The Last Resort

by Yvonne Morrin

  Violetta walked down the pier to where the woman was standing. She was short, and stocky, about fifty or so by human standards, and looked a no-nonsense sort. The woman thrust out her hand. “Hello. You must be Violetta. I’m Harriet Fullmoon. I must apologise for my reactions just now. No one told me you were bringing a cat.”

  Violetta gripped Harriet’s muscular hand with her own pale, slim-fingered one, and briefly shook it. “No one told me there would be a were-wolf,” she replied, and pushed past Harriet onto the boat.

  Harriet frowned, then turned her attention to Swizelsticks. “Hello, hello,” he said. “That was a bit of excitement, wasn’t it? Still, no harm done. I’ll just drop these bags inside, then get the rest, and the kitty-cat, and my own luggage, and the cases of drinks, and then we can be away, alright? Do you think we should bring the scooter too?”

  “If Ms. Romanoff wants her scooter,” Harriet said, loud enough for her voice to carry into the cabin, “she can get it herself. I’ll give you a hand with the rest.”

  Harriet and Swizelsticks made several trips to load the boat, and eventually a scowling Violetta joined them, wheeling her Vespa along the pier and onboard. Harriet smiled and winked at Swizelsticks, and there was definitely a twinkle in those eyes, he noticed.

  “Well,” she said, once everything was collected together in the cabin of the boat. “That about does it. We were expecting two more staff members, but…” she looked at her watch, “they’re an hour late, so…”

  At that moment there was a loud bang like a gunshot. Harriet dropped into a crouch, then looked up, embarrassed. Swizelsticks held his hand out to help her up. “Just a car backfiring, I think,” he said. There were a few more bangs to illustrate his point, and then a rhythmic rattling, whirring, swooshing, squelching sort of sound. Harriet and Swizelsticks both raced on deck to see what was approaching. Blake was already standing on the pier, grinning as he watched a curious vehicle lurch, lunge, limp, and at times, scuttle down the street. It looked a bit like a house, and a bit like a crab, a bit like a train, and a bit like a tree. It had wheels and cranks and pulleys on the sides, articulated legs underneath and a network of branching steam pipes up above. It was made of polished wood, gleaming brass and sparkling stained glass. It creaked to a halt in the middle of the road. Harriet saw curtains twitch in the villagers’ houses. A set of stairs unfolded themselves from the vehicle in a jerky fashion, and then a short hunch-backed man emerged, blinking in the glare of the streetlights. He carried a broom. A second man appeared, tall and spindly. As the second man descended the stairs, the first moved ahead of him, brushing down each step in preparation for his footfall.

  “Excuse me,” Harriet said to Blake and Swizelsticks, then walked forward to greet the Professor and his assistant. She spoke to them for a while, gesturing back towards the boat. The Professor shook his head, and went back into the vehicle. The hunchback followed him, and so did the collapsible set of stairs. “Uh-oh,” said Blake. Harriet returned to the boat. “Problem?” he asked her.

  “No, they’re going to follow us.”

  The vehicle made a few more banging noises as parts of it retracted and other parts extended. Soon it was roughly the shape of a boat, balanced on two massive duck feet.

  “Okay, Captain,” Harriet called out, knocking on a bench along one side of the cabin. The seat flipped up, and Djangled Brineheart climbed out. Since Skully had collected the jazz band a week ago, the zombie ex-pirate guitar player had virtually commandeered the ferry that Harriet had purchased for the castle. No matter, he was a good Captain, and they needed all the help they could get.

  The boat containing the werewolf, the wizard, the vampire and the zombie pirate pulled away from the pier, with the aquaman swimming after it. There was a bang, a crash, and a splash, and soon the Professor and the hunchback were on their way too.

  #

  “I’ve got goo… under my skin,” Hella sang. “I’ve got goo… deep in the heart of me. So deep in my heart… it’s nearly a part of me…”

  Happy chatter blended with the smooth jazz tune. Harriet looked around the room at her staff members relaxing and socialising, and sighed. They had earned this party. In the last three weeks, they had all worked so hard to bring the castle up to scratch, ready for their grand opening. The Professor and Edgar had wired every room up with electricity supplied by their own generator, had installed plumbing in the bathrooms, and had added assorted time-saving gadgets to every room. Swizelsticks had completely redecorated the dining hall, (which he was now inexplicably calling the disco) placing a fully stocked bar at one end of the garish room, constructing a dance-floor and placing tables and chairs around the perimeter. He had also created an enticing menu of fancy cocktails. Skully had been hard at work on his own menus, and had drafted in Duke, Spider and Fester as kitchen-hands, since their musical duties would not take up much time, and they had a lot of time to kill, since zombies don’t need to sleep. Skully had placed lots of orders for kitchen equipment, serving plates, cutlery and of course the ingredients he needed. Boo, Sue and Lou had organised the bedrooms, requesting assorted sheets, pillowcases, blankets and towels. Ankh had kitted out a doctor’s office and waiting room, and had begun to create and stockpile some deeply disturbing ointments, lotions and salves, made from the ground up bodies of assorted creatures that scuttled, hopped and slid. Callie had turned the room next door to this into a veritable temple of beauty, with sparkling mirrors on all walls. These, she admitted, would help prevent her accidentally turning people into stone since she didn’t have to look at them directly. Pots and pots of face masks, moisturisers, balms, lotions, creams, shampoos and makeup had been delivered to the village, collected and carted up the stairs to her salon. And lastly, Blake had spent some time helping Brineheart to refurbish the ferry, cleaning the underside, while the pirate painted the cabin.

  All in all, Harriet thought, it had gone better than she had planned. “Champagne?” Swizelsticks offered, sidling up to her and interrupting her thoughts. She took a flute of straw coloured wine from the silver tray that the bartender held out, and sipped, savouring the dance of bubbles on her tongue.

  Of course, not everything was going smoothly.

  There had been a massive amount of supplies to order, and paying for it all meant their gold reserves were very low. They could afford to pay maybe five months rent to Trevor Romanoff, and then they would be broke. So the resort had to make money.

  Keeping track of everyone’s requests, placing orders and collecting the goods had taken up most of Harriet’s time, and so she had trusted the rest of the staff to get on with their areas of expertise. Both Barbara and Norm had assured Harriet that their areas were progressing well. Norm had spent a lot of time fiddling about in the dungeon, turning the torture equipment into fitness machinery. It was fiddly work for Norm, particularly as he had two left hands. Unfortunately, he had neglected the décor. It still looked… dungeony. Never mind – they could get away with that for the time being. The problem was the childcare centre that Barbara had been developing, which also looked… dungeony. When Harriet had gently pointed out to Barbara that soft toys and bright colours were preferable to bare stone and metal spikes, Barbara had begun to rant about her own delightfully bleak childhood in Poland. Harriet had relented, requesting only that Barbara put up some animal posters, but since then had not had time to check she had done so. Still, there was only one child booked to arrive in the next few days, so maybe a special room wouldn’t be required, yet.

  Sir Reginald Osis was another worry. He had only just turned up yesterday, bringing with him a half-dozen horses, as Harriet had requested. Unfortunately, it seemed that the knight had misinterpreted Harriet’s instructions. She had of course wanted living horses with docile temperaments, suitable for beginners’ horse treks. The horses Reginald had selected were zombie warhorses, dug up from an ancient battlefield. She was also worried that Reginald himself seemed unable to keep his head balanced on his neck for an
y length of time. She pointed out that it would not do to have his head fall off in front of the human guests, but Reginald had laughed off her concerns, saying he’d sort everything out. She watched him now as he chuckled merrily, sharing anecdotes with Boo, Sue and Lou, who hung on his every word. She wondered if he had been drinking again.

  It was good to see that most of the staff members seemed to be getting on well with each other. During their many long years living at the castle, the residents had, by choice, kept to themselves. Each wanted simply to retreat from society and social contact, hiding away in his or her own room, emerging only for occasional dinners together, and the odd poker match the boys had. But maybe this desire for isolation had gone on too long. After the stress of dealing with Eleanor, Hugo and Jim, and now that they had a common goal to be working towards, the residents had started to develop friendships. It was good to see. The newcomers Swizelsticks and Reginald had been accepted well too. Edgar the hunchback seemed pleasant enough, but never left the professor’s side. As for the professor, he had thrown himself into his work, which Harriet couldn’t complain about, although he did have one heck of a superiority complex. There was also something going on between him and Norm. Twice, Harriet had heard the professor refer to Norm as “the creature,” once as “the thing,” and once as “the failure.” Luckily Norm had not been around at the time. In fact, Norm seemed to be completely avoiding the professor. When she had a moment, Harriet would have to get to the bottom of the problem.

  And then there was Violetta. In some ways Violetta was perfect. She was efficient and thorough, helping Harriet with her orders and odd jobs. She had also designed beautiful guest information cards, and had hand-lettered all of the menus with calligraphy. She was every bit as hard-working as Viktor had said she’d be. But she was also cold, and aloof, looking down her aristocratic nose at all of the other residents. Even her reunion with Viktor, after three hundred years apart, had been frosty. She had nodded, and said simply, “Viktor.” Viktor had nodded, and said, “Violetta,” and that had been that. Harriet shrugged. Vampires.

  The song ended, and there was a small cough. Viktor had taken the floor. “Friends, old and new,” he said. “It was Harriet who had the idea for this venture – what she called ‘a last resort’ – and for this I thank her. It has been a tumultuous few weeks, but tomorrow, when the first guests arrive, all our hard work will be rewarded. Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like you to raise your glasses to the success of Romanoff Resort.”

  Harriet raised her glass. “To Romanoff Resort.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “There’s your mail,” Lisa’s brother Craig said as he plopped two envelopes in front of her. Lisa grunted and continued to eat her cornflakes, shovelling them in without tasting them. She picked up the envelopes listlessly, and examined the fronts. One was addressed to her, from her bank. The other was addressed to The Living History Company. She’d been excited at first and then disappointed by the few letters her advertisement had generated. Each time she had hoped for a booking for her exclusive guided history tours, or even an enquiry, but the letters had all been from chancers, wanting her to buy insurance, or advertising, or begging her for a job. Her email inbox had been equally devoid of bookings.

  The address on this latest envelope was hand-written, in a very old-fashioned script. She used the end of her cereal spoon to open the letter, dripping milk onto the tablecloth. Her mother, passing through the dining room, tutted. “Shouldn’t you be getting dressed?”

  Lisa ignored her. Well, the letter wasn’t a booking, but it was interesting. An invitation from a fancy resort in Eastern Europe – located in a medieval castle, no less – all expenses paid, bar transport. The sender suggested that she and two staff members might wish to evaluate the castle for use with future tour bookings. Lisa snorted. It did look the sort of place she would love to take clients, if she had any, but she doubted that would ever happen. It wouldn’t be fair to the resort take advantage of the offer. Still, it would be nice to get away from the house for a while. And presumably the resort could afford to host her, otherwise they wouldn’t have sent the invitation. She wouldn’t be obliged to them, would she?

  Unable to decide, Lisa was still staring at the letter when her mother stuck her head back round the door and said, “You know, if you made a bit of an effort with makeup, you might find a decent guy your own age.”

  Gritting her teeth, Lisa descended to her office and began looking online for cheap flights to Eastern Europe.

  #

  Violetta had not fed properly for several weeks – not since she had gorged on the blood of young Giovanni before they had left Italy – or had it been Allessandro, or Emilio? She shrugged. It didn’t matter – Italian youths were interchangeable. Since being at the castle, she had had access to blood, certainly. Viktor had made his store of sheep’s blood available to her, but as a human she had hated the taste of mutton, and sheep’s blood carried a similar oily tang that she despised. Still, to sustain herself she had consumed it once, warmed on a pot on the stove and served up in a china mug. There had been little alternative. Viktor had made it quite clear that hunting visits to the village were off-limits. As if she was still an amateur vampire! As if she didn’t already know that you don’t go hunting in your own back yard. As for feasting off the residents at the castle – well, she’d rather drink the sheep’s blood. The monster, the ghosts, the zombies, the skeleton and the mummy didn’t have any blood to offer anyway. The aquaman’s blood would no doubt taste like fish, and the werewolf’s like dog. Ug. There was no way she would drink from the hideous old crone, the professor, the hunchback or the wizard. That left only the gorgon. Callie certainly smelt delicious, but anyone who shared her circulatory system with a dense tangle of snakes probably had venomous blood. Besides, she had to work with these people, for a little while longer at least. She had too much pride to ask their permission to feed, and it would be unacceptable to be caught enthralling one of them.

  The human guests on the other hand, could turn out to be a veritable smorgasbord. As she sat in the chugging ferry, ignoring the mutterings of Brineheart and Edgar, she ran her eyes down the list of guests, licking her lips. Violetta had been quite surprised this morning when Harriet had asked her to go and collect the guests, claiming that she couldn’t go herself, as there was a personal matter to attend to. Violetta wondered if she had a case of fleas or ticks. She had certainly been scratching and squirming uncomfortably. Violetta had been happy enough to agree to the task. She was looking forward to meeting the guests. One group in particular sounded promising – a historian and two students. University students were always especially tasty. The only problem was the weather. The day had dawned sunny and bright, so she had been forced to put on the SPF 80 sunscreen and don cotton gloves, sunglasses and a floppy hat. Still, she was used to it. It beat skulking in the shadows like Viktor.

  The ferry came alongside the wharf, and there everyone was, chatting socially while patiently waiting for their ride. Violetta turned to see if Brineheart was still properly clothed, and noted that Edgar was already dealing with him, making sure the bright yellow sou’wester raincoat was fully buttoned up and the hat pulled down low to mask his zombie-ish countenance. Satisfied, she quickly bit down on her wrist, drew blood, drank down a couple of swallows, and felt refreshed.

  #

  There was something unsettling about the way the woman moved. Most women connected with the hospitality industry, in Lisa’s experience, were blonde and bubbly, and they had a skip to their step. This woman was pale skinned, dark haired and sleek. She prowled. The guests had been told that a woman would come to meet them, and Lisa, her brother Craig and his friend Hayden had earlier placed a bet about what the name of their hostess would be. Craig had opted for ‘Sharon,’ Hayden for ‘Kylie,’ and Lisa had chosen ‘Beryl’. This woman was definitely not a Sharon, Kylie or Beryl. The polite but stilted conversation that had sprung up amongst their fellow guests died away as she approa
ched, and all eyes turned to her. She smiled, exposing neat white teeth, with pointed canines. The warmth implied by the smile, Lisa noticed, did not extend to her almond-shaped eyes. “My name is Violetta Romanoff,” she said, “and it is my pleasure to welcome you to my ancestral home, Castle Romanoff, the best boutique resort in all of Eastern Europe.”

  “We’ll be the judge of that, lassie,” a brash voice with a heavy Northern accent called out. Lisa knew it to be the voice of a big middle-aged man called Albert Fisher, who had already loudly introduced himself and his noxious family. His horsey wife Penny tittered at this display of wit, and his beefy son, Christopher, sniggered unpleasantly. Their little girl, not actually introduced by Albert, looked at her shoes. While others turned to stare at Albert Fisher, Lisa kept her gaze glued to Violetta Romanoff, and saw a momentary flash of anger in her eyes.

  “Of course,” she demurred. “Now, if you will make your way on board the ferry, we’ll get underway. I just need to check you all in as you go.” She held up a clipboard. “Mr. Gore will assist you with your luggage if you require help.” At this, a hunchbacked man, about half Lisa’s own height, appeared at the door of the ship and scuttled across the gangplank. He wore an immaculate red uniform jacket which reached all the way to the ground, and had gold epaulettes on the shoulders. His head was crowned with a small pillbox hat, which, Lisa was ashamed to think, made him look like an organ-grinder’s monkey. Lisa also noticed that his feet were wedged into uncomfortable-looking tiny winkle-picker shoes. She wondered how such a stunted, awkwardly-dressed man would be able to manage everyone’s luggage. Suddenly the man spotted Lisa staring at him, and his face split into a grin that actually went from ear to ear. Then he winked. Lisa looked away, blushing. Craig let out a low wolf-whistle and waggled his eyebrows at his older sister. “Looks like you’ve got an admirer.”