Lord of Misrule

“Let’s just get to the building,” Shane said. “We can’t do much until we find Richard.”

Only it wasn’t that simple, even getting in. The underground parking was crammed full of cars, parked haphazardly at every angle. As Eve inched through the shadows, looking for any place to go, she shook her head. “If we do manage to get people to leave, they won’t be able to take their cars. Everybody’s blocked in,” she said. “This is massively screwed up.” Claire, for her part, thought some of it seemed deliberate, not just panic. “Okay, I’m going to pull it against the wall and hope we can get out if we need to.”

The elevator was already locked down, the doors open but the lights off and buttons unresponsive. They took the stairs at a run.

The first-floor door seemed to be locked, until Shane pushed on it harder, and then it creaked open against a flood of protests.

The vestibule was full of people.

Morganville’s City Hall wasn’t all that large, at least not here in the lobby area. There was a big, sweeping staircase leading up, all grand marble and polished wood, and glass display cases taking up part of one wall. The License Bureau was off to the right: six old-time bank windows, with bars, all closed. Next to each window was a brass plaque that read what the windows were supposed to deliver: RESIDENTIAL LICENSING, CAR REGISTRATION, ZONING CHANGE REQUESTS, SPECIAL PERMITS, TRAFFIC VIOLATIONS, FINE PAYMENTS, TAXES, CITY SERVICES.

But not today.

The lobby was jammed with people. Families, mostly—mothers and fathers with kids, some as young as infants. Claire didn’t see a single vampire in the crowd, not even Michael. At the far end, a yellow Civil Defense sign indicated that the door led to a Safe Shelter, with a tornado graphic next to it. A policeman with a bullhorn was yelling for order, not that he was getting any; people were pushing, shoving, and shouting at one another. “The shelter is now at maximum capacity! Please be calm!”

“Not good,” Shane said. There was no sign of Richard, although there were at least ten uniformed police officers trying to manage the crowd. “Upstairs?”

“Upstairs,” Eve agreed, and they squeezed back into the fire stairs and ran up to the next level. The sign in the stairwell said that this floor contained the mayor’s office, sheriff’s office, city council chambers, and something called, vaguely, Records.

The door was locked. Shane rattled it and banged for entrance, but nobody came to the rescue.

“Guess we go up,” he said.

The third floor had no signs in the stairwell at all, but there was a symbol—the Founder’s glyph, like the one on Claire’s bracelet. Shane turned the knob, but again, the door didn’t open. “I didn’t think they could do that to fire stairs,” Eve said.

“Yeah, call a cop.” Shane looked up the steps. “One more floor, and then it’s just the roof, and I’m thinking that’s not a good idea, the roof.”

“Wait.” Claire studied the Founder’s glyph for a few seconds, then shrugged and reached out to turn the knob.

Something clicked, and it turned. The door opened.

“How did you . . . ?”

Claire held up her wrist, and the gold bracelet. “It was worth a shot. I thought, maybe with a gold bracelet—”

“Genius. Go on, get inside,” Shane said, and hustled them in. The door clicked shut behind them, and locked with a snap of metal. The hallway seemed dark, after the fluorescent lights in the stairs, and that was because the lights were dimmed way down, the carpet was dark, and so was the wood paneling.

It reminded Claire eerily of the hallway where they’d rescued Myrnin, only there weren’t as many doors opening off it. Shane took the lead—of course—but the doors they could open were just simple offices, nothing fancy about them at all.

And then there was a door at the end of the hall with the Founder’s Symbol etched on the polished brass doorknob. Shane tried it, shook his head, and motioned for Claire.

It opened easily at her touch.

Inside were—apartments. Chambers? Claire didn’t know what else to call them; there was an entire complex of rooms leading from one central area.

It was like stepping into a whole different world, and Claire could tell that it had once been beautiful: a fairy-tale room, of rich satin on the walls, Persian rugs, delicate white and gold furniture.

“Michael? Mayor Morrell? Richard?”

It was a queen’s room, and somebody had completely wrecked it. Most of the furniture was overturned, some kicked to pieces. Mirrors smashed. Fabrics ripped.

Claire froze.

Lying on the remaining long, delicate sofa was François, Bishop’s other loyal vampire buddy, who’d come to Morganville along with Ysandre as his entourage. The vampire looked completely at ease—legs crossed at the ankles, head propped on a plump satin pillow. A big crystal glass of something in dark red rested on his chest.

He giggled and saluted them with the blood. “Hello, little friends,” he said. “We weren’t expecting you, but you’ll do. We’re almost out of refreshments.”

“Out,” Shane said, and shoved Eve toward the door.

It slammed shut before she could reach it, and there stood Mr. Bishop, still dressed in his long purple cassock from the feast. It was still torn on the side, where Myrnin had slashed at him with the knife.

There was something so ancient about him, so completely uncaring, that Claire felt her mouth go dry. “Where is she?” Bishop asked. “I know you’ve seen my daughter. I can smell her on you.”

“Ewww,” Eve said, very faintly. “So much more than I needed to know.”

Bishop didn’t look away from Claire’s face, just pointed at Eve. “Silence, or be silenced. When I want to know your opinion, I’ll consult your entrails.”

Eve shut up. François swung his legs over the edge of the sofa and sat up in one smooth motion. He downed the rest of his glass of blood and let the glass fall, shedding crimson drops all over the pale carpet. He’d gotten some on his fingers. He licked them, then smeared the rest all over the satin wall.

“Please,” he said, and batted his long-lashed eyes at Eve. “Please, say something. I love entrails.”

She shrank back against the wall. Even Shane stayed quiet, though Claire could tell he was itching to pull her to safety. You can’t protect me, she thought fiercely. Don’t try.

“You don’t know where Amelie is?” Claire asked Bishop directly. “How’s that master plan going, then?”

“Oh, it’s going just fine,” Bishop said. “Oliver is dead by now. Myrnin—well, we both know that Myrnin is insane, at best, and homicidal at his even better. I’m rather hoping he’ll come charging to your rescue and forget who you are once he arrives. That would be amusing, and very typical of him, I’m afraid.” Bishop’s eyes bored into hers, and Claire felt the net closing around her. “Where is Amelie?”

“Where you’ll never find her.”

“Fine. Let her lurk in the shadows with her creations, until hunger or the humans destroy them. This doesn’t have to be a battle, you know. It can be a war of attrition just as easily. I have the high ground.” He gestured around the ruined apartment with one lazy hand. “And of course, I have everyone here, whether they know it or not.”

She didn’t hear him move, but flinched as François trailed cold fingers across the back of her neck, then gripped her tightly.

“Just like that,” Bishop said. “Just precisely like that.” He nodded to François. “If you want her, take her. I’m no longer interested in Amelie’s pets. Take these others, too, unless you wish to save them for later.”

Claire heard Shane whisper, “No,” and heard the complete despair in his voice just as Bishop’s follower wrenched her head over to the side, baring her neck.

She felt his lips touch her skin. They burned like ice.

“Ah!” François jerked his head back. “You little peasant.” He used a fold of her shirt to take hold of the silver chain around her neck, and broke it with a sharp twist.