Carpe Corpus

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.

Detective Hess disappeared inside. Claire saw curtains fluttering and blinds tenting as people looked out to see what was going on, but nobody came outside.

Not even in the middle of the day.

It seemed like a very long time until Detective Hess came out with someone held in his arms. It was a girl about Claire’s age, pretty, dressed in a Morganville High T-shirt and sweatpants, like she’d just dropped in from gym class.

She wasn’t moving, and he was holding a towel on her neck.

“Call an ambulance,” he ordered Claire. “Tell them it’s a rush, and bring the bite kit.”

“Is she—”

“She’s alive,” he said, and stretched her out on the concrete, still holding the towel in place. Hess looked up at her with fury shining in his eyes. “Her name is Theresa. Theresa Combs. She’s the oldest of the three kids.”

Claire went cold, and looked at the doorway of the apartment. “They’re not—”

“Let’s focus on the living,” he said. “Hold this on her throat, just like this.” She knelt beside him and pressed her small fingers where his larger ones were. It felt like she was pressing too hard, but he nodded. “Good. Keep doing that. I’m going to make one more sweep inside, just to be sure.”

As he stepped over the girl and back into the apartment, Theresa’s eyes fluttered, and she looked at Claire. Big, dark eyes. Desperate. “Help,” she whispered. “Help Jimmy. He’s only twelve.”

Claire took her hand. “Shhhh. Just rest.”

Theresa’s eyes filled up with tears. “I tried,” she said. “I really tried. Why is this happening to us? We didn’t do anything wrong. We followed all the rules.”

Claire couldn’t do anything to help her, except hold her hand and keep the towel over her throat, just like Detective Hess said. When he came back to the doorway, drawn by the distant howl of an approaching siren, she looked up at him in miserable hope.

He shook his head.

They didn’t speak at all until the paramedics took Theresa away. Claire stayed where she was, on her knees, staring at the blood speckling her trembling fingers. Detective Hess crouched down and handed her a moist wipe, with the attitude of somebody who’d done that sort of thing a lot. He patted her gently on the shoulder. “Deep breaths,” he said. “I’m sorry you had to see that. Good job taking care of Theresa. You probably saved her life.”

“Who did that to them?” Once she started wiping her hands, she really couldn’t stop. “Why?”

“It’s been happening all over town,” Hess said. “People whose Protectors went over to Bishop. People who lost their Protectors in the fight. People whose Protectors never cared enough in the first place. Half of this town is nothing but a mobile blood supply right now.” The look on his face, when she glanced up, was enough to make her shiver. “Maybe the crazies are right. Maybe we should kill all the vampires.”

“Yeah,” Claire said, very softly. “Because people never kill people, right?”

He had Eve’s death warrant in his pocket.

He didn’t argue about it.

They found another five people on Ha

By four p.m., the last bus was motoring out of Morganville, heading for parts unknown (to Claire, at least), and she was left standing with those who were left. Richard Morrell. Ha

Without warning, Claire felt a burning sensation on her arm.

When she pulled back her sleeve, she saw the tattoo was swirling, like a pot of stirred ink under her skin. Bishop was trying to pull her in. She could feel the impulse to walk out of the warehouse and head for Founder’s Square, but she resisted.

When she was afraid she couldn’t hold back anymore, she told Shane. He put his arms around her. “I’m not letting you go anywhere,” he promised. “Not without me.”

The impulse felt like a string tied around her guts, pulling relentlessly. It was a

Claire felt a hot sting in her arm, and then calm spread like ice through her veins. It was a relief, but it didn’t touch the burning on her arm, or the anxiety boiling in her stomach. Her body still wasn’t her own.

“She’ll sleep for a while,” Ha

Claire couldn’t open her eyes, or tell them that she wasn’t really asleep at all. She seemed to be—she got that—but she was desperately awake underneath. Painfully awake.

Shane kissed her, warm and gentle, and she felt his hand smooth her hair and trace down her cheek. Don’t leave me, she wanted to tell him, but she couldn’t make herself move or speak.

Her heartbeat thudded, slow and calm, even though she felt the panic building inside her.

She felt herself carried somewhere, tucked into a warm bed and piled with blankets.

Then silence.

Her eyes opened, as if someone else was controlling them, and as she sat up, she saw someone standing in the corner of the darkened room where they’d left her.

Ada.

The ghost put a pale, flickering finger to her lips and motioned for Claire to sit up. She did, although she had no idea why.