Eternal (16 page)

Oh, right. Any eternal can break a simple lock or, for that matter, a bolted one. There’s not a heavy enough barricade in here that the servants could move to stop Harrison. All these people have for defense is me. I’m guessing that’s not their most comforting thought.

I cross to my regular bar stool, rest one hand on the back of it, and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to think. Father said nothing about elevating Harrison, and I doubt he’d schedule a first rising during his absence.

That strongly suggests he wasn’t the one to do it. For a PA to go behind his master’s back, especially the exalted master, and drink from another eternal . . . That’s unheard of. I doubt the blood was forced on Harrison. He would’ve told Father, who would’ve told me. I raise my head. “Harrison has left the property? Do we know?”

“We hope so,” Nora replies, blowing her nose.

“What about the sentries?” I ask.

Nora and Zachary glance at each other. She shakes her head. He shrugs.

Harrison could’ve left as if he were going about his business for the Mantle, but not as a raging neophyte . . . unless it was one of the sentries who elevated him and let him leave. Then again, drinking from Gus should have calmed him. Maybe Harrison did just stroll out the front gate.

I glance at the few (hopefully) still-loyal servants. Zachary has his arms crossed in front of his chest and is looking at me like the whole ordeal is somehow my fault. Nora has moved to the maids, and she hugs each in turn.

How am I going to tell Father? After me, Harrison is his favorite.

I shake my head, frustrated. Is this my responsibility? According to what Father told me, it takes about a month, usually characterized by mood swings and erratic behavior, for the transformation from human to eternal to fully manifest . . . unless, of course, the chosen is killed first during that time (without beheading, fire, insurmountable exposure to holy water, or the piercing of the heart), in which case, the change happens immediately.

Assuming Harrison wasn’t a premature kill, though, he must’ve been initially blessed sometime in mid-March. Yes, I realize, it
was
about then that he began acting differently. Mouthing off within Father’s earshot, sending in Flavius the bug eater to interview, failing to detect the young “vampire hunter’s” stake. Who knows what other signs I may have missed?

Regardless, I’m the one in charge here now. Our dungeon manager has been killed, and for whatever reason, Harrison is the fourth castle servant we’ve lost in less than a week.

“Did you call the enforcers?” I ask Zachary, my voice tight.

“The what?”

“Never mind. I’ll do it myself.”

It shouldn’t be difficult for the Chicago-area enforcers to fetch Harrison. I’ll order them to leave him intact for us to deal with. Then I’ll see what the sentries have to say.

I flip open the top of my cell, remembering the way Flint evaporated in the holy-water dunking tank. I would rather that not happen to Harrison. Perhaps there’s a reasonable explanation. Perhaps he’ll come home on his own. We are friends . . . sort of.

Shutting the phone again, I say, “No rush.”

TONIGHT, WE’RE IN
a third-floor bedroom. It’s decorated in pink and black. It’s, hands down, the most girly room I’ve seen so far in the castle. When we arrived, Miranda proudly told me it had been her nursery, whatever that’s supposed to mean.

The last time I looked, she was seated toward the foot of the immense canopy bed, flipping through the Neiman Marcus catalog for party-favor ideas, her feet tucked to one side, sporting leggings and a Chicago Cubs T-shirt at least two sizes too big. It reminds me of how she used to look, except the T-shirt would’ve read Dallas Cowboys.

I’m standing in only white boxers (with a fanged smiley-face print) behind a tall wooden screen decorated with a heron design, staring at various suits hanging from a coatrack.

“Try the white tux next!” she calls.

It’ll look dorky. “And will I get the rest of my barbershop quartet to go with it?”

“You’re not to argue. You’re to obey.”

“Whatever you say, Your Highness.” I slide the slacks from the padded hanger. “The coats are all too tight through the shoulders.”

“That’s your fault,” she says, “for having the body of a comic-book superhero.”

I’ll have to call the tailor again tomorrow.

I used to wish we could be together like this. I’d come up with witty things to say and pretend she could see and touch me as she went about her days.

Under the circumstances, though,
this
is pure torture.

I have one leg in the pants when I smell smoke. I’m thinking cigar. Harrison? “Miranda, do you —?”

“What? Oh, God! Zachary!”

I drop the pants and look from behind the screen to see her pointing at the drapes. A taper must’ve fallen to the puddle of material on the hardwood, catching the fringe on fire. It spreads fast, snaking upward. Shooting across the heavy checked satin.

You would think vamps would use more flame-retardant fabric.

I’m reminded of the explosion in the West End. Except the smoke is lavender and starting to smell that way, too.

“Are these enchanted candles?” I ask.

“It’s possible,” Miranda says, moving to a wardrobe. “We get a lot of magical catalogs. You know how it is when your name gets on a list.”

A spark lights on the canopy and the mesh goes up. It falls onto the bedspread.

I wave the smoke from my face. Fire can kill vampires. It can kill anything. “Don’t you have a sprinkler system?”

“No,” Miranda replies. “Too dangerous. Someone could bless the water. We lost a whole sorority of neophytes that way at the University of Kansas in the 1980s.” She moves from one piece of furniture to another, opening cabinets and deep drawers. “There’s supposed to be an extinguisher in every room, but I can’t find one!” Miranda flips open her cell and hits a button. “Nora! Fire in the nursery!”

“We should clear out,” I say, reaching for Miranda’s hand.

She does a double take at my boxers, though it’s a safe bet to assume she’s the one that had them delivered to my quarters in the first place. “That candelabrum doesn’t belong by the drapes,” she mutters. “It’s always toward the back of the room.”

The wool rug combusts at her feet.

“Miranda!” I say, coughing.

This time she goes with me. We step into the hall and shut the door just as Nora exits the elevator with an extinguisher.

“Shouldn’t we call the fire department?” I ask, certain the vamps have a class-A volunteer unit.

“We can’t,” Miranda says. “Then everyone will know.”

Fine. I grab the extinguisher, pull the pin, and charge back in.

As the foam sprays, I realize Miranda would’ve been the better choice for the job. She doesn’t have to breathe. But princesses don’t do stuff like this.

The blaze may or may not have been mystical in origin, but it’s dying out like any would. The door is untouched. The wood floor can be buffed out. Most of the damage is symbolic. Everything that made the room Miranda’s is trashed.

Once the fire is doused, I find her seated alone in the hall against the stone wall. Nora has apparently been excused.

Miranda’s face is buried in her hands. “Is it out?”

“Yeah.” I crouch down to face her. “Are you okay?”

I’m tempted to smooth her hair. I used to do that sometimes when she slept. But now when I touch her, she pushes me away.

“I’m a failure,” she says, blinking at my bare chest. “I’m in charge for
five
measly days, and look at all that’s gone wrong. Father will be so disappointed. He expects a perfect princess, a perfect heir.”

I take her hands in mine and urge her to her feet. “Who cares what he thinks?”

“He’s all I have,” Miranda replies.

As soon as she says it, I know I’m in more trouble than ever.

I’ve been kidding myself that I’m just biding my time undercover until Drac comes home. I’ve been kidding myself that I can separate the Miranda before from the Miranda now. She may think Drac is the only one who loves her.

But she still has me.

I IGNORE MY APPETITE
, dust my casket twice, rearrange the clothes in my newly installed wardrobe (by color and type), and count the 2,417 bottles of red wine.

Then I take a lavender-scented bubble bath to distract myself from my appetite. Down here in the cellar, Father and I each have private rooms with antique tubs and separate showers.

Later, I fondle the knob of the door leading to the dungeon. I imagine drinking from the vein. The memory of my tiff with Zachary over the bleeding stock stops me. No, the image of his likely reaction stops me.

Untold numbers of humans find the idea of eternal feeding seductive. It would be the one I hire who is repulsed by the idea. Or is it me he’s repulsed by?

Not that he’s the reason I’m sequestering myself. I keep waiting for the right words to come. The ones that will explain to Father everything that’s gone wrong in such a way that he doesn’t have me flayed or crushed by a steamroller or displayed under carved wax (all of which he’s done to others who’ve let him down).

I already miss Harrison, and, to a lesser degree, my nursery. It was the one room in the castle that almost felt like mine.

Tonight I hate the U.S. Midwest regional estate.

Tonight I hate the whole underworld.

Father would say I should go hunting in the city, seek solace in blood.

On the other hand, Zachary . . . I’m almost starting to think like him. It’s awful. It reminds me of my soul-sick, neophyte days. No matter how much I crave blood, I can’t seem to bring myself to call up for a drink.

I keep wondering, though, when I began to accept being an eternal. Was there one moment? I don’t think so. It simply became easier with each passing night.

Lacking other ideas, I check my e-mail on my laptop, am relieved to find my inbox empty, and then do a vanity search for my human name.

I pull up a blog called “Missing Miranda.” A click reveals that it’s something Lucy has launched. I surf around, seeing what’s there. Banners. A Web ring. A slide show. Some of the entries are text. Others are video.

She posts memories of me, too, and lists like “12 Marvelous Things about Miranda,” as well as statistics and links to worldwide sites related to missing kids and teens. She asks over and over for her visitors to watch for me.

Lucy put so much effort into this, trying to save me. Too bad it’s no use.

Today’s entry is dated April 20 and titled “Happy Easter, Miranda.” The image is from a snapshot of an Easter Egg hunt. We were four, wearing pink-and-yellow lacy dresses, trying to carry egg-filled baskets bigger than we were.

Easter. I hadn’t realized the date.

Thinking back, I can almost smell Grandma Peggy’s traditional dinner — honey-baked ham and buttered corn and green-bean casserole and mashed potatoes and gravy with sweet iced tea and pecan pie.

Even my parents’ divorce couldn’t change that. Year before last, Grandma invited Mom to come with me to dinner after morning services on the condition that both of my parents behave (for my sake), and miraculously they did. It was still awkward in a way, forced, though everybody meant well.

Afterward, I called Lucy. She was the only one I could tell all about it, the only one I could count on to understand the good, the bad, and the bittersweet.

I click the comment link and the circle next to
Anonymous.
Fingertips on the keyboard, I stare at the blinking cursor in the empty text box. I type
Happy Easter.

Then an instant message pops up from drac1.

I’m quick to erase my comment and log off.