Eternal (11 page)

I key in my password,
NESBIT
, at the ENN site and skim coverage of Father’s visit to New York. The photo shows him in Times Square. He’s quoted as describing me as his “jewel” and his “sharpest weapon.”

After posturing and the political support of the aristocracy, the third most important key to maintaining control of the Mantle is media management. That said, the latter isn’t a major challenge. Father has complete control over our press.

Within one hour of breaking the rumor about his alleged mental instability, the entire staff of the
Herald-Gazette
was promptly executed and replaced.

Eternals have no right to speak, to assemble, to anything that I learned about in Government, though everybody seems enthusiastic about bearing arms.

It’s a larger, more in-depth feature story than those I’ve read previously. The article notes that in life Father had three daughters, which is news to me — he never discusses his human existence. A restored and colorized photo of the girls is featured next to my promotional mug shot. They were slender with blond hair and hazel eyes, shown in what I assume are Civil War–era dresses. Perhaps it’s merely that their features echo his, but they look familiar somehow.

On one hand, I’m surprised that Father hasn’t called to check on me. On the other, now that I think about it, I won’t be surprised if he doesn’t call all month. Thirty days, give or take, is nothing to someone his age, and it’s not as though my human dad called when he traveled.

It occurs to me to wonder if Mom had any trouble getting in contact with Dad on his Alaskan cruise after I went missing, or if she waited until his return and threw it in his face that I was gone. I wonder if he ever sent a second postcard, and if so, whether it was in his girlfriend’s handwriting or if he scribbled his last words to me himself.

A grunt diverts my attention from the screen. The maid stands, head down, the handle of her bucket in one hand, a blood-soaked rag in the other.

“You may go.” I bite back the “thank you.”

WHITBY ESTATES
is a ritzy old bedroom community. To the extent I can see past the privacy fences and strategic landscaping, the homes are massive and fall into the seven-to-eight-figure range. Discreet signs warn of attack dogs. There aren’t any streetlights, but I can see fine. The moon is almost full. I walk the shoveled street. Stick my hands under my armpits to warm them. Scan the scene like a prey animal.

True to his word, the cabbie refused more than a twenty-percent tip. We didn’t exactly bond on the ride over, but I’ve still got the stake he gave me up my sleeve, and I already miss his company.

At the address I got from Josh, I make my way through the open wrought-iron front gate and past the dense evergreens lining the property border. Stop to gape.

A ghostly fog clings to this magnificent reproduction of an Eastern European — no joke — castle. It’s gorgeous, enormous, and ominous as hell.

As if on cue, something howls. This is the point in the horror movie, I realize, when any thinking person tears out, full throttle, in the opposite direction.

Sweep the place of the creep factor, though, and Miranda would’ve loved it. A real castle. She went through a huge girly princess stage when she was four. She even had a tiny tiara. A decade later, wearing her first formal to the Freshmen Sweetheart Dance, she spent the evening watching Geoff Calvo from across the gym. I remember thinking on both occasions that she could pass for royalty . . . in looks, if not in attitude.

Enough. I have to concentrate. So far, I’ve been doing what I was told. Acting on faith. Still, I’m supposed to be an assassin. I’m going against something so deadly and fearsome that it has been targeted by all that is Holy.

I wonder . . . when Michael decided that I would be sent on this mission, was there some reason it was me? Does
my
judgment matter?

I have a sinking feeling that the cross and stake aren’t going to cut it. Should I do research? Case the neighborhood? Investigate the title on the house?

I never used to second-guess myself like this, not even after Danny failed to respond to EMS. As lousy as I felt about the way he lived and the way he died, I’d still done what was expected of me. Even Michael said his fate wasn’t my fault. Unlike Miranda’s.

The absolute last thing I need is to screw up again.

I take the matchbook out of my pocket. I make sure I’m at the correct address and notice a new note from Joshua on the back. It reads,
Dude, knock on the door!

It’s not until I’m halfway up the long, winding driveway that I spot the first pair of red eyes. A beastie crouches in the mist and snow.

I keep my head up and maintain the same pace. Try not to show fear, but avoid eye contact. I count six or seven. In the fog, it’s hard to tell. They’re wolf-shaped but not shifters. Wolf-shaped but not wolves.

Vampires. Just as I thought. I’ve been sent to take out a heinous vamp. Just one. Orders from upstairs are both vague and specific. Joshua said “something.” Singular. He didn’t say what.

I think back to the Dallas cemetery. Consider the leech lurking among the crypts. The one who killed Miranda. If the archangel hadn’t stopped me, yanked my radiance, I could’ve flushed him out of the shadows and used it to burn his ass to dust.

Now what do I have to work with? Human-level strength, human-level speed — at least I’m in good shape — and my wits.

I reach for the brass dragon-head door knocker.

What I wouldn’t give for a flaming sword.

The heavy arched door creaks open, and a dapper-looking guy snaps, “Who’re you? Are you here about the job?”

I think about it. “Sure.”

“And your name?”

Back to question one. “Zachary.”

He looks vaguely pensive. “Where’s your résumé?”

“I don’t have one with me.” It’s the truth at least. I want to ask what job he’s talking about, who’s hiring. Who or what I’m talking to. Instinct urges me to play it cool.

“Your last name?” he presses.

I mull over the possibilities. I could be Zachary . . . Scott? Taylor? Beaver? I toss the question back, trying not to seem too concerned about his answer. “Who’re
you
?”

“Valid point,” he concedes. “And furthermore, why should I be reduced to babysitting?” Whatever that means, he doesn’t say it like he really minds.

Inside the soaring entry, Mr. Personality — who’s strong for a skinny guy — shoves me against the stone wall. He kicks my wing tips apart and pats me down for weapons. He slides the stake down my sleeve and tosses it over his shoulder, muttering, “Fool me twice, shame on me.” Then he pulls the cross from under my shirt, yanks the chain over my head, and drops it into his suit pocket. He takes the Tia Leticia’s Salsa Bar matches, too, and looks through my bag. Finally satisfied, he says, “Follow me. Chop, chop.”

I have no idea why he didn’t throw me to the vamp beasties outside for trying to sneak in a weapon. But it doesn’t seem to have occurred to him. Maybe that’s normal around here, though. Maybe everyone walks in armed or at least tries to. Or maybe this guy is even worse at his job than I used to be at mine.

My footsteps echo on the wood floors. It’s all these hard surfaces. The white stone walls. Twenty-foot ceilings with massive wood-beam supports. The dragon tapestries don’t cut it for sound dampening. It’ll be tough sneaking up on anybody around here.

We pass through the entry into a grand hall. It’s decorated with a mixture of fine art, framed weapons, other varied antiques, and uncomfortable-looking furniture.

The stuffed heads of a wereboar, werebear, werebison, werewolf, and werecat protrude from the walls. I try not to imagine the humanlike faces that once hid behind them. I bet I know where the leather of the seat cushions came from.

A pale girl in a maid’s uniform uses a feather duster to clean the base of a brass candelabrum. When I catch her staring at me, she grabs a box of lavender tapers from the floor and flees the room.

“Don’t take it personally,” my companion offers. “The maids don’t say much.”

That’s when I spot the portrait over the fireplace mantel. Three saucy-looking females in flapper wear, showing a hint of fang. They’re clustered around an apparently middle-aged, very alpha male with a serious brow ridge. The master of the house, no doubt. He must be the reason I’ve been sent. I’m supposed to destroy him. Somehow.

“Who’s he?” I let slip.

My escort tracks my gaze to the painting. “You don’t know?”

I shake my head.

“Well, this should be amusing. You’ll find out soon enough.”

DRUMMING MY FINGERNAILS
on the desk, I decide that I must widen the scope of my PA search beyond the Chicago area, which is unfortunate because I was hoping to find someone who already knew his way around.

I hear a fluttering. Sitting still, I wait and listen. There it is again. I glimpse a bat outside one of my office windows and run to open it. “Go away! Shoo!”

It’s not shooing. It’s Elina! It must be. She’s the only eternal in the area powerful enough to make that particular transformation. She’s watching me, spying on me.

The nerve! I knew she would be a problem. It was in her smug manner and the fact that Father called on her to temporarily take center stage at my debut.

Old Blood or no, I can’t back down from this kind of insult. Can I?

No, I’m the dragon’s daughter, his heir. I’ve privately wondered if Father named me, a mere neophyte at the time, to both positions because I would be no threat to him personally. Regardless, I can’t let challengers, even such clumsy ones, strike at the Mantle through me. If the master must maintain authority over Old Bloods, then so must I.

“Harrison!” Seconds later, I try again. “Harrison!”

He must be elsewhere in the castle.

A maid peeks in.

What do I want? “A broom! Fetch me a broom!”

She runs to obey.

“Elina!” I shout at the faux winged rodent. “How dare you!”

Apparently, my reputation needs bolstering. Old Blood or no, I should have
her
forked tongue ripped out.

A moment later, the maid grunts from behind me, offering a plain kitchen broom.

“Get Harrison!” I tell her, swinging the bristles, and off she runs again.

I catch the side of a wing, sending the bat into a momentary spiral.

“Harrison!” Where is he? He’s always been there when I needed him before.

I hear my office door open again — finally.

“Elina, beat it!” I shout. I swing the broom once more, strike her small body, and she soars into the evergreens, toward the lake. “Get out of here!”

IT HAS TO BE ANOTHER
Miranda look-alike. Only this one has slightly longer hair. She wields a broom pointed up through an open window. She’s trying to ward off a pissed-off bird? No, a “bat” that, like the “wolves,” has red eyes.

“Elina, beat it!” the girl yells as I cross the room.

The voice is familiar.

She’s not. She can’t be.

She swings the broom again. Harder. Hits her target with the bristles. Drives the thing away. Shuts the window with a bang.

Miranda, what was once
my
Miranda, faces me. She sees me for the first time. The guy who was always there for her. The guy she didn’t know existed. The guy whose fault it is that she’s become what she’s become. And I see her.