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CARPE CORPUS PDF

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—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.


Carpe Corpus Pdf

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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.

Come on in. 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. 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. His eyes were desperate, but there seemed to be nothing he could do about it. Shane is your friend, as I recall. Fetch him here. Oh, and bring some kind of covering for the floor.

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.

I swear. Let the girl have her moment. Parting is such sweet sorrow, according to the bards. I never parted anyone. Just the one time, really. Bishop gestured, and Michael paused on his way to the door. I have a task for you to do, if you want to keep the boy alive another day. 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.

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. There was a name on the outside of it, written in old-fashioned black calligraphy.

Detective Joe Hess. She looked up, startled. Bishop smiled. See how well we can get along if we try? She finally nodded. 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.

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. Besides, what she was carrying might not be anything bad. Maybe it just looked like a death warrant.

Maybe it was a decree that Friday was ice cream day or something. A car cruised past her, and she sensed the driver staring at her, then speeding up.

Nothing to see here but a sad, stupid evil pawn , she thought bitterly. Move along. The police station was in City Hall as well, and the entire building was being renovated, with work crews ripping out twisted metal and breaking down stone to put in new braces and bricks.

I have a delivery from Mr. Everything stopped. Even the drunks. The desk sergeant looked up, and she saw a weary anger in his eyes before he put on a blank, hard expression. She was too lost in her own misery. She stared down at the writing on the scroll and wished she knew what was inside—but then, it might make it worse if she did know. Yeah, that was going to make her sleep nights.

Avoiding her, she assumed; she was getting used to that.

The good people avoided her, the bad people sucked up to her. It was depressing. Her tattoo itched. She rubbed the cloth of her shirt over it, and watched the reinforced door that led into the rest of the police station. Detective Hess came out just about a minute later. He was smiling when he saw her, and that hurt. And now she was doing this to him. She felt sick as she rose to her feet. She clipped it on her shirt and followed Joe Hess into a big, plain open area.

Nothing fancy. Nobody had a lot of personal stuff on their desks. She settled into a chair next to his desk, and he took a seat, leaned forward, and rested his elbows on his knees. In fact, she had the impression he was trying to make it easy on her. She wondered if she looked that damaged. Claire swallowed and looked down at her hands, and the scroll held in her right one.

She slowly stretched it out toward him. She was here. She was doing what Bishop wanted her to do. No excuse for that. You understand that, right?

You did your best. His hands were steady and his expression carefully still. Detective Hess read the contents of the paper, then let it roll up again into a loose curl.

He set it on his desk, on top of a leaning tower of file folders.

She had to ask. Go on, now. And promise me. But she nodded, because it was really all she could do for him. He gave her a distracted smile. That was a lie; there was almost nobody in the room. He tapped a pencil on the open file. You go on now.

Thank you. As she walked out, she felt him watching her, but when she glanced back, he was concentrating on his folder again. And Bishop. Claire thought she did a good job of looking calm as Ysandre waved her back to the office.

Michael was still there. Myrnin was trying to build an elaborate abstract structure out of paper clips and binder clips, which was one of his less crazy ways to pass the time. He leaned on the corner of his desk and crossed his arms, staring at her with a faint, weird smile. Clean up after her. If he was trying to tell her something, she had no idea what it was.

Master Bishop has important work to do here. Working on his evil laugh? Interviewing backup minions? Myrnin crossed the room and closed ice-cold fingers around her arm. He was just as trapped as she was. Myrnin stopped only when there were two closed doors, and about a mile of hallway, between them and Mr. Claire yanked again. She thought he looked disappointed for a flicker of a second, and then his loony smile was firmly in place.

Probably not. The layers of cheap metallic beads clicked and rattled as he walked, and the slap of his shoes made him just about the noisiest vampire Claire had ever heard. Claire shut up and hurried along as he walked down a long, curved hallway to a big wooden door. This was as far as Claire had ever been able to get before.

She felt a wave of heat race through her, and then she shivered. Now that she was here, actually walking through the door, she felt faintly sick with anticipation. And it had been so long. Another locked door, another guard, and then they were inside a plain stone hallway with barred cells on the left side.

No windows.

No light except for blazing fluorescent fixtures far overhead. The first cell was empty. The second held two humans, but neither one was Shane.

Claire tried not to look too closely. She was afraid she might know them. The third cell had two small cots, one on each side of the tiny room, and a toilet and sink in the middle. Nothing else.

It was almost painfully neat.

Carpe Corpus

She was used to seeing him awake, and it surprised her to see him so. So helpless and old. Shane was sitting cross-legged on the other bed. He looked up from the book he was reading, and jerked his head to get the hair out of his eyes. The guarded, closed look on his face reminded Claire of his father, but it shattered when Shane saw her. He dropped the book, surged to his feet, and was at the bars in about one second flat.

His hands curled around the iron, and his eyes glittered wildly until he squeezed them shut. Happy birthday to you, and all. You know how it is, out all night partying, you get baked and forget where you left your stuff. She felt tremors race through him, and Shane sighed, closed his eyes, and rested his forehead against the bars. Good idea. Claire threaded her arms through the bars and around his neck, and his hands moved down to her waist.

He propped his chin up on the heel of one hand. Ignore him, they seemed to say. Stay with me. She did. What kind of trouble are you in today, anyway? Claire, tell me. 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.

Рубрика: exploit

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. 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. 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. His eyes were desperate, but there seemed to be nothing he could do about it.

Shane is your friend, as I recall. Fetch him here. Oh, and bring some kind of covering for the floor. 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. I swear. Let the girl have her moment.

Parting is such sweet sorrow, according to the bards. I never parted anyone. Just the one time, really. Bishop gestured, and Michael paused on his way to the door. I have a task for you to do, if you want to keep the boy alive another day. 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. 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. There was a name on the outside of it, written in old-fashioned black calligraphy. Detective Joe Hess.

She looked up, startled. Bishop smiled. See how well we can get along if we try? She finally nodded. 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. 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. Besides, what she was carrying might not be anything bad.

Maybe it just looked like a death warrant. Maybe it was a decree that Friday was ice cream day or something. A car cruised past her, and she sensed the driver staring at her, then speeding up. Nothing to see here but a sad, stupid evil pawn , she thought bitterly. Move along. The police station was in City Hall as well, and the entire building was being renovated, with work crews ripping out twisted metal and breaking down stone to put in new braces and bricks.

I have a delivery from Mr.

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

Everything stopped. Even the drunks. The desk sergeant looked up, and she saw a weary anger in his eyes before he put on a blank, hard expression. She was too lost in her own misery. She stared down at the writing on the scroll and wished she knew what was inside—but then, it might make it worse if she did know.

Yeah, that was going to make her sleep nights. Avoiding her, she assumed; she was getting used to that. The good people avoided her, the bad people sucked up to her. It was depressing. Her tattoo itched. She rubbed the cloth of her shirt over it, and watched the reinforced door that led into the rest of the police station. Detective Hess came out just about a minute later. He was smiling when he saw her, and that hurt.

And now she was doing this to him. She felt sick as she rose to her feet. She clipped it on her shirt and followed Joe Hess into a big, plain open area. This is why the exploit file which was produced by the fuzzer triggered the bug in our harness. It enables our harness to extract the file to an arbitrary path, and completely ignore the destination folder, and treats the extracted file relative path as the full path.

Two constraints lead to the Path Traversal vulnerability summarized in previous sections : 1. The location does not matter. Due to this delayed check of the return code from WinRAR callback, the directories specified in the exploit file are created.

The extracted file is created as well, on the full path specified in the exploit file without content , but it is deleted right after checking the returned code from the callback before the call to WriteFile API.

We found a way to bypass the deletion of the file, but it allows us to create empty files only. To achieve this goal, we could use static analysis and debugging, but we decided on a much quicker method. The Lighthouse plugin marked the background of the diffed basic block in blue, as you can see in the image below.

Figure IDA graph view of the main bug in unacev2.After the cereal and juice, Claire packed her backpack and set out in the cool morning for Texas Prairie University. Claire tried not to look too closely. No, that was wrong. It was just a reaction of frustration, Claire thought.

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. She was holding a knife. Her glow-in-the-dark stick-on stars and planets on the ceiling.

He dropped the book, surged to his feet, and was at the bars in about one second flat.