Carpe Corpus Page 0,7

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 cliche, 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