Eternal (13 page)

My canvas bag is waiting on the corner of the bed. Apparently, Harrison was able to tell by looking that Miranda would choose me as — what did she call it? — her personal assistant and asked a maid to haul up the bag.

“These are servants’ quarters?” I ask.

“We prefer ‘executive administrative staff,’” he says. “You’ll need more clothes, including party clothes. It’s up to the mistress to decide if she wants to dress you or for you to dress at all and whether to upgrade your room. The master upgraded mine.”

Like I care. “Where is this master of yours?”

“He’s the master of us all,” Harrison corrects. “His name is Radford, but you will call him ‘Master’ or ‘Majesty.’” He’s abroad for the month. He left two days ago.”

A month. Looks like I’ll have to make the best of this nightmare for a while. I can hardly imagine it, seeing Miranda night after night. But I can’t help wondering . . . What is her existence like in this place? Does she ever pine for her lost humanity the way I do for the grace of the Big Boss? Does she even remember who she was?

THE FOLLOWING EVENING
, my phone rings as I settle behind my office desk.

“Sugar plum,” Father’s voice purrs. “How are the interviews coming?”

It occurs to me that I don’t have many details to share about my new PA. I can’t even remember the name of the eternal that referred him. Avoiding the subject seems prudent. “Quite well, thank you. Are you in London already?”

“I’m on our executive jet,” Father clarifies. “We’re about to take off from JFK, if the international air traffic will let up. New York was a frightful bore without you.”

He misses me! I feel a burst of confidence. “I read a feature story about you. It included a photograph of your human daughters. They were attractive girls, all of them.” The line goes silent a long moment, and I squeeze my eyelids closed. Regret floods my veins. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I’m sor —”

“Now, now,” Father interrupts. “We’re family, and you should know about our lesser, human relations. I drank down the youngest myself during my first bloodlust. The middle girl saw it happen and lost her mind. Then my eldest took her own life. My wife was heavy with another babe at the time, this one a boy. He went on to live to a right old age and father a new generation. My wife, however, died in childbirth.”

Not to sound selfish, but I’m grateful that I didn’t first rise in Dallas and that I’ve never harmed anyone who was precious to me.

It’s strange. I’ve never wondered before what Father’s immortality cost him on a personal level, at least not beyond the ability to chow down on southern-fried cooking with ease. He’s always seemed so formidable, so secure in who he is now. I’m not sure what to say. “We count the nights until your return. If there’s anything I can do . . .”

Father responds by asking me to host any incoming visitors to the castle. “Stick to the niceties on the social front. If you’re in doubt about a business or political matter, do an informational interview and then report to me. That said, I trust your judgment. Should anyone unduly vex you, respond swiftly and mercilessly. Don’t hesitate to use terminal force.” This he says in the same tone my mom would use to say: “Be sure to thank Lucy’s mother for dinner.”

First overseeing the estate and planning the gala and now this! It’s another exam — a final exam perhaps, the chance to confirm myself as a worthy heir.

Unfortunately, I already have to admit one complication.

“There was an incident last night,” I say. I fill him in on Elina’s bat-form spying and my less-than-terminal response. “Given that she’s an Old Blood —”

“Not all Old Bloods are created equally,” Father assures me. “Elina is too superficial and stupid to pose a real threat. That’s why I permit her to stay in town. She has nothing to gain by watching you. I suspect she’s merely jealous.”

“Of me?” I ask, glancing at the ornate battle-axe on the white rock wall.

The answering laugh is affectionate. “Sugar plum, you underestimate yourself. Don’t worry about that harlot. Once I return, I’ll deal with her myself. Meanwhile, you take care and keep in touch. I’ll look forward to hearing from you regularly.”

MAYBE IT’S BECAUSE
I got lousy sleep on the Amtrak train or because I still can’t get into the flow of having an exclusively flesh-and-bone body or because of the shock of seeing Miranda. But it’s a half hour past sundown before I’m up and dressed and ready to confront her again.

Last night before going to bed, I hung up the other two blue shirts and black pants from Joshua in the bathroom off my suite. I still look rumpled, but the steam of three massaging showerheads did help smooth out the wrinkles.

When it comes to creature comforts, I’ve noticed, the perks of this reproduction castle are a lot more modern than the architecture that inspired it.

I’m careful not to cut myself shaving. This whole place is a shark tank. There’s no need to stir up chum for the predators. Truth is, I don’t know what would happen if a vamp bit me. But I’m in no hurry to find out. I mess with my hair for a couple of minutes. Until it hits me. I’m primping for her. For Miranda.

Ten minutes later, Harrison briefly intercepts me on the first floor, turning into the biz wing. He hands me a manila file. “You’re late and you’re rumpled. Neither is to Her Highness’s benefit or reflects well on this staff. Furthermore, an eternal, Theo, awaits the princess’s audience in the parlor. That’s his file.”

The east hallway is long and wide. Lined with freestanding World’s Fair model slot machines and arched wood doors on one side. A large rectangular window looks out onto an open-air courtyard on the other.

I make my way to Miranda’s office, skimming the file of paperwork as I go.

“Enter,” she replies to my knock.

I doubt it’s a coincidence that we’re both here. Either I’m supposed to off Drac at least in part because of what he did to her or our spending time together is some kind of test from upstairs.

When I open the heavy door, Miranda rises from the gray sofa. She seems unsure. Insecure. Not that anyone else could see beneath her coiffed surface. I know her, though. I do. Or I least, I did.

Tonight I can’t help catching my breath at the sight of her, the pinned-up hair and sophisticated wardrobe. “You look like Audrey Hepburn in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
”

Miranda doesn’t acknowledge that. “I trust your quarters are acceptable.”

I’m not fooled by the supposedly cavalier attitude. I loved her as a human, but her acting skills never quite took.

“They’ll do.” I wave the file. “Vamp to see you.”

With a curling finger, she beckons to me to approach. Her small chin tilts, and suddenly, I
don’t
know her.

Miranda closes the distance between us in a blur, flicking her wrist to poise clawlike nails no more than an inch in front of my eyes.

“Such striking green eyes,” she says. “I could scoop them out and put them in glass paperweights, one for you and one for me. You could consider yours a parting gift.”

The flash of fear surprises me. I refuse to flinch. “Is there a point to this?”

“Not ‘vamp’ or ‘vampire,’” Miranda clarifies. “‘Eternal.’” She pivots and strides back to her desk. She’s somehow grabbed the file on her way and is flipping through it. “He can wait,” she declares, taking her power seat.

I don’t know what she expects after that show. But I’m not going to wimp out. I ignore the lonely armless chair across from her and sit sideways on the corner of the desk instead. It’s stupid, but I’m mad at her. Mad at her for dying. Mad at her for being this thing. Mad enough to push my luck and jeopardize my mission. Did Harrison’s demeanor piss me off last night? That was nothing compared to how I feel now.

Miranda crosses her legs and turns her wheeled chair at an angle. “Only because you are in training will I tolerate the occasional slip and only for as long as I’m so inclined. I don’t have time to baby you.”

“Listen,” I begin, “I don’t know —”

Joshua materializes behind her. Eyes wide. He frantically waves his hands, warning me to can the attitude. Now.

He’s right. I know he’s right. I grab a notebook from the top of Miranda’s desk, steal a pen from the pencil holder, and offer Josh a look of surrender.

He grins and gives me two-thumbs-up before disappearing again.

“
You
listen,” Miranda counters. She pauses and then begins again as if nothing happened. “The tone and temperament of castle life is pristine, orderly, sedate, and regal. Father has asked that in his absence —”

“Father?” I repeat. She never called Troy McAllister that. It was “Da,” then “Daddy,” then “Dad.” I was there, too, for every day of it. They’d been great together, before the divorce, anyway. I wonder if Miranda remembered him last Father’s Day.

“The exalted master. As I was saying, Father has asked that I maintain the status quo, deal with any visitors . . .” She taps the manila folder in front of her with one finger. Her nails are back to regular length. “Our most pressing short-term concern is planning his deathday gala. We’ll work on that together. If there are any minor complications, Harrison will facilitate damage control.”

As she leafs through the paperwork in the file, I watch her absently chew her lower lip. She used to do the same thing in her bedroom in Dallas when she was doing her math and at the kitchen table when she was working on a crossword puzzle.

I wonder if she thought about me today, sleeping under the same roof. My dreams of her were less than angelic.

Back in the main hall, the visiting vamp . . . eternal . . . no,
vamp,
Theo, stands on the edge of what Harrison informed me was an eighteenth-century Tibetan rug. Theo is checking out the nearest glass-fronted display of Ethiopian knives. Even with the other collections featured in the room — the Bavarian crystal decanters, Japanese tea sets, mastodon ivory animal carvings, and mounted shifter heads — the knives dominate.

“The mistress will see you now,” I announce. It’s one of the lines on the cheat sheet of commonly used castle phrases that Harrison gave me last night.

Theo looks middle-aged. Paunchy. Puffy. He could be two hundred years old for all I know or care. He stands, brushing off his pant legs. Runs a forefinger across his front teeth like a toothbrush. “Thank you, dear boy. It’s an honor to meet the princess.” He waddles after me. “I’ve committed many crimes.” He sounds oddly apologetic, even mournful, especially considering what he is.

“Yeah,” I say, leading him to the biz wing hall. “I’ve screwed up some myself.”

I PULL UP THEO’S FULL BIO
on the computer. He’s a newly elevated member of the gentry and recently relocated to Chicago from New Orleans.

An informal stance seems appropriate.

I return to the seating area, fluff the pillows, and flip through this week’s human news magazines while I wait. The same global conflicts rage, and the same political parties bicker, which, granted, will have little impact on the undead community.

“Uh, here he is,” Zachary says.

It’s a far cry from “Presenting Theo.” I make a mental note to correct him later.

I tell Zachary to await my call outside the door and Theo to make himself comfortable in the gray-and-black-striped chair beside the couch. The new arrival wears a beige button-up sweater with leather elbow pads over a white button-down shirt and beige corduroys. He was balding when he died and fortunately shaved what was left rather than indulging in the comb-over. In short, he looks every inch the fortysomething psych professor that he used to be.