by Karen Ranney
I won the lottery
Joey was asleep on the backseat when I pulled into the gate leading to the drive to my house.
The trust fund that had financed my education and career was thankfully large enough to care for the behemoth of a house my grandmother left me.
I’d rented out Graystone — yes, they’d named it — for the past few years, but hadn’t lived in it until three months ago. I hadn’t given the tenants any hope that I was going to sell. When I made the decision to move home, I gave them six month’s notice. Still, they were unhappy. They’d spread the word that the house was all but theirs. Graystone had a prestigious address, enough for the husband who was a bank president and his wife who was active in Junior League and all of the other San Antonio charities.
Neither of them was a Were. Nor did they have any inkling that the house had been built by a member of one of the five Were families and was currently owned by a card-carrying, lapel pin wearing Furry. Okay, I didn’t carry an ID card and there were no lapel pins, but I was definitely a Were.
I don’t think they would’ve been as fond of the house had they known.
I was still getting invitations addressed to them. Twice, people had shown up at the door wanting to see Missy and Bob. They’d been genuinely shocked to learn that Missy and Bob were no longer in residence. Nor was I absolutely sure of their forwarding address and when I told people, very nicely, then I just didn’t want to have to go look for it, they acted as if I had killed both of them and stuffed them in the basement.
The house didn’t have a basement.
Now the attic, that’s a different story.
Furries weren’t violent people. Granted, a few of us have been hired as bouncers and enforcement types, but again, that’s more of a personal thing that it was a Were thing. Most of us were just normal. We wanted to live our lives as best we could within a restrictive culture. Okay, except for me. I was always looking for loopholes.
The gate was black wrought iron kept from being rusty by Simon, the part time caretaker. He did things that I had no desire to learn how to do, like replace doorknobs, test out the security system, and keep the house in good running order. He was the one who let the air conditioning people into the attic every couple of months to check the system. He also handled plumbing repairs for which I was eternally grateful. There’s nothing worse than waking up in the morning and not having any hot water or hope of it.
The approach to the house was serpentine, the road paved with crushed black granite that I’ve been told was impossible to find nowadays. The mature oaks made the approach atmospheric – if you like haunted houses and nights filled with thunderstorms.
What startled the first time visitor was when you emerged into clearing in front of the house. Here, the sun beat down, almost in apology for the earlier dim and dark road. The circular drive surrounded flowers in yellow, arranged so that the planting look like a gigantic sunflower. It didn’t fit the house but I liked it because it was whimsical. Graystone needed as much whimsy as it could get.
The rest of the landscaping was done in a terrace style, with rows and rows of bushes and plants and flowers. There wasn’t any grass to mow, but there was weeding and more weeding and even more weeding. Think of an English garden gone amok. I hired Wilson a few weeks ago. He was just starting out with his own company and I was more than willing to help him, even if that meant being his biggest customer for a while. As long as I didn’t have to weed.
If you described the house as anything, early Gothic might be apt. My great-grandfather had built the place and he evidently had a thing for gargoyles and cathedrals. The outside of the house was decorated with statues all the way around the roof line. Each one was a winged monster with a human face, each different from the next, but all of them ugly. I couldn’t help but wonder if they were friends of his and he’d taken the opportunity to parody them. Or maybe they were enemies and he was just letting them know what he thought.
The house had two rectangular towers, just like Notre Dame in Paris. Once upon a time, there had actually been a bell in the left-hand one, but the city fathers had had a cow and said that it violated several hundred noise ordinances.
Graystone wasn’t in San Antonio proper, but in an incorporated city nestled inside San Antonio. The taxes were twice as much, but evidently the prestige was supposed to make up for any financial pain the inhabitants suffered. I’ve never been a fan of elitism, myself. Ergo, my refusal to continue to be a proper Boyd princess.
Joey and I climbed the ten wide steps to the oak banded front door. Graystone was named from the fact that it was built of gray stone. Imaginative, right? My grandmother had shelled out the money to have an elevator installed from the ground floor to the third floor. She’d had her suite altered as well to include a walk in tub and fall bars — her name for safety bars at shoulder height throughout her rooms.
She’d also renovated the bedrooms, turning ten of them into spacious, Architectural Digest kind of bathrooms. My suite, next to the one she’d occupied, wasn’t the largest in the house, but it was in the corner and had windows facing both south and west.
My grandmother had been a Spurs basketball addict, and never missed a game until she became ill. Even on her deathbed she wanted to know what the score was. The Spurs had won another national championship the night she died.
Every one of the guest rooms was named after a famous Spurs player from the George, “the Iceman,” Gervin room to the David Robinson, “the Admiral,” suite.
I decided to put Joey in the Robinson room.
I opened the door with the key code. Another change I’d made in the last couple of months. I had automated the house as much as I could. I could turn on the lights, open doors, adjust the thermostat in each zone of the house with my phone. I also had a surveillance system that allowed me to see if anyone was on the grounds from the gate to the front door. I was in the process of putting cameras in several of the public rooms as well.
I wasn’t paranoid, but I was protective of myself.
I walked into the black and white tiled foyer, watching Joey’s reaction. He looked up as most people do, to see the stained-glass cupola above us before his eyes trailed around to the staircase curving like a snake down to the floor, then back up to the crystal chandelier hanging over us.
The main stairs were fifteen feet wide and about eighteen inches deep, of wood so well varnished they didn’t show their age. My grandmother had them redone every five years.
“You have to protect what you value,” she said. Just one more piece of advice I tucked away.
“I keep forgetting how big it is,” Joey said.
“Fifty-three rooms,” I said. “And every single one of them filled with crap that has to be dusted.” I glanced at him. “I didn’t know you’d been here before.”
He nodded. “I came here a couple of times with my father,” he said. “He liked your grandmother. Called her Saucy Sonia.”
I smiled. That would have pleased my grandmother. She liked men more than she did women. She’d once confided in me that most women don’t use their minds. Of course, she’d been talking about the Were culture and she was right. You were praised for being subservient, not for being smart.
When I used this entrance I always felt like I was on a stage set for some fantastic musical. Something from the twenties, perhaps. I half expected scantily clad dancers attired in sequins, net stockings, and foot high headdresses to trot down the stairs, kicking with every other step.
The room to the left, what my grandmother called the Sun Parlor, was crammed with furniture. Before renting the house I’d put most of the furniture, except for custom pieces, in storage along with crates of knickknacks and doohickeys my grandmother had collected all her life. When I moved back, I called the storage company and told them to deliver everything. Consequently, most of the furniture was in this room. The overflow was in the third floor ballroom where wooden crates were stacked from floor to ceiling.
Onl
y my bedroom and two of the guest bedrooms had been tidied, along with the dining room. I was doing stuff when I had time, which wasn’t much lately.
“Maybe in between looking for a job, you could help me arrange some of this stuff,” I said to Joey.
He said something noncommittal. Translation: not on your life.
The phone rang and it startled me so much that I turned to look at him. It rang again, a strident old fashioned tone I followed into the library. Bob the Banker had used this room as his home office and it still smelled of cigarette smoke. The phone stopped just as I reached it. I picked it up, but there was only a dial tone.
“I’ve never actually seen one of those in person,” Joey said from behind me.
The phone was a plain black handset with push buttons on the front, what used to be standard from the phone company. Now you had to order it from a special catalogue, something that specialized in retro chic.
“It’s been here for ages,” I said, wondering if I should call the clinic. Nobody used my land line. I didn’t even know why I still had it. Maybe it was because it had been my grandmother’s phone number and I hadn’t wanted to let it go.
The phone rang again and this time I picked it up before the first ring stopped.
“Hello, is this Torrance Boyd?”
I was this close to hanging up — I’ve learned to be brutal with phone solicitors —when she said something that stopped me.
“I’m calling about the lottery.”
I didn’t hang up. Instead, I said, “Yes, I’m Torrance Boyd.”
“This is Marcie Travis, and I’m calling to tell you that you’ve won the lottery.”
I’d won the lottery. I repeated the news to myself a few times.
At her request I verified my address, my birthdate, and the four digit code I’d had to fill in on the entry form.
Before I could ask any questions, she said, “We have a very detailed set of procedures that must be followed. Do you have a pencil and a piece of paper to write these down?”
“Yes. No. Just a minute.”
I walked around the desk, sat, and opened the middle drawer. I discarded two dried out pens before I found a pencil. I located a receipt in the top right hand drawer and turned it over.
“Ready,” I said.
I wrote down the address and the time, repeated everything to her, then listened as she explained what I would need to do to prepare.
“Do you have any questions?” she asked.
“I need to arrange for time off,” I said. “If I need a few weeks like you said.”
“The adjustment time for everyone varies, but I would definitely plan to be out of work for two weeks.”
We talked for a few moments as I clarified some issues. When I hung up the phone I met Joey's eyes.
Uh oh.
“I don't want you to repeat anything you learn in my house," I said, standing.
He nodded. "Starting now."
"No,” I said, frowning at him. “Starting the minute you got out of the car."
"Craig's not gonna be happy," he said. “Neither is your father. Are you going to tell them about the lottery?”
"I wasn't planning on it," I said. "But I've only had about five minutes to think about it. I'm serious, Joey, not one word."
He made a halfhearted shrug, but I wasn't fooled. Craig might've tossed him out of his home, but the information he had now might buy him back into his brother’s good graces.
"Promise me you won't tell Craig."
He hesitated long enough that I could see the reluctance play across his face.
"Okay, I promise," he finally said.
I didn’t have one of those memory thingies like in the movie Men in Black. Short of lobotomizing Joey, I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t exactly sure that his word was his bond. But it was too late. He couldn’t un-hear what he’d heard.
Maybe I had a day or two before he caved and told Craig. Long enough to make arrangements or decide that I didn’t want anything to do with the Pranic Lottery.
According to Marcie, they wanted me to travel to Welfare, Texas, a little town in the hill country. There, I would be the guest at her house while being subjected to medical tests as well as a battery of psychological tests to ensure I was a good recipient for the blood transfusion. I remembered reading all of those clauses when I entered the lottery. They hadn’t made much sense then and they didn't now.
I needed to do more research before I headed to Welfare. I could always change my mind when I arrived. Hell, I didn’t even have to go if I didn’t want to.
When I said as much to Joey, he smiled.
"Well I hope you don’t go through with it,” he said. "Who wouldn't want to be a Were?"
"It's fun for guys," I said. "Not so much for females."
"I don't see what the big deal is, Torrance. You have everything you want. You don't have to worry about doing anything. You're taken care of."
I stopped myself from saying anything. It really was futile to argue with a male Were. They just don't see the other side. They've never had to and they never will. Trying to use logic or to point out the inequities of Were life was just a waste of time.
It was a good two hours until lunch, but I was starving. First the change and then missing breakfast was making my stomach think my throat had been cut.
I headed toward the kitchen, sending out an invitation for Joey to follow if he wanted, to explore if not. I could hear his sneakers on the wooden floor behind me. I cut through the dining room, complete with family portraits and a table large enough to seat a dozen people. The two chandeliers over the table were smaller versions of the one in the foyer. All of them had come from France, specially crafted for Graystone.
I’d always had a good appetite and kept my pantry and refrigerator filled. I offered to make him a turkey sandwich with lettuce and mayonnaise, or ham and cheese, or even an open faced cheese sandwich. What can I say, I was fighting my early training. Female Furries were handmaidens. Being contrary like some male Weres were, Joey wanted a grilled cheese sandwich. I did the mental eye roll thing again, but I pulled out the pan and put it on my stove.
I went ahead and made two of them, added some barbecue potato chips, and something green – a big old dill pickle. I love pickles or anything pickled, actually. I even like kimchi, even though the smell was nauseating.
Instead of a beer — since I needed to go into the clinic and the last thing I wanted to do while asking for time off was to smell like a brewery — I poured us both some sweet tea. A minute later I settled at the kitchen table beside Joey.
"Did you bring your clothes?" I asked.
He nodded. "Got a suitcase in your car."
"Where were you going to go if I hadn't agreed to let you stay?"
"I was gonna call my mother and ask her what she recommended."
"Not your dad?"
He shook his said. "He doesn't have anything to do with any situation involving Craig."
I couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if I’d agreed to bear Craig’s child. Would he be satisfied with only me as a mate? Or would he be like my father and take other women as concubines?
The more children a man had, the more virile he appeared. At the same time his position as head of the family became more dangerous. Any of his male progeny could challenge him like Craig had done to his father.
I still couldn’t get over that. A challenge was an ancient practice that was rarely used anymore. But Craig had done it and probably gloried in it. I felt sorry for Sam Palmer, which wouldn’t please him if he knew. By feeling compassion for him I labeled him weak.
My better nature had made me put on the robe and walk away this morning. Now any lingering regret I felt was buried beneath a sudden gratitude for my sanity.
Craig’s ambition had puffed him up into someone I didn’t like. Worse, someone who worried me. The farther I stayed away from him, the better.
Chapter Fourteen
He deserved to
have his balls cut off
I left Joey at the house after showing him his room. I explained the intercom, how to get in touch with Simon if he had a problem with anything.
Once I was satisfied that he knew where everything was, I got back into my car and headed for the clinic.
I was exhausted, but I couldn’t carve out any time right now to take a nap. I’d already arranged to take the day off, but I needed to go in and talk to the managing partner to arrange to take my two week vacation.
My contract called for me to work forty hours a week, but didn’t stipulate how the hours were split up. All that mattered was that the patients were served and I did my on-call time. Ever since I joined the practice, I’ve been banking hours. It’s no big deal for me to work seventy hours in a week. A couple of times the managing partner suggested that I should take some time off. I know he had visions of the EEOC or the fair labor standards people — or whoever does stuff like that — auditing the timesheets.
I didn’t want compensatory time and I certainly didn’t want overtime. What I wanted was to take my two weeks of vacation early.
None of my partners knew I was a Were. I hadn’t put it on my CV since it wasn’t a career enhancement. Oh, by the way, I need a day off around the full moon. Otherwise, I’m going to scare the patients, not to mention their owners. Other than Alice, who still struck me as paranormal, everyone else was pure vanilla human, something I’d always wanted to be.
I had a hundred questions about the lottery and I didn’t know who to ask. I knew that the whole thing had begun because Marcie Montgomery had become a vampire. She wasn’t just a vampire; she was a super vampire. To keep herself and her children safe, she and her husband had devised a plan by which a winner of the lottery received some of her blood. I’d read that the lottery had been going on for a number of years and that it had been shrouded in secrecy.
I wondered if they’d ever had a Were as a winner. Or had they only been concentrating on vampires? Was I the first Were? Was I a guinea pig? Good God, I wouldn’t grow fangs, would I? Or have a sudden yen to drink human blood?
