do this on her own; he’d said it himself.

The other vampires were all standing by and letting it happen.

“Amelie,” Bishop said, “I’ll destroy you if you refuse. Don’t you know that? Haven’t you known it from the moment I came to town?”

Claire moved up beside her. “She wants you to leave,” she said. “You need to go. Now.”

Bishop laughed. “A threat from a little yapping dog. Will you make me, mongrel?”

“No,” said Sam Glass. He jumped from the banquet floor up to the table in one lithe, easy motion, and then down to stand on Amelie’s other side. “Not by herself, anyway.” He’d taken off his Huck Fi