Rachel Caine: Carpe Corpus

“Claire.” He closed the file and sat back in his old leather chair, which creaked and groaned. “How are you holding up?” He stood up to offer her his hand, which she shook, and then they both sat down. She’d gotten so used to seeing Richard in a neatly pressed police uniform that it still felt odd to see him in a suit—a nice pin-striped one today, in gray, with a blue tie. He wasn’t that old—not even thirty, she’d guess—but he carried himself like somebody twice his age.

They had that in common, she guessed. She didn’t feel seventeen these days, either.

“I’m okay,” she said, which was a lie. “Hanging in there. I came to—”

“I know what you’re going to ask,” Richard said. “The answer’s still no, Claire.” He sounded sorry about it, but firm.

Claire swallowed hard. She hadn’t expected to get a no right off the bat. Richard usually heard her out. “Five minutes,” she said. “Please. Haven’t I earned it?”

“Definitely. But it’s not my call. If you want permission to see Shane, you have to go to Bishop.” Richard’s eyes were kind, but unyielding. “I’m doing all I can to keep him alive and safe. I want you to know that.”

“I know you are, and I’m grateful. Really.” Her heart sank. Somehow, she’d had her hopes up, even though she’d known it wouldn’t work out, today of all days. She studied her hands in her lap. “How is he doing?”

“Shane?” Richard laughed softly. “How do you expect him to be? Pissed off. Angry at the world. Hating every minute of this, especially since he’s stuck in there with nobody but his father for company.”

“But you’ve seen him?”

“I’ve dropped in,” Richard said. “Official duties. So far, Bishop hasn’t seen fit to yank my chain and make me stop touring the cells, but if I try to get you in . . .”

“I understand.” She did, but Claire still felt heartsick. “Does he ask—”

“Shane asks about you every day,” Richard said very quietly. “Every single day. I think that boy might really love you. And I never thought I’d be saying that about Shane Collins.”

Her fingers were trembling now, a fine vibration that made her clench them into fists to make it stop. “It’s my birthday.” She had no idea why she said that, but it seemed to make sense at the time. It seemed important. Looking up, she saw she’d surprised him with that, and he was temporarily at a loss for words.

“Offering congratulations doesn’t seem too appropriate,” he said. “So. You’re seventeen, right? That’s old enough to know when you’re in over your head. Claire, just go home. Spend the day with your parents, maybe see your friends. Take care of yourself.”

“No. I want to see Shane,” she said.

He shook his head. “I really don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

He meant well; she knew that. He came around the desk and put his hand on her shoulder, a kind of half hug, and guided her back out the door.

I’m not giving up. She thought it, but she didn’t say it, because she knew he wouldn’t approve.

“Go home,” he said, and nodded to the man whose appointment Claire had taken. “Mr. Golder? Come on in. This is about your taxes, right?”

“Getting too damn expensive to live in this town,” Mr. Golder growled. “I ain’t got that much blood to give, you know.”

Claire hoisted her backpack and went out to try something else that might get her in to see Shane.

Of course, it was something a lot more dangerous.

She tried to talk herself out of it, but in the end, Claire went to the last place she wanted to go—to Founder’s Square, the vampire part of town. In broad daylight, it seemed deserted; regular people didn’t venture here anymore, not even when the sun was blazing overhead, although it was a public park. There were some police patrolling on foot, and sometimes she could believe there were shapes flitting through the shadows under the trees, or in the dark spaces of the large, spacious buildings that faced the parklike square.

Those weren’t people, though. Not technically.

Claire trudged down the white, smooth sidewalks, head down, feeling the sun beat on her. She watched the grimy, round tips of her red lace-up sneakers. It was almost hypnotic after a while.

She came to a stop as the tips of her shoes bumped into the first of a wide expanse of marble stairs. She looked up—and up—at the largest building on the square: big columns, lots of steps, one of those imposing Greek temple styles. This was the vampire equivalent of City Hall, and inside . . .

“Just go on already,” she muttered to herself, and hitched her backpack to a more comfortable position as she climbed the steps.

Claire felt two things as the edge of the roof’s shadow fell over her—relief, from getting out of the sun, and claustrophobia. Her footsteps slowed, and for a second she wanted to turn around and take Richard’s advice—just go home. Stay with her parents. Be safe.

Pretend everything was normal, like her mom did.

The big, shiny wooden doors ahead of her swung open, and a vampire stood there, well out of the direct glare of sunlight, watching her with the nastiest smile she’d ever seen. Ysandre, Bishop’s token sex-kitten vamp, was beautiful, and she knew it. She posed like a Victoria’s Secret model, as if at any moment an unexpected photo shoot might begin.

Just now, she was wearing a skintight pair of low-rise blue jeans, a tight black crop top that showed acres of alabaster skin, and a pair of black low-heeled sandals. Skank-vamp casual day wear. She smoothed waves of shiny hair back from her face and continued to beam an evil smile from lips painted with Hooker Red #5.

“Well,” she said low in her throat, sweet as grits and poisoned molasses, “look what the cat dragged in. Come on, little Claire. Y’all are letting all the dark out.”

Claire had hoped that Ysandre was dead, once and for all; she’d thought that was pretty much inevitable, since the last time she’d seen her Ysandre had been in Amelie’s hands, and Amelie hadn’t been in a forgiving kind of mood.

But here she was, without a mark on her. Something had gone really wrong for Ysandre to still be alive, but Claire had no real way of finding out what. Ysandre might tell her, but it would probably be a lie.

Claire, lacking any other real choice, came inside. She stayed as far away from the skank as she could, careful not to meet the Vampire Stare of Doom. She wasn’t sure that Ysandre had the authority to hurt her, but it didn’t seem smart to take chances.

“You come to talk to Mr. Bishop?” Ysandre asked. “Or just to moon around after that wretched boy of yours?”

“Bishop,” Claire said. “Not that it’s any of your business, unless you’re just a glorified secretary with fangs.”

Ysandre hissed out a laugh as she locked the doors behind them. “Well, you’re growing a pair, Bite-size. Fine, you skip off and see our lord and master. Maybe I’ll see him later, too, and tell him you’d be better at your job if you didn’t talk so much. Or at all.”

It was hard to turn her back on Ysandre, but Claire did it. She heard the vampire’s hissing chuckle, and the skin on the back of her neck crawled.

There was a touch of ice there, and Claire flinched and whirled to see her trailing pale, cold fingers in the air where the back of Claire’s neck had been.

“Where’d you learn to be a vampire?” Claire demanded, angry because she was scared and hating it. “The movies? Because you’re one big, walking, stupid cliché, and you know what? Not impressed. ”

They stared at each other. Ysandre’s smile was wicked and awful, and Claire didn’t know what to do, other than stare right back.