Carpe Corpus

by Caine, Rachel

  “But you won’t tell us who did kill them?”

  He shook his head.

  “Are you afraid?” Eve asked, very gently.

  Silence.

  “You know what?” Shane said. “Don’t care. Street him before we wake up with our throats cut by him or his imaginary playmate.”

  And they might have, except that the doorbell rang. Michael flashed to the window and looked out. “Crap. Our ride’s here. We don’t have time for this.”

  “Michael,” Eve said. “Please. Let him stay, at least for now. Please.”

  “All right. Get him upstairs and lock him in. Sam, can you stay with him?

  “No,” Sam said. “I have to go back to Amelie.”

  “We have to leave. Claire, can you shut down the portal that leads here?”

  “I can try, sure.”

  As Sam hustled Jason up the stairs to the second floor, Claire touched the bare wall at the back of the living room, and felt the slightly pliable surface of the portal lying on top of it. It was invisible, but definitely active.

  “Ada,” she whispered, and felt the surface ripple.

  Her phone rang. Claire answered it. No incoming caller ID had appeared on the display, just random numbers and letters. She answered.

  “What?” the computer snapped. “I’m busy, you know. I can’t just be at your constant beck and call.”

  “Shut down the portal to the Glass House.”

  “Oh, bother. Do it yourself.”

  “I don’t know how!”

  “I hardly have time to school you,” Ada said primly. God, she reminded Claire of Myrnin—not in a good way. “Very well. I shall do it for you this one time. But you’ll have to turn it on again yourself. And stop calling me!”

  The phone clicked off, and under Claire’s fingers, the surface turned cold and still, like glass.

  Blocked. Quantum stasis, she thought, fascinated, and wondered how that worked, for about the millionth time. She wanted to take Ada apart and figure it out. Yeah, if you live long enough. It had taken Myrnin three hundred years to put Ada together; it might take her that long just to figure out the basic principles he’d used.

  Michael came back into the living room, leading two other vampires—Ysandre, that smug little witch, and her occasional partner François, an equally nasty reject from some Eurotrash vampire melodrama.

  They were walking clichés, but they were also deadly. Claire couldn’t even look at François without remembering how he’d ripped the cross off of her neck and bitten her. She still had the scars—faint, but they’d always be there. And she couldn’t forget how that had felt, either.

  A hot flood of emotion came over her when she saw him smirking at her—hate, fear, loathing, and fury. She knew he could feel it coming off of her in sick waves.

  She also knew he enjoyed it.

  François gave her an elaborate bow and blew her a kiss. “Chérie,” he said. “The exquisite taste of you still lingers in my mouth.”

  Shane’s hands closed into fists. François saw that, too. Claire touched Shane’s arm; his muscles were tensed and hard. “Don’t let him bait you,” she whispered. “I was a snack. Not a date.”

  François closed his eyes and made a point of sniffing the air. “Ah, but you smell so different now,” he said, with elaborate disappointment. “Rich and complex, not simple and pure anymore. Still, I was the first to taste your blood, wasn’t I, little Claire? And you never forget your first.”

  “Don’t!” she hissed to Shane, and dug her fingernails in as deep as she could. It was all she could do. If Shane decided to go for him, she knew how it would end.

  Luckily, so did Shane. He slowly relaxed, and Claire saw Michael’s tension ease as well. “We talking, or are we walking?” Shane asked. “I thought we had someplace to be.”

  Claire felt a sunburst of pride in him, and a longing that came with it—she wanted all of this to just stop; she wanted to go back to the night, the silence, the touch of his skin and the sound of his whispers. That was real. That was important.

  It was a reason to live through all this.

  She took Shane’s hand and squeezed it. He sent her a look. “What?”

  She whispered, “You’re just full of awesome; did you know that?”

  François made a face. “Full of something. In the car, fools.”

  Founder’s Square at twilight was full of people—rock-concert full. Claire didn’t even know this many people lived in Morganville. “Did they grab the students, too?” she asked Michael.

  “Bishop’s not quite that stupid. It’s residents only. University gates were closed. The place is under lock-down.”

  “What, again? Even the stoners are going to figure out something’s going on.” Claire certainly would have, and she knew most of the students weren’t that gullible. Then again, knowing and wanting to push the status quo were two very different things. “You think they’ll stay on campus?”

  “I think if they don’t, the problem’s going to solve itself,” Michael said somberly. “Amelie will try to protect them, but we’ve got a much bigger issue tonight.”

  Technically, that challenge was saving Morganville, and everybody in it.

  There were no chairs down on the grassy area, but Bishop’s vampires were out and about, and they were separating people at the entrances to the park and sending them to special holding areas. Or, Claire, thought, pens. Like sorting cattle. “What are they doing?”

  “Dividing people according to their Protectors,” François said. “What else?”

  Bishop had kept the Protection system, then—or at least, he hadn’t bothered to really dismantle it. People were being questioned at the gate. If they didn’t name a Protector, they got slapped with a big yellow sticker and herded into a big open area in the middle. “What if their Protector is one of Amelie’s rebels?” She knew the answer to that one. “Then they’re no longer Protected. They go in the middle, too?”

  Michael looked pallid—not just vampire-pale, really stressed and upset, as if he knew what was coming before she did. Claire didn’t get it until François said, “Just like your friends,” and he grabbed Shane. Ysandre took hold of Eve. They both fought and cursed and tried to get free, but it was no use—they were shoved apart from Michael and Claire.

  They were both dragged away to the big cordoned- off area in the center of the square. Claire tried to follow them, but Michael held her back. “Don’t,” he said. “Bishop may not know you’re out of his control yet. Tell him you were drugged by Hannah to keep you out of the way. It’s the truth; he’ll probably sense that.”

  “What about Shane? Eve? God, how can you just stand there?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I know I have to. Claire, don’t screw this up. You won’t help them, and you’ll only get yourself killed.” He gave her a grim smile. “And me, because I’d have to get in the middle.”

  Claire stopped fighting him, but she still couldn’t accept it. She saw why Richard had wanted people out of town who were at the highest risk; Bishop intended this to be a public spectacle.

  His final act to make himself the undisputed ruler of Morganville. In the bad old days, that meant executing lots of people.

  François took Claire’s arm and marched her up to the front, past angry, scared men and women she knew by sight, and some she’d never seen before. That section had a symbol taped to the barrier that surrounded it— she vaguely recognized it as the symbol for a vampire named Valerie, who’d joined Bishop in the first round of fighting. And yes, there was Valerie, standing inside the barricade with her humans, but looking very much as if she wished she was somewhere else. Anywhere else.

  Past Valerie’s barricades was a big raised stage, at least twenty feet off the ground, with steps leading up to it. There were plush chairs, and carpet, and a red velvet backdrop behind it. Spotlights turned the sunset pale in contrast. The stage was empty, but there was a knot of people standing at the foot of the steps.

&
nbsp; Richard Morrell was there, dressed in a spotless dark blue suit, with a sky blue tie. He looked like he was running for office, not about to fight for his life; apparently, he and Amelie had the same philosophy on looking good for the Apocalypse. Next to him, Hannah still wore her police uniform, but no belt—and no gun, handcuffs, baton, stakes, or pepper spray. They’d taken away the human cops’ weapons. There were other people, too—mostly vampires, but Claire recognized Dean Wallace, the head of TPU, and a few of the other prominent humans in town, including Mr. Janes, who was the CEO of the biggest bank in town. Mr. Janes had decided to stay. She’d seen his name on Richard’s evac list, and she’d seen him driving away from the warehouse instead of getting on the bus.

  She wondered how Mr. Janes was feeling about that decision right now. Not too good, she was guessing. He kept looking out at the crowd, probably trying to find friends and family.

  She knew how he felt.

  Richard Morrell nodded to her. “You okay?”

  Why did everybody always ask that? “Sure,” she lied. “What’s going to happen?”

  “Wish I knew,” Richard said. “Stay close to Michael, whatever happens.”

  She was going to do that regardless, but she appreciated that he cared. He patted her on the back, and under cover of shaking her hand, he pressed something into her hand.

  It was a silver knife, no bigger than her finger. Razor-sharp, too. She tried not to cut herself—the last thing she wanted was for the vamps around her to smell blood—and managed to get it in the pocket of her hoodie without stabbing herself. From Richard’s warning look, she got that it was a weapon of last resort.

  She nodded to let him know she understood.

  A cordon of vampires closed in around them, including the tall, thin, sexless dude whom she’d last seen with the Goldmans. What was his name? Pennywell. Ugh. He had a thin smile, like he knew what was going to happen, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.

  “Up,” he said, and jerked his chin to indicate that they were supposed to climb the steps. Richard went first—trying to set a good example, Claire supposed—and she followed, along with Hannah and Michael. It seemed like a long climb, and it reminded her of nothing else than those old stories about people getting hanged, or walking the last mile to the electric chair.

  Up on the stage, it was a whole lot worse. There were hisses and boos from the crowd, quickly hushed, and Claire was blinded by the white spotlights, but she could feel thousands of people staring at her. I’m nobody, she wanted to shout. I don’t want to be up here!

  They wouldn’t care about her motives, or her choices, or anything else. She was working for Bishop. That made her the enemy.

  Richard took one of the chairs, and Dean Wallace sat next to him. Hannah stayed standing next to Richard’s chair, arms folded. Claire didn’t quite know what to do, so she stuck close to Michael as Mr. Janes claimed the last plush chair.

  Two vampires came up the steps carrying Bishop’s massive carved throne, which they set right in the exact center of the carpeted stage.

  Mr. Pennywell—if he was a he; Claire still couldn’t really tell—stood next to the throne, along with Ysandre and François. The old friends, Claire thought. The clique.

  Bishop came through the curtains at the back of the stage. He was wearing a black suit, white shirt, black tie, and a colorful red pocket square. In fact, he was dressed better than Mr. Janes. No ornate medieval robes, which was kind of what Claire had expected. He didn’t even have a crown.

  But he had a throne, and he settled into it. His three favorite henchpersons knelt in front of him, and he gave them a lazy blessing.

  Then he said, “I will speak with the town’s mayor.”

  Claire didn’t know how it was possible, but Bishop’s voice echoed from every corner of the square—a pocket microphone, she guessed, broadcasting to amplified speakers hidden in the trees. It was eerie, though. She squinted. Out behind the lights, she saw that Shane and Eve had squeezed their way through the crowd and were standing at the front of the group in the center of the square. Shane had his arm around Eve, but not in a boyfriend way—just for comfort.

  The way Michael had his arm around Claire.

  Richard Morrell got up and walked over to stand in front of Bishop.

  “I demanded loyalty,” Bishop said. “I received defiance. Not just from my daughter and her misguided followers, but from humans. Humans under your control, Mayor Morrell. This is not acceptable. It cannot continue, this blatant defiance of my rule.”

  Richard didn’t say anything, but then, Claire had no idea what he really could say. Bishop was just stating the obvious.

  And it was just a warm-up to what was coming.

  “Today, I learned that you personally authorized the removal from our town of several of our most valued citizens,” Bishop said. “Many members of your own town council, for instance. Leaders of industry. People of social standing. Tell me, Mayor Morrell, why did you spirit these people away, and leave so many of your common citizens here to bear the punishment? Were you thinking only of the rich and powerful?”

  Clever. He was trying to make the town think that Richard was like his dad—corrupt, in it for his own sake.

  It would probably work, too. People liked to believe that sort of thing.

  Richard said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. If anyone left town, I’m sure they must have had your permission, sir. How could they have left if you didn’t authorize it?”

  Which was a direct slap in the face for Bishop on the subject of his authority. And his power.

  Bishop stood up.

  “I will find out the secrets of this town if I have to rip them bloody from every one of you,” he said, “and when I do have my answers, you will pay a price, Richard. But to ensure that we have a loyal and stable government, I must ask you to appoint a new town council now. Since you so carelessly allowed the last one to slip away.”

  “Let me guess. All vampires,” Richard said.

  Bishop smiled. “No, of course not. But if they are not vampires, I will, of course, make them vampires . . . simply to ensure fairness. . . .”

  His voice trailed off, because someone was coming up the steps. Someone Bishop hadn’t summoned.

  Myrnin.

  He looked half-dead, worse than Claire had ever seen him; his eyes were milky white, and he felt blindly for each slow step as he climbed. He looked thinner, too. Frail.

  She felt sick when she saw the manic smile on his face, so out of touch with the exhaustion of his body.

  “So sorry, my lord,” he said, and tried to make one of his usual elaborate bows. He staggered, off balance, and settled for a vague wave. “I was detained. I would never miss a good party. Is there catering? Or are we dining buffet?”

  Bishop didn’t look at him with any favor. “You might have dressed for the occasion,” he said. “You’re filthy.”

  “I dress as nature wills me. Oh, Claire, good. So glad to see you, my dear.” Myrnin grabbed Claire and dragged her away from Michael, wrapped her in a tight embrace, and waltzed her in an unsteady circle around the stage while she struggled.

  There was nothing vague about his voice when he whispered, “Do nothing. Something is about to happen. Keep your wits, girl.”

  She nodded. He kissed her playfully on the throat—not quite as innocently as she would have liked—and reeled away to lean on the back of Bishop’s chair. “Beg pardon,” he said. “Dizzy.”

  “You’re drunk,” Bishop said.

  “That’s what happens when you are what you eat,” Myrnin agreed. “I stopped off for a bite. Unfortunately, all that was left in town were pathetic alcoholics, and criminals too fast for me to catch.”

  Bishop ignored him. He turned his attention back to Richard. “Will you name your town council, Mayor? Or must I name them for you?”

  “You’ll do what you want.” Richard shrugged. “I’m not going to enable you.”

  “Then I’ll have to remove those of
your appointees who remain.” Bishop snapped his fingers, and Ysandre and François moved to grab Mr. Janes and Dean Wallace. When Hannah Moses tried to interfere, she ended up facedown on the carpet, held there by Pennywell. “And I’ll allow my hunters to relieve us of any of your citizens who remain unclaimed, or are loyal to my enemy. There. That should clear the air a great deal.”

  The screaming started down in the crowd as the people in the center of the square realized they’d been put there to die.

  Shane and Eve . . .

  Claire grabbed the silver knife in her pocket and tried to get to Bishop. Michael tackled her, probably for her own good.

  Myrnin lunged for Bishop. Bishop caught him easily, laughing at Myrnin’s flailing attempts to fight, and snapped his fingers at Ysandre. She reached in her pocket and took something out that Claire recognized.

  A syringe. From the color of the liquid, it was Dr. Mills’s cure.

  Bishop plunged the needle into Myrnin’s heart and emptied the contents, then dropped Myrnin to lie on the carpet, writhing, as the cure raced through his body.

  When he opened his eyes, the white film was gone from them.

  He was healing.

  But he was also in horrible pain.

  “I know your plans,” Bishop said, and smiled down at him. “I know you filled yourself with poison before coming here. I know you planned to have me drain you and cripple myself so your mistress could finish me off. Unfortunately, it’s wasted effort, my dear old friend.”

  He gestured, and the curtain at the back opened.

  Amelie was dragged out, bound in silver chains. She was still wearing her perfect pink suit, but it wasn’t so perfect now—filthy, ripped, bloody. Her pale crown of hair had come down in straggles all around her face.

  She had a silver leash around her neck, and Oliver was holding it.

  Oliver.

  Claire felt hot, then cold, then very still inside. She’d come to believe he wasn’t as bad as she’d thought; she’d actually started to think he really was almost . . . trustworthy.