Undeath and Taxes

by Drew Hayes

  “I hope I did the right thing,” Albert said, absentmindedly touching the hilt of his sword.

  “You did the best you could.” Bubba added a slap on Albert’s back for encouragement. “That’s all any of us can do. Right or wrong, just keep doin’ your best and things will be okay.”

  “Bubba’s absolutely right,” I said. “You stood your ground and decided on the terms you were okay with changing your life for. That took a lot of courage.”

  Albert stared up at me, and at last, his usual cheerful grin fixed itself back in place. “You really think so?”

  “I truly do, Albert. Now, let’s go home and rest. You’ve earned it.”

  A Lawyer in the Manor

  1.

  When I was first turned into a vampire, I’d known immediately that my employment options had suddenly become vastly more limited. Certainly, there were (and are) jobs out there that have to take place in darkness; however, most of them are either criminal in some nature or simply use a different skill set than what I possessed. Even if I could have talked my way into a night janitor position or dock-working job (which would have been a hard sell given my very apparent lack of muscle), I wouldn’t have been happy. For all its faults, I have always loved being an accountant, and what’s more, I consider myself to be quite adept at it.

  In a way, being turned undead was one of the greatest blessings of my professional life, because it forced me to take a step I would never have found the courage to do without sheer necessity: I started my own business. I’ll admit, the first year was a rough one. Not everyone was comfortable dealing with an accountant who kept the sort of hours that precluded daytime meetings and preferred to work through a messenger service. Luckily, a combination of teleconferencing, and rates so low I feel cheap even recalling them, allowed me to get my feet in enough doors to build a reputation. One of the few upsides of being a vampire, or at least, one of the few that comes in handy given my peaceful nature, is that sleep becomes optional. We can only do it during the day, and that’s only if we’re so inclined. With twice as much working time as regular accountants, and a healthy drive to see my fledgling company succeed, I was able to put out quality work in fractions of the time.

  After a while, my reputation grew to the point where I had consistent work whenever I needed it, and of course, becoming a CPPA opened a whole new avenue of clients, many of whom were aching for the services I offered. Still, even at the point I had reached after Albert’s sword debacle, there was no getting around the fact that some of the bigger client’s required more wooing than I could deliver via phone, text, and mail. To quote one of Bubba’s favorite sayings: “If you want the biggest fish in the pond, you have to be willing to wade out and get your feet muddy.”

  It was that reason which had me on the outskirts of my town of Winslow, Colorado, staring up at a large, pristinely kept building. The architecture was immaculate and clearly Victorian inspired, with three stories and a generous size. Once, it had been home to someone of affluence, but now it served as a bed and breakfast, though I had no intention of availing myself of either of those services. I was here for a dinner meeting with Mr. Price, one of the three partners at Price, Wordsworth, and Stern, a local investment firm notorious for using multiple outside accounting sources to ensure accuracy and compliance. Getting in with them represented a huge amount of well-paying business, and openings came along rarely.

  I walked carefully up the steps of the building, my briefcase clutched firmly in hand. It was fortunate that vampires didn’t sweat, as for once, I was able to go into a situation like this without looking like I’d just been caught in a light shower. At my old firm, Torvald & Torvald, I’d been respected for my acumen with numbers, but was never permitted to meet with actual clients. It was a policy I’d neither objected to nor found particularly offensive.

  As I neared the front door, I noticed a bronze placard resting just above the frame. In elegant script were scrawled two words: “Charlotte Manor.” Perhaps this would have been comforting, assuring me I’d come to the right place, if there had been any other building within the last two miles that might have qualified as a B&B. The outskirts of Winslow were nowhere near as vibrant as the downtown scene, and I couldn’t imagine a place like this saw very much business, quaint charm and all. Heaven only knew why Mr. Price had chosen this as the place for our meeting, but after all the effort I’d put into getting this far in the interview process, I would be damned if I missed out over a thirty-minute drive.

  As I stepped through the door, a small bell tinkled overhead. The sound echoed off the wooden walls, stopping only when it hit one of the many plush carpets running the length of the halls. To my right was a welcome desk with cubby holes set behind it, a cash register that easily dated back to the turn of the century, and an old woman with a warm smile. I’d scarcely made it two steps in when she greeted me.

  “Good evening, young man. Are you here to take a room or for the dinner party?” Once upon a time, I might have described her voice as ancient; however, meeting beings who counted their lifespans in centuries had removed such wanton hyperbole from my thinking. Her voice was merely appropriately old for the number of years she’d evidently been alive, yet it was still friendly and welcoming. This place wasn’t all superficial charm, it seemed.

  “The dinner party, I believe. I assume that’s the one being held by Mr. Price?”

  She nodded, an action far more time consuming than it might have been for a younger person. “You’ll be eating in our dining room. We don’t usually rent that out in respect to the other guests, but you managed to get lucky and catch us when we were empty.”

  Though the words were delivered in the same cheery manner as earlier, I found myself questioning their truthfulness. Somehow, I highly doubted that it was very hard to find this place without many guests. Of course, having been raised with half a modicum of decency, I kept such notions to myself.

  “I can’t imagine why, your home is perfectly lovely.” That part was certainly true; everything from the molding to the paintings on the walls looked vintage and hand-crafted. “Would you be so kind as to point me to the dining room?”

  “Well, aren’t you a polite one.” The old woman gave me a larger smile, this one appearing more genuine than what she kept on for guests. “Just go down the hall. The doors should be open and on your left. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thank you very much.” I began my trek down the lengthy hallway and within ten steps, I knew exactly where I was heading. Despite usually keeping my vampiric hearing under control, it still tuned to ear-catchingly loud noises on its own. Mr. Price’s robust voice certainly qualified as such a sound, his booming tones racing through the air to all who might be within reasonable vicinity.

  “Now, none of that,” I heard him say. “We’ll talk shop when everyone gets here, and not a moment before. Get yourself a drink and relax. This is the social part of the evening.”

  Then, having tuned into the conversation, I overheard a new voice. This one was softer and more controlled than Mr. Price’s, though achieving either of those things was hardly a mean feat. Despite its delicate nature, the sound of that voice froze me in my place. I stood, halfway between steps, as it spoke.

  “We certainly understand, Mr. Price, I just wanted to answer any lingering questions you might have while we’ve got this opportunity.”

  I knew that voice. It belonged to a woman who’d led several meetings a month during my tenure at Torvald & Torvald, one of the top minds in the legal department. She was one half of the best closing team the company had to offer, paired with an accountant who was all wavy hair and white teeth instead of actual numbers knowledge. Almost on cue, I heard his voice.

  “Besides, we can save you the trouble of spending dinner with the second-stringers. At Torvald & Torvald, we’re dedicated to being the best. Our reputation speaks for itself.”

  And there it was, the old dynamic duo still in action: Asha Patel and Troy Warner. This made matters
far more complicated. Not only did they represent some incredibly stiff competition, but they represented an issue I hadn’t really dealt with since reconnecting with Krystal: talking to someone who’d known me when I was alive.

  I’ll admit it: I briefly considered turning tail and racing out of there. By this point in my memoirs, I can’t imagine that bit of information will shock or amaze you. However, I am proud to say that I fought that urge down and instead, continued my trek forward. I’d known going in that this wouldn’t be an easy client to win, and I refused to give up before even trying. I might have been a useless coward in most matters of life (as well as the supernatural), but by God, I was a good accountant, and on that single battleground, I refused to concede.

  With a quick adjustment of the tie I’d worn over my pressed button-down shirt, I finished walking down the hallway and stepped into the dining room. As far as heroic charges went, I doubt it would make anyone’s top ten, but for me, it was enough.

  2.

  “Good evening, Mr. Price.” I walked briskly through the door and took the large man’s hand in a careful handshake. Despite him being several inches taller and wider than me, I had to be careful not to injure him as our hands interlocked. That would surely torpedo my chances at the account, as well as leave me with a fair amount of explaining to do.

  “Ah, Fredrick Fletcher. Nice to finally meet you in person.” Mr. Price gave my arm a hearty pumping, which I endured with a smile. My prospective employer wore one as well, a wide grin that peered through his bushy beard. He was a large man, though he didn’t hold a candle to people like Bubba or Richard. Still, he possessed broad shoulders and thick arms. They’d been slimmed by age, the mass moving southward to his stomach, but he’d still managed to maintain an athletic shape despite the advancing years. I’d have said I wanted to look as good as he when I reached that age; however, I already knew perfectly well what I would look like in another thirty years. Vampires didn’t age, after all.

  “The pleasure is all mine.” Our hands released, and I turned to face the other guests in the room. Asha looked much as I’d remembered her: tall, lean, and with skin the color of slightly burned caramel. She was quite pretty, though in that regard, I found her a bit diminished. Asha was too put together, and while I’d once enjoyed such a feature, my tastes had turned to the type of woman who kept a gun in her boot and a knife by the bed. Troy was so similar to when I’d last seen him that it was eerie; I suspected he was even wearing the same tie. There was no true warmth in the bleached-white smile resting beneath his dark eyes and wavy blond hair; it was simply an accoutrement he wore, no different than cufflinks, or a tie-pin.

  “A pleasure to see you both again.” I reached into the breast pocket of my shirt and produced a small, faux-silver case, out of which I plucked a pair of business cards. I handed one to each of my former coworkers, curious to see if they’d even remember our association. In life, I’d been substantially heavier, as well as painfully shy. I wouldn’t begrudge them at all if my name rang no bells. In fact, in a situation like this, I’d rather prefer it.

  “‘Fletcher Accounting Services. Our numbers never miss their mark.’” Troy read the card out loud, turning it over a few times, no doubt inspecting the quality of the stock and print. “President: Fredrick Frankford Fletcher.” He looked up, taking note of my face again. “I know who you are.”

  “Oh?” My nerves tensed, but I refused to let my discomfort show on my face.

  “Yeah, you’re the guy who stole the Engleman account from us a few weeks back. How did you manage to lure him away, anyhow? He’d been with us for twenty years.” Troy managed to keep his plastic smile plastered on as he spoke, making the whole discussion seem like lighthearted trash-talk. The anger in his eyes, however, he was less successful in masking.

  “I simply offered Mr. Engleman a level of service that your company was unable to match. If you watch closely, I believe you’ll see me do the same for Mr. Price tonight.” The truth of the matter was that Mr. Engleman was a mage who needed an accountant capable of deducting his ritual components on his taxes, but I saw no reason not to shake Troy’s confidence a touch before the meeting started.

  “All right boys, put them away, there’s a lady present,” Asha said. She popped open her purse—a small black clutch—and dropped my business card into it before turning to me with an expression of familiarity. I should have known she’d remember me; the woman’s attention to detail and level of recall was legendary. “Besides, you already know Fred. He worked at Torvald & Torvald until about two years ago.” She greeted me with an actual warm expression. “Tell me, Fred, how have you been? You look great.”

  “Proper diet and rigorous exercise,” I said. “I’ve been doing quite well. Striking out on my own has been a wonderful adventure. How are things at the old company?”

  “Oh, you know, there’s ups and—”

  “Wait.” Troy snapped his fingers and pointed at me. “You’re that Fred? Big guy, really quiet, ate lunch by himself at his desk?”

  “Some of us were too busy to go off for hours in the middle of the day.” Okay, I’ll admit it: I was being petty, but I really didn’t enjoy being reminded of my old life. Especially not from someone who’d only made it less enjoyable.

  “Nothing wrong with a man who works hard,” Mr. Price added. He turned over his sizable hand to check his watch. “Looks like our last guest is running low on time. I have no tolerance for those who lack punctuality. Mark that well, all of you. If he doesn’t make it by eight, it will just be the two of you in the running.”

  “All the easier to narrow down your selection, then,” Troy said.

  Unbeknownst to the others, I heard the soft jingle of the door at the front, as well as frantic footsteps scurrying across the floor. Despite the fact that this newcomer would represent competition, I still found myself hoping they made it. Even aside from enjoying anything that disappointed Troy, I disliked the idea of winning things by default. This was my only battleground, and I wanted to prove I was truly the best for the job.

  “I’m sure our final guest is on their way right now. I have no doubt at all that they’ll make it.”

  Troy opened his mouth, no doubt to say something spurious and distasteful, but before he had the opportunity, our final dinner guest dashed through the door. He was a middle-aged man in a semi-rumpled suit, sweat dripping off his bald head and onto the carpet. We all looked at him in shock, this was not at all appropriate attire for such a meeting, but as he panted heavily, it became clear he needed to catch his breath before an explanation could be offered.

  “Car . . . broke down . . .” he said at last, pulling himself to a standing position and wiping his forehead with an already damp sleeve. “About two miles back . . . ran all the way here . . .”

  “Now that is the type of dedication I like to see,” Mr. Price announced, walking over and gripping the man’s sweaty hand. “Cliff Puckett, welcome to the final interview.”

  “Thank you . . . sir.” Cliff managed to hold on through Price’s rigorous handshake, which was no small accomplishment given their size difference and Cliff’s clearly weary status. Once he was finally released, he began making the rounds to introduce himself. I was marginally closer, so that made me the first stop on his tour.

  “Cliff Puckett, Puckett Account Management.” He handed me one of his cards, and I gave him one of mine, the accounting version of the handshake. “Fredrick Fletcher, Fletcher Accounting Services.”

  Cliff made his way over to Asha and Troy, but I allowed my attention in their conversation to lapse as I took notice of the employees entering the room. They were male, all tall and dressed in crisp black tuxedos. As they walked, they rolled carts of silverware, dishes, and glasses, which they began to set atop the starched white linen adorning the spacious table. In truth, it was largely unremarkable, but the poise and coordination with which they moved drew me in. It was imperfect enough to be human, yet graceful enough to make me wonder.

&nb
sp; “Spectacular, aren’t they?” Mr. Price said from behind me. “Everything here is incredible. The food, the service, the decor, it’s one of the best kept secrets in Winslow. At least . . . for now.”

  “Dare I wonder what that means?”

  “In due time, Mr. Fletcher. We’re going to talk about business over dinner, and not a moment before.” Mr. Price hesitated for a moment, then added, “But since I brought it up, I suppose I can give you a hint. Part of the reason we’re taking on new account services is that our firm is looking to do some serious expansion of Winslow as a whole, really putting our town on the map. That’s all you get until the appetizers arrive.”

  Mr. Price walked away from me, clapping his hands together to get the others’ attention and directing them to the dinner table. I watched him go, wondering exactly what he had in store. Winslow was already a vibrant town with ample corporations headquartered there. Heck, it was big enough to have the King of the West living amidst its citizens, though that was likely due to Richard and Sally more than his own preference. I rather liked my city; I’d chosen to move there, after all.

  As I headed to the dinner table, it was with a new worry gnawing at my stomach. Now I had to wonder not only if I could even get the account, but if it was something I wanted in the first place.

  3.

  Though my digestive system treats all food and drink that isn’t blood the same way a human’s treats gum or the wood pulp additive found in many grains, I was still perfectly capable of enjoying the flavors in well-prepared cuisine. By the third course, it was clear that the chef at Charlotte Manor intended to delight my still active taste buds through every step of the meal. The bisque was sublime, the stuffed quail moist yet flavorful, and the fish seared perfectly.