Eternal (18 page)

Father’s absence is the likely reason they’ve chosen now to visit. They’ll be expected at his deathday gala, and I suspect they’d prefer their status was resolved before his return. I wonder, though, how they plan to explain their choice to seek me out when they readily could have met him in London or Munich.

“
Bonsoir.
” Sabine curtsies. “We apologize again for our indiscretion.”

Philippe bows low. “We meant no disrespect.”

I’m uncertain how to reply. On one hand, Father expects total obedience, regardless of circumstances. On the other, Sabine and Philippe had unexpected and extreme cause for their failing, they’ve traveled far to apologize, and they’re not run-of-the-mill aristocracy.

Despite the haute couture, Sabine looks no more than fourteen — innocent, delicate, demure. She has the body of a ballet dancer. Her ash-blond hair rests in a twist on her head. Attached to her belt is a black velvet bag, likely filled with the soil of her homeland. She’ll use it to sleep on. (Strictly speaking, that isn’t necessary, but some of the Old Bloods indulge in the practice.) It was she who’d elevated Giselle, one of Father’s lost brides, and Philippe has been Sabine’s consort for more than a century.

She’s famous for her advocacy for gender equity within the eternal population, has raised eyebrows by quoting the feminist writings of a human being, Simone de Beauvoir, and it’s rumored they had a personal relationship.

Theirs — Philippe’s and Sabine’s — is one of the few male-female relationships within the aristocracy in which the woman is the public dominant.

The two threw in early with Father against his predecessor in Istanbul when he was a challenger for the Mantle. It’s the only explanation I can fathom for Father’s not having already eliminated them for their disobedience (or rather had an enforcer attend to it) — that, and the fact that Sabine is the darling of the international aristocracy. No one has a better-placed finger on its nonexistent pulse. Over the years, she has proven herself a valued advisor.

Surely, such loyalty and courtesy merit a pardon. Plus, so far as I’ve been able to ascertain from the maids’-tongue incident, the question of human flesh has become something of a gray area. And, given what happened to my nursery, I’m inclined to be sympathetic to fire victims.

“We are family,” I declare, hoping that Father will be in agreement. It feels right, though. After all, this wisp of a girl is effectively my step-
grandmère.

“
Merci,
Your Highness!” Sabine clasps her hands. “We bring tribute now!” She calls to her entourage, waiting outside the door.

A subordinate enters and hands a mahogany window box to Philippe, who presents it to me. I’m not surprised to see an antique knife. Father’s collection is renowned, and the last time the two visited, they brought a knife originally owned by the Marquis de Sade. This one, however, somewhat resembles a boomerang.

“For the master,” Philippe says, bowing again. “A kukri knife. It once belonged to Jonathan Harker.”

Father has hardly begun educating me about the history of the Mantle, but there are even humans who know this story. “It’s not . . . ?”

“It is.” Sabine nods. “You hold one of the two knives that killed Dracula Prime.”

I study the legendary weapon. Despite what the opposition would deem a heroic past, it’s reeking of evil. I can feel it, rising in waves.

I set the handcrafted box behind me on the throne. I suspect it’s not the proper thing to do (I’m not even sure I should’ve been sitting on the chair myself), but no one here will dare to correct me.

“That is not all,” Sabine adds. “We did not forget our princess.” She claps her hands loudly twice. “Something special for you!”

From the hallway, two of their men bring forth a teenage guy. He’s fresh, familiar. Very familiar . . .

Zachary coughs.

My “gift” is Geoff Calvo from Dallas, the goalie of my high-school soccer team. The boy I’d pined over since the seventh grade. Talk about compensatory tribute! And fetching Geoff from Texas is a valid reason for them to have come to the States.

Sabine hasn’t been a real girl since she chose elevation over the guillotine, but she remembered and researched. She brought me what was once my dream.

It’s fun to contemplate. I could bless Geoff, elevate him. Or I could keep him forever in my thrall. I could order him to worship me or to, say, wash my car.

I’m standing behind Zachary on the marble platform, so I can’t see his expression. Is he jealous? Is he worried that Geoff might replace him as my PA? Or is he judging me again, on the theory that I’ll make Geoff a snack?

Geoff himself looks battered, his face bruised, his Fighting Coyotes T-shirt torn. I wonder if he recognizes me. He didn’t know I was alive when I
was
alive. Does he know me dead?

“Miranda,” he breathes. “I thought you were . . .”

I have a sudden image then, what it must’ve been like at my high school after I disappeared. It’s not the kind of place where things like that happen. I imagine there were prayer groups. I remember reading about a candlelight vigil on Lucy’s blog.

Did Geoff light a candle for me?

“Help,” he gasps. “Help, please.”

Part of me wants to. The rest is reminded of my audition for Juliet and the way he kissed Denise after she and her friends mocked my performance.

I descend from the platform and walk forward to stand in front of Geoff. He falls readily under my thrall. I could crush his throat between my fingers. I could drink it dry between my teeth. Expectation fills the room. I have to make a decision.

“Merci,”
I tell Sabine. “Your research is impeccable, but alas, outdated. In the past year, my tastes have changed.”

Her hand flies to her mouth. “If we have displeased you —”

“It’s all right,” I say with a flip wave. My guests’ anxiousness makes them malleable, which is fortunate because I’m overdoing it. Aren’t I? Or maybe my acting skills are finally starting to improve. “I see no need to mention this to the master. Next time we’ll try harder, won’t we?”

Sabine and Philippe assure me they will and thank me for my benevolence. I’d feel vaguely guilty for manipulating them if I didn’t know that their career goals include killing more people than heart disease.

“Put the boy on the royal jet, bound for DFW Airport. See that he is not further harmed or in any way touched by fang. First, though, I wish a moment alone with him. Now leave us be.”

Sabine and Philippe exchange a relieved glance, likely calculating that their offering hasn’t been a complete failure after all. They make a few last supplicating noises, curtsy and bow, and depart with their entourage.

“Miranda,” Zachary begins.

“Hush. I’m thinking.”

I feel compelled to do something about Geoff, what he’s seen, what he’s suffered.

“You will leave this castle the way you came,” I begin. “Cooperate with your escorts, board the plane, and be seated until disembarking in Dallas. At that time, you will retain no memory of the events that transpired since shortly before your capture. Call your parents. They’ll retrieve you at the airport.”

I’m still thirsty — a goblet of cow blood is only so filling — but fortunately for Geoff, I can wait. As a compromise, I bite my bottom lip, lick my own blood, and rise to my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “You may go.”

As Geoff leaves — his eyes still glazed — inspiration strikes. I add, “Oh, and another thing.” He pauses. “In the future, if you ever catch any tall, gangly, B-list, geeky girls staring at you, be nice to them. Nothing fancy. Just say hi.” I think of my once best friend, who misses me. “And if one of their names is Lucy Lehman, give her a chance. She might be better for you than that skank you took to Homecoming.”

Geoff shuffles out of the throne room.

After he’s gone, Zachary takes a seat — it’s more of a sexy sprawl — on the platform stairs. “What
is
it with you and that guy?”

“I . . . It was a long time ago.” Not that long, but so much has happened.

“Why did you let him go?”

I try flirting. “What do you think, Jiminy Cricket?”

“I think it wasn’t a very dragon-princess thing to do.”

One downside to my growing affection for Zachary? It infringes on my diet.

Later that night, I make a show of yawning and returning to the wine cellar, wait until I’m certain my PA has turned in, and then pad barefoot in my black silk robe and cat yoga pj’s into the kitchen.

“Good evening,” I say in my best Hollywood vampire voice.

“Your Highness!” Nora exclaims, dropping the sponge she’s using to clean the counter. “If I may say so, honey, you’re getting too good at that.” She puts a hand to her heart. “What can I do for you?”

Climbing onto a bar stool, I wrinkle my nose. “I’m thirsty.”

“Hmm.” She slips behind the kitchen island, placing it and the cutlery between us. “I just noticed this afternoon that the blood wine has run out. Normally, I’d call Gus, but —”

I clear my throat. “I’m looking for something a little less human.”

Nora taps the counter twice. “Than Gus?”

“Than what he served.” I pause. “We don’t have to mention this to Zachary. Or to the master.” I don’t want to think about what Father would say if he finds out.

He’ll be home in three weeks, give or take.

Nora takes a sip from her “Kiss the Cook” coffee mug. “Laurie could make a run to the twenty-four-hour grocery for some pig’s blood. You might like it more than —”

“The cow,” I reply, pursing my lips. Real eternals drink humans. It’s our right. It’s been done for centuries. It’s . . . I just can’t make myself. At least not right now.

Nora reaches for her cell. “You’ve got it bad, hon.”

I blink. “The thirst?”

“The boy,” she replies. “Zachary.”

“Oh, him,” I cross my legs. Better that she thinks of me as a love-struck teenager than an eternal defanged. Better still that we chat about something else. “I’m more concerned about the gala. It’s an enormous job. I’ve heard that weddings, for example, take a year to plan. So many decisions and details, and it’s vital to Father that it go perfectly.”

“Like your debut.” Nora tilts her head. “What all do you think he did for that?”

“Nothing,” comes the answer with a dawning understanding. “Father is royalty. He delegates. Of course he does. And so will I. Nora, I could just kiss you!”

The chef’s gaze drops to my teeth, and she takes a giant step back. “Really, honey, your thanks is enough.”

THE DETACHED, HEATED GARAGE
at Castle Drac is home to a black Caddy, two stretch limos (one white, one black), a black convertible Porsche, a forest-green BMW, two Harley-Davidson motorcycles, two speedboats, a white van, a small fleet of SUVs, and . . .

“You drive a Beetle?” I ask.

“Your point being?” Miranda shoots back.

“Oh, come on.” Our banter is lighter than it’s ever been. Despite her legendary crush, she let Geoff Calvo go. She’s stayed on the animal blood since, and that was three nights ago. Good signs, all of them. Plus, Miranda gave Laurie the evening off and said she wanted to drive us herself. Call me cautiously optimistic. I think Miranda and I might actually have fun together. “A vamp behind the wheel of a VW Bug?” I reply. “It’s adorable.”

Did I mention the pink daisy in the bud vase on the dash?

“It’s ‘eternal,’ not ‘vamp,’” Miranda reminds me, but this time she doesn’t seem to mind so much. “The Volkswagen is not my car. It belongs to Laurie. It’s her personal vehicle.” Miranda gestures to the mammoth machine to the far right. Black exterior, red racing stripes. It’s the largest of the SUVs. Anywhere. “This is mine.”

I laugh. “Because a Hummer just wouldn’t cut it?”

Each space is marked with a number. Miranda’s car is in space two.

I climb into the shotgun seat as Miranda hauls herself up behind the wheel. She perches on a thick yellow phone book so that she can see over the hood.

No way am I going to mention it.

“What
is
this thing?” I ask.

“It’s a 1987 Impaler,” she replies, turning on the ignition. “It’s a classic.”

“It’s huge. How much does it cost to fill up?”

Miranda pulls out of the parking spot and turns to exit. She presses a button on her dashboard to raise the garage door. “We’re
eternals,
” she says again, emphasizing the euphemism. “We are evil. We are not fuel efficient.”

I smirk. “Did you make a joke?”

“No.”

O’Conner’s Bar & Grill is an upscale version of one of those chain restaurants with fake antiques on the wall. It’s located in the hundred-story Hancock on Michigan Avenue. From what I remember, it’s the third-tallest building in the city. I first visited the place with Danny when it went up in 1970.

Earlier tonight, I suggested O’Conner’s because I knew the area (or at least I used to), because it’s in Chicago’s über shopping corridor, and because its Dallas branch was Miranda’s fave. But they don’t take reservations, and the lobby is packed.

Once we push through the crowd, Miranda amps up her thrall. “We’re next,” she says. “Table for three.”

“Table for three,” is the hostess’s monotone reply. She grabs menus.