Eternal

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

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  placed enjoy a higher standard of living than the average eternal, and if approved for elevation, they enter their new existence with the most desirable of connections. A royal servant may become a royal family member someday. It's all very Cinderella-meets-the Addams Family. On the other hand, any failure to please may result in a quite literal termination of service.

  "Ready, mistress?" Harrison asks. Any other servant would wait for orders, but he can be cheeky that way.

  "Send the first one in."

  At sunset, I decided to field applicants in my office and slipped on a turquoise chenille sweater, prefaded jeans, and running shoes. With Father gone, it seemed an opportune time to take a break from the Goth glam.

  I scan the long, rectangular room. My office is lit by two candle chandeliers, one over my mammoth 1950s-style industrial desk and one over the plush gray seating area. The room is otherwise furnished with floor-to-ceiling barrister bookshelves on one side and more of the same three rows high on the other.

  Above the shorter cases, the rock walls are punctuated with matted and framed theater posters--Little Shop of Horrors, My Fair Lady, West Side Story.

  I considered and rejected Romeo and Juliet.

  Notepad? Check. Pen? Check. Resumes? Check. Battle-axe? Check.

  The latter was a gift from Father. Apparently, every

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  eternal worth his or her hemoglobin has a custom axe mounted on an office wall (although Father himself doesn't actually bother with an office). Mine is forged of steel. The twenty-four-carat gold inlay handle features a repeating design of dragon heads with emeralds for scales and rubies for eyes. A five-carat, round-cut diamond, embedded in platinum, decorates the end.

  Last night before turning in, I asked Harrison to cull through the candidates.

  I glance over the application at the top of the stack. Flavius Fielding: age twenty, originally from Peoria, a recent truck-driving-school dropout.

  I frown at the typo--an e at the end of Chicago. The paper is rumpled. A dark-green sticky splotch clings to the top right-hand corner of the page.

  I did mention a preference for candidates between ages seventeen and twenty-five, though. Plus, Flavius is a legacy. His grandfather was the PA to our leading Romanian aristocrat.

  "Presenting Flavius Fielding," Harrison says.

  Flavius, wearing an off-the-rack suit, scurries in and folds himself into the chair.

  "When was the last time you washed your hair?" I want to know.

  He twitches and reaches into his jacket pocket for a small tin. "Mind if I snack?" He doesn't wait for my reply. Instead, Flavius opens the lid and lifts out a large brown,

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  furry squirming spider, which he shoves whole into his mouth and chews. With his mouth still full, he extends the box in my direction. "Want one?"

  Three gooey, mangled arachnid legs stick out from between his stained teeth.

  "Harrison!"

  "Mistress?" He must've been waiting right outside the door.

  "Next!"

  "You're not pleased?" Harrison asks, not trying to hide his amusement. "His manner, it's classic."

  Classic Renfield, he means. The human servant to Dracula Prime.

  Flavius plucks a roach from the box and, in two crunchy bites, eats it, too.

  I grimace, wryly acknowledging the PA's joke at my expense, admiring the bravery and stupidity of it. "Too old school for me."

  As for the next several interviewees, they may be neatly summed up as awkward, boring, clueless, morose, tedious, needy, obsessive-compulsive, and generically high maintenance.

  I'm baffled. This is the royal household. There is no station more sought after. Either the local pool has evaporated to a puddle or Harrison is seriously off his game.

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  "Presenting Kyle Anderson," the PA offers.

  Then he walks in. Clean-cut, more cute than handsome and, granted, not tall, but at five foot seven, he still has six inches on me. He wears creased jeans with a wool sweater almost the same color as mine, and he walks right up to shake my hand. He's from the Hyde Park neighborhood and will graduate from high school this spring. His mother is a CPA, his late father taught law, and he looks every bit as toned as soccer star Geoff Calvo. However, the legacy line has been left blank.

  "You do realize that this position is unusual?"

  He nods. "Right, because you're all vampires."

  As they say, fools rush in. "Eternals."

  "Sorry, 'eternals.'" Kyle rubs his chin, a thoughtful gesture.

  I can't help finding it endearing. Perhaps I can offer a gentler hand within my inner circle. After all, I've been so understanding of Harrison's eccentricities, and in retrospect, his little joke with Flavius tonight inspired my first sincere smile in some time.

  "You didn't know," I acknowledge. "You won't make that mistake again."

  Does Kyle find me attractive? I wonder. Eternals are more luminous than humans and not only through the eyes of the enthralled.

  "How did you come to learn of us?" I ask, standing. "Not eternals per se." Again, we're considered rare, but

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  not fictional. "Rather this household?" I make my way around the brushed steel desk, thinking that if his answer satisfies, I might whisper in his ear that he's mine. That's sexy, right? Ear whispering?

  Right then, a stake drops from his sweater sleeve to his waiting palm, and he arches from the chair to strike.

  He's not here for the job, I realize. At preternatural speed, I grab the weapon, break it in two, and toss the pieces into my trash can.

  "You're too slow to be a hunter," I say, extending my teeth. "Too sloppy."

  Kyle scrambles, overturning his chair. "I've been tracking you."

  I grab him by the sweater. "Because?"

  "You killed my--" He chokes up.

  My grip goes slack. "Who?"

  "My father," Kyle spits out. "I saw you leaving my house that night. I've been searching for you all month."

  It wasn't me. I haven't hunted on the South Side since the Fourth of July. I have killed, but not this boy's father. It must've been someone else from Whitby Estates.

  How dare he enter this home under false pretences! How dare he attempt to punish me for what another eternal has done! I toss the Van Helsing wannabe, and he flies across the room. His shoulder cracks as it hits the bookshelves. Then he falls forward, facedown, nose shattering, unconscious on the wood floor.

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  "Mistress?" Harrison inquires from the doorway.

  "How in hell's name did he get past you with a stake?" I demand.

  Harrison's eyes widen. "Forgive me, Your Highness! I haven't been myself lately. Please don't tell the master, I beg of you! I swear on my life that it won't happen again!"

  "I should hope not!" I say, making an effort to calm myself.

  I'm reluctant to punish Harrison. First, he belongs to Father, and the truth is, I enjoy the PA's company. I'm more shocked than angry anyway. Harrison has been nothing but the picture of competence since we met. Granted, his moods have seemed strange lately. His judgment has been a bit off. Yet given the stress of service to the royal family, it's a wonder any of our servants can maintain their mental health.

  I won't tell Father about this incident, I decide. Perhaps, though, I'll suggest annual psychological and medical checkups for the staff. In addition, I'll speak to the doctors and ensure that Harrison has a CAT scan, just in case.

  "Your Highness..."

  "Oh, never mind. Let's just move on." I gesture at Kyle. "This one isn't a complete waste. Let's break for an hour. Is Nora's pumpkin bread ready?" At Harrison's nod, I add, "Excellent. Do fetch a bowl and the loaf. I'll take my meal in here."

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  I'll tear off small pieces of the bread and dip them into the blood of the unconscious boy on the floor, much in the fashion of Vlad.

  After Kyle is removed, a maid arrives to clean the excess blood. She pauses outside t
he open office door, her eyes downcast, and I order her in.

  I go to my desk and log onto the Internet on my laptop. I'm doing it to appear occupied, unconcerned about the submissive maid.

  She kneels, nearly frantic as she scrubs.

  I key in my password, NESBIT, at the ENN site and skim coverage of Father's visit to New York. The photo shows him in Times Square. He's quoted as describing me as his "jewel" and his "sharpest weapon."

  After posturing and the political support of the aristocracy, the third most important key to maintaining control of the Mantle is media management. That said, the latter isn't a major challenge. Father has complete control over our press.

  Within one hour of breaking the rumor about his alleged mental instability, the entire staff of the Herald-Gazette was promptly executed and replaced.

  Eternals have no right to speak, to assemble, to anything that I learned about in Government, though everybody seems enthusiastic about bearing arms.

  It's a larger, more in-depth feature story than those I've read previously. The article notes that in life Father had

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  three daughters, which is news to me--he never discusses his human existence. A restored and colorized photo of the girls is featured next to my promotional mug shot. They were slender with blond hair and hazel eyes, shown in what I assume are Civil War-era dresses. Perhaps it's merely that their features echo his, but they look familiar somehow.

  On one hand, I'm surprised that Father hasn't called to check on me. On the other, now that I think about it, I won't be surprised if he doesn't call all month. Thirty days, give or take, is nothing to someone his age, and it's not as though my human dad called when he traveled.

  It occurs to me to wonder if Mom had any trouble getting in contact with Dad on his Alaskan cruise after I went missing, or if she waited until his return and threw it in his face that I was gone. I wonder if he ever sent a second postcard, and if so, whether it was in his girlfriend's handwriting or if he scribbled his last words to me himself.

  A grunt diverts my attention from the screen. The maid stands, head down, the handle of her bucket in one hand, a blood-soaked rag in the other.

  "You may go." I bite back the "thank you."

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  Zachary

  WHITBY ESTATES is a ritzy old bedroom community. To the extent I can see past the privacy fences and strategic landscaping, the homes are massive and fall into the seven-to-eight-figure range. Discreet signs warn of attack dogs. There aren't any streetlights, but I can see fine. The moon is almost full. I walk the shoveled street. Stick my hands under my armpits to warm them. Scan the scene like a prey animal.

  True to his word, the cabbie refused more than a twenty-percent tip. We didn't exactly bond on the ride over, but I've still got the stake he gave me up my sleeve, and I already miss his company.

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  At the address I got from Josh, I make my way through the open wrought-iron front gate and past the dense evergreens lining the property border. Stop to gape.

  A ghostly fog clings to this magnificent reproduction of an Eastern European--no joke--castle. It's gorgeous, enormous, and ominous as hell.

  As if on cue, something howls. This is the point in the horror movie, I realize, when any thinking person tears out, full throttle, in the opposite direction.

  Sweep the place of the creep factor, though, and Miranda would've loved it. A real castle. She went through a huge girly princess stage when she was four. She even had a tiny tiara. A decade later, wearing her first formal to the Freshmen Sweetheart Dance, she spent the evening watching Geoff Calvo from across the gym. I remember thinking on both occasions that she could pass for royalty...in looks, if not in attitude.

  Enough. I have to concentrate. So far, I've been doing what I was told. Acting on faith. Still, I'm supposed to be an assassin. I'm going against something so deadly and fearsome that it has been targeted by all that is Holy.

  I wonder...when Michael decided that I would be sent on this mission, was there some reason it was me? Does my judgment matter?

  I have a sinking feeling that the cross and stake aren't going to cut it. Should I do research? Case the neighborhood? Investigate the title on the house?

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  I never used to second-guess myself like this, not even after Danny failed to respond to EMS. As lousy as I felt about the way he lived and the way he died, I'd still done what was expected of me. Even Michael said his fate wasn't my fault. Unlike Miranda's.

  The absolute last thing I need is to screw up again.

  I take the matchbook out of my pocket. I make sure I'm at the correct address and notice a new note from Joshua on the back. It reads, Dude, knock on the door!

  It's not until I'm halfway up the long, winding driveway that I spot the first pair of red eyes. A beastie crouches in the mist and snow.

  I keep my head up and maintain the same pace. Try not to show fear, but avoid eye contact. I count six or seven. In the fog, it's hard to tell. They're wolf-shaped but not shifters. Wolf-shaped but not wolves.

  Vampires. Just as I thought. I've been sent to take out a heinous vamp. Just one. Orders from upstairs are both vague and specific. Joshua said "something." Singular. He didn't say what.

  I think back to the Dallas cemetery. Consider the leech lurking among the crypts. The one who killed Miranda. If the archangel hadn't stopped me, yanked my radiance, I could've flushed him out of the shadows and used it to burn his ass to dust.

  Now what do I have to work with? Human-level

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  strength, human-level speed--at least I'm in good shape-- and my wits.

  I reach for the brass dragon-head door knocker.

  What I wouldn't give for a flaming sword.

  The heavy arched door creaks open, and a dapper-looking guy snaps, "Who're you? Are you here about the job?"

  I think about it. "Sure."

  "And your name?"

  Back to question one. "Zachary."

  He looks vaguely pensive. "Where's your résumé?"

  "I don't have one with me." It's the truth at least. I want to ask what job he's talking about, who's hiring. Who or what I'm talking to. Instinct urges me to play it cool.

  "Your last name?" he presses.

  I mull over the possibilities. I could be Zachary...Scott? Taylor? Beaver? I toss the question back, trying not to seem too concerned about his answer. "Who're you?"

  "Valid point," he concedes. "And furthermore, why should I be reduced to babysitting?" Whatever that means, he doesn't say it like he really minds.

  Inside the soaring entry, Mr. Personality--who's strong for a skinny guy--shoves me against the stone wall. He kicks my wing tips apart and pats me down for weapons. He slides the stake down my sleeve and tosses it over his shoulder, muttering, "Fool me twice, shame on

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  me." Then he pulls the cross from under my shirt, yanks the chain over my head, and drops it into his suit pocket. He takes the Tia Leticia's Salsa Bar matches, too, and looks through my bag. Finally satisfied, he says, "Follow me. Chop, chop."

  I have no idea why he didn't throw me to the vamp beasties outside for trying to sneak in a weapon. But it doesn't seem to have occurred to him. Maybe that's normal around here, though. Maybe everyone walks in armed or at least tries to. Or maybe this guy is even worse at his job than I used to be at mine.

  My footsteps echo on the wood floors. It's all these hard surfaces. The white stone walls. Twenty-foot ceilings with massive wood-beam supports. The dragon tapestries don't cut it for sound dampening. It'll be tough sneaking up on anybody around here.

  We pass through the entry into a grand hall. It's decorated with a mixture of fine art, framed weapons, other varied antiques, and uncomfortable-looking furniture.

  The stuffed heads of a wereboar, werebear, were-bison, werewolf, and werecat protrude from the walls. I try not to imagine the humanlike faces that once hid behind them. I bet I know where the leather of the seat cushions came from.r />
  A pale girl in a maid's uniform uses a feather duster to clean the base of a brass candelabrum. When I catch her

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  staring at me, she grabs a box of lavender tapers from the floor and flees the room.

  "Don't take it personally," my companion offers. "The maids don't say much."

  That's when I spot the portrait over the fireplace mantel. Three saucy-looking females in flapper wear, showing a hint of fang. They're clustered around an apparently middle-aged, very alpha male with a serious brow ridge. The master of the house, no doubt. He must be the reason I've been sent. I'm supposed to destroy him. Somehow.

  "Who's he?" I let slip.

  My escort tracks my gaze to the painting. "You don't know?"

  I shake my head.

  "Well, this should be amusing. You'll find out soon enough."

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  Miranda

  DRUMMING MY FINGERNAILS on the desk, I decide that I must widen the scope of my PA search beyond the Chicago area, which is unfortunate because I was hoping to find someone who already knew his way around.

  I hear a fluttering. Sitting still, I wait and listen. There it is again. I glimpse a bat outside one of my office windows and run to open it. "Go away! Shoo!"

  It's not shooing. It's Elina! It must be. She's the only eternal in the area powerful enough to make that particular transformation. She's watching me, spying on me.

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  The nerve! I knew she would be a problem. It was in her smug manner and the fact that Father called on her to temporarily take center stage at my debut.

  Old Blood or no, I can't back down from this kind of insult. Can I?

  No, I'm the dragon's daughter, his heir. I've privately wondered if Father named me, a mere neophyte at the time, to both positions because I would be no threat to him personally. Regardless, I can't let challengers, even such clumsy ones, strike at the Mantle through me. If the master must maintain authority over Old Bloods, then so must I.