—SF Site THE MORGANVILLE VAMPIRES NOVELS Glass Houses The Dead Girls' Dance Midnight Alley Feast of Fools Lord of Misrule Carpe Corpus NAL Jam. Carpe Corpus. Home · Carpe Corpus Carpe Corpus · Read more Carpe Corpus The Morganville Vampires. Read more. Carpe Corpus The Morganville Vampires. Home · Carpe Corpus The Morganville Vampires Carpe Corpus · Read more · Carpe Corpus. Read more.

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“I thoroughly enjoyed reading Feast of Fools it was fantastic The excitement and suspense is thrilling and I was fascinated reading about the town of. Allison & Busby. Paperback. Book Condition: new. BRAND NEW, Carpe Corpus, Rachel Caine, This title includes a brand new and exclusive morganville short. Allison & Busby. Paperback. Book Condition: new. BRAND NEW,. Carpe Corpus, Rachel Caine, This title includes a brand new and exclusive morganville short.

Certainly his work is replete with temporal motifs Yandell focuses on the 'carpe diem' and 'exegi monumentum' traditions , but the scale and complexity of Ronsard's work make him atypical. Still, Yandell is safe in concluding that Ronsard's and men's lyric poetry is rooted in images of youth, and projects a pronounced fear of ageing.

The Lyonnais women poets are shown to have quite different priorities. The contrast between the poetry of Nicole Estienne and of Anne de Marquets in Chapter 4 is both novel and effective. It is based on the perception that both spend their time in a socially sanctioned enclosure, marriage or a convent. However, whereas de Marquets celebrates the religious experience of plenitude in the present moment, Estienne is seen to deliver a practical attack on the martyrdom to which wives are subject.

But should we read Estienne's verses at face value? Bishop—the new master vampire of Morganville—was planning something splashy in the way of executions for Frank and Shane, which apparently was the old-school standard for getting rid of humans with ideas of grandeur.

Nobody had bothered to fill her in on the details, and she guessed she should be grateful for that. It would certainly be medievally awful. The worst thing about that, for Claire, was that there seemed to be nothing she could do to stop it. Evil minion. And of course, as always, Eve was right. Claire picked up her fork, blinked back her tears, and dug into her birthday treat. Her dad seated himself at the table and accepted a slice, too.

Got any plans for the rest of the day? All kinds of plans. Well, she was alone. So was he. Claire swallowed and kept her gaze down on the plate. She was about to say the honest truth: no.

But the thought of being stuck here all day with her parents, with their frightened eyes and joyless smiles, was too much for her. Myrnin wants me. What did you expect? Something better, she guessed. And maybe that made her an idiot, because, hey, vampire, and Myrnin had never been big on sanity anyway. She would have refused to work for him after that. As she reached for her glass of Coke, her long-sleeved shirt slipped back on her forearm to reveal what Bishop had done to her—blue ink, like some tribal biker tattoo, only this ink moved.

Watching it slowly revolve and writhe under her skin made her sick. No such thing as magic. No such thing. It was something only she could see, and the vampires. She thought that it had gotten a little lighter since the day that Bishop had forced it on her, but maybe that was just wishful thinking.

Stop forcing her to obey him when he gave her orders. She had no way of knowing whether it was getting weaker, one way or the other, unless she was willing to risk openly defying Bishop. That was slightly less healthy than swimming in a shark tank, smeared with fish oil and wearing a big Eat Me sign.

Not anymore. Myrnin did only what was good for him, and no one else. At least she could define what the tattoo had done to her—it had taken away her will to say no to Mr. Everything has an explanation.

Claire again tugged down the sleeve over the tattoo, and her fingers skimmed over the gold bracelet she still wore. Before Mr. Bishop had arrived, it had been a mark of Protection. It was sort of like the Mafia, with fangs. The most prominent vampires in Morganville were in hiding, or maybe even dead. Seemed like that was happening more and more as time went along.

Bishop had decided it was more trouble to kill the opposition than to convert them. Claire finished her cake, and then dutifully opened the birthday presents her parents brought to the table. But she kissed them both and thanked them, promised to try the dress on later, and modeled the necklace for her dad when her mom buzzed off to the kitchen to put away the rest of the cake.

She put it on over the cross necklace Shane had given her. I never take this one off. From that boy? We have to do something! Why did they drag them here, into the middle of this? Things had been fine before—well, maybe not fine, but stable. Mom and Dad had remained safely far away, out of town. Or they had, until Amelie had decided that luring them here would help control Claire better. Now they were Morganville residents. Just like Claire herself.

I packed your mom up the other night and headed out, but our car died at the city limits. Bishop wanted us to leave. Got the candles on the cake to prove it and everything. Oh, yeah. I know what I feel about Shane. Being in love with that boy is suicidal. Thanks for the necklace. He finally sighed and shook his head. Happy birthday. Be careful. He was losing weight, and he looked older than he had just a year ago. He caught her look. As Claire put the plates in the sink, her mother chattered a mile a minute—about the dress, and how she just knew Claire would look perfect in it, and they really should make plans to go out to a nice restaurant this week and celebrate in style.

She talked about everything but what was all around them. Casual travelers came and went, and never knew a thing; even most of the college students stayed strictly on campus and put in their time without learning a thing about what was really going on—Texas Prairie University made sure it was a world unto itself. For people who lived here, the real residents, Morganville was a prison camp, and they were all inmates, and they were all too afraid to talk about it out in the open.

Just smashed it against the side of the sink into a dozen sharpedged pieces that skittered all over the counter and floor. And then she just stood there, shoulders shaking. It was a brittle, hysterical little laugh, and it scared Claire down to her shoes.

Well, I am, Claire. Not today. Please stay home. Claire escaped back to her room, put the dress in her closet, and grabbed up her battered backpack from the corner.

As she was leaving, she caught sight of a photograph taped to her mirror. It was the only photo she had of all of them together.

She was glad it was such a happy one, even if it was overexposed and a little out of focus. Stupid cell phone cameras.

On impulse, she grabbed the photo and stuck it in her backpack. The rest of her room was like a time warp—Mom had kept all her things from high school and junior high, all her stuffed animals and posters and candy-colored diaries. Her glow-in-the-dark stick-on stars and planets on the ceiling.

All her certificates and medals and awards. It felt so far away now, like it belonged to someone else. 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.

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. 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. In fact, the lab was the last place she wanted to be today. He knew why she was angry.

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. 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. As she walked, people noticed her. And bad things happened. All the staring made the walk feel longer than it really was. 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.

But it made the small, dingy room feel like a cave to her—a cave with bad wallpaper and cheap, thin carpeting. 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. 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. The others looked at him, and he shrugged. She was important now. She hated every minute of that.

Nora gestured her toward the closed door at the back. He was a sun-weathered man, skin like old boots, with eyes the color of dirty ice. It looked forced. 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. But he was just sitting behind his desk, reading a file folder full of papers.

They had that in common, she guessed.

Claire swallowed hard. Richard usually heard her out. If you want permission to see Shane, you have to go to Bishop.

I want you to know that. She studied her hands in her lap. Pissed off. Angry at the world. I think that boy might really love you. It seemed important. Claire, just go home. Spend the day with your parents, maybe see your friends. Take care of yourself. He shook his head. He came around the desk and put his hand on her shoulder, a kind of half hug, and guided her back out the door. Come on in.

Carpe Corpus. Time and Gender in Early Modern France

This is about your taxes, right? Golder growled. Of course, it was something a lot more dangerous. 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. 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.

Stay with her parents. Be safe. Pretend everything was normal, like her mom did. 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. Come on, little Claire. 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. Fine, you skip off and see our lord and master.

Or at all. Not impressed. Ysandre finally laughed softly and melted into the shadows.

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.

4. Await 6:25AM for the exploit to trigger

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. 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.

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.

Bishop never sat at the desk. He was always standing, and today was no different. Claire focused on the stranger to avoid looking at Michael. He was angry and ashamed, and she wished she could help him. Still, it was true. She could still see the livid shadow of the scars on his pale skin. She willed herself not to flinch. Anything else? 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. Michael got to his feet, pulled there like a puppet on a string.

Still running errands for the vampires? Shane swallowed hard. Not himself. He closed his eyes in pain. And you, of course. He seemed to hesitate for a heartbeat. What Bishop has planned for us? Do you really? Both of us. Say it with me. Say it! Come on, girl. We have work to do. He shut the door with a wicked boom and whirled to face her. Claire grabbed the first thing that came to hand—it happened to be a heavy candlestick— and swung it at his head. He ducked, rushed in, and effortlessly took it away from her.

His eyes were wide and very dark. Not at all crazy. Not happening! Her bones would break before his grip did. I never have. I thought you certainly had enough brains to understand that.

It was a little tough to define. I understand you might be skeptical. You have reason. Perhaps I should allow someone else to convince you—Ah. Right on time. Amelie had on black pants, a black zip-up hoodie, and running shoes. So wrong. He wore his graying hair tied back in a ponytail, and it pulled his face into an unsmiling mask. He nodded back, like they were passing on the street. Like it was just a normal day. Oliver dismissed both of them with a shake of his head and signaled his vampire shock troops to fan out around the room on either side of the door to the hallway.

Amelie lingered, a trace of a frown on her face. I do owe her Protection. I will hold you to your answer. You have my word on it. She looked from Myrnin to Amelie to Oliver, and finally thought of a decent question to ask. Claire could still see a manic smile trembling on his lips. Amelie transferred her steady gray gaze to Claire. There are things we are doing to retake Morganville, but it is a process that will take some time. Do you understand? What possible strategic value does your boyfriend hold for us?

He had a warning look on his face, which she ignored completely. The reason there were no other vampires out there in the world—or very few, anyway—was that over the years, their numbers had gradually declined, and their ability to make other vampires had slipped away. Amelie had created Morganville to be their last, best hope of survival.

Claire had learned to pick up the subtle signs by now, and they were already visible—tremors in the pale hands, sometimes up the arms.

They were all terrified of it. They had good reason to be. Myrnin had developed a maintenance drug, but they needed a cure. And with Myrnin slipping fast, Claire was the key to getting that done. He sounded horrified. She was glad. All your work, all your research. If you let Bishop kill Shane, none of it matters to me anyway. There are living people in this town. We have lives. We matter! She whirled on Myrnin. You gave us to him! You turned on us when we needed you!

Where have you been? Bishop turned enough of my followers that any action I would take would have been against my own people. It would have been a fight to the death, and that fight would have destroyed everyone you or I love. I had to withdraw and allow him to think he had triumphed. Myrnin did what he could to protect you and all your friends, while we found another way.

You might think on how unlikely that is, so long after he should have lost interest and torn you and my town apart. Only in destroying. Myrnin has been persuading him to at least try to keep Morganville alive, and putting himself at constant risk to do so. Now, I need you to go with Myrnin. I rely upon you for that, Claire. What else? She blinked, searched for another demand, and came up with nothing in particular. Then she did. What sort of things?

These things are required for us to survive in relative security. Her whole body was shaking, pleading for her to run, avoid the confrontation. You want to save your people at the cost of human lives.

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And the first chance I get, I tell Bishop about Myrnin, too. Claire did, blinking away confusion. There are eight hundred vampires in the world, Claire. In the world. Fewer each day. We are hunted, we are sick, we are dying. There are billions of you! I will not put you first! You know that. You got mad then, too, as I recall. She turned on him, but he wrapped her in his arms, and for a second, one second, Amelie let herself be held before she pushed him away and stalked to the far corner of the room, agitation in every movement.

Before I do something I regret. Myrnin took her hand in his and yanked, hard. She brushed by Oliver, whose eyes were flaring in hunting-vampire colors, and felt a low-decibel growl fill the room. Myrnin shoved her toward what looked like a blank wall, and for an instant of panic Claire thought she was going to hit it face-first. It seemed to last forever, but then she was stumbling out. The house seemed quiet, lonely, somehowto sad and colorless.

That was just its mood. Claire walked to it, sat down, and pulled it into her lap like a pet, then held it up to her face and breathed. It felt wonderful and sad and horrible, all at the same time. When she looked up, Myrnin was watching her. He shrugged and turned away. It still smelled so familiar , and Claire felt the loss of Shane, of her friends, hit her hard once again. Eve did, from the kitchen doorway.

She leaned against the doorjamb and crossed her arms, staring at them. Believing in her, which was even more important. It hurt that all that had changed now. Her black hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail, and she was wearing a skintight black knit shirt with a red skull on the front, and oversize cargo pants with loads of pockets and chains.

Heavy combat-style boots. And take your pet leech with you before I play a game of Pin the Stake in the Vamp. Get out of my house! He never left us, Eve. He never left you. Eve took her hand out of her pocket. She was holding a knife.

Taunt the loser? See how crazy you can make me? Now play nicely, make-believe dead girl. Or I will fulfill your darkest wishes.

Eve whirled, evidently and understandably finding Myrnin more of a threat. Under the ricepowder makeup, her face was flushed, her eyes shining with fear. Myrnin circled like a hyena.

He grinned like one, too. He was enjoying this. He sat down in a chair at the dining table and put his dirty feet up. Because my mission to save this town is of no importance whatsoever next to your girl talk. I tried to come by and see you.

He likes making her squirm by using me. Then she looked worried about that, too. And besides, Myrnin looks after me. If he was paying attention. I think he finally has his head on straight. He seems. He kicked this whole thing off! Eve sent her a fierce glare. Sure, you knockoff Lestat. Get the hell out of my house. Stop poking at each other.

Not nice ones. Where are we going? Finish your babble. She caught Eve doing the same thing, and they shared sudden, sheepish grins. I miss you.

Carpe Corpus The Morganville Vampires

Eve kissed her quickly on the cheek, then let go and hurried out, hiding her tears. It was huge on her.

Myrnin smirked. Oh, and you have black lipstick on your cheek. Myrnin shoved boxes out of his way without bothering to answer, uncovering a set of iron steps that looked to be more rust than actual iron. Claire followed him up, testing every tread carefully along the way. The whole thing seemed ready to collapse, but they made it to the top, which featured.

Myrnin patted his pockets, sighed, and punched the lock with his fist. It shattered. The door sagged open, and he bowed to her like an old-school gentleman. Which he was, she supposed, on his good days. Only a year, actually, which made it especially weird.

Scarred, polished linoleum floors. Industrial green walls. Battered rows of lockers stretching the length of the hallway, most secured with dial locks. The place smelled like industrial cleaners, sweat, and stress. Claire paused to stare at the oversize painted mascot on the cinder-block wall at the end of the hallway. You guys have no sense of subtlety, do you? Come on.

It was surreal how normal it all seemed—like nobody could handle the truth, so they just kept on with all the surface lies, and in that sense, Morganville High was just like the rest of the town.

All the chatter seemed falsely bright, and kids walked in thick groups, seeking comfort and protection. They all avoided Myrnin and Claire, although everybody looked at them. She heard people talking.

Another quick left turn led through a set of double doors, and the noise of feet, talk, and locker doors slamming faded behind them into velvety silence. Myrnin prodded her onward. More classrooms, but these were dark and empty. Operative word, dying. There was another door at the end of the hall, and this one had a shiny silver dead-bolt lock on it. Myrnin knocked. After a long moment of silence, the dead bolt was pulled back with a metallic clank , and the door swung open.

Mills, ER doctor and their sometime lab assistant, for weeks. Sometimes, it was just better not to know. He closed and locked the door before turning a tired smile in her direction. Bishop got word that I was doing research on vampire blood.

We had to move quickly. Myrnin relocated us. We can use the gym showers at night. Mills looked at Claire closely, and frowned.

At least this one has most of what we need. The room had clearly been intended to be a science classroom; it had the big granite-topped tables, equipped with sinks and built-in gas taps.

At the back of the room were rows and rows of neat shelves filled with glassware and all kinds of bottled and labeled ingredients. One thing about Morganville—the town really did invest in education. Mills looked at Claire for support, and she cleared her throat. Mills said. You said it had things in common. That means that there is a cure, and Bishop took it, because he contracted the disease and recovered.

It was a mild expression, but the look in his eyes was fierce. He might have developed this disease and deliberately spread it—used the cure only for himself.As she walked, people noticed her. Yeah, well. She did. You did your best. Still, it was true. Yougave us to him! Ysandre finally laughed softly and melted into the shadows. She does that. What Bishop has planned for us?