Eternal

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  Tonight has been a long, chilly one, largely spent making small talk, cooing over the string trio, complimenting fashions ranging from the smashing to the questionable to the clichéd. This is my formal introduction to society, my first public event of any significant scale, and Father is giving me more leash than I expected.

  62

  Every time I turn around, I'm fawned over by another guest.

  "Delightful gala, princess!"

  "A magnificent occasion!"

  "Love your dress!"

  Sometimes I pause to chat. Usually, I offer only the slightest nod of acknowledgment. Father told me earlier to respond at my discretion.

  Worldwide, the aristocracy numbers in the thousands, which of course the courtyard couldn't accommodate. Consequently, the guest list is limited to a preferred hundred or so, most in the company of their PAs.

  To my knowledge, the only Old Blood invited tonight is the infamous Sabine from Paris. So far, her arrival hasn't been announced. I look forward to meeting her and finding out what all the fuss is about.

  Unlike his predecessors, Father tends to socially slight Old Bloods, possibly because they make him uncomfortable and probably because they constitute a threat.

  I'm not sure of the political wisdom of his strategy. However, Father defeated an Old Blood predecessor to claim the Mantle. "We must develop our supernatural talents," he once told me, "but daring, scheming, and opportunism can trump raw ability."

  He should know. Father is The Dracula himself (not that anyone calls him that around the house). The

  63

  current Dracula, not the original of course. Nevertheless, the reigning exalted master of eternals.

  He's not only powerful for his age; he also has abilities beyond his years. I did some research. An anonymous source told the Eternal Herald-Gazette that this was the result of his dabbling in unstable magic--that the price of those spells could prove to be his sanity itself. I don't know if that's true, but if so, it explains his unpredictability.

  I wander to join the A-list conversation.

  Father raises his glass to the latest news from the Middle East. "Our numbers are up there," he gloats. "Perhaps we should stir the conflict again."

  Many eternals are elevated on the battlefield, as Father himself was. He, despite sometimes affecting a Romanian accent, was born an American and blessed with unholy blood at Fredericksburg, Virginia, during the Civil War. Tonight he's speaking in his pseudo-European "company" voice. The one he uses to impress.

  As a native Texan, I privately think it's a shame he's embarrassed by his slight southern accent. However, the aristocracy is influential, prone to stereotyping and utter snobbishness.

  "Ah, sugar plum," Father greets me. "How kind of you to join us! I've given this party in your honor, and I've hardly seen you all night."

  64

  "Please forgive me." I feel a flash of panic. I thought I was supposed to circulate. Father doesn't sound angry, though. Perhaps this time he's merely teasing. "It's only that your inner circle is so refined. I'm the only teenage eternal present." Although a number in attendance could pass for one. "And..."

  My mind goes blank. I hoped to flatter my way out, but I have no idea how to pull it off. I didn't grow up around this kind of crowd. Despite Father's best efforts to train me, I'm still seriously out of my element.

  "We old fogies aren't doing it for you?" asks Elina, in a red sheath with matching spiked heels. She's all curves and curls, more lush than I am, more woman-shaped. She has painted-on eyebrows, and she's forked her tongue with a pair of pinking shears.

  I wonder how old she is, how powerful. Father presented me with profiles of all the guests to study a few nights ago, but her age wasn't in her file.

  Elina's consort Victor bends to kiss my hand. "Charmed to meet you, Your Highness." He's lithe, but mean and well muscled. There's a necklace of human baby teeth around his neck.

  So far tonight, Elina and Victor are the most normal couple I've met.

  "Were you criticizing my beloved child?" Father asks her.

  At first, Elina shrinks at the suggestion. "No, sire."

  65

  Then she regains her bravado as Victor caresses her bare back. "I was simply trying to draw the girl out."

  Father's fangs descend. "Perhaps this will help."

  At the snap of Father's fingers, Harrison sets the bottle of blood wine on a passing waiter's tray; rushes to the middle of the courtyard; and draws back the full-length, silver curtains, revealing a youthful male figure bound on a platform.

  That accomplished, the PA strolls through the crowd, ringing a small bell to announce the show.

  "Now?" Elina asks.

  "Now," Father replies.

  In a puff of smoke and shadows, she transforms from woman to bat.

  Older. She's older and more formidable than I thought. An Old Blood.

  Elina careens toward tonight's sacrifice and rips off his hood with her claws.

  Flint, formerly one of Father's enforcers, strains against the chains. He...no, not he--it. The condemned are unworthy of a gender pronoun.

  In bat form, Elina circles it once, and then the gag is gone, too.

  Sometimes Father enjoys the silence.

  Sometimes he prefers to hear them scream.

  "No, master, please," pleads the mewling thing. "I'll be good, I promise."

  66

  I wondered why the curtains were positioned like that, who was to be executed.

  Normally, the reflecting pool looks innocuous. Now, though, the dunking platform, triggering target, and heavy iron chains have been released from a curved steel wall that has been rolled into place and locked around it.

  "Always remember that you are royalty. You defer to no one but me." Father hands me a baseball. "Take this."

  I consider the condemned. I don't know how it fell short. Yet those who refuse to apply for hunting licenses, to pay taxes on their victims, to hunt with discretion, to treat aristocracy and, most important, royalty with respect are to be extinguished. That's usually the enforcers' responsibility. Tonight, it's my pleasure.

  "Anytime you're ready," Father says, and I suppress the sudden memory of Ms. Esposito calling the same words to me on my high-school stage.

  Father loves the dunking platform. It's his brainchild, his game. A spray of holy water burns like acid, but submersion creates a visual feast as the body evaporates on contact with an impressive whoosh noise--a crowd pleaser.

  It's something I admire about Father, his sense of theater.

  My midnight gray taffeta gown is tight through the shoulders. If I'd known what he had been planning, I would've chosen something more maneuverable.

  67

  "Miranda?" Father clears his throat. "Sugar?"

  I tuck the baseball under my arm and remove the black-pearl-and-platinum bracelet Father gave me (along with the car) earlier tonight. Harrison's gloved hand extends to take it for safekeeping.

  I weigh the ball in my hand. It's from the 1908 World Series.

  Father is a devoted Cubs fan.

  "Something wrong?" he asks.

  I shake my head, mindful of our audience. Our favored wait with rapt attention.

  I gaze one last time at Flint. He has a broad chest, a mane of blond hair, and pink, bowed lips that have gone white from starvation.

  It can't have been easy for him these past few weeks in the dungeon, separated from our bleeding stock by stone and bars.

  The condemned protests again. "Princess, no!" He, it, strains against the chains, not much older than me, too new to escape by changing form. "No!"

  I toss the ball. Catch it. In life, I wasn't especially athletic, but I've always had good hand-eye coordination.

  "Miranda!" it pleads again. "Miranda!"

  I can feel Father's impatience as he crosses his arms in custom formalwear.

  Falling snow reflects the moonlight. It smells so fresh, so clean.

  68

  "Ten, nine,
" the crowd mutters. "Eight." Their voices rise. "Seven."

  The countdown goes on, louder and louder.

  At "one," I haul off and pitch the ball.

  Bull's-eye. Whoosh.

  I've never before killed one of my own kind. I lick my lips, satisfied.

  "Nicely done," Father growls in my ear.

  I'm triumphant, resplendent by his side. Our subjects swirl around us--prancing, dancing, swooping, and howling. Living party favors in clawed hands, blood streaming from greedy mouths. We are the calm at the center of their storm.

  I fold my hands in front of my waist, prim and demure, feeling utterly comfortable in my skin, however cold it may be.

  Our guests throw back their heads and roar through their teeth, "Hail Miranda!"

  69

  Miranda

  THREE NIGHTS AFTER MY PARTY, Harrison delivers a thin girl with smudges beneath her eyes to my bedroom suite. Her blue tunic does little to hide her emaciated physique or the tracks on her arms. She can't be more than fifteen.

  "Mistress," Harrison begins, "the master's teleconference with the Brazilians has run longer than expected. He's still downstairs in the east-wing meeting room." The PA shoves the girl to the floor, and when she raises her head, she's crying.

  "Thank you," I say. "That will be all."

  "Very good," Harrison replies. He shuts the arched door behind him, and, with my heightened hearing, I note that his retreating footsteps are brisk down the hall.

  70

  Early on, when I was plagued by soul sickness, it shocked me that our staff could offer up fellow humans the way they do. I'm no longer inclined to dwell on the matter, but I still don't understand how they live with themselves.

  The openly sobbing girl here tonight is tall with long legs and long blond hair. She's thinner, with less muscle and spark, and yet she reminds me of Lucy. Or at least what Lucy might've been if she were poor and abused.

  I want the girl to be quiet. I want to pluck out her eyes--hazel eyes like Lucy's -- and suck them dry. But I can't. Not this time. Not this girl.

  I cross to the antique cherry desk and tap a button on the phone. "Nora?"

  "What can I do for you, honey?" the chef replies.

  "I'll pass on dinner tonight. Could someone clear her out of my room?"

  The hesitation lasts longer than it should. "Did the offering displease you?"

  I consider the possibility that the resemblance between Lucy and my dinner isn't a coincidence, that it's a test. A test from heaven or a test from hell. It has to be hell, though, doesn't it? Father is fond of his games, and there's nothing holy here.

  I take a risk and admit the truth. "No," I say. "I've lost my appetite."

  71

  THE OFFICE OF

  THE ARCHANGEL MICHAEL

  The Sword of Heaven

  The Bringer of Souls

  To: Joshua

  From: Michael

  Date: Saturday, April 5

  Our sympathies on the loss of your latest assignment and his camel. Rest assured that they have been joyfully reunited in the Pearly Gates Lobby Lounge.

  Until further notice, you are directed to conduct studious observation of the following two individuals: the angel Zachary and the vampire Miranda.

  Complete and file A-127B forms on both subjects by midnight CST April 12. See attached Yahoo! maps.

  ***

  72

  Miranda

  THOUGH WE ETERNALS AREN'T REQUIRED to sleep in coffins, Father insists on it. I don't mind. Mine is a top-of-the-line cherry and mahogany number with platinum fittings and a well-padded, pearl-velvet interior. We saved seventy percent by ordering online.

  My luxury box is a demure complement to Father's. His is king-size and made from black marble, customized with brass fittings and a NASCAR emblem. It could be fairly characterized as the black-velvet Elvis painting of coffins.

  They're arranged side by side in the fully stocked wine cellar.

  It's a large circular room with fourteen-foot ceilings, masculine in its dark woods, barrel-based tables, leather

  73

  club chairs, and humidor. The collection of reds numbers well over two thousand, the rarest and finest of dust-covered labels.

  There are four doors, one leading to the stairs, two leading (respectively) to my private bath and to Father's, and the last one opening to the dungeon, for those occasions when someone wants to create a blood-wine blend.

  As of this week, my official time in the third-floor nursery is over. I have conquered my soul sickness. I have embraced my new existence. Father has declared my neophyte status behind us and now considers me a full-fledged eternal.

  It's strange. I used to fantasize about being an actress, in the spotlight as the crowd tossed long-stemmed roses at my feet. The one time I went for it was a disaster.

  Now that I'm dead, it's like every night is opening night, all of it is improv, and I'm a superstar (with no experience).

  "Something wrong, sugar?" Father asks. "You're not drinking from the vein of late." His voice echoes in the room, slides under my skin, and festers.

  The suddenness of the inquiry takes me off-guard, though I know he's been paying attention. Ever since I turned away the not-Lucy girl....That was the Friday before last, and I still can't stop thinking about her.

  I make my way out of my box. "I, well, it's not that I'm being all--"

  "Language, sugar plum. Believe in yourself." He says

  74

  that in a supportive and understanding way, but sometimes when my princess persona falters, the South rises in his voice and his eyes flash red.

  I compose myself. "I prefer my blood, my blood wine, by the glass." I smooth my sleeping gown. "My clothes are so nice." No, that won't do. "Forgive me, I meant to say, I adore having such lovely apparel. I fret staining the material."

  Like much of the castle, the dim cellar is lit only by the candelabra, making it harder to decipher Father's expression. He shakes his head. "Forgive me for not making myself clear on the matter. You're welcome to wear your garments once and toss them to the maids to be used as rags. We can always commission more."

  I'm relieved by his response and, even after all this time, amazed by our infinite budget. My human parents were solidly middle-class, but unless the outfit was for a special occasion, my mom bought most of my new clothes on sale.

  Father paces a moment. "Although now that you mention it, why indeed should a crown princess be expected to sully herself? Forgive me for not realizing. Leiko was one of your people, and she never could tolerate a smudge or pulled thread. Your dining preferences are up to you, so long as you're well fed."

  I have no idea who Leiko is or was, but the name sounds Japanese.

  I'm Chinese American on Mom's side, Scottish

  75

  American on Dad's. I've mentioned my heritage in passing to Father only once or twice.

  I decide it's best to ignore the "your people" reference. In his day, it was probably considered polite (or at least that's what I tell myself).

  Father pauses and gives me a meaningful look. "Still, we must be mindful of your image. We wouldn't want anyone thinking your cleanly ways are getting in the way of your true nature."

  By "anyone," he's referring to eternal society. Beyond us, it's composed of the aristocracy, gentry, and lesser subjects (sentries, enforcers, those who have to rent). Rogues skirt the periphery, for as long as they last anyway. Defiance equals suicide.

  He gives me a quick kiss on the forehead. "Come to think of it, now that you have an understanding of your station, you might as well choose your own clothing."

  I must admit a particular thrill at that. In life, shopping for clothes was this ongoing negotiation with my mom. She pushed for me to dress the way she did, like the former beauty queen she was. I felt more comfortable in petite versions of whatever Lucy liked. Oversize T-shirts and jeans or thrift-store finds.

  Now, everything is different. Last week, a photographer
shot me wrapped only in a sheer, long, sparkly crimson scarf for the cover of Eternal Elegance magazine. If I had more blood in my system, I'd still be blushing.

  76

  When I first arrived, the clothes that filled the wardrobe upstairs were regular size tens instead of my usual petite fours or sixes. Father corrected that in a hurry, assuring me that Italy's most magnifico designer was sketching until her fingers bled and then sketching with her own blood. More gowns arrive each day. And because of a few subtle words from Nora about "my adjustment" to eternal life, I also have casual clothes, if you can call a thousand-dollar, hand-stitched T-shirt "casual."

  What I like best about being a princess is having maids. I used to hate to clean my room. I did it; don't get me wrong. I wasn't some hopeless slob, and anyway, my mom would've grounded me if I didn't straighten up. Yet to say it wasn't a pleasure is an understatement.

  Our maids, Katerina, Lisa, Charlotte, and Renee, attend to the needs of the castle, its sovereigns, and the rest of our staff. They're all related, sisters or cousins. Each is willowy, with pale skin and light pink eyes. Nora mentioned that one of their grandmothers was an albino. I'd be interested to know more, but Father explained that there is a hierarchy to one's servants. Maids rank no better than gardeners. They are to be spoken to, but not personally or at any length.

  Among other duties, they clean, maintain the candles,

  77

  wash the linens, run household errands, restock the toiletries, and deliver food to and from the dungeon.

  Renee and Charlotte--at least I think they're Renee and Charlotte--are with me now. At the moment, I'm trying on the latest additions to my wardrobe in what was once my nursery but recently I've begun to think of as my retreat.

  "How's it coming?" I ask.

  "Forgive our clumsiness, Your Highness," one murmurs. "The buttons are small, and our fingers are large and fumbling."

  The maids are fastening me into a rare black vintage gown (it involves a hoop, a corset, and a padded pushup bra). With each button, I feel more like a refugee from the prom of the damned. Yet it's the sort of thing Father adores, and he is my underworld.