Feast of Fools Page 0,65

think I sent him?"

"He said so."

"Is Jason so reliable a source as all that? I thought he was a crazed murderer who was stalking his own sister."

"What did you just talk to Eve about?"

Oliver raised his eyebrows. "I believe that is Eve's business, not yours. If there's nothing else - "

"Ysandre and Fran?ois just tried a power play at our house. In our house, Oliver. Why did you send Jason?"

Oliver was quiet a moment. He wasn't looking at her at all; he was watching the people walking outside on the street, the cars passing. His gaze wandered over the students inside his shop, talking and laughing. There was something odd in his expression, as if - like Eve - he was suddenly aware of his own vulnerability.

And that of others.

"I don't admit that I did send him," Oliver said. "But if I did, obviously I would have had a very good reason, yes?"

She didn't answer. His gaze flashed back to her, bright and very, very focused. "I have never made any secret of my desire for power, Claire. I don't like Amelie, and she doesn't care for me, but our games are honest ones. We know the rules and we abide by them. But Bishop - Bishop is beyond all rules. He would take our game board and overturn it completely, and that I cannot have. Not even if I gain in the process."

The light dawned, finally. "Bishop tried to recruit you. Against Amelie." Claire's blood chilled a couple of degrees. "You couldn't tell her directly. So you wanted to use Jason to tell me, and let me tell her."

"Too late now. Things are moving too quickly to the edge. It's not within my power to halt it, or hers. Much less yours, Claire."

Claire realized she was clutching the table in a death grip, and let go. Her fingers ached from the pressure. "What were you talking to Eve about?"

Oliver's eyes fixed on hers, and he said, "She is accompanying me to the feast."

Eve was going to the masked ball. With Oliver.

Claire sat back, unable to think of a single thing to say for a moment, and then it hit her exactly what that meant. "Does Michael know?"

"Frankly, I could not care less. Eve can explain it as and if she chooses; it's no concern of mine. I believe I'm finished assisting you with your inquiries, Claire. But if I might give you a piece of advice - " Oliver leaned forward, and it put him completely in the sun. He didn't flinch, though the pupils of his eyes contracted to almost nothing, and his skin began to take on a definite pink tinge. "Stay home tomorrow. Lock your doors and windows, and if you're a religious person, a little prayer might not go amiss."

It was such a startling thing for him to say that Claire almost laughed. "I'm supposed to pray? For who, you?"

Oliver didn't blink. "If you would," he said, "that would be comforting. I don't think anyone's done it in quite some time."

He stood up and walked away. Claire sat for a while staring off into the afternoon sunlight, sipping a mocha long gone cold and tasting nothing at all. When a knot of big upper-class jocks asked her, none too politely, if she was done with the table, she left without any protest. She went for a walk, following the curve of streets without any real awareness of where she was, or where she might be going.

All these people. She was away from the college crowd now, and Morganville natives took advantage of the sunshine any way they could - sunbathing, working in their gardens, painting their houses.

And tomorrow, if Oliver was right, it could be all over. If Bishop succeeded in taking over from Amelie . . .

Claire realized with a start that the sun was slipping toward the horizon, and turned at the nearest cross street to head for home. She made it with the day still officially in the late-afternoon phase, although twilight was creeping in, but as she opened the gate and came through the walk, she realized that someone was sitting on the front steps waiting for her.

Shane.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," she returned, and sat down next to him. He was looking out at the street, the occasional passing car. A breeze ruffled his dark hair, and the sunlight made his skin look like it had a faint brushing of gold.

God, he was so . . . perfect. And he was breaking