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"I think Amelie's going to have us thrown out," she said to Myrnin. He chewed his last bite of prime rib.
"She won't," he said with absolute confidence. "Aren't you going to eat that?"
Claire gave up and passed her plate. Myrnin began cutting up the meat.
"Amelie can't afford a scene," he said. "And no doubt it will amuse Bishop to have me here."
He seemed odd again, almost happy. Claire eyed him doubtfully. "Do you feel okay?"
"Never better," he said. "Ah, dessert!"
The servants - Claire never did catch more than a shadowy glimpse of them, so they must have been vampires - delivered exquisite little martini glasses full of berries and cream to each place. Berries and cream were something that even Claire couldn't resist. She ate the whole thing, in between staring at Shane to see if he was eating. She didn't think he was. He wasn't moving at all.
As after-dinner drinks were delivered - blood for the vamps, champagne and coffee for the hemoglobin intolerant - Claire felt her anxiety ratchet up another notch. There was murmuring in the room, a rising tide of it, and she felt the swell of excitement. "Myrnin? What's happening?"
Miranda's hand grabbed hers again, squeezing so hard Claire almost yelped.
"It's coming," Miranda said. "It's almost over."
Before Claire could ask what she meant, Myrnin touched her shoulder and said, "They're beginning the ceremony."
John of Leeds had come out of the wings behind the dais, and had taken up a post at a dark wooden podium. He was wearing a traditional herald's tabard, Claire realized, just like in books and paintings. She half expected him to pull out a long, thin trumpet.
He opened the book that he'd been holding outside the room instead.
"Behold," he said in a deep, velvety smooth voice, "there comes to us on this day one who is worthy of our fealty, and as one, we welcome him to our house."
Bishop stood up. A curtain pulled back onstage, and behind it was a huge dark wooden throne, heavily carved.
Bishop walked up the steps to take his seat on it.
Claire's mother stayed where she was, at the table.
"What's happening?" Claire asked. Myrnin shushed her.
"As I speak your name, come forward with your tribute," John said. "Maria Theresa."
A tall Spanish woman dressed in a glittering matador's costume rose from her chair, took hold of the man she'd brought to the feast, and escorted him up onto the dais. She bowed to Amelie and then turned to Bishop on his throne. She bowed again.
"I give you my fealty," she said. "And my gift."
She looked at the man standing next to her. He seemed . . . stunned. Frozen.
Bishop looked at him and smiled. "Princely," he said. "I thank you for your gift."
And he flicked his fingers at them, and just like that, it was over.
"Vassily Ivanovich," John of Leeds called, and the parade went on.
Nobody got killed. It was just like Myrnin had said . . . a token. A gesture.
Claire let out her breath. She hadn't even been aware how hard she'd been holding it, but her whole rib cage ached. "He could kill them. Right? If he wanted?"
"Right," Myrnin said. "But he isn't doing so." He looked grave and focused under his clown's makeup. "I wonder what's stopping him."
It was, Claire saw, going to stretch on for hours. She was glad they had seats, because standing would have been torture. As John of Leeds called each name, a vampire would rise and lead his or her human up to be presented to Bishop; Bishop would nod; and that would be it.
As life-and-death confrontations went, it was really boring.
And then it suddenly wasn't.
The first hint came when Sam mounted the dais with his "gift" - he bowed to Amelie, but he only nodded to Bishop. Myrnin made a slight sound and leaned forward, dark eyes intent, and Bishop sat up straighter in his chair.
"I welcome you to Morganville," Sam said. "But I'm not going to swear my loyalty to you."
The hall went absolutely still, not even the little rustles of fabric and clinks of cups on china that had been noticeable to that point. Amelie, Claire noticed, had moved closer to Sam than she had to the other vampires.
"No?" Bishop asked, and beckoned Sam forward. Sam obliged by one single step. "Your lady will acknowledge me. Why won't you?"
"I have other oaths."
"To her," Bishop said. Sam nodded. "Well, then, her oath to me will bind you, as well, Samuel. I believe that will do." He eyed the girl. "Leave the gift."
Sam didn't move. "No."
Amelie murmured something to him, but it was soft enough that it didn't carry to Claire's ears despite the excellent acoustics of the room.
"She's my responsibility," Sam said, "and if you want a gift, take what Morganville offers you. Freedom."
He reached in the pocket of his rope-belted Huck Finn blue jeans and pulled out a blood pack.
Ysandre leaped from her seat. So did Fran?ois. "You dare!" Fran?ois snarled, and knocked the blood pack out of Sam's hand. "Take that filthy thing away!"
Ysandre grabbed hold of Sam's date by the hair and yanked her away. "She's the tribute," Ysandre said, "and you have no right to deny her to him."
"He has no right," Amelie said. Every word was clear as crystal. "But I do."
Bishop's eyes locked with hers, and for a long, long moment, nobody moved.
Then Bishop smiled, sat back in his chair, and waved. "Take her, Samuel," he said. "I find she's not to my taste, after all."
Sam grabbed the girl's hand, shoved Fran?ois out of the way, and descended the steps back to the banquet-hall floor. Murmurs bloomed in the darkness as he passed. He headed straight for the table where Michael sat, leaned over, and said something. Michael replied, looking strained and a little bit desperate. Whatever the argument was about, it was ripping Michael apart to take the other side.
Sam yanked Michael to his feet, and this time Claire heard what he said. "Just come with me!"
Whether Michael might have or not, it was too late, because John of Leeds said, "Michael Glass of Morganville, " and everybody waited to see what the youngest vampire in town was going to do.
Michael took Monica's hand and walked to the dais. He mounted the steps, nodded to Amelie, and nodded to Bishop. Not much in the way of obedience either direction.
"Ah, the Morrell girl," Bishop said. "I've heard so much about you, child."
Monica, the idiot, seemed pleased about that. She risked her tall wig by doing a deep curtsy in those mile-wide Marie Antoinette skirts. "Thank you, sir."
