And that prediction was way, way too correct.
First to show were friends from high school—nobody Claire knew, but Shane greeted them with easy familiarity. There were about ten of them, and they arrived in a pack, probably for safety; the girls seemed too boring-normal to be friends of Eve’s, so Claire assumed these were Michael’s circle. Some had brought gifts, and Claire pointed them to the table set up to deposit those.
Miranda, the skinny teen psychic, arrived dramatically alone, wearing a peculiar, mismatched skirt and top that were too big for her. She was (technically) Eve’s friend, although she was younger and still in high school; as always, she seemed to be walking in a dream state, not really noticing where she was or who was around her. Eve liked to be thought of as strange; Miranda was the real deal. Nothing like creepy future predictions to put a chill on fun.
But she was an odd little thing, and Claire felt bad for her. She seemed to be always on her own.
“Hey, Mir,” she greeted her, and handed her a white carnation.
Miranda looked at it as if she couldn’t quite figure out what it was for. “Is it food?” she asked.
Shane mouthed, over Miranda’s head, Please say yes, but Claire scowled at him and said, “No, it’s just pretty.” Miranda nodded wisely and tucked it behind her ear, with the long stem sticking back at a dangerous angle for anyone behind her. “Uh—there’s food over there, and punch. Don’t cut the cake, though. That’s for Eve and Michael.”
“Okay,” Miranda said. She got a couple of steps into the room, then turned and looked back at Claire. “It’s too bad you wore white. But maybe it will wash out.”
Oh crap. If only Miranda had a sense of humor, Claire would have been sure she was just messing with her, but knowing that the girl had never joked, she thought of several interpretations and none of them was good. The best Claire could think of was that she’d get punch spilled on her.
Unfortunately, the best-case scenario never seemed to arrive.
“Easy,” Shane said. “Sometimes she’s wrong.” He knew what Claire was thinking, because (she assumed) he was thinking it, too.
“Not often.” And never on important things, although Claire truthfully couldn’t judge whether that had been, in Miranda’s mind, important. Difficult to say. She had a chaos-theory view of life, so what was important to normal people wasn’t necessarily the same thing to her. And sometimes the most minuscule things were the most urgent.
Claire didn’t have time to brood about it, because just then the first vampires arrived, cold and icily polite. Claire handed carnations to the ladies, who accepted them with disdainful grace as they glided in, heading straight for the plasma refreshments. Next came a group of cautious-looking townies, dressed in ill-fitting fancy dresses and suits, all prominently wearing their bracelets of Protection. These weren’t the rebel underground; these were the humans with a vested stake (no pun intended) in the status quo, and they had a certain beaten look to them that made Claire’s heart ache. She’d tried to use her influence with Amelie—such as it was—to make things better for them, but she couldn’t counteract lifetimes of oppression in a couple of years.
“Claire,” Shane said quietly. When she looked around, there was a vampire standing right in front of her, wearing an elaborate black satin coat with enormous long tails that reached to his heels, a red brocade vest, a ruffled white shirt....
Myrnin.
He looked deeply worried and very uncomfortable. “My dear girl, I really feel I need to—”
“Go away,” she said. Not loudly, but she meant it. “Don’t talk to me. Not ever again.”
“But—”
She pushed him back, hard. “Never!” She didn’t shout it, although she felt like screaming it; the fury that boiled up inside her made her shake and see red. “Don’t you ever come near me or Shane again!”
He couldn’t have looked more heartbroken, but she didn’t care. She didn’t. Her eyes filled with tears, but she made herself believe that they were tears of anger, not sadness. Not disappointment.
Myrnin bowed from the waist, old-fashioned and very correct, and said, “As you wish, Claire.” Then he turned toward Shane and gave another bow, not quite as deep. “I regret the necessity of my actions.” He didn’t wait for Shane to say anything, not that Shane would have, anyway; he was busy watching Claire as she hastily wiped the tears from her eyes.
Myrnin walked away. He looked . . . small, somehow. And defeated, although he tried to keep his head upright. And even though she was angry—she was—it still hurt to see him like that. And deep down, she felt lost thinking that she’d never see him again. Never roll her eyes at his insane leaps of conversation. Never see those stupid bunny slippers again.
He did it. Not me.
Then why was it so awful?
She couldn’t dwell on it, because more people were arriving, a lot more, and she had all she could do forcing smiles and saying polite things and handing out carnations to the ladies. This influx was a mixture of townies and a few wary, tense people she was sure were in Morganville but not of it—the resistance, maybe, come to scope out the situation. Shane recognized a few, and she saw him exchange some quick words with a couple.
There was a brief lull in arrivals, and Claire caught her breath and checked her carnation supply—getting low. Then again, the ballroom was now teeming with people—more than a hundred, for sure. Quite a crowd, in this town.
More vampires this time, at least twenty of them. One of the women accepted a flower with a charming, graceful smile; another lifted her chin and glided right by, refusing to even acknowledge Claire’s existence.
So much fun.
“I believe that’s for me,” said a low, cool voice, and Claire jerked her attention back front and center just as Amelie plucked the carnation from her hand. “Do forgive Mathilde. She’s not been the same since the French Revolution.”
“You came,” Claire blurted.
Amelie raised a single eyebrow in a sharp curve. “Why would I not? I was invited. It’s only polite to attend.”
“I thought you weren’t in favor of—this.”
“It would be hypocritical of me to say that it pleases me. But it suits my purposes to be here.” Amelie nodded her good-byes and started to move on.
Claire took in a breath and asked, “Did you order Myrnin to kill Shane?”
Amelie stood there silently with the white carnation turning in her cool, long fingers, then turned and took Oliver’s offered elbow as he entered the room, looking very much not himself in a suit that was almost as beautiful as what Michael was wearing. “Ah. There you are. Shall we proceed?”
“I suppose we must,” he said. He didn’t seem happy about it.
Claire said, “Wait! You didn’t answer—”
Amelie turned back to Claire just for a moment, and said, “What I do for this town, I do without regard to my own feelings, much less yours. Is that clear?” Her voice was cold, low, and very clear, and then she was gone, the queen walking off to greet her subjects.
So, it hadn’t really been Myrnin’s choice. No wonder he was so wounded; he’d been ordered, and he’d obeyed, and Claire had dumped the blame on him (well, he was to blame—he could have refused!), but Amelie was definitely the puppet master pulling his strings. As hurtful as Myrnin’s betrayal was, it didn’t scare her nearly as much now.
Amelie had told her long ago that she would do anything, sacrifice anyone, for the safety of Morganville, but it still felt like betrayal.
Eve peeked around the door and gestured at Claire, who moved closer. “Is everybody here?” she asked. She looked terrified and excited all at once. “Is it ready?”
“Ready,” Claire said. “Everyone’s waiting on you.”