Eternal (17 page)

WITH DRAC GONE
, Miranda on hiatus, and no visiting vamps on the itinerary, it’s easy to pretend this isn’t a place where people are mutilated and sucked dry.

I’m tired, though. Servants of the undead keep a hellacious schedule. We sleep from sunrise to noon and then do our best to handle the daylight errands of our employers. It’s a lifestyle built on fear, ambition, caffeine, and five-star cuisine.

I’ve been making myself useful in mundane ways. The handyman is apparently AWOL (news I’m not eager to pass on), so I oversaw the complete reboot of Miranda’s office.

Now, midafternoon, I’m playing sous-chef in the castle’s industrial kitchen.

Okay, sous-chef may be overstating it. I’m chopping spuds for Nora’s hamburger gravy — commonly referred to by old-school military as “SOS” — over potatoes and toast. It’s for the prisoners. Nora claims she gives them meat to keep their iron up.

They’re fed like livestock. We’re fed like treasured pets.

“Have you heard from Miranda tonight?” I ask.

She stayed in the wine cellar last night. And she’s usually out and about by now. She’s clearly freaking out over what Drac will think of her “performance” while he’s out of town. She used to do the same thing when she was human. If something went wrong, she’d hide out until it blew over.

But Miranda isn’t human anymore, and this time she’s not only secluded herself. She’s also fasting.

“Don’t worry, boy,” Nora says from the sink. “You’ll lure her back upstairs soon enough. You’re the best eye candy this pretentious mausoleum has seen in ages. Miranda’s had a rough few nights, but she won’t sulk long.”

Nora speaks with the confidence of the once number-one-ranked chef in the Southeast. Impressive. But it kind of begs the question of why the master vamp would go to the trouble of hiring someone at her level of culinary expertise.

Granted, when it comes to chowing down, the executive staff is spoiled, and it’s obvious from the castle and its furnishings that Drac is an only-the-best kind of fiend. On the other hand, the undead as a whole are definitely known more as drinkers than diners.

“Just out of curiosity,” I begin, “does Drac ever sample any of your cooking?”

Nora flips on the water faucet to fill a huge stock pot. “You’d be surprised. It’s a challenge for him, being an eternal, to eat solid food. But the master’s not the type to accept limits. Over the years, he’s worked past his gag reflex, and now he can keep down a light meal. He started small, with red grapes and cherry tomatoes.” She crosses her arms and tilts her head thoughtfully. “It was quite the moment when he enjoyed his first bite of rhubarb pie since the Civil War.”

I grab another potato. “I still don’t see why he’d bother. They’re not called bloodsuckers for nothing.”

Not for the first time, Nora raises her eyebrows at my choice of words, but again, decides not to comment on it. “Ah, but he wasn’t always an eternal. When he was elevated, he didn’t forget the joys of his human life. Now and then, the master simply wants a taste, so to speak, of the world he left behind. It could be that he misses it.”

Nora doesn’t say it like she expects me to feel sorry for the monster. She says it like it’s important that I understand. That this information about vampires is somehow key. I turn her words over in my mind and find myself thinking of Miranda.

“So,” I begin again, “of all the girls in the world, why do you think he picked Miranda to be his princess?”

“No one knows for sure.” Nora shuts off the water. “But as a human, he did have daughters of his own. Maybe he misses them, too.”

Nora is good company, a great conversationalist. When we first met, she mentioned to me that famous vamps of Chicago history include John Dillinger, “Big Bill” Thompson, and “Bugs” Moran (who never really went to prison — story for another time).

She also takes good care of the staff.

Officially, the castle doesn’t celebrate religious holidays. Unofficially, last night Nora, Laurie the chauffeur, and I dined on bacon-wrapped prawns over Gouda grits with steamed asparagus, followed by milk-chocolate
Bunnicula
-inspired fanged bunnies. We said grace, too. (Lisa and Charlotte don’t eat in the kitchen. They just nod thanks and take their plates to their rooms. I’m not sure if that’s a new thing or not.)

Today the bear-claw pastries on the kitchen island platter were fried at noon. I take a break from chopping potatoes and grab one. “I hope Miranda’s not too freaked out.”

“The princess?” exclaims Laurie, walking in. “Freaked-out eternals are —”

“The master, sure,” Nora says, loading each of the five pro toasters. “But Miranda’s just a baby. A baby viper, but a baby nonetheless.”

“Yes, precious.” Laurie makes a quick circle through the kitchen. She grabs a pastry and a white linen napkin along the way. “How gracious of her to spend the evening in her coffin. If anyone needs me, I’ll be in the garage, um, rotating the tires. Or maybe I’ll take the limo in for a wash and detailing in . . . Indianapolis.”

Taking a bite, I weigh their reactions. I’ve never had an assignment before that involved quality time with the undead. I’m still figuring out what’s the real deal versus what I’ve filed away from pop culture from Bela Lugosi to
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
(Thank you, Lucy).

Hang on. “Her coffin?”

“It’s in the cellar.” Nora again. “Usually, the princess and the master spend their days resting there together. They each have their own coffin, side by side.”

“I — I hadn’t realized,” I stammer. I hadn’t given it much thought. When I’d heard Miranda spent her days in the wine cellar, I assumed it had been turned into a bedroom.

Nora lowers her voice. “His Majesty is a tad controlling.”

AT THE DOORWAY
atop the curving cellar stairs, I nearly run into Zachary, who’s carrying a silver goblet garnished, luau-style, with a tiny yellow-and-orange paper umbrella.

He rocks back, covering the top of the cup with his hand. “If you want to meet in your office tonight, we’re green light. It’s all spick-and-span.” Offering me the goblet, he adds, “I’ve been helping Nora out in the kitchen today, and I thought you might be thirsty.”

“What’s this?” I ask. “It smells like . . .” I swirl the liquid, sniff. “It’s not human.”

“It’s cow blood,” he replies, tentative.

I should scold him. Cow blood? How ludicrous!

Yet is this an effort to meet me halfway? If so, I think I’m touched. I’d love it if at least this relationship were more simpatico. How to respond?

Zachary’s ringing cell phone solves that. He takes the call, answering with a lot of uh-huhs, pacing in the hallway. He’s ditched the black slacks for button-fly 501s. The look is casual for the castle, but with that fit, who cares.

I sip the blood, not minding the taste too much.

Tonight will be different, better. Tonight my new PA and I will put into motion the plans for the gala. When I report to Father, I’ll lead with that and then break the news about Harrison. Furthermore, Zachary will have the nursery cleaned, just like he did the office, and Father will never know about either mess. We can hire new maids, too (given our resources, replacements with albino heritage can’t be that hard to find).

Zachary snaps the phone closed. “It was a PA with a French accent. She relayed a message from her masters, Sabine and Philippe.”

“Sabine and . . . Are you certain? Those were the names?”

“Yeah, the PA says she’s sorry about the late notice and ‘asks for an audience.’ As in now. If that’s not an inconvenience, so long as you’re available, with much simpering and groveling. You get the idea.”

Just when I thought we’d reached a pleasant lull. It’s a touchy situation, politically perilous. A profoundly high-stakes and unexpected test.

When Father said I was to receive guests, I’m quite sure he didn’t mean any of this magnitude. Sabine and Philippe can’t be brushed off with a mere informational interview, can they? There are pending issues, after all.

I try to call Father, only to reach his voice mail. Zachary is even more clueless than I am. Harrison might know what to do, but he’s still missing.

I can’t just leave the guests standing at the door. Sabine is considered among the most formidable of the Old Bloods. By comparison, Elina is a minor leaguer.

And yet this is also an opportunity to prove myself, to finally do something right.

“Tell . . .” We’re seriously short on staff. “Laurie to let them in and to bring them into the throne room in fifteen minutes.” At least she’s in her chauffeur uniform. “You come with me.”

“Presenting Sabine and Philippe,” Laurie says moments later, and bows to excuse herself. Like many eternals, our guests don’t bother with last names.

As they enter, I rise from Father’s gold-framed and red-padded throne to stand on a raised black marble platform. The room can accommodate five hundred. At the moment, both sides are walled off with red velvet curtains to create a feeling of intimacy. When the curtains are drawn, it doubles as a ballroom.

I consider the new arrivals. There was no need to pull a file on these two. In the underworld, they’re the A-list celebrity couple. Everyone knows about them. Sabine and Philippe have long stood proudly at the zenith of the aristocracy, favorites of the Mantle, though their position of late has grown precarious.

In early March, they confessed to Father that one of their handmaidens “accidentally” drained an Italian nun.

Bad form that, nun killing, and the sort of mistake that could be used to recruit a fresh army for the opposition, should the news have reached the Vatican. To complicate matters, a band of hunters was doing a sweep of the immediate area at the time.

Fortunately, Sabine interceded before the body was discovered. She choked it down in wolf form and paid for that with days of vomiting and fever. It’s unclear whether the sole source of her misery was the consumption of so much flesh or whether the victim’s holy nature contributed.

Regardless, eating human flesh is traditionally looked upon as a shifter activity. For disposal purposes, most of the eternal citizenry, even some of the new-money gentry, travel in the company of werescavengers (Vultures, Jackals, Hyenas, and the like).

Not the royalty or aristocracy. We don’t condescend to associate with vermin. We have disposal facilities (like the crematorium in the dungeon) at our business offices and personal residences. All of which is to say, the circumstances in which Sabine and Philippe found themselves were unusual, meriting attention at the royal level.

Father summoned Sabine for a full report, but then Philippe was badly burned when someone, possibly a New Jersey rabbi (it hasn’t been confirmed whether he knew about the nun, but cooperative opposition from agents of the world’s major religions is on the rise) set fire to their apartment in the Latin Quarter.

The two missed their appointment — one with the exalted master himself — sending twelve bouquets of white lilies in their stead. Worse, they missed my debut party the following month and neglected to send compensatory tribute.

Albeit insulting to the Mantle, it’s a credit to Sabine’s dedication to her consort that she didn’t abandon him in that condition, especially knowing the likely penalty.

They’ve since relocated to a suite at The George V near the Arc de Triomphe, and though Philippe’s face and hands are still covered with shiny scars, preternatural healing has made it possible for him to travel again. Still, he leans heavily on a silver bat-head cane.

It’s sad. Philippe was remarkable-looking before, ugly beautiful. According to Father, he was once painted by Renoir. Still, the cut of his suit is artful. His long, braided hair shines like spun gold. I’ve heard he’s always worn it pulled back, scars or no scars. That must’ve been how it escaped the flames.

I expect Zachary to follow Laurie out. (I just want my guests to admire him first.) Instead, he takes position toward my front right on the platform, standing with his arms crossed against his chest and his feet shoulder-width apart.

Why didn’t I have him change into something more formal or menacing?

At least I’m wearing my lavender slip dress. The bodice is beaded with seed pearls, and a row of black fringe lines the hem of the skirt. It’s a coincidence, but Father imported the dress from Paris. Lavender is his favorite color and scent.

Nora told me his human wife sent him off to war with pressed lavender in a handkerchief. For a generation or so, it was all he had of his original home.

“
Bonsoir,
” I begin, wishing I’d taken high school French instead of Spanish. Father speaks both, in addition to English of course, as well as Japanese, Romanian, and Russian. The official language of eternals has been English, though, since the early 1900s. “Welcome to the U.S. Midwest regional estate. I offer greetings on behalf of the exalted master. At the moment, he is abroad.”

They must know that already. The European eternal media is covering Father’s tour, and beyond that, gossip is the number-one pastime among our kind, the one recreational activity — besides feeding and sex — that never seems to lose its allure.