I'll never again think of the master vampire as "father."
I'm not his daughter. Not his princess. Not his china doll.
The Dracula presses the blade, drawing a bright line of blood, which streams down my neck. His voice is at my ear. "I've never been so brokenhearted, so down and disappointed."
I knew he'd find out about everything that had gone wrong, sooner or later. I'd been hoping for later. I still don't know what to say.
"I've been here with you this whole time," Radford announces. "The bat at the window, the extra wolf-form sentry, the dust on the coffins and wine bottles, the passing gentleman on the crowded sidewalk..."
The mist in the fog! He was watching me, sabotaging me, spying on me.
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I'd been wrong to assume the bat was Elina! No wonder he said he'd handle the matter himself. I'd wondered how he could dismiss an Old Blood so easily.
I remind myself that, in his own twisted way, Radford really does consider me his child and he's been acting based on that. I've heard of parents reading diaries, listening in on phone calls, even checking Web-browser histories. This is taking it to the next level. I don't know how well he managed to follow me through the city or how well he can hear in his less-corporeal forms. This was more than a mere surveillance effort, though. He set fire to my nursery. "So," I begin, "your entire 'absence' was a test?"
I'd thought so, but I'd underestimated how intrusive, manipulative, and deceptive of one. The cut isn't deep, not yet. My blood is seeping steadily, though. I look like I'm wearing a red turtleneck.
"That's all you have to say?" Radford thunders, removing the blade. "My cars are gone! My cars and my bleeding stock! Every last human in the dungeon and now Laurie, too. My gala is tonight! I already had Freddy send out the word. The guests will arrive soon. Whatever will they think? Your boy, he's the one responsible! And he turned my own chef against me! She helped him! Damn him to hell anyway!"
Oh, God. "Zachary?" I ask. "He's back? Is he alive?"
"Not for long."
I reach for a washcloth and press it against the shallow
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cut. "Pity." With my free hand, I refresh my black lipstick and then reach for a two-inch-thick black velvet ribbon. "He's so nice to look at. Still, he'll make a tasty treat."
I doubt that was the response Radford expected, and I'm proud of having delivered the line so well.
I'm also furious. Strip away his machinations, and all I did was make one ill-advised hiring decision. Meanwhile, it's not as though Harrison has been the model PA.
Not...Not that his standards matter. I've had enough of his monstrous sensibilities, enough of the monster in both of us.
"Yes. Well..." Just like that, Radford's demeanor flips and he abruptly changes the subject. "Not so long ago you called the human world home. We must be open to new ideas. Progress is a glorious thing!"
It's dizzying, his mood swing, like that night in the kitchen with the maids' tongues. One moment he's out for my head. The next I'm his "sugar" again. Only this time, his madness is working in my favor.
"When hosting a fete," he goes on, "what do young ladies and gentlemen of limited resources offer their peers?"
It takes effort to decipher Radford's question. "You mean, what do people serve?" I think back to the one big high-school party I attended. "If someone has a fake ID or an older brother, they might get a keg. Usually, it's BYOB. Bring your own--"
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"Body!" Radford exclaims. "What a jim-dandy idea!"
Now what did I do? "It is?"
"This traitorous behavior by our staff, we can't stand for it! As royalty, the burden falls on us to send a message across the board. The humans' foolishness will cost lives, and"--he snaps his fingers--"satisfy our need to supply a more complete menu. Our guests can drink the pets they bring with them. Sugar, you're a bona-fide genius!"
I can't believe he never left! I can't believe the party is tonight! I have to hurry. Radford said to dress for the gala and meet him in the parlor in five minutes.
Radford said that Nora helped Zachary free the prisoners. I'm not surprised. I think, for her, doing something like that has been a long time coming. I suspect it was delivering the food to the dungeon herself, facing those victims in person, that finally pushed her to act.
I'm also sure she wouldn't have crossed the line without warning her son first. But he can't hide forever. She must be worried sick.
When I walk into the kitchen, carrying my book and Radford's, I'm shocked to see Nora dicing a chilled heart into cubes. "What are you doing?" I ask. "Who was that?"
"Another of Porky's cousins," she replies. "Hardly any of the vamps eat solid food, and those few who do barely remember what anything tastes like. I hope."
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I'm embarrassed for doubting her--Nora, of all people, who has more faith in me than I deserve. I wonder in how many small ways she's circumvented Radford.
A phone rings, and it takes me a second to realize it's Nora's.
She holds up one finger. "Freddy! No? Really. Oh, no. Not at all. If the master has other ideas..." The chef ends the call. "Change of menu. I'm supposed to just whip up --"
"Nora," I whisper, urgent. "Radford is planning to serve up staffers to the partygoers tonight. He's going to order the guests to drain their own PAs."
She sets down the dicing knife. "What are you asking of me, hon?"
"Warn them, so they can run or fight or--"
"It wouldn't help," she says in a low voice. "They're in love with their masters or with the idea of being turned. They'd never believe what's coming, and they'd report us for treason. I'm in enough trouble as it is."
I should've anticipated that. "If we can create a distraction, I'll --"
"You'll what?" she whispers, incredulous. "Destroy Dracula?"
"Yes," I say, without hesitation, "and you and your son will finally be safe."
I project confidence. I project competence. I wow my crowd.
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I beat Father to the parlor just barely in time to set Curse of the Cubs on his end table, plop in a decorative way on the rug, and open my acting book.
"Evening, sugar," Radford says, entering in a tux. "Why, what's this?" He sets the kukri knife on the arm of his recliner and picks up the book.
By the standard that applies, it's not much of a gift.
"Merely a token," I assure him. "I thought..." I thought what? "Perhaps in celebration of your death-day we could"--I've got it! --"attend the Country Music Awards. I'll arrange for front-row seats."
At this, he begins to tear up, momentarily speechless.
As I leaf through my book, trying to strategize, Harrison escorts Zachary into the parlor. I make sure my glance seems unconcerned. I don't detect any bruises, cuts, contusions, punctures, or broken bones.
I'm ashamed of the way I treated him at the Edison. I hope he doesn't hate me, but I can't apologize or explain, not now. I have to maintain my façade.
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Zachary
WHEN HARRISON AND I ARRIVE, my gaze goes first to Miranda.
She's studying Wow the Crowd. She's dressed in a bridal, full-length, diamond-studded sky-blue gown. She's wearing a thick black ribbon around her neck. Her dark hair is curled in ringlets. Black lipstick. Pale pink blush. Pale pink eye shadow. No jewelry. Her shoes look like ballet slippers. They peek out from the skirt. She sits with her legs tucked on the werebear rug in front of the fireplace.
"Miranda?" I say.
Ignoring me, she wets a dainty fingertip and turns a page.
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Drac's feet are up on the La-Z-Boy recliner. He's sharpening the knife that was a gift from Sabine and Philippe. Curse of the Cubs is on the table beside him. His jacket is draped over the back of the Arts-and-Crafts sofa to his right.
If Michael hadn't yanked my powers, I could use my radiance. Light up like a supernova and take Drac out.
Except that Miranda also would be directly expos
ed.
I can't bring myself to give up on my girl. Not yet. Besides, if my theory holds, Harrison may be redeemable, too.
If only I had a sword of divine flame like Michael's.
Harrison's cell rings. He takes the call, excuses himself, and then reappears. "Presenting Sabine, Philippe, and Geoff."
It's Geoff Calvo, Miranda's high-school crush. He's dressed in formalwear. He's showing off fangs. We're talking date to the princess. Everything but the corsage.
For the kid to have already transformed, they must've fed him the blood and killed him not long after he left here.
I was jealous of Calvo. I admit it. But what a waste! He was so young.
Miranda smiles like the Mona Lisa, but I'd swear I catch a glimpse of horror in her eyes. I don't trust it, though. My girl was never this good of an actress.
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Sabine curtsies to Drac and then Miranda, gesturing to Calvo. "The master informed us that you would reconsider him as a consort."
Miranda stands. She smoothes her skirt. She extends her hand for Calvo to kiss.
"Dear boy," Drac begins, acknowledging Calvo's bow, "we have a surprise for you tonight. This..."--he gestures my way--"is Her Highness's former personal assistant. He has been discharged. In honor of your introduction to eternal society, I invite you to take the first bite."
Had I felt badly for Calvo? He's at my throat in an instant. I have no time to struggle. His teeth tear my skin, worm into my vein. Pain flashes. Invasive. Intoxicating.
Before I know it, I'm numb. Is this death? It must be. As if from a distance, I hear Drac's voice again. I'm going to hell, I realize. And this is the welcoming committee.
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Miranda
IT HAPPENS IN A BLUR. Geoff latches onto Zachary's neck. Meanwhile, Radford is saying, "Never fear, sugar plum. You're welcome to finish the traitor off."
I'm ready to tear Zachary free when the neophyte vampire shoves him aside.
I'm not sure what's wrong. Geoff's lips are blistered. They're swollen, burned, no, burning? As he raises his hands to his face, I realize his cheeks are on fire. He takes a drunken step. Flames spread to his throat, eating away the flesh.
How is this possible? I'm as repulsed as I am mesmerized.
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The neck folds. The head separates. One knee cracks on the way down.
The fire consumes him. It feels like Texas in July.
All that's left of Geoff are scorch marks on the rug.
The boy I spent so long pining for is completely gone.
I'm not glad of that. Nothing here tonight makes me happy, but it's a relief that he won't be corrupted any further and that he won't hurt anyone else.
Sabine and Philippe trade a look of alarm. Harrison pours a glass of blood wine from a crystal decanter and hands it to Radford. Then the eternal PA takes a shot straight from the mouth of the decanter himself.
It was the blood, I realize, Zachary's blood. "What was that, a protection spell?" I ask him. "What are you? A sorcerer, warlock, Hogwarts grad? What?"
He says the most ludicrous thing. "I'm on a mission from God."
Even stranger? The answer seems to make sense to Radford. He raises his glass in a toast to Zachary. "You," he muses. "It was you. You know, I chose her because of you. I meant to adopt the other one. Then you appeared in the moonlight, and I took refuge in the deepest shadows, delighted by my good fortune. When you, of all beings, appeared to her, I knew that she must be special. I had to make her mine."
I turn to Radford. "What is he, Father? What do you mean?"
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He sighs. "They just don't make angels of the Lord the way they used to."
It's like I've been punched in the heart. I remember Zachary asking me at the bookstore if I believed in angels. I remember the tattoo on his chest. I...
Oh, my God. It's true.
I asked when we first met if he was a wereperson. I instinctively knew that he wasn't human. No human could have such silken hair and flawless skin. No human could eat like a sumo wrestler, never work out, and look like that.
The love and lust of my life is as holy as I'm unholy. No wonder Zachary kept rejecting me! I'm positive that sucking face with a bloodsucker falls in the Thou Shalt Not category Why is he here? Shouldn't he be topping a Christmas tree or decorating an Italian fresco or singing in a choir or strumming a harp or, I don't know, molting?
Where are his wings?
"An angel," I breathe, finally able to form words again.
"A fallen one, apparently," Radford observes. "Likely of the guardian variety."
Sabine excuses herself to freshen up, and Philippe exits with her. They don't ask or wait for permission. They just go.
"How do you know that he's fallen?" Harrison asks.
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Radford laughs. "Fully endowed angels don't tend to spend quality time with eternals. Even daughter-seducing do-gooders like this one. Besides, if he weren't fallen, he would've already vanished in a twinkling or used his radiance to vaporize us all."
"He's a guardian angel?" I ask, trying to make sense of it.
That's when Zachary speaks. "Yeah. I am, or at least I was, yours."
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Miranda
"REMOVE THIS to the main courtyard," Radford orders Harrison, slipping on his jacket. "He'll make fine entertainment."
"You can't kill me," Zachary says as blood wells at his neck wound.
Radford's smile darkens the room. "I know. It makes you the perfect, perpetual victim. I can only imagine how publicly torturing you, night after night, year after year, over the centuries will enhance my reputation."
It takes all of my will power not to visibly react to that.
As Harrison leads Zachary out of the parlor, Radford pulls a cigar from his inside breast pocket and calls after
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them. "Wait. I'll go with you. I have the most jim-dandy idea." He turns to me. "Sugar?"
"With your permission, Father, I'll meet you at the gala." I must act now, while he's preoccupied. He may be able to travel as dust and mist, but he can't be two places at once. It's the most logical explanation for his not foiling the dungeon breakout. He was distracted either by observing me or by Harrison's return. "I wish to speak to Sabine privately about..." I settle on the safest default I can muster, at least when addressing an undead southern gentleman. "Urn, it's girl talk."
When I find Sabine standing alone in a third-floor hallway, she's sipping blood from a monogrammed silver hip-flask and staring out the window overlooking the central courtyard. Apparently, I'm not the only one who likes to know where the vampire king is.
"You are dismayed, princess?" Sabine asks as I approach. "Please understand. You said one thing about Geoff, but then your Father called --"
"I know," I reply. "You couldn't defy the master. Sucks, doesn't it?"
"I beg your pardon?" she asks, raising a curtain of mascara-laden eyelashes.
I can hardly believe her corseted mermaid dress. Sabine takes her fashion as seriously as her feminism,
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yet tonight she looks like a vapid doll because that's the expectation. Radford's expectation. She has to hate it.
"Sabine, may I have a word with you in confidence?"
She bows as well as she can with the sewn-in waist.
"I feel I should warn you." It's a baby step, nothing Radford wouldn't excuse should he catch word of it. "Tonight the master will order his subjects to dine on their own personal assistants. It's to send a message after some glitches in the management of the royal staff. Should you wish to protect your--"
'"Glitches' like employing and daring to torture an angel? Mon Dieu!"
Jackpot. I see no need to clarify that I'm the one who hired said angel in the first place. Sabine trembles, likely recalling the fallout of her handmaiden's indiscretion, the indignity of having to eat the nun's body herself, the fire that ripped away Philippe's good looks and their longtime home. I bet she's think
ing that payback for angel abuse--that divine retribution--is far greater than she can endure.
"When we met, I was taken by his sophistication," she says, referring to Radford, "his unusual respect for women, as an eternal male of his seniority. That he would name a young woman as his heir is significant. However, the master is no Old Blood."
He's no Old Blood, but she is. She's among their most admired and feared.
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I suspect that at one time she imagined herself in my blue slippers, as the dragon princess, if not as queen.
The implication of her words constitutes treason. It's brave of her to direct them at me, Dracula's daughter.
"They say," Sabine adds, "as he prematurely heightens his abilities through magic, he loses his mind."
"It's true," I reply. "I'm his favorite." I untie the black ribbon around my neck to reveal the scabbed knife wound. "And look."
Sabine's hand flies to her throat.
Sabine, who once chose damnation over the guillotine.
It hasn't been long since her actions placed her temporarily outside Radford's good graces. I tell her about the fire in my bedroom, and I can almost hear her wondering about the one in the Latin Quarter. I wouldn't be surprised if Radford had ordered it set.
"His affection for you," she says. "It is now an obsession."
It works to my advantage that I showed her mercy when he likely wouldn't have. Sabine holds up a finger, glancing again at the courtyard scene below.
"There are rumbles among the aristocracy," she adds in a soft voice. "It did not help that the master never appeared on his international tour. His media manipulations may have fooled the middle class, the peasants. The elite, we know. His instability puts the Mantle at risk. It is a dangerous time, princess--not only for the royal family
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but for the aristocracy as well. Of late, across the continents, we are more and more questioned, more and more dismissed by the gentry, even the common citizenry. Just over a year ago, the entire Southwest U.S. aristocracy was destroyed in a series of bombing attacks."
Almost there. "The master can't even rule his own castle," I agree, "let alone the underworld. It must be done. Tonight at the party We'll catch him off-guard."
Sabine raises her small chin. "You are doing this for the angel."
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