Rachel Caine - [The Morganville Vampires 05]

by Lord of Misrule (lit)

  Shane was shaking his head. Michael wasn’t seeming any too confident about this, either, and Eve—Eve looked like she would gladly have run back the other way, if she’d known there was any other choice than going back into that darkness.

  “Yes,” Claire said.

  Myrnin smiled. It was a tired, thin sort of smile, and it had a hint of sadness in it. “Then I should apologize now,” he said. “Because I’m about to break that trust most grievously.”

  He dropped Claire’s hand, grabbed Shane by the shirt, and kicked open the door.

  He dragged Shane through with him, and the door slammed behind him before any of them could react—even Michael, who hit the wood just an instant later, battering at it. It was built to hold out vampires, Claire realized. And it would hold out Michael for a long, long time.

  “Shane!” She screamed his name and threw herself against the wood, slamming her hand over and over into the Founder’s Symbol. “Shane, no! Myrnin, bring him back. Please, don’t do this. Bring him back. . . .”

  Michael whirled around, facing the other direction. “Stay behind me,” he said to Eve and Claire. Claire looked over her shoulder to see doors opening, up and down the hall, as if somebody had pressed a button.

  Vampires and humans alike came out, filling the hallway between the three of them, and any possible way out.

  Every single one of them had fang marks in their necks, just like the ones in Claire’s neck.

  Just like the ones in Michael’s neck.

  There was something about the way he was standing there, so still, so quiet. . . .

  And then he walked away, heading for the other vampires.

  “Michael!” Eve started to lunge after him, but Claire stopped her.

  When Michael reached the first vampire, Claire expected to see some kind of a fight—something—but instead, they just looked at each other, and then the man nodded.

  “Welcome,” he said, “Brother Michael.”

  “Welcome,” another vampire murmured, and then a human.

  When Michael turned around, his eyes had shifted colors, going from sky blue to dark crimson.

  “Oh hell,” Eve whispered. “This isn’t happening. It can’t be.”

  The door opened behind them. On the other side was a big stone hall, something straight out of a castle, and the wooden throne that Claire remembered from the welcome feast was here, sitting up on a stage. It was draped in red velvet.

  Sitting on the throne was Mr. Bishop.

  “Join us,” Bishop said. Claire and Eve looked at each other. Shane was lying on the stone floor, with Myrnin’s hand holding him facedown. “Come in, children. There’s no point anymore. I’ve won the night.”

  Claire felt like she’d stepped off the edge of the world, and everything was just . . . gone. Myrnin wouldn’t look at her. He had his head bowed to Bishop.

  Eve, after that first look, returned her attention to Michael, who was walking toward them.

  It was not the Michael they knew—not at all.

  “Let Shane go,” Claire said. Her voice trembled, but it came out clearly enough. Bishop raised one finger, and Michael lunged forward, grabbed Eve by the throat, and pulled her close to him with his fangs bared. “No!”

  “Don’t give me orders, child,” Bishop said. “You should be dead by now. I’m almost impressed. Now, rephrase your request. Something with a please.”

  Claire licked her lips and tasted sweat. “Please,” she said. “Please let Shane go. Please don’t hurt Eve.”

  Bishop considered, then nodded. “I don’t need the girl,” he said. He nodded to Michael, who let Eve go. She backed away, staring at him in disbelief, hands over her throat. “I have what I want. Don’t I, Myrnin?”

  Myrnin pulled up Shane’s shirt. There, stuffed in his waistband at the back, was the book.

  No.

  Myrnin pulled it free, let Shane up, and walked to Bishop. I’m about to break that trust most grievously, he’d said to Claire. She hadn’t believed him until this moment.

  “Wait,” Myrnin said, as Bishop reached for it. “The bargain was for Theo Goldman’s family.”

  “Who? Oh, yes.” He smiled. “They’ll be quite safe.”

  “And unharmed,” Myrnin said.

  “Are you putting conditions on our little agreement?” Bishop asked. “Very well. They go free, and unharmed. Let all witness that Theo Goldman and his family will take no harm from me or mine, but they are not welcome in Morganville. I will not have them here.”

  Myrnin inclined his head. He lowered himself to one knee in front of the throne, and lifted the book in both hands over his head, offering it up.

  Bishop’s fingers closed on it, and he let out a long, rattling sigh. “At last,” he said. “At last.”

  Myrnin rested his forearms across his knee, but didn’t try to rise. “You said you also required Amelie. May I suggest an alternative?”

  “You may, as I’m in good humor with you at the moment.”

  “The girl wears Amelie’s sigil,” he said. “She’s the only one in town who wears it in the old way, by the old laws. That makes her no less than a part of Amelie herself, blood for blood.”

  Claire stopped breathing. It seemed as if every head turned toward her, every pair of eyes stared. Shane started to come toward her.

  He never made it.

  Michael darted forward and slammed his friend down on the stones, snarling. He held him there. Myrnin rose and came to Claire, offering her his hand in an antique, courtly gesture.

  His eyes were still dark, still mostly sane.

  And that was why she knew she could never really forgive him, ever again. This wasn’t the disease talking.

  It was just Myrnin.

  “Come,” he said. “Trust me, Claire. Please.”

  She avoided him and walked on her own to the foot of Bishop’s throne, staring up at him.

  “Well?” she asked. “What are you waiting for? Kill me.”

  “Kill you?” he repeated, mystified. “Why on earth would I do such a foolish thing? Myrnin is quite right. There’s no point in killing you, none at all. I need you to run the machines of Morganville for me. I have already declared that Richard Morrell will oversee the humans. I will allow Myrnin the honor of ruling those vampires who choose to stay in my kingdom and swear fealty to me.”

  Myrnin bowed slightly, from the waist. “I am, of course, deeply grateful for your favor, my lord.”

  “One thing,” Bishop said. “I’ll need Oliver’s head.”

  This time, Myrnin smiled. “I know just where to find it, my lord.”

  “Then be about your work.”

  Myrnin gave a bow, flourished with elaborate arm movements, and to Claire’s eyes, it was almost mocking.

  Almost.

  While he was bowing, she heard him whisper, “Do as he says.”

  And then he was gone, walking away, as if none of it meant anything to him at all.

  Eve tried to kick him, but he laughed and avoided her, wagging a finger at her as he did.

  They watched him skip away down the hall.

  Shane said, “Let me up, Michael, or fang me. One or the other.”

  “No,” Bishop said, and snapped his fingers to call Michael off when he snarled. “I may need the boy to control his father. Put them in a cage together.”

  Shane was hauled up and marched off, but not before he said, “Claire, I’ll find you.”

  “I’ll find you first,” she said.

  Bishop broke the lock on the book that Myrnin had given him, and opened it to flip the pages, as if looking for something in particular. He ripped out a page and pressed the two ends together to make a circle of paper, thickly filled with minute, dark writing. “Put this on your arm,” he said, and tossed it to Claire. She hesitated, and he sighed. “Put it on, or one of the many hostages to your good behavior will suffer. Do you understand? Mother, father, friends, acquaintances, complete strangers. You are not Myrnin. Don’t try to play his games.
”

  Claire slipped the paper sleeve over her arm, feeling stupid, but she didn’t see any alternatives.

  The paper felt odd against her skin, and then it sucked in and clung to her like something alive. She panicked and tried to pull it off, but she couldn’t get a grip on it, so closely was it sticking to her arm.

  After a moment of searing pain, it loosened and slipped off on its own.

  As it fluttered to the floor, she saw that the page was blank. Nothing on it at all. The dense writing that had been on it stayed on her arm—no, under the skin, as if she’d been tattooed with it.

  And the symbols were moving. It made her ill to watch. She had no idea what it meant, but she could feel something happening inside, something . . .

  Her fear faded away. So did her anger.

  “Swear loyalty to me,” Bishop said. “In the old tongue.”

  Claire got on her knees and swore, in a language she didn’t even know, and not for one moment did she doubt it was the right thing to do. In fact, it made her happy. Glowingly happy. Some part of her was screaming, He’s making you do this! but the other parts really didn’t care.

  “What shall I do with your friends?” he asked her.

  “I don’t care.” She didn’t even care that Eve was crying.

  “You will, someday. I’ll grant you this much: your friend Eve may go. I have absolutely no use for her. I will show I am merciful.” Claire shrugged.

  “I don’t care.”

  She did, she knew she did, but she couldn’t make herself feel it.

  “Go,” Bishop said, and smiled chillingly at Eve. “Run away. Find Amelie and tell her this: I have taken her town away, and all that she values. Tell her I have the book. If she wants it back, she’ll have to come for it herself.”

  Eve angrily wiped tears from her face, glaring at him. “She’ll come. And I’ll come with her. You don’t own jack. This is our town, and we’re going to kick you out if it’s the last thing we do.”

  The assembled vampires all laughed. Bishop said, “Then come. We’ll be waiting. Won’t we, Claire?”

  “Yes,” she said, and went to sit down on the steps by his feet. “We’ll be waiting.”

  He snapped his fingers. “Then let’s begin our celebration, and in the morning, we’ll talk about how Morganville will be run from now on. According to my wishes.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I had an especially great track list to help me through this book, and I thought you might enjoy listening along. Don’t forget: musicians need love and money, too, so buy the CDs or pay for tracks.

  Read on for an exciting excerpt from Rachel Caine’s next Morganville Vampires novel,

  CARPE CORPUS

  Coming in June 2009 from NAL Jam

  “Claire,” Bishop said. He didn’t sound pleased. “Did I summon you?”

  Claire’s heart jumped as if he’d used a cattle prod. She willed herself not to flinch. “No sir,” she said, and kept her voice low and respectful. “I came to ask a favor.”

  Bishop—who was wearing a plain black suit today, with a white shirt that had seen brighter days—picked a piece of lint from his sleeve. “The answer is no. Anything else?”

  Claire wet her lips and tried again. “I wanted to see Shane, sir. Just for a few—”

  “I said no,” Bishop snapped, and she felt his anger crackle through the room. Michael and a strange vamp both looked up at her, eyes luminously threatening. Myrnin—dressed in some ratty assortment of Goodwill reject pants and a frock coat from a costume shop, plus several layers of Mardi Gras beads—just seemed bored. He yawned, showing lethally sharp fangs.

  “Oh, don’t be so harsh,” Myrnin said, and rolled his eyes. “Let the girl have her moment. It’ll hurt her more in the end. Parting is such sweet sorrow, according to the bards. I wouldn’t know, myself.”

  Claire forgot to breathe. She hadn’t expected Myrnin, of all of them, to take up her cause—not that he had, really. But he’d given Bishop pause, and she kept very still, letting him think it over.

  Bishop finally crossed his arms, and Michael and the other vampire relaxed in their seats, like puppets with their strings loosened. “This will need supervision,” he said. “Myrnin, it’s your pet. Clean up after it.”

  Myrnin gave Bishop a lazy salute. “As my master commands.” He stood with that unconscious vampire grace that made Claire feel heavy, stupid, and slow, and his bright black eyes locked with hers for a long moment. If he was trying to tell her something, she had no idea what it was. “Out, girl. Master Bishop has work to do here.”

  Before she could even start to back away, Myrnin crossed the room and closed ice-cold fingers around her arm. She pulled in a breath for a gasp, but he didn’t give her time to react; she was yanked along with him down the hall, moving at a stumbling run.

  Myrnin stopped only when there were two closed doors, and about a mile of hallway, between them and Mr. Bishop.

  “Let go!” Claire spat, and tried to yank free. Myrnin looked down at her arm, where his pale fingers were still wrapped around it, and raised his eyebrows as if he couldn’t quite figure out what his hand was doing. Claire yanked again. “Myrnin, let go!”

  He did, and stepped back. She thought he looked disappointed for a flicker of a second, and then his loony smile returned. “Will you be a good little girl?”

  She glared at him.

  “Ah. Probably not. All right, then, on your head be it, little Claire. Come. I’ll take you to the boy.”

  He turned, and the skirts of his frock coat flared. He was wearing flip-flops again, and his feet were dirty, though he didn’t smell bad in general. Layers of cheap metallic beads clicked and rattled as he walked, and the slap of his flip-flops made him just about the noisiest vampire Claire had ever heard.

  “Are you taking your medicine?” she asked. Myrnin sent her a glance over his shoulder, and once again she didn’t know what his look meant at all. “Is that a no?”

  “I thought you hated me,” he said. “If you do, you really shouldn’t care, should you?”

  He had a point. Claire shut up and hurried along as he walked down a long, curved hallway to a big wooden door. There was a vampire guard at the door, a tall man who’d probably been Asian in his regular life but was now the color of old ivory. He wore his hair long, braided in the back, and he wasn’t much taller than Claire.

  Myrnin exchanged some Chinese words with the other vampire—who, like Michael, sported Bishop’s fang marks on his neck—and the vampire unlocked the door and swung it open.

  This was as far as Claire had ever been able to get. She felt a wave of heat race through her, and then she shivered. Now that she was here, actually walking through the door, she felt faintly sick with anticipation. If they’ve hurt him . . .

  Another locked door, another guard, and then they were inside a plain stone hallway with barred cells on the left side. No windows. No light except for blazing fluorescent fixtures far overhead. The first cell was empty. The second held two humans, but neither was Shane. Claire tried not to look too closely. She was afraid she might know them.

  The third cell had two small cots, one on each side of the tiny room, and a toilet and sink in the middle. Nothing else. There was an old man with straggly gray hair asleep on one of the beds, and it took Claire a few seconds to realize that he was Frank Collins, Shane’s dad. She was used to seeing him awake, and it surprised her to see him so . . . fragile.

  Shane was sitting on the other bed.

  He looked up from the book he was reading and jerked his head to get the hair out of his eyes. The guarded, closed-in look on his face reminded Claire of his father, but it shattered when Shane saw her.

  He dropped the book, surged to his feet, and was at the bars in a little under two seconds. His hands curled around the iron, and his eyes glittered wildly until he squeezed them shut.

  When he opened them again, he’d gotten himself under control. Mostly.

  “Hey,” Shane said, as if
they’d just run into each other in the hallway. As if months hadn’t gone by since they’d parted. “So . . . happy birthday.”

  Claire felt tears burn in her eyes, but she blinked them back and put on a brave smile. “Thanks,” she said. “What’d you get me?”

  “Um . . .” Shane looked around and shrugged. “Must have left it at the club. You know how it is, out all night partying, you get baked and forget where you parked the car.”