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 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. “I am very tired of you making this request, Claire.”

“Then maybe you should say yes and get it over with.”

He snapped his fingers. Michael got to his feet, pulled there like a puppet on a string. His eyes were desperate, but there seemed to be nothing he could do about it. “Michael. Shane is your friend, as I recall.”

“Yes.”

“ ‘Yes, my lord Bishop.’ ”

Claire saw Michael’s throat bob as he swallowed what must have been a huge chunk of anger. “Yes,” he said. “My lord Bishop.”

“Good. Fetch him here. Oh, and bring some kind of covering for the floor. We’ll just remove this irritation once and for all.”

Claire blurted out, “No!” She took a step forward, and Bishop’s stare locked tight onto her, forcing her to stop. “Please! I didn’t mean . . . Don’t hurt him! You can’t hurt him! Michael, don’t! Don’t do this!”

“I can’t help it, Claire,” he said. “You know that.”

She did. Michael walked away toward the door. She could see it all happening, nightmarishly real—Michael bringing Shane back here, forcing him to his knees, and Bishop . . . Bishop . . .

“I’m sorry,” Claire said, and took a deep, trembling breath. “I won’t ask again. Ever. I swear.”

The old man raised his thick gray eyebrows. “Exactly my point. I remove the boy, and I remove any risk that you won’t keep your word to me.”

“Oh, don’t be so harsh, old man,” Myrnin said, and rolled his eyes. “She’s a teenager in love. Let the girl have her moment. It’ll hurt her more, in the end. Parting is such sweet sorrow, according to the bards. I wouldn’t know, myself. I never parted anyone.” He mimed ripping someone in half, then got an odd expression on his face. “Well. Just the one time, really. Doesn’t count.”

Claire forgot to breathe. She hadn’t expected Myrnin, of all of them, to speak up, even if his support had been more crazy than useful. But he’d given Bishop pause, and she kept very still, letting him think it over.

Bishop gestured, and Michael paused on his way to the door. “Wait, Michael,” Bishop said. “Claire. I have a task for you to do, if you want to keep the boy alive another day.”

Claire felt a trembling sickness take hold inside. This wasn’t the first time, but she always assumed—had to!—that it would be the last time. “What kind of task?”

“Delivery.” Bishop walked to the desk and flipped open a carved wooden box. Inside was a small pile of paper scrolls, all tied up with red ribbon and dribbled with wax seals. He picked one seemingly at random to give her.

“What is it?”

“You know what it is.”

She did. It was a death warrant; she’d seen way too many of them. “I can’t—”

“I can order you to take it. If I do, I won’t feel obliged to offer you any favors. This is the best deal you are going to get, little Claire: Shane’s life for the simple delivery of a message,” Bishop said. “And if you won’t do it, I will send someone else, Shane dies, and you have a most terrible day.”

She swallowed. “Why give me the chance at all? It’s not like you to bargain.”

Bishop showed his teeth, but not his fangs—those were kept out of sight, but that didn’t make him any less dangerous. “Because I want you to understand your role in Morganville, Claire. You belong to me. I could order you to do it, with a simple application of will. Instead, I am allowing you to choose to do it.”

Claire turned the scroll in her fingers and looked down at it. There was a name on the outside of it, written in old-fashioned black calligraphy. Detective Joe Hess.

She looked up, startled. “You can’t—”

“Think very carefully about the next thing you say,” Bishop interrupted. “If it involves telling me what I can or can’t do in my own town, they will be your last words, I promise you.”

Claire shut her mouth. Bishop smiled.

“Better,” he said. “If you choose to do so, go deliver my message. When you come back, I’ll allow you to see the boy, just this once. See how well we can get along if we try?”

The scroll felt heavy in Claire’s hand, even though it was just paper and wax.

She finally nodded.

“Then go,” Bishop said. “Sooner started, sooner done, sooner in the arms of the one you love. There’s a good girl.”

Michael was looking at her. She didn’t dare meet his eyes; she was afraid that she’d see anger there, and betrayal, and disappointment. It was one thing to be forced to be the devil’s foot soldier.

It was another thing to choose to do it.

Claire walked quickly out of the room.

By the time she hit the marble steps and the warm sun, she was running.

Detective Joe Hess.

Claire turned the scroll over and over in sweaty fingers as she walked, wondering what would happen if she just tossed it down a storm drain. Well, obviously, Bishop would be pissed. And probably homicidal, not that he wasn’t mostly that all the time. Besides, what she was carrying might not be anything bad. Right? Maybe it just looked like a death warrant. Maybe it was a decree that Friday was ice cream day or something.