red ribbon around her throat, which made Claire feel a little queasy, and had a miniature guillotine in her hand. She was clinging to the arm of . . . Michael. Who looked, even with the mask, like he wished he was far, far away and anywhere but next to Monica. He was dressed as a priest, in a plain black cassock and white collar. No cross visible.
Claire followed Michael’s eyeline across the room to a tall scarecrow—straight out of the scariest corn-field movie she could imagine—and a girl dressed as Sally from Tim Burton’s Nightmare Before Christmas . . . Oliver, and Eve. Eve looked like the perfect Sally— wistful, sad, stitched together by nothing but hope.
And she was staring at Michael, too.
Oliver, on the other hand, was ignoring her to focus on everyone else. Looking around, Claire slowly picked out a few more she recognized. Her mother wasn’t anywhere to be seen, but her father was dressed in a bear costume, looking intensely uncomfortable as he stood next to a middle-aged woman— vampire?—dressed as a witch.
“Do you see Shane?” Claire asked Myrnin anxiously. He nodded toward the other side of the room. She’d already looked there, but she tried again, and after skipping over him three times, she finally figured it out.
Does your costume involve leather? she’d asked. And he’d said, Actually, yeah, it might.
It really did. It involved a leather dog collar, leather pants and a leash, and the leash was held by Ysandre, who was in skintight red rubber, from neck to thigh-high boots. She’d topped it off with a pair of devil horns and a red trident.
She’d made Shane her dog, complete with furry dog mask.
“Breathe,” Myrnin said. “I’m not much for it myself, but I hear it’s quite good for humans.”
Claire realized he was right; she’d been holding her breath. As she let it out, her shock faded, letting in a cascade of rage. That bitch!
No wonder Shane had looked so sick.
“She hasn’t hurt him,” Myrnin said, speaking softly next to her ear. “And you may be wearing the costume of Harlequin, but Ysandre is most definitely more of a devil. So be cautious. Bide your time. I’ll let you know when we can engage with our enemy.”
Claire nodded stiffly. If she’d had any doubts at all about this, that was done now. She was going to get her friends and her family out of this, and she was going to personally take that leash out of Ysandre’s hand and—do something violent with it.
“I’m ready when you are,” she said.
Myrnin shot her a mad, smiling look. “Yes,” he said. “I think you might be, little one.”
They stayed to themselves, watching the others, and although others eyed them curiously, no one approached. Claire asked—better late than never—if people wouldn’t recognize Myrnin, even with the makeup, but he shook his head.
“I’m hardly a social fixture,” he said. “Amelie, Sam, Michael, Oliver, a few more might know me by sight. But very few others, and none of them would expect to see me here. Especially as”—he twirled theatrically, the white tunic billowing out around him—“Pierrot.”
Which made zero sense to her, since she still had no idea who Pierrot was, but she nodded. Myrnin saw one of the vampire women nearby watching him, and made an elaborate low bow in her direction. “Do a cartwheel,” he said under his breath to Claire.
“Do a what?”
“I would ask you to do a backflip, but I’m almost certain that would be a problem. Cartwheel. Now.”
She felt like a total idiot, but she fastened the elastic string on her matador hat under her chin and did a cartwheel, coming off it and bouncing to her feet with a bright, trembling smile.
People clapped and laughed, then turned back to their own conversations. All except Oliver, who stared intently.
But at least he kept his distance.
There was no sign of Bishop or Amelie, but Claire gradually identified most of the vampires she knew. Sam arrived, dressed as Huckleberry Finn, which went well with his red hair and freckles. He’d brought a girl Claire knew slightly from Common Grounds, one of Oliver’s employees. Probably the one who’d replaced Eve when she’d quit. For Sam’s sake, Claire hoped she was someone Oliver could afford to lose.
Miranda was there, dressed in ancient Greek robes with snakes for hair, and with her was a faded, small man in a Sherlock Holmes costume. “Charles,” Myrnin confirmed when Claire asked. “He always did have a weakness for the damaged ones.”
“She’s only fifteen!”
“Modern standards, I’m afraid. Charles comes from a time when twelve was a good age to be married, so he takes your age-of-eighteen rules a little lightly.”
“He’s a pedophile.”
“Probably,” Myrnin said. “But he’s not on Bishop’s side.”
Sam spotted them, frowned, and gradually made his way through the crowd to them. Myrnin pulled off the comical bow again, but Claire was glad to note he didn’t require a cartwheel this time. “Samuel,” he said. “How lovely to see you.”
“Are you—?” Sam visibly checked himself, because the question had probably been, Are you crazy? and that answer was self-evident. “Didn’t Amelie tell you to stay away? Claire—”
“He was coming anyway,” she said. “He broke the lock. I thought I ought to at least come along.” Which was a true—if cowardly—explanation of how they’d come to be standing here. Still, Myrnin gave her a look. One that clearly said, Confess. “I probably would have done it anyway,” she said in a rush. “I can’t let my friends and my parents be here without me. I just can’t.”
Sam looked grim, but he nodded like he understood. “Fine, you’ve been here. You’ve seen. It’s time to go, before you’re announced. Myrnin—”
Myrnin was shaking his head. “No, Samuel. I can’t do that. She needs me.”
“She needs you to stay out of it!” Sam stepped up, right into Myrnin’s personal space, and Myrnin’s eyes turned a muddy crimson. So did Sam’s. “Go home,” Sam said. “Now.”
“Make me,” Myrnin said in a silky whisper. Claire had never seen him look so deadly, and it was terrifying.
She nudged him. Carefully. “Myrnin. What happened to biding our time? Sam’s not the enemy.”
“Sam would protect our enemy.”
“I’m protecting Amelie. You know I’d die to protect her.”
That sobered Myrnin up, at least to the extent that he took in a breath and stepped back. The white froufrou of the Pierrot costume made him look like the scariest clown she’d ever seen, especially when he smiled. “Yes,” Myrnin said. “I know you would, Sam. That will destroy you, one day. You have to know when to let go. It’s an art the oldest of us have been forced to master, again and again.”
Sam gave them both frustrated looks and turned away.
The crowd had thickened, filling the circular room, and Claire heard a distant grandfather clock striking the hour. It seemed to go on forever in deep, sonorous bongs, and when it finished, there was silence in the room except for the rustle of fabric as people jostled for position.
The gilt-edged double doors to Claire’s right opened, and a smell of roses drifted out. She knew that smell, and that room. A vampire’s body had been laid in state on that stage. She and Eve and Shane had been terrorized there.
Not her favorite place, or her favorite memory.
“The lady Muriel and her attendant, Paul Grace,” said a deep, echoing voice near the door. It carried to all corners of the room. Claire craned her neck and saw a short, round vampire dressed as an Egyptian being escorted through the doors by a tall man dressed in Victorian costume. The man doing the announcing was standing to one side, a gilded book open in both hands, though he wasn’t consulting it.
The maître d’ of the undead.
“John of Leeds,” Myrnin whispered to her. “Excellent choice. He was herald to King Henry, as I remember. Impeccable manners.”
The next name was already being spoken, and another couple moved forward. Claire couldn’t see what was beyond the door from her angle, but she saw the glow of candlelight. “It’s going to take forever,” she said.
