Last Ditch Effort

by Isobella Crowley

  Heavy, wooden double doors loomed portentously above him. He was a few paces away and about to climb the three stairs leading to the landing when the door on the right opened. In the dark space beyond stood a wizened, elderly butler in an old-fashioned black tux.

  The droopy-faced man looked at him with eyes that were at once watery and bright. “You are punctual,” he observed in a soft drawl with a slight, residual British accent. “That is good. Welcome, Mr Remington.”

  David smiled and stepped over the threshold. “Thanks, Jeeves. And yes, I’m always punctual for the right people.”

  “My name, sir,” the butler retorted, “is Presley.”

  “Presley, then. But we all know that every butler answers to ‘Jeeves.’ It’s tradition. Feel free to close the door behind me, old chap.” He unwound the scarf around his neck and heard the man do as he’d suggested. The latch clicked into place with surprising volume.

  Within, the house was elegant, but something about it was ever so slightly oppressive. Its age, its formality and outdated quality, and the difficulties of keeping such a venerable estate in good condition after what had to have been a very long time indeed all added up to money…and mystery.

  On a small table a few paces before him lay a book. The lighting was dim, but he thought he could make out the words Music Theory on the spine.

  Someone cleared their throat. David’s gaze snapped toward the sound and settled on Taylor, who stood in an archway.

  “Right on time,” she said in her soft, musical voice. “I’m glad you weren’t late. It would have been unfortunate to have to rush to bury the body, although it wouldn’t be the first time.”

  David laughed as he assumed he was supposed to.

  “Oh,” she went on and took a step forward. “You can laugh even in the face of legitimate danger. That’s a good trait to have.”

  His gut roiled somewhat at that, and fine hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. He kept smiling, though, and decided to hear what else she had to say. Later, he could make up his mind as to whether she’d been joking or not.

  Taylor walked into the room, her stride brisk and self-assured. She did not speak. He took another moment to appraise the foyer around him and the sitting room beyond.

  The house, he decided, was more beautiful than it had seemed at first—and daylight would likely improve his opinion of it even further. It also appeared to be even more expensive than he imagined. In the sitting room was what looked like a staggeringly old piano, maybe even a harpsichord. And the furniture he could see was of absolutely top-notch craftsmanship—the kind of stuff his parents would fawn over and make sure to put where guests would see it.

  “So,” he began, “I’m a little confused. You’re my employee?”

  Taylor stopped a few paces from him. He could almost see her face now. It was still somehow indistinct in the poor lighting, but he could make out fine, almost aristocratic features to go with the ivory skin and dark, gleaming eyes.

  She smirked. “In a manner of speaking, I am, yes. The Moonlight Detective Agency was sold to you, with you being the primary investor, during a party when you were twenty-one.”

  David blinked. “I don’t remember.”

  “How many details from your drug-suffused revelries do you normally remember?” It was difficult to tell whether she was chastising him or faintly amused.

  He adjusted his tie. “Not many, I’ll admit. But I would have thought I’d recall you, at least. I usually remember women who are exceptionally beautiful.”

  She stood, impassive and entirely unmoved by his compliment.

  A little disappointed at the lack of response, he pressed on. “The only things I do remember, really, are some of the more interesting people I’ve met—sadly, not you—and some of the god-awful bets I took and the ridiculous things I ended up doing. They seemed funny at the time but now, I think I’d rather forget them.”

  Taylor nodded. “Perhaps you’re finally beginning to grow up. Now, I will give you a very brief and efficient explanation of the reality you are about to enter and which you must comprehend. You have…” She glanced at an ancient grandfather clock. “Twenty-seven minutes to understand and make your decision.”

  David looked at the clock himself. He tried to think of what might be happening at about 5:20, but nothing sprang to mind. “Why twenty-seven minutes, exactly?”

  She looked directly at him. Her eyes were like black pools and he almost felt as though he were being drawn forward—as though her eyes had somehow grown in size while the rest of the world shrank.

  “Let’s say,” she began, her voice lower now but harder, “that for me, life can be very painful. There are things in this world that most people know nothing about and are better off in their ignorance. I am one of those things.”

  Part of his mind felt he ought to be frightened by a statement like that, but he’d become utterly fascinated. None of his usual fear responses were active. His throat was calm and his palms were dry.

  The woman continued. “Our world is full of those supposedly mythical Things That Go Bump in the Night, David. The lycanthropes…the fae…the unquiet spirits of the dead…all those things humankind has decided not to believe in anymore, relegating us to no more than the fever dreams of classic horror novels and fantasy films.”

  David had almost no idea how to reply to that, but the hour of 5:20 am suddenly made a small amount of sense. “What about vampires?” he asked and smiled.

  Taylor spread her hands wide. “You have now seen one with your own eyes.”

  “Well,” he replied and tried to play for time. Obviously, he didn’t believe her in the slightest but decided he ought at least to play along, “I guess that would explain why the Mob respects and even fears you. Are you the current Godfather? Or Godmother, I suppose.” He tried to chuckle. It didn’t work.

  “No.” She shook her head. “They leave me alone and provide small services when I ask for them. In return, I don’t slaughter a score of them on the occasions when they aggravate me.”

  “Huh. Well, that is very handy. I love the idea of a vampire being a secret force behind the Mafia.”

  She placed her hands on her hips, stared at him, and declined to speak for almost a full minute. Finally, she asked, “Do you believe me, David?”

  He chuckled. It worked this time. He was getting on top of the situation. “Well, compared to some of the shit I’ve seen and heard at parties for the beautiful and noble elite, this isn’t even the weirdest thing I’ve been told. So, yeah, sure, I totally believe you.”

  He peered at her face, then—at her mouth. So far, he could not see any fangs.

  His examination was not lost on her. “No. Do not ask to see my teeth,” she advised him. “You would not like what would happen after that.”

  David swallowed and hastily thought of something else to say instead. “So, I was twenty-one, you say? Ten years ago—”

  “And my plan has worked well for those ten years,” the woman went on. “Unfortunately, you have proven to be a horse’s ass whose family has all but tossed you to the curb for your extraordinary ability to party like a teenager even well past puberty, and then some.”

  He shrugged. “Go hard or go home,” he quipped with a grin. She did not return his smile. “Yeah, that joke gets old quickly, I’ll concede that. So…you’re apparently a vampire and I own the company, but even though you work for me, I can’t sell it? Or can I?”

  Taylor glanced at the clock again, then back at him. “There are a few things you have wrong,” she explained and extended her red-nailed fingers to tick them off as she listed them. “First, your ownership is in non-voting stock. Effectively, therefore, you cannot tell me to do anything, so don’t even try. Second, you need money and maturity before anyone will take you seriously enough to let you run any further companies. I’m sure this is starting to become clear to you by now.”

  He grimaced but did not respond as she moved on to the next finger.


  “And third, I—perhaps the only one of all fools in this world—am willing to give you a chance to redeem yourself, David Remington. You should not refuse my offer.” She curled her third finger back into her hand.

  “I can’t refuse,” he responded, “on pain of?”

  “Death, most likely,” she stated.

  David had fidgeted in place, almost ready to stroll around the perimeter of the foyer, but stopped abruptly. He stared hard at her. “You’re really serious, aren’t you?”

  She smiled in a subtle, disturbing way. “There is only one way to find out, David.” She pointed toward the front door. The butler, Presley, was gone. “Walk out and pass up the chance I’ve given you.”

  He snorted a breath from his nose. She’d made him a dare, and one of such magnitude that it was almost impossible for him not to test it.

  With a small smirk, he turned and walked to the door.

  Chapter Five

  Harrison, Westchester County, New York

  “I’m David Fucking Remington,” he told himself, placed his hand on the knob, turned it, and opened the right-side door. He paused and looked over his shoulder.

  Taylor stared at him, calm and focused like a poised animal waiting for its cue to strike.

  He chewed on the flesh inside his cheek. After a moment, he pushed the door shut, pivoted, and strode back to his place near the grandfather clock.

  “Well,” he said, “if you can’t accept a vampire as your first boss, what’s the point of going on living, anyway?”

  A hint of a smile flickered across her face. “That wasn’t quite the answer I anticipated, but it will do.”

  She glanced beyond his shoulder again toward the clock. “You have the advantage of being able to walk around in the sun. I obviously work the night shift so you get the day shift. The agency will now be open for business twenty-four hours a day. And you will run the mitigation projects.”

  “The what?” he asked. He knew what the word meant but the context was meaningless to him.

  “Mitigation,” she repeated. “We have three types of projects—the Three M’s. Mitigation, Mindwipe, and Murder.” She cracked her knuckles absently.

  He nodded. “We solve murder cases?”

  “No,” Taylor explained. “We murder the guilty.”

  Now, David felt drawn back into the land beyond snark where things grew too serious for him to simply joke his way out of. “Uh…how often is the murder option employed?”

  “Not too often,” she reassured him.

  He relaxed slightly. It was probably merely a contingency measure they kept on hand for particularly desperate circumstances. “Well, that’s good to know. When was the last time, though, that you had to kill someone?”

  The petite lady frowned, her white face cold and solemn. “Two nights ago. A werewolf had decided to pretend the rules didn’t apply to him. He’d extorted money from humans and often killed them for sport, even when they did pay. We cannot allow that kind of behavior. His punishment was death.”

  Something about the matter of fact way she made this statement brought a chill to his spine. He wasn’t used to encountering people who meant exactly what they said.

  “‘We?’ Who is ‘we?’ Who decided to kill him?”

  Taylor waved a hand dismissively. “It was approved by the Council.”

  “Fantastic! Who the hell are the Council?”

  The woman smirked again. “Me, primarily.” Perhaps it was simply his imagination but this time, he almost thought he could see the sharp point of a tooth protruding over her lower lip.

  David fiddled nervously with the knot of his tie. “Of course, yes. It makes perfect sense.” He forced his hands down. “May I sit?”

  “Yes,” she agreed, “but you won’t be here much longer, anyway. I was about to brief you on your first assignment.”

  “I see.” He planted himself in the nearest chair. Taylor did not sit, which made him feel awkward, but she likely had to depart soon. Dawn was coming, after all.

  Then he thought of something and his eyes narrowed. “Wait—first assignment—do you mean I’ll be starting today?”

  “Correct,” the woman confirmed. “Your task is the mitigation of a dispute between two nests of fae—or fairies if you prefer—who seem to be based in Fort Washington Park. Probably under the George Washington Bridge, but I can’t say that for certain. Look around. They like cover and seclusion but also like being within easy access of New York pizza.”

  “Who wouldn’t?” he mused, certain the words she’d said would eventually make some kind of sense.

  Taylor ignored him. “An argument has broken out between the nests. The only explanation I received was badly garbled, so I can’t say exactly what they’re fighting over, but the fae are capricious and fickle little creatures so it almost doesn’t matter.” Her gaze flicked toward the grandfather clock. “Now then, I go to sleep in eight minutes. You’d best get along to the park.”

  David stood quickly and tried not to squirm. He felt almost as if he’d been caught with his pants down. “What? How the hell am I supposed to resolve a goddamn fairy dispute? How do I mitigate something I know nothing about?”

  The vampire walked slowly toward him. “How you effect the mitigation is your own problem, but I can give you two pieces of advice.”

  She stood less than an arm’s length away now. Although a head shorter than he was, she seemed to somehow loom over him.

  “First, I suggest you find something they all can agree upon. Fairies love to bicker, but when faced with a serious issue that affects all their kind, they will tend to band together and forget their differences.”

  He nodded warily. “Okay…that’s slightly better than nothing.”

  “And second,” Taylor went on, now holding his gaze once more with the ebony pools of her eyes, “remember that it’s real. It’s all real.” She tapped his forehead lightly with the tip of her finger.

  David went utterly still. The woman’s touch was ice-cold—shockingly so—and yet it was not unpleasant. Something about it almost reminded him of the refreshing quality of stepping into proper air-conditioning after being forced to actually walk somewhere in New York on an August day.

  “This is a test, David. Your opportunity to prove to me that you are worth keeping around. I am testing your initiative, your intelligence, and your ability to succeed under pressure. Remember that. I doubt you will succeed, but it would be nice if you do.”

  Taylor smiled. “Good morning, David. And good luck.” She spun on her heel and sauntered into a compound layer of shadows under a staircase. An interior door opened and shut and she was gone.

  “Great,” he muttered and glanced at his phone. There were no bars. “Now I can’t call for a rideshare. How the fuck am I supposed to get back to civilization?”

  He trudged toward the front entrance. The butler reappeared again, apparently from some half-hidden alcove near one of the large bay windows, and opened the door for him. In greeting the man, he almost called him Presley, but he was in too bad a mood.

  “Thanks ever so much, Jeeves.” The snarled tone suggested the opposite of gratitude.

  “You’re welcome, sir,” came the reply in precisely clipped words. “However, I would appreciate it if you called me Presley.”

  David waved disdainfully at the old geezer and descended the short staircase to the front parking lot.

  He tried not to think too hard about how in God’s name he would get out of this medieval neighborhood and all the way to Fort Washington Park. He supposed he could walk until he reached a major street and then hail a pleb-taxi, distasteful as that would be.

  By the time he’d descended the estate’s gently sloping forest walk and passed through the gate, the sun was already creeping over the horizon. He pictured Taylor climbing into a coffin in some deep crypt below the mansion. The mental image should have been funny but somehow wasn’t.

  “Which way,” he sighed as he glanced left and right, “did we come f
rom? Ugh, I hate rich people’s neighborhoods. This is why I refuse to live in a house.”

  Finally, he chose right and started off at a slow trot.

  To his surprise, the car that had brought him was parked only a short way down the street around the hedge they’d navigated before Stanislaw had found the correct road. He approached the vehicle hesitantly. Something seemed wrong there.

  The driver was quite literally asleep at the wheel—slumped forward uncomfortably with his cheek pressed into the curve of the wheel. Snores droned faintly through the closed window. At least he wasn’t dead.

  David walked up and knocked on the window. “Good morning!” he announced. “Your services are once again required, Garrulous Polish Guy. Hello?”

  Stan jerked up, blinked, and rolled his head around. “Whuh?” he stammered, his face momentarily zombie-like. “Oh. I…uh, yes, I’m working. Do you need a ride, sir?”

  He frowned and regarded the other man a little nervously. “Yeah, not back home, though. Somewhere else—for business and such.”

  The driver seemed confused. He stared at Remington and almost appeared to wrack his sleep-addled brain. David assumed it was merely the usual stupefaction of morning until he realized something.

  Chatty Stan stared at him like he was a stranger. The man had no memory of him whatsoever.

  “Oh,” he said quickly to avoid the honest explanation. “Uh…yeah, sorry. My mistake. I thought you were…the other guy. You are a driver though, right? Well, I do need a ride.”

  “Sure,” said Stan. “Hop in. What’s your name, sir?”

  He opened the back door and climbed in. “Remington. I need you to take me to Fort Washington Park. Is that doable?”

  “Certainly. I’m Stanislaw, by the way. You can call me Stan, though.”

  A sinking feeling of despair worked its way through him upon hearing this—he’d undoubtedly end up having to listen to the man’s entire life story all over again.