by Rachel Caine
Luckily, so did Shane. He slowly relaxed, and Claire saw Michael’s tension ease as well. “We talking, or are we walking?” Shane asked. “I thought we had someplace to be.”
Claire felt a sunburst of pride in him, and a longing that came with it—she wanted all of this to just stop; she wanted to go back to the night, the silence, the touch of his skin and the sound of his whispers. That was real. That was important.
It was a reason to live through all this.
She took Shane’s hand and squeezed it. He sent her a look. “What?”
She whispered, “You’re just full of awesome; did you know that?”
François made a face. “Full of something. In the car, fools.”
Founder’s Square at twilight was full of people—rock-concert full. Claire didn’t even know this many people lived in Morganville. “Did they grab the students, too?” she asked Michael.
“Bishop’s not quite that stupid. It’s residents only. University gates were closed. The place is under lock-down.”
“What, again? Even the stoners are going to figure out something’s going on.” Claire certainly would have, and she knew most of the students weren’t that gullible. Then again, knowing and wanting to push the status quo were two very different things. “You think they’ll stay on campus?”
“I think if they don’t, the problem’s going to solve itself,” Michael said somberly. “Amelie will try to protect them, but we’ve got a much bigger issue tonight.”
Technically, that challenge was saving Morganville, and everybody in it.
There were no chairs down on the grassy area, but Bishop’s vampires were out and about, and they were separating people at the entrances to the park and sending them to special holding areas. Or, Claire, thought, pens. Like sorting cattle. “What are they doing?”
“Dividing people according to their Protectors,” François said. “What else?”
Bishop had kept the Protection system, then—or at least, he hadn’t bothered to really dismantle it. People were being questioned at the gate. If they didn’t name a Protector, they got slapped with a big yellow sticker and herded into a big open area in the middle. “What if their Protector is one of Amelie’s rebels?” She knew the answer to that one. “Then they’re no longer Protected. They go in the middle, too?”
Michael looked pallid—not just vampire-pale, really stressed and upset, as if he knew what was coming before she did. Claire didn’t get it until François said, “Just like your friends,” and he grabbed Shane. Ysandre took hold of Eve. They both fought and cursed and tried to get free, but it was no use—they were shoved apart from Michael and Claire.
They were both dragged away to the big cordoned- off area in the center of the square. Claire tried to follow them, but Michael held her back. “Don’t,” he said. “Bishop may not know you’re out of his control yet. Tell him you were drugged by Hannah to keep you out of the way. It’s the truth; he’ll probably sense that.”
“What about Shane? Eve? God, how can you just stand there?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I know I have to. Claire, don’t screw this up. You won’t help them, and you’ll only get yourself killed.” He gave her a grim smile. “And me, because I’d have to get in the middle.”
Claire stopped fighting him, but she still couldn’t accept it. She saw why Richard had wanted people out of town who were at the highest risk; Bishop intended this to be a public spectacle.
His final act to make himself the undisputed ruler of Morganville. In the bad old days, that meant executing lots of people.
François took Claire’s arm and marched her up to the front, past angry, scared men and women she knew by sight, and some she’d never seen before. That section had a symbol taped to the barrier that surrounded it— she vaguely recognized it as the symbol for a vampire named Valerie, who’d joined Bishop in the first round of fighting. And yes, there was Valerie, standing inside the barricade with her humans, but looking very much as if she wished she was somewhere else. Anywhere else.
Past Valerie’s barricades was a big raised stage, at least twenty feet off the ground, with steps leading up to it. There were plush chairs, and carpet, and a red velvet backdrop behind it. Spotlights turned the sunset pale in contrast. The stage was empty, but there was a knot of people standing at the foot of the steps.
Richard Morrell was there, dressed in a spotless dark blue suit, with a sky blue tie. He looked like he was running for office, not about to fight for his life; apparently, he and Amelie had the same philosophy on looking good for the Apocalypse. Next to him, Hannah still wore her police uniform, but no belt—and no gun, handcuffs, baton, stakes, or pepper spray. They’d taken away the human cops’ weapons. There were other people, too—mostly vampires, but Claire recognized Dean Wallace, the head of TPU, and a few of the other prominent humans in town, including Mr. Janes, who was the CEO of the biggest bank in town. Mr. Janes had decided to stay. She’d seen his name on Richard’s evac list, and she’d seen him driving away from the warehouse instead of getting on the bus.
She wondered how Mr. Janes was feeling about that decision right now. Not too good, she was guessing. He kept looking out at the crowd, probably trying to find friends and family.
She knew how he felt.
Richard Morrell nodded to her. “You okay?”
Why did everybody always ask that? “Sure,” she lied. “What’s going to happen?”
“Wish I knew,” Richard said. “Stay close to Michael, whatever happens.”
She was going to do that regardless, but she appreciated that he cared. He patted her on the back, and under cover of shaking her hand, he pressed something into her hand.
It was a silver knife, no bigger than her finger. Razor-sharp, too. She tried not to cut herself—the last thing she wanted was for the vamps around her to smell blood—and managed to get it in the pocket of her hoodie without stabbing herself. From Richard’s warning look, she got that it was a weapon of last resort.
She nodded to let him know she understood.
A cordon of vampires closed in around them, including the tall, thin, sexless dude whom she’d last seen with the Goldmans. What was his name? Pennywell. Ugh. He had a thin smile, like he knew what was going to happen, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.
“Up,” he said, and jerked his chin to indicate that they were supposed to climb the steps. Richard went first—trying to set a good example, Claire supposed—and she followed, along with Hannah and Michael. It seemed like a long climb, and it reminded her of nothing else than those old stories about people getting hanged, or walking the last mile to the electric chair.
Up on the stage, it was a whole lot worse. There were hisses and boos from the crowd, quickly hushed, and Claire was blinded by the white spotlights, but she could feel thousands of people staring at her. I’m nobody, she wanted to shout. I don’t want to be up here!
They wouldn’t care about her motives, or her choices, or anything else. She was working for Bishop. That made her the enemy.
Richard took one of the chairs, and Dean Wallace sat next to him. Hannah stayed standing next to Richard’s chair, arms folded. Claire didn’t quite know what to do, so she stuck close to Michael as Mr. Janes claimed the last plush chair.
Two vampires came up the steps carrying Bishop’s massive carved throne, which they set right in the exact center of the carpeted stage.
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.<
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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!”