Eternal (8 page)

SERVANTS AND SENTRIES ASIDE
, on a night-to-night basis, it’s only the two of us.

Tonight Father explained why. Over the past century, all three of his brides were taken from him — Giselle by self-proclaimed “vampire hunters” who staked her after a performance of the Vienna State Opera in the 1930s; Leiko, whose own cigarette, I’ve recently learned, set her coffin on fire aboard our yacht off the coast of Crete in the 1970s; and Yolanda, whose head and limbs were torn off by rogues at a rodeo in Albuquerque two years ago.

“I’m not taking any chances with you, sugar,” he concluded. “No chances at all.”

We spend most of our early evenings in the torch-lit parlor. (I suspect an Eastern European Dracula, or for that matter most castle dwellers, would refer to it as “the main hall,” but here Father’s preferences rule.) I sip blood wine, he sips blood-and-mint juleps, and we discuss matters of state. Later, he puffs on his Cuban cigars, and I study
The Blood Drinker’s Guide.
It’s available on CD-ROM, but something about turning the musty yellow pages is soothing.

Perhaps that sounds anticlimactic. Lucy would call much of our eternal lifestyle a bore, and arguably, compared to Hollywood’s misrepresentations, it is.

Yet eternals keep a low profile. Our existence isn’t a secret. The humans’ prevailing theory, though, is that we’re few, solitary, and can order blood online (true, though there are quality-control issues) rather than hunt the unsuspecting.

Some know better — those in certain cities, certain walks of life. Bartenders, cabbies, hairstylists, doormen — the people who know everything, they’re aware of our greater presence. They also know enough to stay quiet and stay away.

Worldwide law enforcement and militaries are more complicated. We have something of an understanding about who’s fair game and who isn’t. They pay in blood if they violate our space. We pay in cash if we violate theirs. But even within approved hunting zones, valued members of human society — especially children, clergy, and anyone in a uniform — are supposed to be off the menu. For the most part, we hold to that.

A small percentage of their kind can’t be touched at all, politically speaking — hence the controversy around that incident in Dallas.

The irony? It wasn’t one of us that the witness spotted. The whole conspiracy theory sprang out of a very mundane and mortal case of pinkeye. Still, the story keeps the prey wary and their media alert, neither of which is in our global best interests.

Speaking of global, Father is about to take his much-belated annual world tour, which will include stops in New York, London, Munich, Moscow, Sydney, Tokyo, Jakarta, Rio, Johannesburg, and Cairo. Last spring’s tour was canceled after Father announced himself on paternity leave from public appearances. Consequently, the anticipation surrounding this upcoming trip is higher than ever. I’m not sure why he isn’t taking me along. I do know better, though, than to ask.

“After I’ve wrapped up the routine business,” he begins, “I’m going to . . .” He raises the cigar to his lips and kicks out the footrest of his La-Z-Boy.

Torch lighting aside, most of the castle furnishings reflect the Arts-and-Crafts and prairie styles that characterize the neighborhood. That’s the baseline. It’s liberally augmented by an eclectic array of treasures, mounted animal heads, leather-bound books, and acquisitions from international travels.

The knives that Father collects are displayed in more rooms than not, some in lead-paned cases, others artfully set on shelves. We have two that Jack the Ripper presented to him last year, and Father checks every night for additional acquisitions via his merchant contacts and eBay.

The European dragon theme borders on exhausting. Dragon-foot designs can be found on bathtubs, bookends, candlesticks, and urns. A dragon also graces our crest, which appears on numerous tapestries as well as on our flags, wine labels, linens, coasters, and souvenir mugs. It’s the symbol of the Mantle of Dracul and, consequently, it’s everywhere. Father frequently points it out, and I make appropriate cooing noises.

He doesn’t talk about the horse bronzes or the oil paintings of Virginia landscapes, though, most notably the one labeled
Radford Plantation.

“Harrison!” Father calls, setting his cigar on a brass tray table.

“Master?” The PA sniffs appreciatively. He’s been known to pinch from the master’s humidor in the cellar.

“You’ll watch over the household staff while I’m on the road, won’t you?” Father reaches over, touches Harrison’s forearm. “I won’t be long.”

A month to the date. That would be May 14.

Harrison’s returning smile is a knowing one. “Of course.”

“It’s time our princess of darkness hired her own PA,” Father adds. “You have enough to do without catering to my baby girl, don’t you?”

I’m intrigued by the idea of having my own PA. It’s such a grown-up status symbol, not that all of us embrace the old tradition. In today’s world of security systems, pizza delivery and dry cleaning, one-night stands and Internet shopping, many find personal assistants passé. Yet I look forward to having someone report to me first.

“Of course,” Harrison agrees again. Not that disagreeing is an option.

“Jim-dandy!” Father concludes. “That reminds me. Be a good man and call the executive temp service in New York. I’ll still need my own PA while I’m abroad.”

Translation: Harrison is replaceable, if only in the short term.

He’s too savvy to offer anything but a final “of course” and exit the parlor. Yet I hear him mutter, “Be a good man” in a mocking way as he fades from view.

At least the castle will be less lonely with Harrison around.

Father shifts his attention to me. “Sugar, I’ll be counting on you to maintain order and oversee the management of this estate. Not to fret, Harrison will mind the details. We royals aren’t hands-on, after all. Just be available in case he needs the guiding hand of a superior being.”

A superior being. I like the sound of that. I set down
The Blood Drinker’s Guide
and cross my legs, clothed in silk pajamas, on the worn werebear rug in front of the crackling fireplace. The color of the silk matches my skin, suggesting a nude or a ghost. It makes my dark hair and blue eyes more striking, I hope. It’s exhausting being precious all the time.

Father is fairly impressive himself. He has a mesmerizing voice — no matter how he elects to use it — a killer smile, and looks to be in his midfifties, though in truth it’s not too early to start thinking about his bicentennial.

“While I’m gone,” he goes on, “Harrison will keep me informed of any unsavory developments. And you, sugar plum, shall busy yourself with choosing your PA and” — Father beams at me — “planning my gala.”

I’m stunned. For our kind, Father’s deathday is an international holiday rivaling Halloween. He schedules the celebration on a whim each spring, depending on his mood and the weather. In-the-know invitees arrive in the Chicago area early, poised to pounce and party. The pressure is on. Like his tour, last year’s was canceled.

This is the first time I’ve been given a responsibility beyond looking beautiful and making socially appropriate conversation. It’s as flattering as it is nerve-racking.

“Yes, Father,” I reply. “Thank you.”

I’m his only daughter, his only child. Yet it wouldn’t be hard for him to “adopt” another. It was only last night that he threatened me in the kitchen. Tonight we appear to be pretending it never happened.

I glance at the portrait of Father and his three brides, hanging over the fireplace mantle, at Yolanda, who was torn to pieces. He could rip off my head if he wanted to.

“Take care, sugar,” he says. “I’ll be seeing you.”

Before I can muster up a suitable reply, Father has already dissolved into mist. He can’t make it to New York that way, but the detached garage is easy enough.

I WAKE UP IN THE DARK
on a cushioned slab, rolling sideways. I fall fast. Land hard with a thud, hitting the floor and a wall. My head is throbbing. My shoulder’s sore. I’m barefoot, and I’m sweating in a white-and-lime-colored poncho I don’t recognize. Beneath it, I have on a white T and a faded pair of burnt-orange sweatpants.

Is this a morgue? Am I dead?
Can
I die? Before, that was impossible. But now?

I push damp curls from my forehead. The room is moving, clacking, and swaying.

A train. Where is it? Where’s it going? How did I get on board?

As I sit up, my stomach heaves. I haul myself to my feet, look out the window at a pasture dotted with cows, and check the empty combination toilet-shower.

I think back on last night. My latest “landlord” tossing me out of her futon and her apartment in Austin’s French Place neighborhood. She was tired of hearing me mumble Miranda’s name in my sleep.

I caught a ride with a neighbor to South Congress. Used the last of my cash to buy a flight or three of tequila.

Later, I was nearly mowed down by a cute redhead in a long yellow convertible when I stepped into the crosswalk from behind a SUV. Somebody — beats me who — pulled me back to safety. After that, I must’ve blacked out.

I open my mouth. Curl my fuzzy tongue. That’s when it hits me — the mysterious savior, the lost time, the miraculous train ticket. This is a private room, to boot.

A human might call it lucky. A human might chalk it up to Fate. Or enroll in Alcoholics Anonymous. But I’m not a human. I never have been.

Am I an
assignment
? Or is this a onetime bailout? “Who’s there?”

No luck.

I look to the ceiling. “Come on,” I say. “Fess up.”

Still nothing.

“Hey! Joshua? Nick? Jamilya? Is that you?”

The possibilities are in the billions. But it figures that one of my closer buds would be sent. “Um, Aaron? Deb? Maria? Farid? Natalie? If you’re listening, I could use a bottle of water, a shower, a shave, fresh clothes, and a clue.”

“You don’t ask for much, do you?” comes the answer from thin air.

Hang on, not from thin air. I slide the door open and stumble into the hall.

“Hello, earth angel!” he exclaims. It’s my best friend, Joshua. His wings are folded. He’s grinning like a fool.

Josh tosses a bright blue canvas bag into my cabin and pulls me into a bear hug. “Man, I’ve missed you!” Then he moves back. Josh makes a show of holding his nose and waving his hand in front of it. “Whew. Somebody’s ripe. Take a hint, doofus! You got the room with a shower for a reason.”

“I, you . . .” It’s been fourteen months since I last saw him. Long enough that I’ve been starting to wonder if I’m crazy. If my memories are real or delusions. How I threw away so much so fast. “What are you doing here?”

Josh’s voice goes flat. “Gabriel says hi.”

Gabriel. An archangel, like Michael (The Sword of Heaven, The Bringer of Souls, also known as He Who Booted Me).

Between my hangover and homesickness, it’s past time to change the subject. “Not that I’m not glad to see you. But why are you here again?”

He shrugs. “I’ve been watching you for a while.”

I keep my voice casual. “Spying on me, you mean?”

That’s embarrassing. At first, I did okay in Dallas. After failing to turn up any more leads on Kurt or Miranda, I volunteered at a youth shelter for about eight months and spent most of my nights there. But I couldn’t save them all. After I met a girl who looked too much like Miranda, I gave it up. The way I saw it, sooner or later, I was going to hell anyway. If you had to be homeless and damned, the weather and politics in Austin were better for it. I hitched a ride with a trucker south down I-35, and I’ve been partying ever since.

“Whoa. You filed an A-127B on me? Son of a —” I peel off the poncho, drape it over my arm, then lean against the window, and ask the question of day. “Since when do we, I mean,
you
watch over fallen angels?”

“You’d be surprised at who all we’re watching over lately,” Josh says.

That could mean anything. It’s good to see him, though. Even after what I did. What was done to me.

Josh’s long white gown looks a little less heaven-sent, a little more toga party. His hair hangs in dreadlocks. He’s painted his fingernails in alternating silver and gold to match his sandals. He hides perfect wings as an Amtrak employee passes by.