Eternal

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  "Harrison!" Seconds later, I try again. "Harrison!"

  He must be elsewhere in the castle.

  A maid peeks in.

  What do I want? "A broom! Fetch me a broom!"

  She runs to obey.

  "Elina!" I shout at the faux winged rodent. "How dare you!"

  Apparently, my reputation needs bolstering. Old Blood or no, I should have her forked tongue ripped out.

  A moment later, the maid grunts from behind me, offering a plain kitchen broom.

  "Get Harrison!" I tell her, swinging the bristles, and off she runs again.

  I catch the side of a wing, sending the bat into a momentary spiral.

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  "Harrison!" Where is he? He's always been there when I needed him before.

  I hear my office door open again--finally.

  "Elina, beat it!" I shout. I swing the broom once more, strike her small body, and she soars into the evergreens, toward the lake. "Get out of here!"

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  Zachary

  IT HAS TO BE ANOTHER Miranda look-alike. Only this one has slightly longer hair. She wields a broom pointed up through an open window. She's trying to ward off a pissed-off bird? No, a "bat" that, like the "wolves," has red eyes.

  "Elina, beat it!" the girl yells as I cross the room.

  The voice is familiar.

  She's not. She can't be.

  She swings the broom again. Harder. Hits her target with the bristles. Drives the thing away. Shuts the window with a bang.

  Miranda, what was once my Miranda, faces me. She sees me for the first time. The guy who was always there

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  for her. The guy she didn't know existed. The guy whose fault it is that she's become what she's become. And I see her.

  To say death becomes her would be an understatement. It's the confidence, I suppose. My girl shrank from conflict. She didn't go after it with a broom.

  In her anger, the beast is glorious. Her nearly black hair has taken on an almost blue sheen. Her sun-kissed skin has gone alabaster. She's the one of us who looks like an angel. And she'll remain this way until the End Days.

  I want to rip out my heart and hand it to her. I want to fall at her feet. To hell with the mission. To hell with me. I want to change sides.

  Then I smell the pumpkin bread and the blood. I see the plate of crumbs and the bowl on her desk. Notice the stain on her lips. Remember all that hell implies.

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  Miranda

  ONCE I'VE DISPATCHED ELINA, I turn to discover that I have yet another visitor.

  This one is a heavenly-looking young man. He's tall and muscled like a swimmer or a statue by Michelangelo. No, not a statue--nothing so mundane, so common, as a mere masterpiece. More like its inspiration. His shoulder-length, gently curled hair falls like feathers. It's a golden brown, a shade lighter than his skin. His eyes are a shocking green--not emerald, warmer than that, more vibrant, and fringed with dark gold lashes. He looks like he's been ripped from Eden, and he's gazing at me as if mesmerized,

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  as if he loves me, and as if I'm the most geeky hell spawn in history.

  I can almost hear Father chiding me. My visitor is only human, after all--at least irrelevant, possibly dinner, at most a potential pet. Still, it's mortifying, the way he first saw me, swatting at Elina like that. I look so sloppy in the jeans and sweater.

  Why didn't Harrison announce him? What is he doing here? Wait. He's seventeen to twenty-five, more like twenty-five. Twenty-two? He's dressed for success, and he's interviewing for the job! That's it! He wants to--it's almost too scrumptious to contemplate--serve me.

  I try to dampen my optimism. What if he's a hunter or a bug eater or underqualified? Oh, he doesn't look anything but qualified. Back in my breathing days, I would've been panting.

  "Have a seat," I say, gesturing to the chair across from my desk.

  He cocks his head as if uncertain. Then, taking his time, clearly wary, he makes himself comfortable.

  It's all I can do to stop staring. I swear I've dreamt of him before.

  "I don't have your résumé," I begin. I draw the drapes and move from the window. "And you weren't announced." It's my imperial tone, like the one Father uses. It's also an indisputable assertion bordering on accusation. I've been practicing.

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  The applicant doesn't reply. Instead, he rests his elbows on the chair arms and steeples his fingers beneath his square jaw. It's odd. He's acting like he's being punished.

  No matter. Father says it's important to maintain a relaxed dominance. You have the power, but you shouldn't have to work at it. "Your name."

  The young man still seems confused, even stunned. "What about it?"

  "What is it?" I demand, taking deliberate steps. Just when I'm feeling in command, I trip over an untied shoelace and flail toward the desk area.

  The applicant springs from his chair, taking a giant step onto my desk, another across it, and lands like a cat to catch me.

  I glance at his hands on my shoulders. "Are you a shifter?"

  "I'm Zachary," he says. "And no, I'm not a shifter."

  I can feel the heat from his skin through my sweater. I place my fingertips over his pounding heart, enchanted by its rhythm, and push him gently back a step. "Zachary," I repeat, liking the way it sounds. "You're here for the job?"

  His gaze is steady, but I can hear him swallow. "You could say that."

  Why is he being so strange? Is it awe at being in my presence? Nerves over the interview? Or is this some innovative strategy to capture my imagination? "Have a seat." Didn't I already say that?

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  We take the traditional employer-applicant positions across my desk. "Were you referred, or did you see the job announcement?"

  "I was...referred."

  It's like pulling fangs. "By?"

  "Joshua," he answers in a suddenly more confident tone. Like the name itself is reassuring to him. "Joshua Michaels."

  I don't recall a Joshua, but I met about a hundred eternals the night of my debut party and it's also quite possible that he's a respectable aristocrat who simply didn't make the guest-list cut. "Obviously, as my personal assistant, you would be expected to do my bidding." It's a great expression, "do my bidding."

  "Everything from answering the phone to acting as my liaison to protecting my safety to..."

  "To?" Zachary prompts, raising an eyebrow.

  I wish I'd skipped my blood-soaked snack. I feel my blush deepen. "Attending to my personal needs."

  By which I don't mean doing my hair.

  His smile could launch a toothpaste company. "I'll take it."

  I'm flabbergasted. "I...It's not up to you to take it. It's up to me to offer it." I did not just say that! "I mean, me." Worse! "I mean, myself." Mayday!

  How did he do that? One minute I'm doing just fine. The next, I'm utterly flustered. Oh, who am I kidding? One

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  look at him would be enough to fluster anybody--with or without a pulse. I'll regroup and start fresh tomorrow night.

  I draw myself ramrod straight. "You're in luck, Zachary." That wasn't bad. "As it happens, with the master abroad, I have many pressing responsibilities. I'm willing to take you on." Why does every word out of my mouth have to sound so suggestive? "On, um, a trial basis. Yes, you're hired. For now, though, you're excused. Harrison will show you around."

  Zachary stands, like he was ready to leave anyway, like he's been toying with me, like it's all he can do to tolerate my presence. "Whatever you say, Miranda."

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  Zachary

  HARRISON MEETS ME in the hall. "Welcome to staff Dracul. Your official title is 'personal assistant to the mistress,' often called 'princess' or 'Her Royal Highness.' Informally, 'Miranda,' but don't presume. She'll tell you how she wants to be addressed."

  Nice. He was listening at the door. He already heard me presume. Before I can think to reply, he's launched back into his sp
eech.

  "Though you will report first to her, understand that I am the personal assistant to the exalted master and, therefore, your superior. I'll show you to your quarters."

  Hang on. Did he say "Dracul"? As in Dracula?

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  Oh, come on! That's the demon in the portrait?

  It explains the castle, though. Talk about believing your own press.

  Go figure. Dracula himself must've been the one lurking in the Dallas cemetery. Granted, I never got a look at him. Not flat on the ground with Michael's sword at the back of my neck. But why else would Miranda be here? Be called "princess"?

  Miranda. I've seen bloodsuckers before, spat on them.

  I've never loved one.

  It's no surprise, what Miranda has become. I suspected from the moment the archangel said "her very soul is forfeit." I knew when I saw Kurt, fangs bared, in the cemetery with Lucy. If Miranda hadn't been killed in the explosion, this would be the fate I'd sealed for her.

  For over a year, I've mourned Miranda, dreamed of Miranda, tried to pretend other girls were Miranda, called them by her name, and seen her when she wasn't there. She should be in heaven right now, playing Scrabble and snacking on chocolate-chip cookies with her grandfather. Instead, she's here. And so am I.

  Harrison doesn't seem to notice my zombielike state. "The castle is twenty-five thousand square feet. Each floor is composed of four wings, forming a rectangle, with two connecting hallways in the middle--both running north-south.

  "The west wing houses the overflow social and

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  recreational halls; the north, the dining room, throne room and/or ballroom; the south houses the kitchen and the supply rooms; and of course this, the east wing, is our business center. It's locked daily at sunrise and during events.

  "The mistress may give you a key to her office. I have an office of my own."

  How nice. I wonder if he was this passive-aggressive before the midlife crisis. Harrison's petty attitude, his apparent acceptance of his place, pisses me off.

  I like it, the anger. I like it more than the way my knees keep threatening to buckle. Much more than the price Miranda has paid for my screwup. And I like it better than the thought of disappointing the Big Boss again.

  "You'll also notice," Harrison goes on, "three interior courtyards opening from the first floor. The largest is in the middle and often used for entertaining. You may peer down on them and across the grounds from the third floor or climb from there up an additional flight of stairs to a rather pleasant lookout tower."

  Like I care about the view. "Where is --"

  "Situated on the second floor are the quarters of the executive administrative staff: me, the senior PA; you, the very junior PA; Laurie, the chauffeur; Nora, the chef; and the maids, all of whom have recently had their tongues cut out--long story."

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  As we climb the narrow, curving stairs, I'm suddenly very aware of my own tongue.

  "A handyman, Boris, resides in a cottage on the west side of the property, along with our gardener-groundskeeper, Bruno, though the latter is currently overseeing the landscaping at our estate under construction in San Miguel. The dungeon manager generally stays downstairs, thank God."

  "Dungeon?" I ask.

  "Along with the wine cellar and the majority of our storage space, it's located, as you might imagine, underground. One of the tunnels beneath the building leads from the dungeon control center onto the east grounds so we don't have to parade human stock through the main house."

  I grab Harrison's forearm, harder than I meant to. "You're human, right?"

  The answering nod is sharp, punctual, and noticeably begrudging.

  "You keep people, fellow human beings, locked up here and feed them to monsters?"

  He blinks rapidly. "Just their blood." His tone has lost some of its arrogance. "Not the whole..." He gestures at himself, realizes what he's doing, and drops his hands. "Not the whole person."

  "And you're okay with that?"

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  Harrison yanks his arm free and resumes talking as if the subject never came up. "Periodically the area aristocracy will provide their servants on loan to assist us in such matters as preparing a feast, hosting a party, or trimming the trees after a storm. But only a handful of us permanently reside here. Hence the pleasant quiet of floor two."

  I'm tempted to say something about his choice of the word "pleasant," but baiting Harrison is a waste of energy. A distraction from my mission. I need to pay attention, assess the situation, and stop letting my emotions get in my way.

  Despite the white rock walls and wood floors, the second level looks a lot more modern, mostly because of the electric light fixtures. The whole place has to be wired, though. The first-floor torches and candles are some kind of design statement or a warning. Any vamp that decorates with flame and weapons has to feel indestructible.

  "Guest rooms for visiting aristocrats, including ambassadors, are located on the third floor. As is Her Royal Highness's personal retreat. They're currently unoccupied. The twenty-car garage is detached.

  "After the spring thaw, you'll be welcome to use the tennis courts with the mistress's permission. Speak to eternals when spoken to. That includes the sentries. Avoid the V-word at all costs." Harrison pauses in front of an arched door that looks like all the rest. He turns the lock with a

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  long, ornate metal key. Hands it to me. "We're in the process of hiring a new security guard. One of the sentries drained the old one."

  "Let me guess," I say. "Long story?"

  He waves me inside. "Not so long. Let's just say that calling Miranda 'the dragon princess' is appropriate to tradition. However, calling her 'a dragon lady' is considered offensive to the crown."

  My quarters make Danny Bianchi's junior executive suite at the Edison Hotel look like a hovel. The living room is furnished with a sofa, oak coffee table with hammered iron hardware, and two oversize brown leather reading chairs with matching ottomans. Double doors open to a dressing room, complete with four copper-bordered oak wardrobes. Another set of double doors opens to the bedroom, which includes an Arts-and-Crafts desk that was once painted green and stripped, a matching spindle chair, two huge arched windows, and a king-size, four-poster bed with green-and-beige gingko-print linens.

  My canvas bag is waiting on the corner of the bed. Apparently, Harrison was able to tell by looking that Miranda would choose me as--what did she call it?--her personal assistant and asked a maid to haul up the bag.

  "These are servants' quarters?" I ask.

  "We prefer 'executive administrative staff,'" he says. "You'll need more clothes, including party clothes. It's up to the mistress to decide if she wants to dress you or for

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  you to dress at all and whether to upgrade your room. The master upgraded mine."

  Like I care. "Where is this master of yours?"

  "He's the master of us all," Harrison corrects. "His name is Radford, but you will call him 'Master' or 'Majesty.'" He's abroad for the month. He left two days ago."

  A month. Looks like I'll have to make the best of this nightmare for a while. I can hardly imagine it, seeing Miranda night after night. But I can't help wondering...What is her existence like in this place? Does she ever pine for her lost humanity the way I do for the grace of the Big Boss? Does she even remember who she was?

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  Miranda

  THE FOLLOWING EVENING, my phone rings as I settle behind my office desk.

  "Sugar plum," Father's voice purrs. "How are the interviews coming?"

  It occurs to me that I don't have many details to share about my new PA. I can't even remember the name of the eternal that referred him. Avoiding the subject seems prudent. "Quite well, thank you. Are you in London already?"

  "I'm on our executive jet," Father clarifies. "We're about to take off from JFK, if the international air traffic will let up. New York was a frightful bore without you."

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2

  He misses me! I feel a burst of confidence. "I read a feature story about you. It included a photograph of your human daughters. They were attractive girls, all of them." The line goes silent a long moment, and I squeeze my eyelids closed. Regret floods my veins. "I shouldn't have mentioned it. I'm sor --"

  "Now, now," Father interrupts. "We're family, and you should know about our lesser, human relations. I drank down the youngest myself during my first bloodlust. The middle girl saw it happen and lost her mind. Then my eldest took her own life. My wife was heavy with another babe at the time, this one a boy. He went on to live to a right old age and father a new generation. My wife, however, died in childbirth."

  Not to sound selfish, but I'm grateful that I didn't first rise in Dallas and that I've never harmed anyone who was precious to me.

  It's strange. I've never wondered before what Father's immortality cost him on a personal level, at least not beyond the ability to chow down on southern-fried cooking with ease. He's always seemed so formidable, so secure in who he is now. I'm not sure what to say. "We count the nights until your return. If there's anything I can do..."

  Father responds by asking me to host any incoming visitors to the castle. "Stick to the niceties on the social front. If you're in doubt about a business or political

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  matter, do an informational interview and then report to me. That said, I trust your judgment. Should anyone unduly vex you, respond swiftly and mercilessly. Don't hesitate to use terminal force." This he says in the same tone my mom would use to say: "Be sure to thank Lucy's mother for dinner."

  First overseeing the estate and planning the gala and now this! It's another exam--a final exam perhaps, the chance to confirm myself as a worthy heir.

  Unfortunately, I already have to admit one complication.

  "There was an incident last night," I say. I fill him in on Elina's bat-form spying and my less-than-terminal response. "Given that she's an Old Blood--"

  "Not all Old Bloods are created equally," Father assures me. "Elina is too superficial and stupid to pose a real threat. That's why I permit her to stay in town. She has nothing to gain by watching you. I suspect she's merely jealous."

  "Of me?" I ask, glancing at the ornate battle-axe on the white rock wall.