The answering laugh is affectionate. "Sugar plum, you underestimate yourself. Don't worry about that harlot. Once I return, I'll deal with her myself. Meanwhile, you take care and keep in touch. I'll look forward to hearing from you regularly."
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Zachary
MAYBE IT'S BECAUSE I got lousy sleep on the Amtrak train or because I still can't get into the flow of having an exclusively flesh-and-bone body or because of the shock of seeing Miranda. But it's a half hour past sundown before I'm up and dressed and ready to confront her again.
Last night before going to bed, I hung up the other two blue shirts and black pants from Joshua in the bathroom off my suite. I still look rumpled, but the steam of three massaging showerheads did help smooth out the wrinkles.
When it comes to creature comforts, I've noticed, the perks of this reproduction castle are a lot more modern than the architecture that inspired it.
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I'm careful not to cut myself shaving. This whole place is a shark tank. There's no need to stir up chum for the predators. Truth is, I don't know what would happen if a vamp bit me. But I'm in no hurry to find out. I mess with my hair for a couple of minutes. Until it hits me. I'm primping for her. For Miranda.
Ten minutes later, Harrison briefly intercepts me on the first floor, turning into the biz wing. He hands me a manila file. "You're late and you're rumpled. Neither is to Her Highness's benefit or reflects well on this staff. Furthermore, an eternal, Theo, awaits the princess's audience in the parlor. That's his file."
The east hallway is long and wide. Lined with freestanding World's Fair model slot machines and arched wood doors on one side. A large rectangular window looks out onto an open-air courtyard on the other.
I make my way to Miranda's office, skimming the file of paperwork as I go.
"Enter," she replies to my knock.
I doubt it's a coincidence that we're both here. Either I'm supposed to off Drac at least in part because of what he did to her or our spending time together is some kind of test from upstairs.
When I open the heavy door, Miranda rises from the gray sofa. She seems unsure. Insecure. Not that anyone else could see beneath her coiffed surface. I know her, though. I do. Or I least, I did.
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Tonight I can't help catching my breath at the sight of her, the pinned-up hair and sophisticated wardrobe. "You look like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's."
Miranda doesn't acknowledge that. "I trust your quarters are acceptable."
I'm not fooled by the supposedly cavalier attitude. I loved her as a human, but her acting skills never quite took.
"They'll do." I wave the file. "Vamp to see you."
With a curling finger, she beckons to me to approach. Her small chin tilts, and suddenly, I don't know her.
Miranda closes the distance between us in a blur, flicking her wrist to poise clawlike nails no more than an inch in front of my eyes.
"Such striking green eyes," she says. "I could scoop them out and put them in glass paperweights, one for you and one for me. You could consider yours a parting gift."
The flash of fear surprises me. I refuse to flinch. "Is there a point to this?"
"Not 'vamp' or 'vampire,'" Miranda clarifies. "'Eternal.'" She pivots and strides back to her desk. She's somehow grabbed the file on her way and is flipping through it. "He can wait," she declares, taking her power seat.
I don't know what she expects after that show. But I'm not going to wimp out. I ignore the lonely armless chair across from her and sit sideways on the corner of the
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desk instead. It's stupid, but I'm mad at her. Mad at her for dying. Mad at her for being this thing. Mad enough to push my luck and jeopardize my mission. Did Harrison's demeanor piss me off last night? That was nothing compared to how I feel now.
Miranda crosses her legs and turns her wheeled chair at an angle. "Only because you are in training will I tolerate the occasional slip and only for as long as I'm so inclined. I don't have time to baby you."
"Listen," I begin, "I don't know --"
Joshua materializes behind her. Eyes wide. He frantically waves his hands, warning me to can the attitude. Now.
He's right. I know he's right. I grab a notebook from the top of Miranda's desk, steal a pen from the pencil holder, and offer Josh a look of surrender.
He grins and gives me two-thumbs-up before disappearing again.
"You listen," Miranda counters. She pauses and then begins again as if nothing happened. "The tone and temperament of castle life is pristine, orderly, sedate, and regal. Father has asked that in his absence --"
"Father?" I repeat. She never called Troy McAllister that. It was "Da," then "Daddy," then "Dad." I was there, too, for every day of it. They'd been great together, before the divorce, anyway. I wonder if Miranda remembered him last Father's Day.
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"The exalted master. As I was saying, Father has asked that I maintain the status quo, deal with any visitors..." She taps the manila folder in front of her with one finger. Her nails are back to regular length. "Our most pressing short-term concern is planning his deathday gala. We'll work on that together. If there are any minor complications, Harrison will facilitate damage control."
As she leafs through the paperwork in the file, I watch her absently chew her lower lip. She used to do the same thing in her bedroom in Dallas when she was doing her math and at the kitchen table when she was working on a crossword puzzle.
I wonder if she thought about me today, sleeping under the same roof. My dreams of her were less than angelic.
Back in the main hall, the visiting vamp...eternal...no, vamp, Theo, stands on the edge of what Harrison informed me was an eighteenth-century Tibetan rug. Theo is checking out the nearest glass-fronted display of Ethiopian knives. Even with the other collections featured in the room--the Bavarian crystal decanters, Japanese tea sets, mastodon ivory animal carvings, and mounted shifter heads--the knives dominate.
"The mistress will see you now," I announce. It's one of the lines on the cheat sheet of commonly used castle phrases that Harrison gave me last night.
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Theo looks middle-aged. Paunchy. Puffy. He could be two hundred years old for all I know or care. He stands, brushing off his pant legs. Runs a forefinger across his front teeth like a toothbrush. "Thank you, dear boy. It's an honor to meet the princess." He waddles after me. "I've committed many crimes." He sounds oddly apologetic, even mournful, especially considering what he is.
"Yeah," I say, leading him to the biz wing hall. "I've screwed up some myself."
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Miranda
I PULL UP THEO'S FULL BIO on the computer. He's a newly elevated member of the gentry and recently relocated to Chicago from New Orleans.
An informal stance seems appropriate.
I return to the seating area, fluff the pillows, and flip through this week's human news magazines while I wait. The same global conflicts rage, and the same political parties bicker, which, granted, will have little impact on the undead community.
"Uh, here he is," Zachary says.
It's a far cry from "Presenting Theo." I make a mental note to correct him later.
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I tell Zachary to await my call outside the door and Theo to make himself comfortable in the gray-and-black-striped chair beside the couch. The new arrival wears a beige button-up sweater with leather elbow pads over a white button-down shirt and beige corduroys. He was balding when he died and fortunately shaved what was left rather than indulging in the comb-over. In short, he looks every inch the forty-something psych professor that he used to be.
"My thanks, Your Highness," he says. "I'm terribly sorry. I ache at the thought of having complicated your evening. You see, these past few months, I've committed many heinous deeds, wrought havoc on the innocent, become a parasitic plague. When I received the summons, I knew...I knew I would be held accountable."
Summons? There was a summons? A
t least I know why. From the report, I see that Penelope (Harrison's childhood mistress and one of the cochairs of our Neighborhood Watch program) reported Theo for stalking a human girl who lives in the next town. In Illinois, the only approved hunting grounds are within the city limits of Champaign-Urbana, Bloomington-Normal, Peoria, East St. Louis, Rockford, Springfield, and Chicago proper.
I reach for my blood wine.
Meanwhile, Theo drones on about his pain and angst.
"You do know what you did wrong, don't you?" I ask, taking a sip.
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"I walk the earth, terrorizing humanity with--"
"Silence," I say. All he has to do is apologize, agree with whatever I say, and go along his scary way. What's so hard about that?
"You're a blessed and elevated being. You have as much right to consume human blood as a shark does angelfish. You are at the top of the food chain. All this regret, this self-flagellation, it's your soul sickness talking." Pushing away the memory of my own misplaced conscience from my time as a neophyte, I spell it out. "The problem isn't that you would've killed the girl or that you wanted to. The problem is that she's not in an approved hunting zone, and besides, she's a JV cheerleader with new-money parents. Her father is a major political fundraiser. He's connected."
Upon reflection, part of me whispers, this isn't the sort of behavior we can continue to let slide.
I set my glass on the coffee table and reach behind the sofa to wrap my hand around the battle-axe handle I positioned for such occasions. "Do you have any idea how much twenty-four-hour television news stations salivate over film of missing young blondes?"
"I would miss her," Theo replies. "Miss the very idea of her." Fat tears roll down his ruddy cheeks. "Each of them is precious, unique, like a snowflake."
That does it. "This is not an Anne Rice novel!" I exclaim, bringing the weapon up, pulling it back like a
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baseball bat, and, in one smooth motion, beheading him with the sharp blade.
Unfortunately, Theo wasn't old enough to crumble into dust. Blood spurts like a fountain, all over my gray upholstered furniture and silver throw rug. I leap out of the way and land unsteadily, in my black pumps.
I didn't know to expect it. I've never seen a beheading before. I guess that's because, like a staking, Father considers them unimaginative. "Zachar--!"
He runs in before I utter the last syllable. "Are you..." He takes in the display. "All right?"
I adjust my dress. "It's a messy night. That happens around here." Do I sound suitably nonchalant? Not really. I clear my throat and try again. "I need you to clear out Theo's remains and take them to the crematorium in the dungeon."
Zachary turns slightly green and covers his mouth and nose with one hand to block the enticing smell. "What did he do?"
I lick my lips. "Do?"
He looks down, realizes he's standing on spilt blood, and steps back. "Theo."
"Oh, well, he tried to kill a human girl, which..." I'm not inclined to elaborate, and I certainly don't owe my PA any explanations. "Let's just say it's complicated."
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Zachary
I FEEL THE SLIGHTEST BIT BETTER about Miranda after she tells me that she beheaded Theo because he tried to kill a human being. Better still after I get the body and head into plastic trash bags and onto a rolling metal cart from the supply room, throw up in one of the half baths on the first floor, and scrub my hands twenty times.
I feel a hell of lot worse when I get off the service elevator in the basement.
So this is the dragon's dungeon. CREMATORIUM has been marked with signs and arrows. I quickly find myself walking through a no-frills prison. Chillingly modern. Antiseptic. Most cells are empty.
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I count about forty people, teenagers mostly. A third or so in their early twenties.
From their mutterings, I can tell that maybe half are immigrants or "imports."
Each has been allocated a numbered pen--I'm guessing seven by fourteen feet--with steel bars, white rock walls that match the rest, and gray concrete floors. A sleep platform (no mattress) is mounted to each side wall. Every unit is equipped with a small sink and toilet.
The prisoners are barefoot, dressed in paper-thin light-blue hospital gowns. The kind that tie at the back and hang open. Though the lights are muted, I can make out puncture wounds on their arms, legs, and necks.
Most are sleeping. A few cry softly.
The rolling cart's wheels echo, drawing attention.
As I push the cart by, a boy mutters, "God damn you. God damn you."
He looks no older than sixteen. But he's big. Tall and burly. The kind of guy you look at and think: girth. Future NFL defensive-line material. By human standards, I'm built, but he's huge. We're talking six four, maybe two hundred and fifty pounds.
Three cells down, a girl with vacant eyes, her body folded like a cricket, pounds the bars. Her fisted hand is bruised and swollen, speckled with dried blood. Her hospital gown gapes, exposing a stripe of skin. Twin crusted holes rest a breath above the split of her
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buttocks. With her spare hand, she reaches to scratch them raw.
Moments later, a pocked man rises from behind a beat-up wooden desk. He's polished off half of a pizza. Deep dish. Sausage, mushrooms, and green peppers.
I've been able to smell it since I turned the last corner.
He introduces himself as Gus, the dungeon manager, and says Harrison has already told him all about me.
"You run this place?" I ask, horrified.
"Hell of an operation, ain't it? We feed 'em once a day. That Nora, she's some cook. Spoils 'em, if you ask me."
I didn't. In the cell block, a toilet flushes.
Gus points to a metal sprinkler mounted to the ceiling. "Water 'em once a day, too, to ward off the stink. We also got temperature control and ventilation and air purification." He motions toward an industrial-looking workstation.
A large console features half-inch toggles numbered to correspond to the cells and what looks like one large master switch. Key cards, likewise numbered, are stored in slots on a panel secured by bolts onto the rock wall.
"Solid cages," Gus goes on, "strong enough to hold most shifters or even a young vampire. These scrawny human brats, they don't got a prayer. You got to keep an eye on them so's they don't off themselves. Last week when I was sleepin', some chick yanked out enough of her own hair to shove it down her throat and choke to death."
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I feel like my throat is closing, too.
"In the storage closet, we got ropes for the humans and chains for the spooky types. It's sexier to chain humans, but then they're harder to rip off the walls and --"
"How do you restrain old eternals?" I ask.
He barks a laugh. "You don't."
Joy.
"Furnace is over here," he says, like I wouldn't have noticed it otherwise. He tosses Theo's head into a corrugated cardboard box atop a long metal tray resting on a conveyor belt. "I'll crank 'er up after I finish my pizza."
I help him move the plastic-wrapped body into a larger box.
"If they get sick," Gus adds, "something contagious, we burn the whole stock. The master doesn't like to take chances when it comes to phlegm."
"It's dangerous to him?"
Gus chuckles. "Nah, it just grosses him out."
Excellent. So far I've ruled out mucus as a weapon. "About the puncture marks," I begin again. "The eternals don't kill the prisoners?"
"Depends." Gus wipes his hands on his wife-beater T-shirt. "We got syringes that work as good as fangs." He grabs another slice of pizza. "Want some?"
I shake my head.
"Suit yourself. The master likes to keep the sentries hungry, mean, and furry. They get theirs in buckets back
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behind the garage. As for the little princess, her appetite leveled off after the first big wave, and back then she took hers off the streets. She doesn't have the stomach
for the kill, if you ask me. Not yet anyway."
He has my complete attention. "How so?"
Gus takes a bite, spends forever chewing, and swallows. "Pretty much it's the master who sucks 'em dry here, and that's only when he doesn't hit the city. But if there's a party, big crowd and all, that can turn into a real bloodbath. Literally." He grins. "Sometimes with bathtubs and everything. We got a few old-fashioned dragon-footed numbers."
I peek at the paperwork on his desk. Numbered columns correspond to occupied cells. It looks like blood extraction is managed. I wonder how long the prisoners are kept.
I clear my throat. "I have a tub like that in my quarters."
"How nice for you, just arrived and already the exec perks. I guess you got the looks for it." Gus seems on the verge of a rant but shakes it off. "So, you know, the tubs are antiques but real nice restorations. We got more in storage."
I almost hate to ask. "Why?"
"A couple of years back, the master had 'em all hauled out to the main courtyard and...You okay there? You're lookin' pukey around the gills."
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"Go on."
"Let me put it this way," Gus clarifies. "They called it 'a tribute to the Countess Elizabeth Báthory.' You heard of her? Human chick from way back when. She bathed in maidens' blood to keep herself lookin' young and hot. Get it? Bath? Báthory?"
"Hysterical." I can't hide the shudder. "But I don't think that's how the name is pronounced."
A sliver of green pepper is stuck between Gus's front teeth. "Don't sweat it, pal. They don't got another shindig scheduled till the master returns, and anyway, nobody but sweet thing herself is gonna take a bite out of you."
My gaze flicks to his desk again. I spot the order form. He's requesting a delivery of fresh prisoners in mid-May. That's what? Just under a month from now.
I've been telling myself I can hide in plain sight. Bide my time. But it's one thing to order Miranda's paper clips and drop off formerly undead body parts. It's another to play servant boy, knowing what's happening down here.
What the hell is Michael thinking? Where's Josh?
Gus winks at me. "How's life with Her Highness? Some gig you landed, pal."
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