“Darling,” Milton answered, “faces aren’t the only things they put in front of a camera.” He patted Cynthia’s butt. “Look at that sweet little ass. This is booty to die for. I see jeans, swimwear, and lingerie in her future.”
Cynthia agreed to consider the idea.
While we talked, Ed slipped in almost unnoticed. He embraced Sam lavishly in his usual way and shook Milton’s hand. It upset him when he learned Milton appropriated the couch he normally used. The prospects of him spending another night with Sam and the babies took a nose dive.
Milton stayed another day and promised to help Cynthia with the shower.
With almost frenetic energy Cynthia threw herself into organizing the event. The community, energized by the news of Sam’s pregnancy, grew to over two hundred, as members worked harder than ever to find others.
The day before Dr. Ortiz’s arrival Sam, Cynthia and I sat at the dinette table making little pouches out of colored paper and ribbons to hold game prizes.
“It’s a heck of a note,” harrumphed Sam good-naturedly, “when a mom is forced to make her own shower prizes.”
“Hush up,” Cynthia retorted. “It keeps your mind off the kicking.”
“Don’t give them any ideas. They’re quiet right now.” The babies’ kicking began as a cute, wondrous novelty. By the seventh month it grew into a stampede calmed only by specific manual applications to Sam’s tender regions involving warm scented lubricants. “Tell me again. Whose idea was this motherhood thing, anyway?”
By email Cynthia invited all hundred and six females on the network. Except for the locals, meaning those within a thousand miles, we expected polite rejections accompanied by modest gifts. To our surprise, twenty overseas members accepted.
“One of the RSVPs really caught my eye,” Cynthia said. “It came from a lady in Spain. I have her name here somewhere.” She fished through a pile of papers. “Ah, here it is. It’s Contessa Malvina Arriago—whatever a contessa is,” and, staring across the room with a flicker of whimsy in her eyes, added, “Do you think she’s from La Mancha? The Lady of La Mancha—will be so cool.”
“We’ll have to do something to feed all of them.” Sam wondered aloud.
“Not to worry,” answered Cynthia. “Miltie is shipping in a whole steer from the ranch. I told the guests there will be no kills and they’d have to make do with beef. If that didn’t float their boat they could stay home. Nobody’s cancelled yet.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Attorney and the Lady from La Mancha
Doctor Ortiz arrived for what we estimated to be the last examination before delivery. His conclusions on the development of the litter were consistent with those of the human doctors at the women’s clinic. In his absence he grew a moustache. After he completed the examination, I introduced Oscar.
At first, Dr. Ortiz’s diffidence confused me until I remembered he typically avoided involving humans in matters concerning The Others. From across the dining room table he assessed Oscar from the depths of an overhanging brow, his small mouth pursed to make a contemplative oval under the pencil moustache. He eyed Oscar with a guarded expression who answered with a level gaze. In his tailored suit and blue silk tie, Oscar presented an image of impeccable confidence. He nervously dabbed at a high sweat dampened forehead with a handkerchief matching the tie while everyone settled down.
The five of us sat around the carved maple dining table we rarely used. We needed the room as Oscar brought a lot to show.
We planned to wait for Ed but at the last minute he called. “Start without me. The idiots here assigned more mandatory overtime.”
Hearing that, we gave Oscar the floor.
Taking off his coat, he placed it on the couch, careful not to wrinkle it. “I have thought a lot about your situation. For centuries you’ve lived in isolation. In the recent past you’ve made dramatic advances. Advances—I might add—you can be proud of.” He paused. “Lycans and vampires discovered one another.” He nodded to Sam and me. “You have a network. It now includes nearly a sixth of your estimated numbers worldwide. Locating and mentoring pre-emergents has never been more successful.”
“All well and good Señor Young,” Dr. Ortiz said, “but what do you propose?”
Oscar dug into his briefcase and placed a stack of folders on the table. Each was a brief of his proposal. He slid one to each of us. “I think it is time to take the next step. I propose incorporating this community formally known as The Other Kind.”
A heavy silence hung over the table as each of us assimilated what he said. I adjusted my reading glasses and examined one of the documents.
Cynthia, with the directness of youth, asked, “What will this do for us?”
“As it now stands, you possess no structure beyond the website and a few support groups scattered around the world. By incorporating, anyone who joins will be part of an organization.”
“I still don’t see the benefit,” Sam said.
“The Corporation provides a vehicle to conduct business, as agreed upon by the members. The majority of you live from hand-to-mouth because of your unique needs. Even you Doctor White—how much has your work suffered because of the need to hunt and other activities associated with being a vampire? By incorporating, you can pool assets and start enterprises to generate income. It would free you to do what you want or need.”
“You are correct regarding one thing,” Dr. Ortiz said. “All of us live hand-to-mouth. The only one who might benefit from this incorporation business is an elderly vampire in Spain, Malvina Arriago.”
“Ohhh, I know her,” Cynthia interjected. “She’s the lady from La Mancha I’ve been telling you about.”
Dr. Ortiz shot an aggravated glance Cynthia’s way, an expression that in another time might have accompanied an admonishment that children should be seen and not heard. Instead he turned away from her, addressing Oscar. “It is exactly my point, Señor Young. None of us own any—how do you say?—any assets. None to speak of, anyway.” To emphasize his point he turned his copy of the brief Oscar prepared face down on the table.
“I disagree,” Oscar said with a confident gleam as if he showed a straight flush to Dr. Ortiz’s four-of-a-kind. “Each of you owns magnificent assets. You have strength, speed, hearing, and eyesight equal to or better than the best human. You use these talents for hunting prey.” He faced me. “Take Jim, for example. You’ve always followed baseball. How good of a major league player do you think you could be? And you Cynthia, didn’t Milton want you to get into modeling? Each of those professions pays well. They would make you rich as well as quickly fund the corporation.”
“What happens when I break all the records and the media or the Baseball Commissioner wants to know how I did it?” I asked.
“The answer is simple. Don’t do your best. You can be successful but stay in the middle of the pack. In baseball as a hitter I’m talking a .290 batting average or as a pitcher to win twelve games a season. By staying out of the spotlight you will enjoy a long and profitable career while preserving your secret.”
“Actually,” I replied, the wheels in my head beginning to turn. “Sam is the baseball fan, but I get your point.”
“For two thousand years your kind dreamed of living openly with humans. Now that you have the prospect of families, the goal becomes more important,” Oscar continued, pressing his advantage. “A critical step is to stop hunting them. Funding at corporate level will provide the best chance to discover supplements to animal meat and fluids, allowing you to no longer need to consume human flesh. This is an enterprise you, Doctor Ortiz, have always wanted to pursue.” Dr. Ortiz raised an eyebrow, in my estimation impressed that Oscar took the time to become informed about him. “Think of it. Properly funded scientific investigation to discover the solution to your greatest quest—your Holy Grail as Doctor White characterized it. That alone—it appears to me—would make incorporation worthwhile.”
From across the table Sam beamed contentedly, touched he
r stomach, and smiled at me. She’d already found her Holy Grail.
A ring of sweat stained Oscar’s stiff white collar but he didn’t care. He might have been nervous, even intimidated, by being in the same room with four creatures any one of whom could have him for lunch, but he sensed success close at hand. “The documents of incorporation I prepared require each member to allot twenty percent of earnings received after the date of incorporation,” he said. Sensing hesitation he added, “The first seventy thousand dollars is exempt.”
Slowly Dr. Ortiz picked up the proposal and started reading.
* * * *
Milton got Cynthia an interview with a New York modeling agency. They signed her the same day. “They love my hands and butt,” she told us excitedly on the phone. “I’ll be modeling lingerie, gloves, jewelry. Stuff like that.”
“How wonderful for you,” Sam replied. “All of us here are extremely proud of you.” She winked at Ed and me who sat on the couch across from her.
“I’ll be back tomorrow, on the evening flight from Atlanta.”
In the next two weeks, Cynthia made three more trips to New York. Her schedule became so busy she hired a Planner to complete Sam’s shower.
“My Lady from La Mancha is really cool,” Cynthia told us. The shower was the next evening. “She’s nearly three hundred. Can you imagine?”
With part of her first paycheck, Cynthia ordered the Planner to book a meeting room at a nearby hotel. She also paid for a few extra rooms to use as a staging area or in case any of the guests needed the help, and brought in a string band.
“Do you have the arrival schedule?” Sam asked.
“The Planner takes care of it. She has two limos standing by.”
“Are you sure you’re able to afford all of this?”
“Don’t worry,” I piped up from my end of the room where I watched a Texas Hold ‘Em tournament on television. “She can. I saw the check.”
“Well when is your Lady from La Mancha arriving?” Sam asked. “I bet you can’t wait to meet her.”
“She flies in tomorrow. I am sooo excited.”
“Likes to cut it tight,” I opined.
If the Planner wondered about Cynthia’s request to remove the liquor and treats from the room mini-bars and fill them with frozen cuts of meat and pouches of what strongly resembled blood and plasma, she didn’t show it.
The guests started arriving the night before. None were the paupers as Dr. Ortiz suggested. They paid the plane fare, no small sum for most, and at least a modest accommodation. An eclectic group gathered in the meeting room Cynthia rented. More than half brought their mates or human familiars. Twin human males accompanied a female vampire from Singapore. She called them “her little friends.” The languages the assemblage spoke represented all parts of the world. Besides English I heard a lot of East Asian, Indian, and Middle Eastern. Eastern European, Russian, and Spanish wafted around the room.
Each was attractive, even the familiars. Since so many of the guests brought mates, the Planner convinced Cynthia to make the baby shower a co-ed event. She didn’t question Cynthia’s direction to serve cow’s milk and fruit juice—nothing alcoholic. The juice offered the familiars an alternative to the blandness of milk.
Sam and I arrived early. The two of us, Cynthia, and the Planner were the only ones there. In a torrent of red vests, white brocade shirts, and black trousers, the hotel staff swarmed around us. Their attention centered on the buffet, attractively arranging piles of steamed beef and mutton alongside veggie trays and dip. Darkness gathered rapidly, as if the retreating sun had someplace it needed to be in a hurry. The inside lights flooded the room with a warm amber brightness.
Under the bright lights of several candelabra fixtures suspended from the ceiling, a group of food servers fussed over the finishing touches on the buffet. Others, their white stove pipe hats bobbing purposefully as they labored, attended to the forty or so circular tables. A blue tablecloth covered each, over which the staff placed five place settings topped by linen napkins folded into a thick triangle. The Planner moved through the operation with a checklist, verifying the seating plan, her shoes making brisk clicks on the parquet floor.
“Where’s Ed?” Cynthia carped. “He nagged me to death to be in the receiving line. We start in five minutes. He’s not here.”
“Calm down, dear,” Sam said. “Start without him. He can take his place when he arrives.”
Cynthia directed us to positions in an imaginary line along the parquet floor. Then she resumed flitting around the room in a black cocktail dress threaded with silver. Supported by matching crinolines, it flared all around in a sparkly sable triangle. The flare made her waist appear to be wasp thin, pushing her breasts up and erect. Not like she needed help in those departments. The back of the dress opened, tapering in a ‘V’ to the top edge of her butt. She wore diamond teardrop ear rings from one of the collections she modeled with flame red panty hose. The black stiletto heels and her hairdo added at least six inches to her height.
“It’s got to be perfect. It’s just got to be perfect,” she said repeatedly to nobody in particular.
Sam wore a plain green dress, let out for the second time to accommodate what she emphatically maintained would be the final extent of her girth. Her hair pushed up and flipped forward in a complicated arrangement involving bangs. Cynthia treated her to a full styling by the hotel beautician who offered a ton of ideas. All of them included a variation of cutting most of her hair off and perming the hell out of the rest. This was the compromise. Around her neck hung a sterling silver necklace identical to links from a good old hardware store chain except much shinier. Cynthia bought it for her in New York.
Sam plodded along with a precarious waddle. As soon as the Planner spotted her, she found a chair. “Sit,” she insisted.
Sam obliged, exhaling a tired thank you. I stood behind. She reached for my hand, entwining her fingers in mine. The room lighting reflected silver glitter in her hair and around her eyes—a specialty of the hotel beauty shop.
I wondered to myself how David would fit into this picture.
“This will be an extraordinary night,” she said.
The night was extraordinary all right. I believe no one would have minded even if she had come naked. From the first arrival to the last, all treated her as if she were the goddess Isis or the Christian Mary. In a way I guess she was.
The string band played soft rock tunes in the background as the females crowded around, clucking and jabbering in their various languages. I didn’t understand much of it but the tones of admiration came through loud and clear.
After paying the appropriate respects, the males drifted off to congregate in small groups at the periphery of the room. No doubt about it—this was a woman’s event.
A few of the females slipped me a surreptitious wanton leer, conveying a willingness to mate. Many believed the rumor that I was the only male with the ability to sire.
I ignored the overtures. Sam remained my focus.
After a while I left Sam in the care of her admirers. I felt obligated to mingle with the men who milled around awkwardly, wearing expressions suggesting they felt as out of place as a mime at a toastmasters’ banquet.
Oscar came running in, late and out of breath, carrying a briefcase. Cynthia had allowed him to attend and speak to the guests in return for arriving early to help with preparations. Her reproving stare met him as soon as he entered. With a deep frown she pointed at her wrist to a nonexistent watch, reminding him of his tardiness while her foot tapped rapidly on the polished parquet.
Smiling apologetically, he retreated to the men’s room where the attendant helped him freshen up. Five minutes later he emerged relaxed and composed. He’d changed shirts, discarding the one with sweat stains in the armpits and on the collar.
I paused from the mingling to listen in on how he schmoozed his way out of Cynthia’s ire for his tardiness.
“I’m sorry about being late,” he said to Cynt
hia. “I had some last minute revisions to make.” Unimpressed, she took a breath, preparing to let him have it, but before she could, he turned to Sam. He took her hand. “You look absolutely radiant tonight.”
Giggling at the obvious diversion, the First Mother went along with it, saying. “I thank you, sir.”
With social amenities addressed and Cynthia’s wrath blunted, Oscar returned to the main objective and surveyed the room full of guests. “I don’t see your Lady from La Mancha,” he said to Cynthia.
“I know. She’s the only one who hasn’t shown up. Well, she and Ed.”
Her presence was critical. If our community could be said to have leaders, she and Dr. Ortiz were it. Each represented the oldest of his or her kind, and Dr. Ortiz was already convinced of the incorporation. If he sold her on the idea, it’d happen.
A moment later, Ed wandered in. He’d rented a tuxedo and spent time in a barber’s chair. I think he even sprung for a back brace. I never remembered him standing so straight.
“He cleans up nice,” Cynthia said under her breath.
Finding Sam, Ed smiled with unexpected brightness, courtesy of teeth whiteners, and headed our way.
Oscar glanced at his watch. The expression of concern, told me he realized the hour allocated for mingling neared its end. He made hurried apologies to Sam, Cynthia, and me, acknowledged Ed, and addressed himself to the crowd in a flurry of handshaking and self-introduction. For him, a man on a mission, language posed no barrier.
Contessa Malvina Arriago, a distant relative of the Familia Real, as a minor member of nobility, owned land and estates in the mountains near the principality of Navarre. Officially she presented herself to the outside world as the thirteenth female of her line, but in reality there had been only one. For nearly three hundred years—except for the interlude of Franco’s regime—she owned and operated the family estate.
The driver who met her at the airport reported she arrived with an entourage of two men—presumably bodyguards—and a female servant. The Contessa directed him to drive the group to the Charles Weston, the only five star hotel in the area. She occupied a suite with single adjoining rooms for the staff. The Planner made several attempts by telephone to inquire after any needs the Contessa might have. No calls were returned.
The Other Kind (The Progeny of Evolution Series) Page 15
