Last Ditch Effort

by Isobella Crowley

  One held a large wooden crucifix, another, a clove of fresh garlic, and the third, a vial of holy water.

  Taylor let her eyes go wide and she stopped in place. She took a step back, held a hand up with the palm faced outward, and covered her face with the other hand.

  “It’s working,” one of the men exclaimed. “Thank God. Close in on her.”

  The vampire dropped to one knee as the men encircled her. The one holding the SMG, she realized, intended to shoot her repeatedly in the legs to temporarily cripple her while the others black-bagged her head and zip-tied her wrists.

  The nearest man smirked as she continued to cover her face and cower. “So the bullshit old legends were true.”

  Her gaze snapped up. “Not so much, actually.” She punched him in the stomach hard enough to catapult him over and past his comrades.

  “What the fuck?” another managed to get out before she seized the next two by their heads and pounded them together. Both men staggered and fell.

  The last attacker attempted to open fire. She scuttled under him, moving beetle-like across the floor, and trip-kicked him hard enough to fracture his lower leg. Groaning in pain, he collapsed, and she yanked the gun away from him before she almost casually slammed his head into the floor.

  Once again, she’d achieved victory with no death. Although none of them would remember this experience with much fondness, of course.

  The halls were silent now. Taylor examined her surroundings. It seemed that the Presidential Suite took up three-quarters of the floor and the rest consisted merely of hallways on two sides and a couple of closets.

  That was simple enough. She strode quickly to the door leading into the suite, kicked it down, and brandished her stolen sub-machine gun in case she needed it.

  Beyond the doorway were fine, sprawling quarters, opulent yet tasteful and even cozy, with gold-plated fixtures that shone in the bright lights. Subtle signs of recent habitation were strewn about but no one was there.

  The vampire moved in quickly and quietly and all her senses strained to find her enemies.

  She checked everywhere and found nothing. The marble bathroom, platinum kitchenette, and leather-and-velvet sitting room had all been vacated—judging by the smell—within the last ten minutes.

  Dammit.

  And at the far end of the suite, a window was open. The curtains billowed in the stronger wind that prevailed at this elevation.

  She approached the window and peered out at the city, the night sparkling with manmade lights. No figures caught her eye. She could try jumping out herself and giving chase, but if her quarry had a head start of more than a couple of minutes—which was likely—she had little chance of catching them.

  The extra time it took her to climb the elevator shaft by hand and defeat the guards on the top floor had given the conspirators time to escape.

  “But not without losses,” Taylor rasped. She’d driven them out of their hiding place and removed many of their minions from active service for quite a while to come. She had made her point.

  They knew that she knew and now, they could either run away with their tails between their legs or commit fully.

  Either way, she would kill them. The rules were the rules.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Harrison, Westchester County, New York

  Remy awoke to someone rapping lightly on the door.

  “Uhh…” He moaned, rolled to one side, and kicked the covers off. “Yeah, Mom, okay, I’m up.” He did not get up.

  The knocking came again, louder. This time, he opened his eyes but did not speak and clutched the ends of his pillow angrily against the sides of his head.

  A male voice on the other side of the door said, “Mr Remington. I’ve brought your breakfast.”

  He blinked and rubbed his eyes. The bizarre dreams he’d had were already fading into oblivion, and knowledge of the real world returned. He remembered where he was—the guest room at Taylor’s mansion. He sat up. This was as nonsensical as his dreams.

  “Okay,” he said, his voice hoarse and slurred from sleep. “Thanks, Jeeves. You can…uh, leave it—”

  Before he could finish his instructions, the door opened and the butler walked in, carrying a tray piled with dishes. He set it on an end table next to the bed. “When you’ve eaten and dressed, please come down to the sitting room. Ms Steele wished for me to update you on her exploits last night and their ramifications for our continued efforts.”

  Remy cleared his throat. “Hey. You barged into the room before I gave you permission to enter. That’s not how staff is supposed to behave.”

  Presley remained expressionless. “Very good, sir.” He turned and shut the door behind him.

  He sat up and examined the tray before he tucked in.

  The butler—or someone, although he’d seen no sign of anyone—was, he had to admit, an excellent cook. The eggs were fried to a nice over-medium with unbroken yolks and the toast was the perfect shade of golden brown. There was also a tray of sliced fruits and a cup of strong but mellow coffee. He polished it all off, then stood to dress.

  As he pulled his pants on, Riley suddenly appeared from somewhere overhead.

  “I saw that.” She snickered.

  He scratched his stomach. “Saw what, exactly? The toast crumbs?”

  She tittered again. “Of course not.”

  “Where,” he inquired of the fairy, “did you even sleep last night?”

  “With you,” she answered and ran a tiny finger along the edge of her chin. “Under the covers.”

  Remy sighed. “You really ought to ask permission for that kind of thing. It’s common etiquette among those of us more than a foot tall. Well, except for elves, I’d guess.”

  The two of them exited the guest room with him firmly instructing her to wait outside while he used the recently scrubbed upstairs toilet. They descended to the first-floor sitting room, where Presley wiped some of the vases and candlesticks with a cloth.

  “Ah,” the butler said, “how good of you to come so promptly. Have a seat, please. Would you like more coffee?”

  He considered this. “Yes, I think I would. Now that I work mornings, I’m starting to understand why so many normal schmucks rank it slightly below oxygen on their list of priorities.”

  Presley fetched another steaming cup and also provided cream and sugar. Like any civilized human being, Remy took his with only a small amount of cream and did not touch the sugar at all. If he was going to drink coffee, he might as well do it properly rather than disguising it as a liquid dessert.

  The other man seated himself in the chair across from him. “Now, then, sir. The mistress of the house requested that I inform you of what she discovered last night. However, she also asked me to remind you that you are not to leak this information in public, especially not while on duty and in the presence of others who may not be friendly to us. Is this understood?”

  “Yes, yes, of course I understand.” He sipped his coffee. “Any previous bragging on my part was entirely justified as part of my efforts to bluff people into submission, or something like that. But I can appreciate that it might be better to avoid saying too much now that we have some kind of actual lead. So, tell me, what did the old girl find on her little trip to the hotel?”

  Presley grimaced, and there were steely determination and deadly seriousness to his sagging old face that he hadn’t noticed before.

  “The hotel’s staff were under the mind-control effects of a rival vampire. Ms Steele was forced to disable them for her own safety and in order to investigate the building. Whoever had been holed up there fled before she could reach the top floor and deal with them.”

  “Damn that sounds…exciting, actually. Too bad she didn’t allow me to tag along. She found some kind of clue though, right?”

  The butler made a low sound in his throat. “Mm…no, not exactly. However, she had previously acquired three names from another source of persons she considers the most likely suspects. We have
our dots but cannot yet connect them, you see.”

  “Too bad,” he said.

  The old man went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Ms Steele’s hope is that her violent confrontation last night will throw them into panicking and force them to show their hand through hasty action.”

  Remington considered that as he continued to drain his cup. “Wouldn’t a failed attempt to capture them—not that I’m accusing Taylor of failing, exactly, but you know what I mean—merely make them more careful? Or even run away?”

  Again, the low humming sound emerged from the old man’s throat. “Mm, yes, that is her fear. It would be such a bother to have to hunt them out of state. This evening, she hopes to brainstorm further action that might point us in the right direction.”

  He glanced aside at Riley, who was spread-eagled on the arm of the chair and lolled her head lasciviously. She reminded him of a particularly slutty state senator’s daughter whom he had known—in the Biblical sense—about six years prior after meeting her at a party. They’d broken it off shortly before the election.

  “You know,” he suggested, “I used to find that parties were an excellent way to determine who my enemies were. There is something about the inherently disgusting nature of social gatherings that seems to bring out the worst in people who already have the worst of intentions.” He set his now all too empty cup down.

  The butler squinted as if thinking hard. “I will suggest that to Ms Steele. It is very likely that she won’t like the idea due to the dangers involved, but you do raise a fair point. Bringing our suspects closer under some innocuous pretense would allow us to observe them.”

  Remy grinned. “Great! Another brilliant idea from me. So, then, I’ll go home—finally—and have Taylor call me this evening once she’s scheduled the festivities.”

  Presley frowned and tensed. “Now, wait a moment, sir. Nothing has yet been agreed upon. You should speak of this to Ms Steele yourself, preferably in person, before we assume anything.”

  “Yeahhh, you’re probably right. She might make me go back to the werecats and change their litter box or something if we don’t get her stamp of approval. What time is it, anyway?”

  While he pulled his phone from his pocket, Presley glanced at a nearby clock. “A little after nine in the morning, sir. Would you like chores to occupy you while we wait for dusk?”

  The day seemed to take forever to pass.

  Remy helped the butler with a few household chores until this grew too boring and the old man finally sent him to buy groceries and toiletries. After he returned, he took a nice hour-long nap. Then they looked over some of the company’s accounts and Presley explained the usual course of the agency’s cash flow.

  He honestly tried to pay attention. But mostly, he was excited to talk to Taylor about the party.

  Finally, the sun began to set. He paced from one end of the foyer to the other while he reviewed the sales pitch he would use in his mind. As darkness settled in beyond the mansion’s windows, the cellar door opened. He listened for the soft sound of feet on the floor but heard nothing until her soft voice spoke.

  “David. You’re still here.”

  He looked up. She wore her black robe once again. “Yes, I thought I’d help Presley get a few things straight around here. More importantly, though, he told me all about your adventure last night and—well, I have a brilliant idea for what to do next. When you’re ready to hear it, of course. Feel free to have a cup of coffee—blood, sorry—beforehand.”

  Taylor managed a wan smile. “I’m ready now. The sitting room.”

  He told her about the party. She frowned her way through most of his spiel but allowed him to keep talking.

  “It never fails,” he explained. “The people who hated me always crashed the party—they showed up for the sole purpose of clogging my toilets and stealing my booze. It was a tremendously efficient way to keep my enemies list up to date.”

  The vampire drummed her fingers on the armrest of her chair. “The idea intrigues me, I must say. It’s quite devious. However, this house is my sanctuary. Inviting the people who most despise me into my home will lead to far worse than clogged toilets.”

  “Witnesses,” he pointed out and raised a finger. “We’ll invite your friends as well as our suspects. They won’t try anything when everyone else can see, will they?”

  She nodded. “You may be right about that, yes. I will confer with Presley on how we might go about this.” She rose and took two steps toward the hall before she stopped. “Of course,” she added, almost off-handedly, “anything that goes wrong is on you, Remington.”

  He beamed. “What could possibly go wrong?”

  It was with mixed feelings that Remy took a sip. Although he knew it might sabotage his efforts to clean up, it felt good to have a cocktail in his hand again.

  A stout, bearded dwarf marched up to him. “I have never seen this place before. It is a fine house and you seem to have requisitioned a very fine supply of beer.”

  “Thanks,” he replied. “If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s throw a proper bash at a nice place with a properly-stocked bar. Well, that and gamble. Especially at poker. Didn’t I see you at the casino the other day?”

  The dwarf squinted at him under his massive, bushy eyebrows and grunted. “No. I do not think so. Unfortunately, other species have been known to say that we dwarves all look alike, so you may have mistaken me for someone else.”

  “Probably, yeah,” he admitted. “I could have sworn, though… In any event, have as much beer as you like. Uh…within reason.”

  The dwarf nodded and wandered off.

  Riley hid under his shirt in the crook of his armpit. “That was a good idea,” she whispered at him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Saying ‘within reason’ at the end. Dwarves don’t really get drunk so they tend to imbibe alcohol by the gallon if you let them.”

  “I see.” He sipped his cocktail. “That sounds expensive. I’m already blowing a goodly chunk of the company’s quarterly budget on this bash, considering all the esoteric provisions you suggested.”

  Taylor had been busy, so he had been forced to consult with the fairy—and, to a lesser extent, the butler—as to what kinds of things preternaturals expected at a good, high-class party.

  In general, a party was a party for any type of being. But of course, different species had different likes and dislikes. Some of which were…unexpected. It had taken two days to get everything sorted out.

  Preternaturals, Riley had explained, liked spectacle but nothing too showy. He had arranged to have half a dozen crystal half-globes suspended from the ceiling, mostly filled with water, and the main lights suspended directly above the liquid. It created a lovely refraction which sent light and rainbows to weave around the room as the liquid moved.

  The fairy had also told him to stock a large quantity of good, dark, hoppy beer for the dwarves, make sure they had a supply of hard liquor for the werewolves, and to talk to Taylor’s supplier about procuring the necessary ingredients for something she called a Historical Bloody Mary.

  As for snacks, many of the attending species would eat almost nothing but meat, so that meant a hefty deli order. The ingredients also had to be carefully marked next to each dish. Remy had started to joke about garlic but Presley had told him to shut up.

  Some of the more…metaphysical creatures like ghosts and such even seemed to expect a strange broth that he could only think of as “witches’ brew.” He couldn’t picture anyone who was actually alive being interested in such gunk.

  Music was a somewhat difficult affair, given the vastly different preferences he would have to consider. He finally decided on an unobtrusive light jazz playlist, which made itself conspicuously pleasant every few minutes but which he planned to keep at a low volume, anyway.

  At last, only forty minutes before showtime, everything was ready. They’d cleared out the sitting room, kitchen, and foyer to provide enough floor space with the
tables arranged along the sides.

  And, of course, they had carefully barricaded off the rest of the house, save for the short stretch of hallway leading to the first-floor bathroom.

  The guests began to trickle in, as guests were wont to do, about ten minutes early, and the remainder spread their arrivals across the next hour or more. Remy greeted them all as old friends, happy to introduce himself—although it took some effort in the case of the ghosts, who still creeped him out, and the obnoxious little gremlins.

  The elves from Brooklyn arrived as well. Fortunately, he had ample experience in pretending that nothing at all was awkward.

  Riley, meanwhile, had continued to offer him advice on what to say or not to say to preternaturals of different clans and species. He tried to listen but mostly simply went with his own instincts. The lack of fistfights or death threats suggested he was doing all right.

  “See?” he said to his armpit. “I’m popular, as usual. They all seem to think I’m an excellent host.”

  “Maybe,” the fairy admitted, “but I’m not sure how many of them like you and how many simply want to eat you. There used to be gatherings where the humans themselves were the party favors.”

  A particular man caught Remy’s eye. He’d arrived late—one of the last guests, in fact—and he looked familiar. It took a moment to recognize him since he’d dressed up for the occasion, but Taylor had shown him a photo and this was undoubtedly the same person.

  He was tall and heavyset, a little jowly, with big square hands and shaggy hair that he’d slicked back. Attire-wise, he’d chosen a white tuxedo in a style so old that Remy’s brain had been forced to play catch-up. Finally, it clicked. It was the outfit one would expect of an antebellum Southern gentleman.

  “Hi,” he said and approached the man. “I’m Remington Davis, the agency’s new partner. I’m proud to say that I was also the buyer for this party, so you can thank me for whatever it is you’re drinking there. Mint julep?”