by Rachel Caine
It felt so far away now, like it belonged to someone else. Someone who wasn’t facing a shiny future as an evil minion, and trapped in Morganville forever.
Except for her parents, the photograph was really the only thing in this whole house that she’d miss if she never came back.
And that was, unexpectedly, kind of sad.
Claire stood in the doorway for a long moment, looking at her past, and then she closed the door and walked away to whatever the future held.
2
Morganville didn’t look all that different now from when Claire had first come to town, and she found that really, really odd. After all, when the evil overlords took over, you’d think it would have made some kind of visible difference, at least.
But instead, life still went on—people went to work, to school, rented videos, and drank in bars. The only real difference was that nobody roamed around alone after dark. Not even the vampires, as far as she knew. The dark was Mr. Bishop’s hunting time.
Even that wasn’t as much of a change as you’d think, though. Sensible people in Morganville had never gone out after dark if they could help it. Instincts, if nothing else.
Claire checked her watch. Eleven a.m.—and she really didn’t have to go to the lab. In fact, the lab was the last place she wanted to be today. She didn’t want to see her supposed boss Myrnin, or hear his rambling crazy talk, or have to endure his questions about why she was so angry with him. He knew why she was angry. He wasn’t that crazy.
Her dad had been right on the money. She intended to spend the day trying to help Shane.
First step: see the mayor of Morganville—Richard Morrell.
Claire didn’t have a car, but Morganville wasn’t all that big, really, and she liked walking. The weather was still good—a little cool even during the day now, but crisp instead of chilly. It was what passed for winter in west Texas, at least until the snowstorms. They’d had a few days of fall, which meant the leaves were a sickly yellow around the edges instead of dark green. She’d heard that fall was a beautiful season in other parts of the country and the world, but around here, it was more or less a half hour between blazing summer and freezing winter.
As she walked, people noticed her. She didn’t like that, and she wasn’t used to it; Claire had always been one of the Great Anonymous Geek Army, except when it came to a science fair or winning some kind of academic award. She’d never stood out physically—too short, too thin, too small—and it felt weird to have people focus on her and nod, or just plain stare.
Word had gotten around that she was Bishop’s errand girl. He’d never made her do anything, really, but he made her carry his orders.
And bad things happened. Making her do it, while she was still wearing Amelie’s bracelet, was Bishop’s idea of a joke.
All the staring made the walk feel longer than it really was.
As she jogged up the steps to Richard’s replacement office—the old one having been mostly trashed by a tornado at City Hall—she wondered if the town had appointed Richard as mayor just so they didn’t have to change any of the signs. His father—the original Mayor Morrell, one of those Texas good ol’ boys with a wide smile and small, hard eyes—had died during the storm, and now his son occupied a battered old storefront with a paper sign in the window that read, MAYOR RICHARD MORRELL, TEMPORARY OFFICES.
She would be willing to bet that he wasn’t very happy in his new job. There was a lot of that going around.
A bell tinkled when Claire opened the door, and her eyes adjusted slowly to the dimness inside. She supposed he kept the lights low out of courtesy to vampire visitors—same reason he’d had the big glass windows in front blacked out. But it made the small, dingy room feel like a cave to her—a cave with bad wallpaper and cheap, thin carpeting.
Richard’s assistant looked up and smiled as Claire shut the door. “Hey, Claire,” she said. Nora Harris was a handsome lady of about fifty, neatly dressed in dark suits most of the time, and had a voice like warm chocolate butter sauce. “You here to see the mayor, honey?”
Claire nodded and looked around the room. She wasn’t the only person who’d come by today; there were three older men seated in the waiting area, and one geeky-looking kid still working off his baby fat, wearing a T-shirt from Morganville High with their mascot on it—a snake, fangs exposed. He looked up at her, eyes wide, and pretty obviously scared, and she smiled slightly to calm him down. It felt weird, being the person other people were scared to see coming.
None of the adults looked at her directly, but she could feel them studying her out of the corners of their eyes.
“He’s got a full house today, Claire,” Nora continued, and nodded toward the waiting area. “I’ll let him know you’re here. We’ll try to work you in.”
“She can go ahead of me,” one of the men said. The others looked at him, and he shrugged. “Don’t hurt none to be nice.”
But it wasn’t being nice; Claire knew that. It was simple self-interest, sucking up to the girl who acted as Bishop’s go-between to the human community. She was important now. She hated every minute of that.
“I won’t be long,” she said. He didn’t meet her gaze at all.
Nora gestured her toward the closed door at the back. “I’ll let him know you’re coming. Mr. Golder, you’ll be next as soon as she’s done.”
Mr. Golder, who’d given up his place for Claire, nodded back. He was a sun-weathered man, skin like old boots, with eyes the color of dirty ice. Claire didn’t know him, but he smiled at her as she passed. It looked forced.
She didn’t smile back. She didn’t have the heart to pretend.
Claire knocked hesitantly on the closed door as she eased it open, peeking around the edge like she was afraid to catch Richard doing something . . . well, non mayorly. But he was just sitting behind his desk, reading a file folder full of papers.
“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 tre
mbling 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.
Ysandre finally laughed softly and melted into the shadows.
Gone.
Claire took a deep breath and went on her way—a way she knew all too well. It led down a hushed, carpeted hallway into a big, circular atrium armored in marble, with a dome overhead, and then off to the left, down another hallway.
Bishop always knew when she was coming.
He stared right at her as she entered the room. There was something really unsettling about the way he watched the door, waiting for her. As bad as his stare was, though, his smile was worse. It was full of satisfaction, and ownership.
He was holding a book open in his hand. She recognized it, and a chill went down her spine. Plain leather cover with the embossed symbol of the Founder on it. That book had nearly gotten her killed the first few weeks she’d been in Morganville, and that had been well before she’d had any idea of its power.
It was a handwritten account, written mostly in Myrnin’s code, with all his alchemical methods. All the secrets of Morganville, which he’d documented for Amelie. It had details even Claire didn’t know about the town. About Ada. About everything.
It also contained jotted-down notes for what she could think of only as magic spells, like the one that had embedded the tattoo in her arm. She had no idea what else was in it, because Myrnin himself couldn’t remember, but Bishop had wanted that book very, very badly. It was the most important thing in Morganville to him—in fact, Claire suspected it was why he’d come here in the first place.
He snapped the book closed and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket, where a religious person might keep a copy of the Bible handy.
The room he’d taken over for his own was a big, carpeted office, with a small, fancy sofa and chairs at one end of it, and a desk at the other. Bishop never sat at the desk. He was always standing, and today was no different. Three other vampires sat in visitors’ chairs—Myrnin, Michael Glass, and a vamp Claire didn’t recognize . . . she wasn’t even sure whether it was a man or a woman, actually. The bone structure of the pale face looked female, but the haircut wasn’t, and the hands and arms looked too angular.
Claire focused on the stranger to avoid looking at Michael. Her friend—and he was still her friend; he couldn’t help being in this situation any more than she could—wouldn’t meet her eyes. He was angry and ashamed, and she wished she could help him. She wanted to tell him, It’s not your fault, but he wouldn’t believe that.
Still, it was true. Michael didn’t have a magic tattoo on his
arm; instead, he had Bishop’s fang marks in his neck, which worked just as well for the life-challenged. She could still see the livid shadow of the scars on his pale skin.
Bishop’s bite was like a brand of ownership.
“Claire,” Bishop said. He didn’t sound pleased. “Did I summon you for some reason I’ve forgotten?”
Claire’s heart jumped as if he’d used a cattle prod. She willed herself not to flinch. “No, sir,” she said, and kept her voice low and respectful. “I came to ask a favor.”
Bishop—who was wearing a plain black suit today, with a white shirt that had seen brighter days—picked a piece of lint from his sleeve. “Then the answer is no, because I don’t grant favors. Anything else?”
Claire wet her lips and tried again. “It’s a small thing—I want to see Shane, sir. Just for a few—”
“I said no, as I have half a hundred times already,” Bishop said, and she felt his anger crackle through the room. Michael and the strange vamp both looked up at her, eyes luminously threatening—Michael against his will, she was sure. Myrnin—dressed in some ratty assortment of Goodwill-reject pants and a frock coat from a costume shop, plus several layers of cheap, tacky Mardi Gras beads—just seemed bored. He yawned, showing lethally sharp fangs.
Bishop glared at her. “I am very tired of you making this request, Claire.”
“Then maybe you should say yes and get it over with.”
He snapped his fingers. Michael got to his feet, pulled there like a puppet on a string. His eyes were desperate, but there seemed to be nothing he could do about it. “Michael. Shane is your friend, as I recall.”
“Yes.”
“ ‘Yes, my lord Bishop.’ ”
Claire saw Michael’s throat bob as he swallowed what must have been a huge chunk of anger. “Yes,” he said. “My lord Bishop.”
“Good. Fetch him here. Oh, and bring some kind of covering for the floor. We’ll just remove this irritation once and for all.”