Eternal (12 page)

To say death becomes her would be an understatement. It’s the confidence, I suppose. My girl shrank from conflict. She didn’t go after it with a broom.

In her anger, the beast is glorious. Her nearly black hair has taken on an almost blue sheen. Her sun-kissed skin has gone alabaster. She’s the one of us who looks like an angel. And she’ll remain this way until the End Days.

I want to rip out my heart and hand it to her. I want to fall at her feet. To hell with the mission. To hell with me. I want to change sides.

Then I smell the pumpkin bread and the blood. I see the plate of crumbs and the bowl on her desk. Notice the stain on her lips. Remember all that
hell
implies.

ONCE I’VE DISPATCHED ELINA
, I turn to discover that I have yet another visitor.

This one is a heavenly-looking young man. He’s tall and muscled like a swimmer or a statue by Michelangelo. No, not a statue — nothing so mundane, so common, as a mere masterpiece. More like its inspiration. His shoulder-length, gently curled hair falls like feathers. It’s a golden brown, a shade lighter than his skin. His eyes are a shocking green — not emerald, warmer than that, more vibrant, and fringed with dark gold lashes. He looks like he’s been ripped from Eden, and he’s gazing at me as if mesmerized, as if he loves me, and as if I’m the most geeky hell spawn in history.

I can almost hear Father chiding me. My visitor is only human, after all — at least irrelevant, possibly dinner, at most a potential pet. Still, it’s mortifying, the way he first saw me, swatting at Elina like that. I look so sloppy in the jeans and sweater.

Why didn’t Harrison announce him? What is he doing here? Wait. He’s seventeen to twenty-five, more like twenty-five. Twenty-two? He’s dressed for success, and he’s interviewing for the job! That’s it! He wants to — it’s almost too scrumptious to contemplate — serve me.

I try to dampen my optimism. What if he’s a hunter or a bug eater or underqualified? Oh, he doesn’t look anything but qualified. Back in my breathing days, I would’ve been panting.

“Have a seat,” I say, gesturing to the chair across from my desk.

He cocks his head as if uncertain. Then, taking his time, clearly wary, he makes himself comfortable.

It’s all I can do to stop staring. I swear I’ve dreamt of him before.

“I don’t have your résumé,” I begin. I draw the drapes and move from the window. “And you weren’t announced.” It’s my imperial tone, like the one Father uses. It’s also an indisputable assertion bordering on accusation. I’ve been practicing.

The applicant doesn’t reply. Instead, he rests his elbows on the chair arms and steeples his fingers beneath his square jaw. It’s odd. He’s acting like he’s being punished.

No matter. Father says it’s important to maintain a relaxed dominance. You have the power, but you shouldn’t have to work at it. “Your name.”

The young man still seems confused, even stunned. “What about it?”

“What
is
it?” I demand, taking deliberate steps. Just when I’m feeling in command, I trip over an untied shoelace and flail toward the desk area.

The applicant springs from his chair, taking a giant step onto my desk, another across it, and lands like a cat to catch me.

I glance at his hands on my shoulders. “Are you a shifter?”

“I’m Zachary,” he says. “And no, I’m not a shifter.”

I can feel the heat from his skin through my sweater. I place my fingertips over his pounding heart, enchanted by its rhythm, and push him gently back a step. “Zachary,” I repeat, liking the way it sounds. “You’re here for the job?”

His gaze is steady, but I can hear him swallow. “You could say that.”

Why is he being so strange? Is it awe at being in my presence? Nerves over the interview? Or is this some innovative strategy to capture my imagination? “Have a seat.” Didn’t I already say that?

We take the traditional employer-applicant positions across my desk. “Were you referred, or did you see the job announcement?”

“I was . . . referred.”

It’s like pulling fangs. “By?”

“Joshua,” he answers in a suddenly more confident tone. Like the name itself is reassuring to him. “Joshua Michaels.”

I don’t recall a Joshua, but I met about a hundred eternals the night of my debut party and it’s also quite possible that he’s a respectable aristocrat who simply didn’t make the guest-list cut. “Obviously, as my personal assistant, you would be expected to do my bidding.” It’s a great expression, “do my bidding.” “Everything from answering the phone to acting as my liaison to protecting my safety to . . .”

“To?” Zachary prompts, raising an eyebrow.

I wish I’d skipped my blood-soaked snack. I feel my blush deepen. “Attending to my personal needs.”

By which I don’t mean doing my hair.

His smile could launch a toothpaste company. “I’ll take it.”

I’m flabbergasted. “I . . . It’s not up to you to take it. It’s up to me to offer it.” I did not just say that! “I mean, me.” Worse! “I mean, myself.” Mayday!

How did he do that? One minute I’m doing just fine. The next, I’m utterly flustered. Oh, who am I kidding? One look at him would be enough to fluster anybody — with or without a pulse. I’ll regroup and start fresh tomorrow night.

I draw myself ramrod straight. “You’re in luck, Zachary.” That wasn’t bad. “As it happens, with the master abroad, I have many pressing responsibilities. I’m willing to take you on.” Why does every word out of my mouth have to sound so suggestive? “On, um, a trial basis. Yes, you’re hired. For now, though, you’re excused. Harrison will show you around.”

Zachary stands, like he was ready to leave anyway, like he’s been toying with me, like it’s all he can do to tolerate my presence. “Whatever you say, Miranda.”

HARRISON MEETS ME
in the hall. “Welcome to staff Dracul. Your official title is ‘personal assistant to the mistress,’ often called ‘princess’ or ‘Her Royal Highness.’ Informally, ‘Miranda,’ but don’t presume. She’ll tell you how she wants to be addressed.”

Nice. He was listening at the door. He already heard me presume. Before I can think to reply, he’s launched back into his speech.

“Though you will report first to her, understand that I am the personal assistant to the exalted master and, therefore, your superior. I’ll show you to your quarters.”

Hang on. Did he say “Dracul”? As in Dracula?

Oh, come on! That’s the demon in the portrait?

It explains the castle, though. Talk about believing your own press.

Go figure. Dracula himself must’ve been the one lurking in the Dallas cemetery. Granted, I never got a look at him. Not flat on the ground with Michael’s sword at the back of my neck. But why else would Miranda be here? Be called “princess”?

Miranda. I’ve seen bloodsuckers before, spat on them.

I’ve never loved one.

It’s no surprise, what Miranda has become. I suspected from the moment the archangel said “her very soul is forfeit.” I knew when I saw Kurt, fangs bared, in the cemetery with Lucy. If Miranda hadn’t been killed in the explosion, this would be the fate I’d sealed for her.

For over a year, I’ve mourned Miranda, dreamed of Miranda, tried to pretend other girls were Miranda, called them by her name, and seen her when she wasn’t there. She should be in heaven right now, playing Scrabble and snacking on chocolate-chip cookies with her grandfather. Instead, she’s here. And so am I.

Harrison doesn’t seem to notice my zombielike state. “The castle is twenty-five thousand square feet. Each floor is composed of four wings, forming a rectangle, with two connecting hallways in the middle — both running north-south.

“The west wing houses the overflow social and recreational halls; the north, the dining room, throne room and/or ballroom; the south houses the kitchen and the supply rooms; and of course this, the east wing, is our business center. It’s locked daily at sunrise and during events.

“The mistress may give you a key to her office. I have an office of my own.”

How nice. I wonder if he was this passive-aggressive before the midlife crisis. Harrison’s petty attitude, his apparent acceptance of his place, pisses me off.

I like it, the anger. I like it more than the way my knees keep threatening to buckle. Much more than the price Miranda has paid for my screwup. And I like it better than the thought of disappointing the Big Boss again.

“You’ll also notice,” Harrison goes on, “three interior courtyards opening from the first floor. The largest is in the middle and often used for entertaining. You may peer down on them and across the grounds from the third floor or climb from there up an additional flight of stairs to a rather pleasant lookout tower.”

Like I care about the view. “Where is —”

“Situated on the second floor are the quarters of the executive administrative staff: me, the senior PA; you, the very junior PA; Laurie, the chauffeur; Nora, the chef; and the maids, all of whom have recently had their tongues cut out — long story.”

As we climb the narrow, curving stairs, I’m suddenly very aware of my own tongue.

“A handyman, Boris, resides in a cottage on the west side of the property, along with our gardener-groundskeeper, Bruno, though the latter is currently overseeing the landscaping at our estate under construction in San Miguel. The dungeon manager generally stays downstairs, thank God.”

“Dungeon?” I ask.

“Along with the wine cellar and the majority of our storage space, it’s located, as you might imagine, underground. One of the tunnels beneath the building leads from the dungeon control center onto the east grounds so we don’t have to parade human stock through the main house.”

I grab Harrison’s forearm, harder than I meant to. “You’re human, right?”

The answering nod is sharp, punctual, and noticeably begrudging.

“You keep people, fellow human beings, locked up here and feed them to monsters?”

He blinks rapidly. “Just their blood.” His tone has lost some of its arrogance. “Not the whole . . .” He gestures at himself, realizes what he’s doing, and drops his hands. “Not the whole person.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

Harrison yanks his arm free and resumes talking as if the subject never came up. “Periodically, the area aristocracy will provide their servants on loan to assist us in such matters as preparing a feast, hosting a party, or trimming the trees after a storm. But only a handful of us permanently reside here. Hence the pleasant quiet of floor two.”

I’m tempted to say something about his choice of the word “pleasant,” but baiting Harrison is a waste of energy. A distraction from my mission. I need to pay attention, assess the situation, and stop letting my emotions get in my way.

Despite the white rock walls and wood floors, the second level looks a lot more modern, mostly because of the electric light fixtures. The whole place has to be wired, though. The first-floor torches and candles are some kind of design statement or a warning. Any vamp that decorates with flame and weapons has to feel indestructible.

“Guest rooms for visiting aristocrats, including ambassadors, are located on the third floor. As is Her Royal Highness’s personal retreat. They’re currently unoccupied. The twenty-car garage is detached.

“After the spring thaw, you’ll be welcome to use the tennis courts with the mistress’s permission. Speak to eternals when spoken to. That includes the sentries. Avoid the V-word at all costs.” Harrison pauses in front of an arched door that looks like all the rest. He turns the lock with a long, ornate metal key. Hands it to me. “We’re in the process of hiring a new security guard. One of the sentries drained the old one.”

“Let me guess,” I say. “Long story?”

He waves me inside. “Not so long. Let’s just say that calling Miranda ‘the dragon princess’ is appropriate to tradition. However, calling her ‘a dragon lady’ is considered offensive to the crown.”

My quarters make Danny Bianchi’s junior executive suite at the Edison Hotel look like a hovel. The living room is furnished with a sofa, oak coffee table with hammered iron hardware, and two oversize brown leather reading chairs with matching ottomans. Double doors open to a dressing room, complete with four copper-bordered oak wardrobes. Another set of double doors opens to the bedroom, which includes an Arts-and-Crafts desk that was once painted green and stripped, a matching spindle chair, two huge arched windows, and a king-size, four-poster bed with green-and-beige gingko-print linens.