Feast of Fools Page 0,1

one. The kitchen felt cold, Claire noticed - as if the temperature of the whole house was steadily dropping. She shivered.

"It's complicated," Michael said. He yanked open cabinets and began assembling the makings of fresh coffee. "Yeah, it's our house" - emphasis, Claire noted, on the our - "but if I revoke Bishop's invitation, he will still kick our asses, I guarantee you."

Shane leaned his butt against the stove and crossed his arms. "I just thought you were supposed to be stronger than them on home ground - "

"Supposed to be. I'm not." Michael spooned coffee into the filter. "Don't be an asshole right now - we don't have time for it."

"Dude, I wasn't trying to be." And Claire could tell he actually meant it this time. Michael seemed to hear it, too, and sent Shane an apologetic glance. "I'm trying to figure out how big a pile of crap we're in. Not blaming you, man." He hesitated a second, then continued. "How do you know? Whether or not you have a chance?"

"Any other vampire I meet, I know where I stand with them. Who's stronger, who's weaker, whether or not I could take them in a straight-up fight if it came to that." Michael poured water into the machine and switched it on to brew. "These guys, I know I haven't got a chance in hell. Not against one of them, much less all three, not even with the house itself backing me up. They're badass, man. Truly black hat. It's going to take Amelie or Oliver to handle this."

"So," Shane said, "landfill-sized pile of crap. Good to know."

Eve pushed him out of the way and began getting pots and pans out of the cabinets, clattering everything noisily. "Since we're not fighting, we'd better get breakfast ready," she said. "Claire, you get the eggs, since you volunteered us for short-order cooks."

"Better than volunteering us for breakfast," Shane pointed out, and Eve snorted.

"You," she said, and pressed a finger into the center of his well-worn T-shirt. "You, mister. You're making gravy."

"You do want us all to die, don't you?"

"Shut up. I'll do the biscuits and bacon. Michael - " She turned, looking at him with big dark eyes, made almost anime-wide by the Goth eyeliner. "Coffee. And I think you have to be the private eye here. Sorry."

He nodded. "I'll go make sure I know what they're doing when I finish here."

Assigning Michael the barista and spy duties made sense, but it left the three of them the majority of the work, and none of them were exactly future chefs in training. Claire struggled with the scrambled eggs. Eve cursed the bacon grease in a fierce whisper, and whatever Shane was making, it didn't really look that much like gravy.

"Can I help?"

They all jumped at the voice, and Claire whirled toward the kitchen door. "Mom!" She knew she sounded panicked. She was panicked. She'd forgotten all about her parents - they'd come in with Mr. Bishop, and Bishop's friends had moved them into the not-much-used parlor at the front of the house. In the great scheme of scary things, Bishop had taken the forefront.

But there was her mother, standing in the kitchen doorway, smiling a fragile, confused smile and looking . . . vulnerable. Tired.

"Mrs. Danvers!" Eve jumped in, hurried over, and guided her to the kitchen table. "No, no, we're just - ah - making some food. You haven't eaten, right? What about Mr. Danvers?"

Her mother - looking every year of the forty-two she claimed not to be - seemed tired, vague, kind of out of focus. Worried, too. There were lines around her eyes and mouth that Claire couldn't remember seeing before, and it scared her.

"He's - " Claire's mom frowned, then leaned her forehead on the palm of her hand. "Oh, my head hurts. I'm sorry. What did you say?"

"Your husband, where is he?"

"I'll find him," Michael said quietly. He slipped out of the kitchen with the grace and quickness of a vampire - but at least he was their vampire. Eve settled Claire's mom at the table, exchanged a helpless look with Claire, and chattered on nervously about what a long drive it must have been to Morganville, what a nice surprise it was that they were moving to town, how much Claire was going to enjoy having them here. Etc., etc., etc.

Claire numbly continued to rake eggs back and forth in the skillet. This can't happen. My parents can't be here. Not now. Not