Feast of Fools Page 0,31

tolerate Amelie having her own."

"Then what do we do?"

"First, you let me out of here," he said. "Amelie is going to need her friends around her."

Claire slowly shook her head. The minutes were ticking by, and Myrnin seemed stable, but she had to abide by the rules.

"Claire."

She looked up. Myrnin's face was still and sober, and he seemed utterly in control of himself. This was a Myrnin she rarely saw - not as charming as the manic version, not as terrifying as the angry one. A real, balanced person.

"Don't let yourself be drawn into this," he said. "Humans don't exist for Bishop except as pawns, or food."

"I didn't think we did for too many of you," she said. Myrnin's eyes widened, and he smiled.

"You do have a point. As a species, we do have an - empathy gap," he replied. "But at least we're trying. Bishop and his friends won't bother."

The formula was much, much better than the last one - Myrnin's stability lasted for nearly four long hours, a score that delighted him almost as much as it did her. But once he'd tired, and begun sliding back into confusion and anger, Claire stopped the clock, made her notes, and checked the massive refrigerator in the center of the prison. She thought it had probably been built as central storage for the kitchens - kitchens that had gotten ripped out long ago - but it had the feeling of a giant, stainless-steel morgue.

Someone had forgotten to restock the supplies of blood inside. Claire made a note as she retrieved supplies for Myrnin, and tossed the blood packs into his cell. She didn't wait to watch him rip into them.

That always made her sick.

The other vampires were mostly beyond conversation - silent, reduced to basic survival instincts. She loaded up a cart and made the rounds delivering the last of the blood. Some of them had enough control left to nod a silent thanks to her; some only stared with mad, empty eyes, seeing her as just a giant, walking version of the blood bag.

It always gave her the creeps, but she couldn't stand to see them starve. It was somebody else's responsibility to feed them and keep the cells clean - but she wasn't sure that somebody did a very good job.

By the time she was done, it was late afternoon. Claire walked to the shimmering door in the prison wall, concentrated, and formed the portal back to Myrnin's lab. It was empty. She was tired and upset about what Myrnin had said about Bishop, and considered resetting the portal to take her directly to the Glass House . . . but she didn't like using it; it took too much out of her. She also didn't want to explain to the others about why she was stepping out of a blank wall, either.

"Guess I'm walking," she said to the empty lab. She climbed the stairs to the rickety, leaning shack that covered the entrance, and exited into the alley behind Gramma Day's Founder House. It was another mirror of the Glass House - slightly different trim, different curtains in the windows. Gramma Day had a front-porch swing, and she liked to sit outside with her lemonade and watch people, but she wasn't out today. The empty swing creaked in the faint, cooling wind.

The sun still felt fierce, although the temperatures were dropping steadily, day by day; Claire was sweating by the time she'd negotiated Morganville's tortuously twisted avenues and turned onto Lot Street.

The sweat turned icy as she saw the police car parked in front of the house. Claire broke into a run, slammed through the white picket fence, and pounded up the stairs. The door was shut and locked. She fumbled out her keys and let herself in, then followed the sound of voices down the hallway.

Shane was sitting on the couch, wearing what Eve liked to call his Asshole Face. He was staring at Richard Morrell, who was standing in front of him. The contrast was extreme - Shane looked like he'd forgotten he owned a hairbrush, his clothes were rumpled from sitting in a laundry basket for a week, and his whole body language screamed SLACKER.

A whole different person from the one who'd been so quietly concerned about Eve earlier.

Richard Morrell, on the other hand, was a Morganville success story. Neat and sharp in his dark blue police uniform, every crease perfect, every hair at regulation length. The gun on his hip looked