Free Carpe Corpus by Rachel Caine Page A

. . .”
    “What?”
    He shook his head. “I’m just afraid. And that’s rare. That’s so very rare.”
    He sounded lost and uncertain, the way he sometimes did when the disease began to take hold—but this was different. This was the real Myrnin, not the confused one. And it made Claire afraid, too.
    She reached out and took his hand. It felt like a real person’s hand, just cold. His fingers tightened on hers, briefly, and then released.
    “I believe that it’s time for you to learn some things,” he said. “Come.”
    He pushed off from the wall, and led her at a brisk walk toward the portal, flip-flops snapping with urgency.

5
     
    Myrnin’s actual lab was a deserted wreck.
    Whether it was Bishop’s goons, vandals, or just Myrnin being crazy, there was even more destruction now than the last time Claire had seen the place. Virtually all the glass had been shattered; it covered the floor in a deadly glitter. Tables had been overturned and floor in a deadly glitter. Tables had been overturned and splintered. Books had been ripped to shreds, with the leather and cloth covers gutted and empty, tossed on piles of trash.
    The whole place smelled foul with spilled chemicals and molding paper.
    Myrnin said nothing as they descended the steps into the mess, but on the last step, he paused and sat down—more like fell down, actually. Claire wasn’t sure what to do, so she waited.
    “You okay?” she finally asked. He slowly shook his head.
    “I’ve lived here a long time,” Myrnin said. “Mostly by choice, as it happens; I’ve always preferred a lab to a palace, which Amelie never really understood, although she humored me. I know it’s only a place, only things. I didn’t expect to feel so much . . . loss.” He was silent again for a moment, and then sighed. “I shall have to rebuild again. But it will be a bother.”
    “But . . . not right now, right?” Because the last thing Claire wanted to do was get a broom and a dump truck to pick up all that broken glass when the fate of Morganville was riding on their staying focused.
    “Of course not.” He leaped up and—to her shock—walked across the broken glass. In flip-flops. Not even pausing when the glass got ankle-deep. Claire looked down at her own shoes—high-top sneakers—and sighed. Then she very carefully followed him, shoving a path through the glass as she went while Myrnin heedlessly crunched his way through.
    “You’re hurting yourself!” she called.
    “Good,” he shot back. “Life is pain, child. Ah! Excellent.” He crouched down, brushed a clear spot on the floor, and picked up something that looked like a mouse skeleton. He examined it curiously for a few seconds, then tossed it over his shoulder. Claire ducked as it sailed past. “They didn’t find it.”
    “Find what?”
    “The entrance,” he said. “To the machine.”
    “What machine?”
    Myrnin smiled his best, looniest smile at her, and punched his fist down into the bare floor, which buckled and groaned. He punched again, and again—and an entire six-foot section of the floor just collapsed into a big black hole. “I covered it over,” he said. “Clever, yes? It used to be a trapdoor, but that seemed just a bit too easy.”
    Claire realized her mouth was gaping open. “We could have fallen right through that,” she said.
    “Don’t be overly dramatic. I calculated your weight. You were perfectly safe, so long as you weren’t carrying anything too heavy.” Myrnin waved at her to join him, but before she got halfway there, he jumped down into the hole and disappeared.
    “Perfect.” She sighed. When she finally reached the edge, she peered down, but it was pitch-black . . . and then there was the sound of a scratch, and a flame came to life, glowing on Myrnin’s face a dozen feet down. He lit an oil lamp and set it aside. “Where are the stairs?”
    “There aren’t any,” he said. “Jump.”
    “I can’t!”
    “I’ll catch you. Jump.”
    That was a