Carpe Corpus (20 page)

The bus closed its doors with a final hiss and pulled away from the deserted warehouse that served as a dropoff point for the departures. Three police cars fell in behind it, driven by people Hannah had handpicked.

Claire shivered, even though she was standing in the sun.
They’re leaving. They’re really leaving.
She felt very alone.

The bus looked so vulnerable.

“Cold?” A jacket settled around her shoulders. It smelled like Shane. “What did I miss?”

She turned, and there he was, wearing an old gray T-shirt and jeans. His leather jacket felt like a hug around her body, but it wasn’t enough; she dived into the warmth of his arms, and they clung together for a moment. He kissed the top of her head. “It’s okay,” he said. “They’ll be okay.”

“No, it’s not okay,” she said, muffled against his chest. “It’s just not.”

He didn’t argue. After a moment, she turned her head, and together they watched the caravan stream away toward the Morganville city limits.

“Why is it,” she asked in a plaintive little voice, “that I can fight vampires and risk death and they can accept that, but they can’t accept that I’m a woman, with my own life?”

Shane thought about that for a second; she could see him trying to work it out through the framework of his own admittedly weird childhood. “Must be a girl thing?”

“Yeah, must be.”

“So I’m guessing you told them.”

“Um . . . not on purpose. I didn’t expect them to be so . . . angry about it.”

“You’re their little girl,” Shane said. “You know, when I think about it, I’d feel the same way about my own daughter.”

“You would?” There was something deliciously warm about the fact that he wasn’t afraid to say that to her. “So,” she said, with an effort at being casual that was probably all too obvious. “You want to have a daughter, then?”

He kissed the top of her head. “Hit the brakes, girl.”

But he didn’t sound angry about it, or nervous. Just—as was usual with Shane—focused on what was in front of them right now. A sense of calm was slowly spreading through her, sinking deeper with every breath. It felt better when she was with him. Everything felt better.

Shane asked, “What about the Goldmans? Were they on the bus, too?”

“I didn’t see the Goldmans,” Claire said. “Hannah?”

Hannah Moses was still standing nearby, signing papers on a clipboard that another uniformed Morganville cop had handed her. She glanced toward the two of them. “Couldn’t get to them,” she said. “Myrnin was going to arrange that, but we’ve got no way to get them out of Bishop’s control right now. The clock’s running, and it’s only a matter of minutes before Bishop finds out what we just did, if he hasn’t already.”

Richard Morrell’s phone rang. He unclipped it from his belt and checked the number, then flipped it open and walked away to talk for a moment. Claire watched him pace, shoulders hunched, as he had his conversation. When he folded up the phone and came back, his face was tense. “He knows,” he said. “Bishop’s calling a town hall meeting for tonight at Founder’s Square. Everybody must attend. Nobody stays home.”

“Oh, come on. You can’t get everybody in town to a meeting. What if they don’t get the message? What if they just don’t want to do it?” Claire asked. Even in Morganville, making people stick to rules—whatever the rules were—was like herding cats.

Richard and Hannah exchanged a look. “Bishop’s not one for taking excuses,” she said. “If he says everybody has to be at the meeting, he’ll make it open season on anybody who isn’t there. That’s his style.”

Richard was already nodding his agreement. “We need to get word out. Knock on every door, every business. Lock off the campus and keep the students out of this. We’ve got six hours before sundown. Let’s not waste one minute.”

Shane was drafted into helping a whole crowd of people load supplies into the warehouse—food, water, clothing, radios, survival-type stuff. Claire wasn’t sure why, and she didn’t think she really wanted to know; the atmosphere was quiet, purposeful, but tense. Nobody asked questions. Not now.

The first of Bishop’s vampires showed up about two hours later, driving slowly past the perimeter in one of the city-issued cars with tinted windows. Hannah’s strike team stopped the car, and Claire was surprised to see them fling a blanket over the vampire as he was dragged out of the shelter into the sun, and hauled off to be confined under cover.

“Most of Bishop’s people are really Amelie’s,” Hannah explained. “Amelie would like us to keep them alive, if we can. She can turn them back, once Bishop’s gone. Call it temporary insanity—not a killing kind of offense, even for vampires. We just need to keep them out of commission, that’s all.”

Well, that sounded deceptively easy to Claire’s ears; she didn’t think Bishop’s converts—even the unwilling ones—would be all that eager to be put on the bench. Still, Hannah seemed to know what she was doing. Hopefully. “So that’s the plan: we just grab every vamp who comes looking?”

“Not quite.” Hannah gave her a slight smile. “You do know I’m not telling you the plan, right?”

Right, Claire was still on the wrong side. She glared down at her much-faded tattoo, which was still moving under her skin, but weakly, like the last flutters of a failing butterfly. It itched. “I wish this thing would just
die
already.”

“Has Bishop tried to reach you through it?”

“Not recently. Or if he has, I can’t feel it anymore.” That would be excellent, if it really was a bad connection. Maybe she was in a no-magic-signal dead zone. “So what can I do?”

“Go knock on doors,” Hannah said. “We’ve got a list of names that we’re still looking for, for the second bus. You can go with Joe Hess.”

Claire’s eyes widened. “He’s okay?” Because she had an instant sense memory of the feeling of that death warrant in her hands, the one she’d given to him.

“Sure,” Hannah said. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

Claire had no idea what had happened, but she liked Detective Hess, and at least riding around with him would give her a feeling of forward motion, of doing something useful. Everyone else seemed to have a purpose. All she could think about was that her parents were on a bus heading out of town, and she didn’t know what was going to happen to them. Or
could
happen to them.

She wished she’d said a better good-bye. She wished they hadn’t been so upset with her about Shane.
Well, they’re going to have to get used to it
, she thought defiantly, but even to herself, it felt weak and a little selfish.

But being with Shane wasn’t a mistake. She knew it wasn’t.

Joe Hess was driving his own car, but it had all the cool cop stuff inside—a radio, one of those magnetic flashing lights to go on the roof, and a shotgun that was locked into a rack in the back. He was a tall, quiet man who just had a way about him that put her at ease. For one thing, he never looked at her like some annoying kid; he just looked at her as a person. A young person, true, but someone to take seriously. She wasn’t quite sure how she’d earned that from him, considering the death warrant delivery.

“I’m locking the doors,” he told her as she climbed into the passenger seat, half a second before the
click-thump
sound echoed through the car. “Nice to see you, Claire.”

“Thanks. It’s good to see you, too. What about the buses?” she said. “Are they out of town yet?”

“Amelie herself escorted them through the barrier a few minutes ago,” he said. “There was a little bit of trouble at the border, nothing we couldn’t handle. They’re on their way. Nobody was hurt.”

That eased a tight knot in her chest that she hadn’t even known was there. “Where are they going—No, don’t tell me. I probably don’t need to know, right?”

“Probably not,” he agreed, and gave her a sidelong look. “You okay?”

She looked out the car window and shrugged. “My parents are on one of those buses, that’s all. I’m just worried.”

He kept sending her looks as he drove, and there was a frown on his face. “And tired,” he said. “When you left me, did you go back to Bishop? Did he hurt you?”

There really wasn’t an easy answer to that. “He didn’t hurt me,” she finally said. “Not . . . personally.”

“I guess that’s part of what I was asking,” he said. “But that doesn’t answer my question, really.”

“You mean, am I in need of serious therapy because of all this?” Another shrug seemed kind of appropriate. “Yeah, probably. But this is Morganville. That’s not exactly the worst thing that could happen.” She turned her head and looked directly at him. “What was on the scroll I gave you?”

He was quiet for so long she thought he was blowing off the question, but then he said, “It was a death warrant.”

She already knew that. “Not yours, though.”

“No,” he said. “Someone else’s.”

“Whose?”

“Claire—”

“It doesn’t matter. We got it reversed. It’s not an issue anymore.”

“I delivered it. I have a right to know.”

For answer, Joe dug into the pocket of his sports jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, still curling at the edges, with fragments of wax clinging to the outside. He held it out to her.

Claire unfolded it. The paper was stiff and crackly, old paper, with a faintly moldy smell to it. The handwriting—Bishop’s—was spiky and hard to read, but the name was done larger and underlined.

Eve Rosser.

“That’s not happening,” Joe said. “I just wanted you to know that. If he tells you about it, I wanted you to understand that Eve is perfectly safe, all right? Nothing will happen to her. Claire, do you understand me?”

She’d carried an order to him to kill her best friend.

Claire couldn’t think. Couldn’t feel anything except a vast, echoing sense of shock. She tried to read the rest of the paper, but her eyes kept moving back to Eve’s name, going over and over it.

She folded up the paper and held it clutched tightly in one hand.
Breathe.
She felt light-headed and a little sick.

“Why you?” she asked faintly. “Why give it to you?”

“That’s Bishop’s style. He picks out people least likely to do what he wants, so he can punish them when they refuse to carry out the order. Object lessons for the rest of Morganville. He knew I wouldn’t kill Eve. Not a chance. This was less about his wanting to get rid of Eve than to get rid of me.”

She still felt cold. Sure, Detective Hess wouldn’t have done it, but what if she’d been told to take it to someone else? Monica, maybe?

Eve might be dead right now, and it would have been all her fault.

She felt the death warrant being tugged out of her fingers. When she opened her eyes, fighting back tears, Detective Hess was slipping it back into his pocket. “I just wanted you to understand what we’re up against,” he said. “And to understand that no matter what happens, some of us will never do what he wants.”

Claire realized that she couldn’t count herself in that club. She’d already done what Bishop wanted.

More than once.

God, she
really
didn’t want to think about how far she’d wandered into that swamp, but she was definitely up to her butt in alligators.

“All right, back to business.” Hess handed her a piece of paper. “These are the people we still need to find,” he said. “I heard about what happened with Frank Collins. You and Shane were there?”

She really wasn’t up to talking about that. “Dr. Mills is with Amelie,” she said. “You can cross him off this list. She isn’t going to send him out of town.”

All around Morganville, as they drove, there were signs things were happening—people gathering in groups, whispering at fences, and pausing to stare hard at the passing car. No vampires in sight, but then Claire wouldn’t expect there to be so close to noon. “What is this?” she asked. Hess shook his head.

“There’s still a pretty strong antivampire movement in town,” he said. “It got stronger these last few months. I’ve been trying to keep them calmed down, because if they start this now, they’ll just get themselves killed. And most of them aren’t looking at Amelie’s side as anything but another target. We can’t afford that until Bishop’s gone.”

“So what do we do about it?”

“Nothing. Nothing we can do right now. Bishop’s the one pushing the agenda, not us. If he wants a fight tonight, he’s going to get one. Maybe bigger than he wants.”

The fourth address on the list was an apartment—there weren’t many apartment buildings in Morganville, since most people lived in single-family houses, but there were a few. Like in any small town, the complexes varied from crappy to less crappy; there was no such thing as luxury multifamily housing.

The apartment complex they stopped at was on the crappy end of the short spectrum. It was stucco over brick, painted a sun-faded pink, with two stories of apartments built into an open square on a central . . . well, Claire guessed you could call it a courtyard, if you liked a view that included a dry swimming pool with dark scum at one end, some spiky, untrimmed bushes, and an overflowing trash can.

Joe Hess checked apartment numbers. If the run-down appearance of the place bothered him, he didn’t show it. When they reached number twenty-two, he banged loudly on the door. “Police, open up!” he yelled, and pushed Claire out of the way when she tried to stand next to him. He gave her a silent
stay there
gesture, and listened. She couldn’t hear a thing from inside.

Neither could he, apparently. He shook his head, but as they turned to go, Claire clearly heard someone inside the apartment say, “Help.”

She froze, staring at Detective Hess. He’d heard it, too, and he gestured her even farther back as he pulled his gun from the holster under his jacket. “Willie Combs? You okay in there? It’s Joe Hess. Answer me, Willie!”

“Help,” the voice came again, weaker this time.

Hess tried the door, but it was locked. He took in a deep breath. “Claire, you stay right there.
Do not come in.
Hear me?”

She nodded. He whirled and kicked into the door, and the cheap hollow wood splintered and flew open on the second try, sending wood and metal flying.