Rachel Caine - Carpe Corpus

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.

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.