Rachel Caine: Carpe Corpus

Claire managed to choke down the rest of her chili dog, but one was all she could manage. Despite Shane and Eve’s bantering, there was a sadness that hung around Michael like a second skin. He didn’t say much, except, “My parents are here. They flew in to El Paso and drove from there.”

Wow. Claire had never heard much about Michael’s parents, except that they’d moved away, and he’d never expected to see them back in town again. She finally said tentatively, “I guess that’s good . . . ?”

“Sure,” he said, and got up from the table. “I’m going to get ready.” He walked out, and the rest of them watched him leave. Eve looked very sad, suddenly. And very adult.

“His mom had cancer, you know,” she said. “That’s why they got to leave Morganville. Because she needed serious treatments. Sam made sure she got them. This is the first time they’ve been back.”

“Oh,” Claire said. “Is Michael okay?”

“He just won’t let it out,” she said. “Guys. What is it with you and emotions, anyway?”

“They’re like Kryptonite,” Shane said. “He’ll deal. Just give him time.”

Claire wasn’t too sure about that.

Michael drove, and nobody had much to say, really. It felt sad and uncomfortable.

As soon as the car stopped at the church, vampire escorts were at the doors to open them. The undead valet service. Under normal circumstances that might have been creepy, but there was something almost comforting about it tonight. Claire looked up and realized that the vampire offering a hand to her was, of all people, Oliver. She froze, and his eyebrows tilted sharply upward.

“Today, if you please,” he said. “I’m here as a courtesy. Don’t take it personally.”

“Oh, I don’t,” she promised, and accepted his strong, ice-cold touch to help her out of the car. Shane quickly took her arm, giving Oliver a go-away glare, which was a little funny, and then they fell in behind Michael and Eve.

It was bizarre, Claire thought. The church was full, standing room only to the back, but the crowd parted as they walked in, led by Oliver. And every head turned to follow them.

“Okay, this is weird,” Claire whispered. She felt like she had a target painted on her back at first, but then she realized that most of the people looking at them weren’t angry—they were interested. Or sympathetic. Or even proud.

“Very weird,” Shane whispered back.

The front row held Amelie, sitting alone, dressed in a white suit so cold and perfect that it made her look like an ice sculpture, head to toe. Behind her sat a man and woman in their late forties, and as soon as she saw them, Claire saw the family resemblance. The woman must have been really beautiful when she was younger; she was now very handsome, the way older women got, and her hair was a faded shade of gold with red highlights. They both stood up as Michael let go of Eve and came toward them.

“Honey,” Michael’s mother said, and Michael fell into a three-way embrace with both of his parents. “Oh, honey—”

“Mom, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t—I couldn’t do anything . . .” Michael’s voice failed, and Claire saw his shoulders shake. His mother smoothed his hair gently, and the smile she offered him was kind and full of understanding.

“Just like him,” she said. “Just like your grandfather. Don’t you apologize, Michael. Don’t you dare. I know you did everything you could. He’d never blame you, not for a second.”

Claire hadn’t realized that Michael felt guilty, but looking back on it now, she couldn’t imagine he wouldn’t. His mom was right—he was just like Sam, really.

He’d feel responsible.

Mrs. Glass looked past Michael, and her eyes focused on the rest of them. Claire first, then Shane, then Eve. She took a deep breath, moved toward them, and held out her hands to Eve for a hug. “I haven’t seen you in years, Eve. You look wonderful. And Shane . . .” She moved on to him. Shane wasn’t a hugger, not like Eve, but he tried his best. “I’m so glad you’re here for Michael.”

He looked down. Claire knew he was thinking about how angry he’d been with Michael over the past few months—too angry, sometimes. “He’s my best friend,” Shane said, and finally met Michael’s eyes. “Vampire or not. He always will be.”

Michael nodded.

Mrs. Glass hugged Claire, too. “And you’re Claire. I’ve heard so much about you. Thank you for all you’ve done for my son.”

Claire blinked. All she’d done? “I think it’s the other way around,” she said softly. “Michael’s a hero. He’s always been there for me.”

“Then you’ve been there for each other,” Mrs. Glass said. “True friends.”

The crowd was parting again, letting more people pass, and as Claire looked around, she saw her own mother and father. “Oh no,” she whispered. “I didn’t know they were back yet.”

“Your parents?” Michael’s mom asked, and Claire nodded. Mrs. Glass quickly moved to greet them, gracious and sad, and then they closed in on Claire.

And Shane.

She winced at the icy stares her parents gave Shane, but they knew better than to start that here, now. They took seats to Claire’s right, with Shane, Eve, Michael and his parents stretching out to her left.

And directly ahead, Amelie.

At the front of the church, surrounded by a blizzard of flowers of all colors, was a shiny black coffin with silver trim. The lid was closed. The discreet sound of organ music got louder, and the whispering buzz of the crowd in the church quieted as the door opened off to the side, and Father Joe came out, dressed in a blinding white cassock and a purple stole. He mounted the steps and looked out at the crowd with quiet authority. For a young priest, he had a lot of presence, but then Claire expected he’d have to, to serve a Morganville congregation that was composed equally of vampires and humans.

“We come to celebrate a life,” he said. “The life of Samuel Glass, a son of Morganville.”

Claire’s eyes blurred under a wash of tears. She couldn’t imagine Sam would have wanted to be remembered any other way, really. She barely heard the rest of what Father Joe said about Sam—she found that she was watching Amelie, or at least the very still back of Amelie’s head. Not a hair out of place, not a whisper of motion.

So quiet.

And then, suddenly, Amelie was getting up, in absolute silence, and walking up the steps. She stopped not at the podium, but at the coffin, and opened the hinged cover. It clicked into place, and Amelie stayed there for a moment, staring down at Sam’s face.

Then she turned and faced the hundreds of people gathered in the church.

“I met Samuel Glass here in this church,” Amelie said. Her tone was soft, but it carried. No one moved. No one coughed. As far as Claire could tell, no one breathed. “He came here to demand— demand —that I right some wrong he imagined I had done. He was like an angel with a flaming sword, full of fury and righteousness, with absolutely no fear of the consequences. No fear of me.” She smiled, but there was something broken in it. “I think I fell in love with him in that moment, when he was so angry with me. I fell in love with his fearlessness first, and then I realized that it was more than mere courage. It was a conviction that life must be made fair. That we must be better. And for a time . . . for a time I think we were.”

She paused, and looked again at Sam’s pale, still face.

“But I was weak,” she said. “Weak and afraid. And I let him slip away from me, because I didn’t have his courage, or his conviction. This moment, this loss, is my fault. Sam gave himself, again, to save lives. To save me. And I have never deserved it.”