Rachel Caine: Carpe Corpus

He shoved Eve away, toward Claire, who kicked the knife far out of anybody’s reach. Eve whirled, evidently (and understandably) finding Myrnin more of a threat. Under the rice-powder makeup, her face was flushed, her eyes shining with fear.

Myrnin circled like a hyena. He grinned like one, too.

“Call him off,” Eve said. “Claire, call him off !”

“Myrnin, leave Eve alone. Please?” Which was about the closest Claire dared come to telling Myrnin to do anything, especially when he had that particular glow in his eyes. He was enjoying this. “I need to talk to her, and I can’t do that if you’re scaring the crap out of her. Please.”

He paced a few more steps, and she saw him get control of himself with a real physical effort. He sat down in a chair at the dining table and put his dirty feet up. “Fine,” he said, and crossed his arms. “Talk. I’ll just wait, shall I? Because my mission to save this town is of no importance whatsoever next to your girl talk. ”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Oh, shut up , you medieval drama queen.” Now that he was sitting down and the glow was gone from his eyes, she could say it, and he could acknowledge it with a snort and a roll of his shoulders.“Eve, I tried to call. I tried to come by and see you.” She was talking to her friend now, and Eve was staring right at her, not at Myrnin, as if Claire were the actual threat in the room. “Eve?”

“I heard you.”

“And?”

“And I’m thinking,” she said. “Because you’ve been awfully chummy with Fang-Daddy Bishop. You’re his little pet, scurrying around all over town, delivering his little love notes. Right?”

Claire couldn’t really dispute that. “Not like I had a choice,” she said. “Believe me, I’d rather not be in the middle of this, but he knew I belonged to Amelie. I was just another thing to take away from her, that’s all. He likes making her squirm by using me.”

Eve thawed just a tiny bit. “Sucks to be the object lesson.”

“You have no idea.”

“He hasn’t, you know . . . ?” Eve mimed the fang thing, just in case Claire thought she meant something else. Then she looked worried about that, too.

“He’s not interested in me at all,” Claire assured her. “I’m just some pawn for him to move around on the chessboard. And besides, Myrnin looks after me.” Myrnin waved his hand in the air, halfway between a dismissal and a prince’s lazy wave of acknowledgment. “He won’t let Bishop hurt me.” Well . . . not much. If he was paying attention. “How about you?”

“It’s been quiet,” Eve said, and looked away for a moment. “My brother’s been coming around to check on me.”

“Jason?” Wow, that was not the most comforting thing Claire could think of. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“No, he’s . . . I think he finally has his head on straight. He seems . . . different. Besides, I need somebody on my side, and he’s the only one still around.”

“Jason is the one who sold us out at the feast; do you remember that? He kicked this whole thing off! Talk about me being Bishop’s favorite—at least I didn’t choose it!” Not until today, anyway.

Eve sent her a fierce glare. “Jason’s still my brother. Hey, I wish he wasn’t, but it’s not like I got to pick my family!”

“You sound like Shane talking about his dad.”

“Did you just come here to insult me, or do you have a point ? Because if you don’t, I need to get to work.” Eve pushed away from the doorway and snatched up a patent-leather backpack and a set of keys, which she rattled impatiently. “That’s Latin for get the hell out , by the way. I’d think a college girl like you would know that.”

Myrnin slowly sat up, eyes going wider. “I’m sorry, little pale creature—did you just give us an order?”

“Not so much you as her, but yeah, if you want to take it that way. Sure, you knockoff Lestat. Get the hell out of my house.” Eve waited expectantly, but nothing happened. “Damn, that really doesn’t work anymore, does it?”

“Not since the owner of the house turned vampire,” Myrnin said, and stood up in that eerie way he had, as if gravity had just been canceled in his neighborhood. “Please feel free to try to make me leave. I’d quite enjoy it.”

“Myrnin.” Claire sighed. “Eve. We’re not enemies, okay? Stop poking at each other.”

That got her stares from both of them. Not nice ones.

“We’re just . . . passing through,” Claire said, and felt a surge of real regret. “On our way to . . . Where are we going?”

“Somewhere remote,” Myrnin said. “And I don’t intend to tell your angry little friend about it in any case. Finish your babble. It’s time to go.”

As if it was his idea, and they weren’t getting tossed out. Claire couldn’t resist rolling her eyes.

She caught Eve doing the same thing, and they shared sudden, sheepish grins.

“Sorry,” Claire murmured. “Honest, Eve. I miss you.”

“Yeah,” Eve said. “Miss you, too, freak. Wish I didn’t, sometimes, but there you go.”

Claire wasn’t sure which of them moved first, but it really didn’t matter; they both put their arms out, and the hug felt warm and good and real. Eve kissed her quickly on the cheek, then let go and hurried out, hiding her tears. “I’m leaving!” she shouted back, and disappeared into the hallway. “That means you should, too!” The front door slammed.

As Myrnin opened the portal in the wall, Claire grabbed up Shane’s sweatshirt and pulled it on over her clothes. It was huge on her. She rolled up the sleeves, and couldn’t resist lifting the neck to smell it one more time.

Myrnin smirked. “There is no drama so great as that of a teenage girl,” he said.

“Except yours.”

“Did no one ever teach you to respect your elders?” He grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her through the portal. “Mind the gap. Oh, and you have black lipstick on your cheek.”

They came out in a dim, damp basement—a generic sort of place, full of molding boxes. “You take me to the nicest places,” Claire said, and sneezed. Myrnin shoved boxes out of his way without bothering to answer, uncovering a set of iron steps that looked to be more rust than actual iron. Claire followed him up, testing every tread carefully along the way. The whole thing seemed ready to collapse, but they made it to the top, which featured . . . a locked door.

Myrnin patted his pockets, sighed, and punched the lock with his fist. It shattered. The door sagged open, and he bowed to her like an old-school gentleman. Which he was, she supposed, on his good days.

“Where are we?”

“Morganville High School.”

Claire hadn’t ever set foot in the place. She’d started her senior year at the age of fifteen, courtesy of her mutant freak-smart brain, but as they stepped out into the hallway, she felt like she’d traveled back in time. Only a year, actually, which made it especially weird.

Scarred, polished linoleum floors. Industrial green walls. Battered rows of lockers stretching the length of the hallway, most secured with dial locks. Butcher-paper posters and banners advertising the Drama Club’s production of Annie Get Your Gun and the band bake sale. The place smelled like industrial cleaners, sweat, and stress.

Claire paused to stare at the oversize painted mascot on the cinder-block wall at the end of the hallway.

“What?” Myrnin asked impatiently.

“Seriously. You guys have no sense of subtlety, do you?” It was the same image the boy at Richard Morrell’s office had worn on his T-shirt: a menacing viper lunging, with fangs displayed. Cute.

“I have no idea what you mean. Come on. We have very little time before classes let out—”