Carpe Corpus (25 page)

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.

Obviously, Amelie had thought so, too. And Michael, because he went for Oliver in a big way, and was brought down by Pennywell and two others.

Worse, though, was the next prisoner, also wrapped in silver chains, and suffering a lot worse than Amelie from the touch of the poisonous metal. His skin smoked and blackened where it touched him, because he was younger and more fragile than she was.

Sam Glass.

Amelie cried out when she saw him, and closed her eyes. She’d lost her careful detachment, and now Claire could see in her how much she cared. How much she wanted Sam.

How much she loved him.

Bishop smiled, and in that smile, Claire saw everything. He didn’t want to just destroy Morganville; he wanted to destroy life, and hope, and reasons for living at all. He could win only if he was the last vampire standing, no matter how many people that meant he had to kill along the way.

“You couldn’t have won, Amelie,” he said, and the tattoo on Claire’s arm flared back into view, weaving its way up from a single spot of indigo on her wrist until it covered her arm. Then her chest. She felt it spreading like poison through her whole body, burning, and then it flared out like a brush fire. Gone for real, this time. “There, you can have your little pet back now. I no longer have need for her. She helped me learn everything I needed to know.”

“I doubt that,” Amelie said. Her voice was ragged with emotion, but she held her father’s stare. “I was careful to keep things from her.”

“Not so careful to keep them from Oliver, though. And that was a mistake.” He tipped her chin up to meet her eyes. “Morganville is mine. You are mine. Again.”

“Then take what’s yours,” Amelie said. She seemed weak now. Defeated. “Kill, if you wish. Burn. Destroy. When it’s over, what do you have, Father? Nothing. Exactly what you’ve always had. We came here to build. To
live.
It’s not something you would ever understand.”

“Oh, I do understand. I just despise it. And here,” Bishop said, “is where you die.”

He yanked Amelie’s head to the side, and for a horrible second Claire thought she was going to see him kill her, right there, but then he laughed and kissed her on the throat.

“Though, of course, not at my hands,” he said. “It wouldn’t be moral, after all. We must set a good example, or so you like to tell me, child. I’ll let your humans kill you, eventually. Once you’ve begged for the privilege.”

He shoved Amelie aside, into Pennywell’s hands, and instead, he grabbed Sam Glass.

“No!” Michael shouted, and leaped to his feet to stop it.

He couldn’t. Claire caught sight of Sam’s pale, set face, of a determination she couldn’t understand, and of Michael being brought down ten feet away, as Bishop exposed Sam’s throat and bit him.

Amelie’s scream tore through the air. Myrnin—still shaking and weak—crawled toward her. Ysandre kicked him aside, laughing.

Oliver just
stood there
, like an ice sculpture. Only his eyes were alive, and even they didn’t show Claire anything she understood.

Michael wasn’t there to hold Claire down anymore. She scrambled to her feet, clutched the silver knife, and plunged it into Ysandre’s back as deeply as she could. It dug into bone.

“Oh,” Ysandre said, annoyed. She tried to get at the knife, but it was out of her reach. She turned on Claire with a snarl, then staggered. Shock blanked her pretty face, and then worry.

Then fear, as the burning started.

She fell, screaming for help. Claire vaulted over her to kneel next to Myrnin. He was fighting his way back through the pain, panting, and his eyes were bright crimson from the stress, and probably hunger.

He wasn’t out of control, though. Not anymore. “Get me up,” he demanded. “
Do it now!
”

She offered him a hand, and he used it to haul himself to his feet—unsteady, but stronger than she’d ever seen him. This was a different Myrnin . . . sleek, glossy, dark, and dangerous, with his glowing, angry eyes fixed on Bishop.

“Stop him!” Claire yelled at Myrnin, as he just
stood
there. Sam was dying. Myrnin was letting it happen. “It’s Sam! You have to stop him!”

Instead, Myrnin turned and attacked Pennywell.

“No! Myrnin, no!
Sam!
”

Oliver still wasn’t moving. He was staring at Bishop. Waiting.

They were all waiting.

Down in the crowd, screaming had started, and as Claire looked out she saw that people were trying to run. There were vampires moving through the crowd—hunters, taking victims. The Morganville humans were fighting for their lives. A lot of people had shown up armed to their own funerals, including Shane and Eve; Claire caught glimpses of them down there, and all she could do was pray they’d be okay. They had each other for protection, at least.

She had to help Michael. Claire didn’t dare grab the knife from Ysandre’s back—it was the only thing keeping her out of the fight—but she couldn’t just stand there, either.

Luckily, she didn’t have to. Hannah Moses shouted her name, and as Claire turned, she saw Hannah throwing something at her. She instinctively reached up to catch it.

It was a sharp wooden stake. Hannah didn’t wait to see what she was going to do with it; she was already heading for François, who was trying to get hold of Richard Morrell. Hannah leaped on the nasty little vampire, pinned him with an expert shift of her weight, and plunged her own wooden stake through his heart. It wouldn’t kill him, probably, but he was out of the struggle until somebody removed it.

Michael had already won his fight by the time Claire got there; he was bloodied and a little unsteady, but he grabbed her arm and yelled, “Get out of here!”

“We have to save Sam!” she protested.

But it was too late for that.

Bishop dropped Sam limply to the carpeted floor, and Claire could see that if Sam was still alive, he wouldn’t be for long. The holes in his throat were barely leaking at all, and he wasn’t moving.

Fury whited out her good sense.

Claire ran at Bishop as he turned, and rammed the stake at his chest, right on target for where his heart would be, if he had one at all.

He caught her wrist.

“No,” he said gently, like someone with a pet who’d piddled on the good furniture. “I’ll not be taken by the likes of you, little girl.”

She tried to get away, but she knew it was over; there was just no way she was getting out of this. Michael had gotten into a fight along the way to reach Sam. Amelie was down on her knees, still bound by all the silver chains. Hannah and Richard were back-to-back, defending themselves against three vampire guards.

Myrnin was fighting Pennywell, and destroying half the stage along the way. There was some old hate there. History.

Oliver had drifted closer to Amelie, although Claire couldn’t see any change in him at all. He still wasn’t fighting, for or against, and he certainly wasn’t making any heroic effort to save
her
.

“Claire!”

Shane. She heard him scream her name, but he was too far away—twenty feet down, at the foot of the stage, looking up.

He had a knife in his hand. As she looked down to meet his eyes, he flipped it, grabbed it by the blade, and threw it.

The knife grazed her cheek, but it hit Mr. Bishop right in the center of his chest.

He laughed. “Your young man has quite the throwing arm,” he said, and pulled the knife out as casually as a splinter. Not silver. It wouldn’t do a thing to him. “Your friends like to think they still have a chance, but they don’t. There’s no . . . ”

Then the oddest thing happened. . . . Bishop seemed to hesitate. His eyes went blank and distant, and for a second Claire thought he was just savoring his victory.