Eternal (7 page)

THOUGH WE ETERNALS AREN’T REQUIRED
to sleep in coffins, Father insists on it. I don’t mind. Mine is a top-of-the-line cherry and mahogany number with platinum fittings and a well-padded, pearl-velvet interior. We saved seventy percent by ordering online.

My luxury box is a demure complement to Father’s. His is king-size and made from black marble, customized with brass fittings and a NASCAR emblem. It could be fairly characterized as the black-velvet Elvis painting of coffins.

They’re arranged side by side in the fully stocked wine cellar.

It’s a large circular room with fourteen-foot ceilings, masculine in its dark woods, barrel-based tables, leather club chairs, and humidor. The collection of reds numbers well over two thousand, the rarest and finest of dust-covered labels.

There are four doors, one leading to the stairs, two leading (respectively) to my private bath and to Father’s, and the last one opening to the dungeon, for those occasions when someone wants to create a blood-wine blend.

As of this week, my official time in the third-floor nursery is over. I have conquered my soul sickness. I have embraced my new existence. Father has declared my neophyte status behind us and now considers me a full-fledged eternal.

It’s strange. I used to fantasize about being an actress, in the spotlight as the crowd tossed long-stemmed roses at my feet. The one time I went for it was a disaster.

Now that I’m dead, it’s like every night is opening night, all of it is improv, and I’m a superstar (with no experience).

“Something wrong, sugar?” Father asks. “You’re not drinking from the vein of late.” His voice echoes in the room, slides under my skin, and festers.

The suddenness of the inquiry takes me off-guard, though I know he’s been paying attention. Ever since I turned away the not-Lucy girl. . . . That was the Friday before last, and I still can’t stop thinking about her.

I make my way out of my box. “I, well, it’s not that I’m being all —”

“Language, sugar plum. Believe in yourself.” He says that in a supportive and understanding way, but sometimes when my princess persona falters, the South rises in his voice and his eyes flash red.

I compose myself. “I prefer my blood, my blood wine, by the glass.” I smooth my sleeping gown. “My clothes are so nice.” No, that won’t do. “Forgive me, I meant to say, I adore having such lovely apparel. I fret staining the material.”

Like much of the castle, the dim cellar is lit only by the candelabra, making it harder to decipher Father’s expression. He shakes his head. “Forgive me for not making myself clear on the matter. You’re welcome to wear your garments once and toss them to the maids to be used as rags. We can always commission more.”

I’m relieved by his response and, even after all this time, amazed by our infinite budget. My human parents were solidly middle-class, but unless the outfit was for a special occasion, my mom bought most of my new clothes on sale.

Father paces a moment. “Although now that you mention it, why indeed should a crown princess be expected to sully herself? Forgive me for not realizing. Leiko was one of your people, and she never could tolerate a smudge or pulled thread. Your dining preferences are up to you, so long as you’re well fed.”

I have no idea who Leiko is or was, but the name sounds Japanese.

I’m Chinese American on Mom’s side, Scottish American on Dad’s. I’ve mentioned my heritage in passing to Father only once or twice.

I decide it’s best to ignore the “your people” reference. In his day, it was probably considered polite (or at least that’s what I tell myself).

Father pauses and gives me a meaningful look. “Still, we must be mindful of your image. We wouldn’t want anyone thinking your cleanly ways are getting in the way of your true nature.”

By “anyone,” he’s referring to eternal society. Beyond us, it’s composed of the aristocracy, gentry, and lesser subjects (sentries, enforcers, those who have to rent). Rogues skirt the periphery, for as long as they last anyway. Defiance equals suicide.

He gives me a quick kiss on the forehead. “Come to think of it, now that you have an understanding of your station, you might as well choose your own clothing.”

I must admit a particular thrill at that. In life, shopping for clothes was this ongoing negotiation with my mom. She pushed for me to dress the way she did, like the former beauty queen she was. I felt more comfortable in petite versions of whatever Lucy liked. Oversize T-shirts and jeans or thrift-store finds.

Now, everything is different. Last week, a photographer shot me wrapped only in a sheer, long, sparkly crimson scarf for the cover of
Eternal Elegance
magazine. If I had more blood in my system, I’d still be blushing.

When I first arrived, the clothes that filled the wardrobe upstairs were regular size tens instead of my usual petite fours or sixes. Father corrected that in a hurry, assuring me that Italy’s most
magnifico
designer was sketching until her fingers bled and then sketching with her own blood. More gowns arrive each day. And because of a few subtle words from Nora about “my adjustment” to eternal life, I also have casual clothes, if you can call a thousand-dollar, hand-stitched T-shirt “casual.”

What I like best about being a princess is having maids. I used to hate to clean my room. I did it; don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t some hopeless slob, and anyway, my mom would’ve grounded me if I didn’t straighten up. Yet to say it wasn’t a pleasure is an understatement.

Our maids, Katerina, Lisa, Charlotte, and Renée, attend to the needs of the castle, its sovereigns, and the rest of our staff. They’re all related, sisters or cousins. Each is willowy, with pale skin and light pink eyes. Nora mentioned that one of their grandmothers was an albino. I’d be interested to know more, but Father explained that there is a hierarchy to one’s servants. Maids rank no better than gardeners. They are to be spoken to, but not personally or at any length.

Among other duties, they clean, maintain the candles, wash the linens, run household errands, restock the toiletries, and deliver food to and from the dungeon.

Renée and Charlotte — at least I think they’re Renée and Charlotte — are with me now. At the moment, I’m trying on the latest additions to my wardrobe in what was once my nursery but recently I’ve begun to think of as my retreat.

“How’s it coming?” I ask.

“Forgive our clumsiness, Your Highness,” one murmurs. “The buttons are small, and our fingers are large and fumbling.”

The maids are fastening me into a rare black vintage gown (it involves a hoop, a corset, and a padded push-up bra). With each button, I feel more like a refugee from the prom of the damned. Yet it’s the sort of thing Father adores, and he is my underworld.

The dress must be assembled in three sections along the back, each with a row of one hundred black pearl buttons. More skim from my ruffled black lace cuffs, up the length of my forearms. The neckline extends to midshoulder, and the skirt falls in ruffled tiers. The black knit hose sent to accompany the ensemble are thigh-high and fasten to a garter belt. I’d never be able to manage all this without help.

The other maid maneuvers a freestanding full-length oval mirror in front of me. “We’ve got it now,” she says, “for your approval.”

My reflection is faded, translucent. It doesn’t matter. I’m exquisite. I don’t mean that to sound conceited. In life, I never thought of myself as a remarkable-looking girl. Yet, as an eternal, I’m not only transformed; I’m
transformed.
My skin glows, fairer than before. The blue of my eyes has lost intensity, but that only makes me want to look deeper, to see what’s there. My hair is longer, shinier, though that could be from the maids’ weekly deep-conditioning treatment, a service I never had while alive.

“Your Highness,” the maids say. They mean me.

“Sugar,” Father begins, “it takes effort and patience and” — he leans in close at my right — “occasional regurgitation to build up to eating solid food. Most eternals don’t bother. They stick to liquids.”

Nora sets a sea-green rectangular plate topped with a sliced asparagus tempura roll in front of us. It’s the latest of several vegetarian sushi dishes, each garnished with ginger, wasabi, and thread-cut radish.

We’re in the kitchen, seated on tall metal stools at the bar sink counter. Though the castle as a whole is a juxtaposition of the contemporary and historical, this room reeks of twenty-first-century conveniences.

I feel Father watching me raise the smooth black chopsticks. Asian heritage aside, I’ve never gotten the hang . . . I mean, my mastery of the devices has been lacking. I make an effort to position them the way Mom showed me time and again.

“I do miss food I can chew,” I say, not for the first time.

My first attempt results in my flinging a piece of the roll onto the tile.

Nora hands me a set of wooden chopsticks engraved with dragon heads. They’re less slippery, and on my third try I manage to slide some sushi into my mouth.

I can tell Father is unimpressed, but I don’t expect him to say: “Sugar, I hate to have to tell you this, but I have bad news.”

“News?” I ask, forcing myself to swallow, covering my mouth with the green linen napkin when the food threatens to come back up.

“Harrison informs me,” he begins, “that the maids are questioning your strength. They’re saying you’ve still got too much soul in you.” He shrugs. “Servants do prattle on. It was the same when I was a human, though we called them ‘slaves’ back then. Their tongues wag.”

I thought the maids were on my side! Annoyed, I mutter, “Why do they need tongues, anyway?”

With his chopsticks, Father stirs wasabi into his soy sauce. “Why, indeed?”

He excuses himself, leaving the room without an explanation. For a while, Nora keeps me company, and before I know it, Father is seated at my side once again.

Harrison joins us in the kitchen moments later, and it’s Nora’s expression upon seeing the silver tray he carries that catches my eye. She’s aghast.

I turn my attention to what’s being displayed — four pieces of meat.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Maid’s tongue,” Father replies, “like you suggested. Four maids’ tongues, to be precise.” He gestures with his sticks. His voice is merry. “Would you care to partake?”

I fight the urge to recoil, realizing it’s another test. “No, thank you,” I say. “We don’t eat human flesh. That is the nasty business of shifters.”

I’m pleased with my answer. It’s taken almost verbatim from Father’s explanation of it to me on my first night in the black Caddy and at least twice since.

Without warning, Father shoves our plates off the counter and tosses the bowls across the room, creating a cacophony of small crashes. “Are you back-talkin’ me?”

“No!” I’m on my feet, not caring as a piece of ceramic cuts through my feathered, red house slipper. “No, Father, of course not.”

I’ve seen his fangs before, in the hunt — not bared against me.

Harrison has abandoned the tray and cleared the room.

Nora has ducked behind the counter.

Father curls his clawed hands, as if to strike.

“I’m sorry!” I exclaim, bewildered. “Daddy, please! I apologize.”

A fist lashes toward my face with enough power behind it to punch a hole through my skull, only to dissolve into smoke a breath before contact. Father’s physical form, now a swirl of dark, putrid air, twists and rages before exiting beneath the kitchen door.

I’m not breathing heavily, only because I don’t have to breathe. My heart isn’t beating rapidly, only because it doesn’t beat at all. “What just happened?” I exclaim. “Nora, what did I do wrong?”

She stands from behind the counter, her gaze never leaving the doorway. “You couldn’t win, hon. He’s angry that you turned down what he offered and, worse, that you dared to correct him.”

“But I thought —”

“I know, I know. The fact of the matter is, he probably would’ve hollered at you just as bad if you’d broken his rules and took the bait. Maybe worse.”

“That’s totally unfair!” I say. “It doesn’t even make sense.”

“The master is powerful for his age,” she replies, wiping her hands on her apron. “More powerful, it seems, with each passing night.”

It’s the magic, I realize. The rumors must be true. Father
is
using spells to become more powerful. And it’s costing him his sanity.