He sat back a little, staring into her face. The glow of sincerity took on a harder edge. “I think you’ll find I do mind it,” he said. “Or else I wouldn’t put up with this from—”
“From a servant? Because that’s what I am, right? Or worse—a slave? Property?”
“You’re upset.”
“Yes! Of course I’m—of course I’m upset.” She fought to keep it together, but she couldn’t; the misery just boiled out of her like steam under pressure. “I’m sitting here debating the future of the human race, and my friends and family are going to that party, and I can’t protect them—”
“Hush, child,” he said. “The feast. It’s tonight, yes?”
“I don’t even know what it is.”
“Amelie’s formal recognition of Bishop. Every vampire in Morganville who is able will be present, all there to swear their obedience, and every one of them will bring a token gift.”
She sniffled, sat up, and wiped her face. “What kind of gift?”
Myrnin’s dark eyes were steady on hers. “A token gift of blood,” he said. “Specifically, a human. You’re right to be worried for your friends, your family. He has the right to choose any human offered to him. The gesture is meant to be ceremonial—it’s come down to us as a tradition from long ago—but it doesn’t have to be.”
And Claire understood. She understood why Amelie had forbidden her to come; she understood why Michael had deliberately asked Monica Morrell instead of Eve.
It was chess, and the pawns were people. The vampires were playing with what they could afford to lose.
“You—” Her voice didn’t sound steady. She cleared her throat and tried again. “You said that he could choose any human.”
Myrnin didn’t blink. “Or all of them,” he said. “If he so wishes.”
“You know he’ll do it. He’ll kill someone.”
“Most likely, yes.”
“We have to stop this,” she said. “Myrnin—why would she do this?”
“Amelie is not a brave woman. If the odds are against her, she will surrender; if the odds are near even, she will play for time and advantage. She knows she can’t defeat Bishop on her own; not even she and Oliver combined can do it. She has to play the long game, Claire. She’s played it all her life.” Myrnin’s dark eyes were glowing again, and he began to smile. “Amelie reckons her odds without me, of course. With me at her side, she can win.”
“You want to go. To the feast.”
Myrnin straightened his vest and brushed imaginary dust from his sleeves. “Of course. And I’m going with or without you. Now, are you going under those circumstances?”
“I—Amelie said—”
“Yes or no, Claire.”
“Then . . . yes.”
“We’ll need costumes,” he said. “Not to worry, I know just the place to get them.”
“I look ridiculous,” Claire said. She also looked completely obvious. “Can’t we do something in, I don’t know, black? Since we’re supposed to be sneaky?”
“Stop talking,” Myrnin commanded as he applied makeup to her face. He seemed to be enjoying himself a hell of a lot more than the situation called for, and she felt doubt once again that his cure was really a cure. There had been a good reason Amelie said he shouldn’t be at the feast; there’d been a good reason, too, for leaving him out of her calculations for war or peace.
But Claire knew Amelie too well. If peace meant it had to come at the price of a few human deaths, even ones that were dear to Claire, she’d count it an acceptable cost.
Claire didn’t.
“There,” Myrnin said. “Close your eyes.”
Claire did, and felt a soft brushing of powder over her face. When she opened her eyes, Myrnin stepped out of the way, and she saw some alien creature in the mirror reflecting back at her.
She did look ridiculous, but she had to admit she didn’t look like Claire Danvers. Not at all. A white face that would have done Eve proud. Full red lips. Huge, black-rimmed eyes with funny little lines to draw attention to them.
A tight-fitting costume, top and tights, covered with red and black diamonds. A matador’s hat. “What am I supposed to be?” she blurted. Myrnin looked disappointed in her.
“Harlequin,” he said, and twirled like a crazy little girl. “I am Pierrot.” Myrnin was dressed in white, and where her costume was tight, his was full, billowing around his body like choir robes with white pants beneath. He had an enormous white ruffle around his collar, and a white hat that looked like a traffic cone. The same manic makeup, which only made his dark eyes look wider and less sane. “Don’t they teach anything in your schools?”
“Not about this.”
“Pity. I suppose that’s what comes of your main education flowing from Google.” He fitted something over her head. “Your mask, madam.” It was a simple domino mask, but it was patterned in the same red and black as her costume. “Can you do cartwheels? Backflips?”
She gave him a hopeless look. “I’m a science nerd, not a cheerleader.”
“Pity about that, too.” He put on his own mask, which was plain black. He’d painted his face to match hers—dead white, huge red lips. It was eerie. “Well, then, we have costumes. Now all we need is something to tip the scales in our favor, should things go badly. As I’m sure they will, knowing Bishop.”
They were in the attic of the Glass House, surrounded by what looked like centuries of . . . stuff. Claire had never been up here; in fact, she hadn’t known there was an entrance at all. Myrnin had taken her to the hidden Victorian room, and then pressed a few studs on the wall to pop loose yet another secret door, which led through a dusty, cramped hallway and opened out into a vast, dark storage space. He’d found the costumes packed in a trunk that looked old enough to have been carried through the Civil War. The dressing table, where Claire sat, was probably even older. The dust on it looked older.
Myrnin wandered off into the stacks of boxes and suitcases and discarded treasures, muttering in what sounded like a foreign language. He began rummaging around. Claire went back to staring at herself in the mirror. The makeup and costume made her look alien and cool, but her eyes were still Claire’s eyes, and they were scared.
I can’t believe we’re going to do this, she thought.
Myrnin popped up like some terrifying full-sized jack-in-the-box next to her, carrying a suitcase the width of Rhode Island. He dropped it to the wooden floor, where it hit with a shuddering thud.
“Ta da!” He threw it open and struck a heroic pose.
Inside were weapons. Lots of weapons. Crossbows. Knives. Swords. Crosses, some with crudely pointed ends.
Myrnin fished around in the chaos and came up with a dirty-looking bottle that had probably once held perfume, back around the Middle Ages. “Holy water,” he said. “True holy water, blessed by the pope himself. Very rare.”
“What is this? Where did these things come from?”
“People who were unsuccessful in using them,” he said. “I wouldn’t recommend the vials of flammable liquid, the green ones. They do work, but you’re as apt to kill your own allies as your enemies. Holy water will hurt, but it won’t destroy. I would rather you were armed with nonfatal methods.”
“Why?”
“Even if we win, Amelie will be forced to bring to trial any human who kills a vampire. You know how well that ends.” Claire did, and she shuddered. Shane had nearly been killed for a murder he hadn’t committed. “So if there’s any killing to be done, let me or another vampire do it. We’re better suited in any case.” He folded cloth over his hand and picked up a medium-sized ornate cross with a pointed end, which he handed over with care. “Self-defense only. Now, for me . . .”
Myrnin picked up a wickedly sharp knife and eyed the edge critically, then slipped it back into its leather scabbard. It went under his tunic and against his side.
He closed the lid on the suitcase.
“That’s all?” Claire asked, surprised. There had been an arsenal just waiting for him.
“It’s all I need. Time to go,” he said. “That is, if you’re certain you want to do this.”