by Varian Wolf
“Andy must have invited her.”
“Her?”
“Well someone should go talk to her.”
“Better you than me. I have no patience for these things.”
The last man who had spoken got out of the pool. He was dark-skinned and looked like a mutt like me, but unlike me he was pretty. He had dreds about as long as my arm. At forty-something, he was the oldest one in the bunch. Most relevant to my situation was the fact that he was built like a fighter. He had abs of steel, among other things.
He wrapped a towel around himself as he approached.
“So,” he said, “who are you?”
“Annie.”
“You somebody’s friend, Annie?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Who’d that be?”
“Throw her in the pool, Max!”
“Yeah, throw her in the pool!”
The others were splashing, waving their noodles.
“You try to throw me in the damn pool, and I’ll break your dick off,” I warned.
“What did you say?”
“Oohoohoo!”
“Now you really have to throw her in the pool!”
“I said, if you touch me, I’ll break your dick off.”
Were these guys on anything?
“That’s what I thought you said,” he said, regarding me suspiciously. “Who brought you in here? Did you come over the wall or something?”
“You might say that.”
“Throw her in the pool! Throw her in the pool! Da na, da na, danadanadanadana…” The others called in unison. Their rendition of the Jaws theme was followed by much flailing of noodles.
“Listen,” said the islander, “you’d better explain yourself, or I will have to escort you out.”
Escort me out? Either that was really polite or really patronizing.
“I was told to wait here,” I said, “and I am going to do just that.”
The man’s patience had worn thin.
“Come along now.”
He reached out to take my arm, but I successfully dodged. Then he got a hard look on his face. His second attempt wasn’t going to be so casual. I could tell by his face he had labeled me a threat, and I could tell by his change in stance that he had labeled me a fighter too.
But I was half his size.
I wasn’t going to give him the chance to get a hold of me again. I couldn’t fight this guy, or, at least, I couldn’t win. My only choices were to beg, bolt…or draw.
I reached for the gun in my waistband.
A cold hand gripped my wrist, gently, and eased the weapon back into the pancake holster at the small of my back. Miguel stepped up beside me.
“Introduce me to your friend, Annie,” he said. “Is he one of the trusted associates of whom Andy has spoken so well?”
The islander’s face changed completely as he looked at this new arrival. He backed up a few steps. He seemed to just know.
“This is Max,” I said. “He was just inviting me for a swim in the pool.”
I crossed my arms and eyed him ironically.
“This is Miguel, Max,” came a familiar voice from behind us.
I turned to see Andy standing in the lighted doorway in a white silk robe and luxurious white shag flip-flops, still as big, blonde, and irate as ever.
“Miguel,” repeated Max with serious countenance. The name apparently meant something to him.
“And this,” said Andy, with a gesture somewhere possibly in my direction, “is Miguel’s. She will be staying here…for a little while.”
With that, he gracefully turned and went back inside the house.
I looked at Miguel through the puff of hair.
“No way.”
“That was trouble we encountered tonight,” he said to me. “I need time to investigate it.”
“You’re gonna have to tell me more than that, sugar.”
Miguel glanced at Max. The man apparently read Miguel’s mind, because he moved away. He gestured to the naked men swimming to wrap up the show and get inside.
When they had gone, Miguel went on.
“We saw an immortal tonight, and he saw us. We know little about him, but he knows your face, and I cannot be certain of your safety on the street.”
“We know he’s in the game. We know he thought you looked like the antichrist.”
Miguel got a look on his face just then that I had never seen on him before, but immediately knew what it meant: revulsion.
“He was weak, young. He poses me no threat, but the weak ones do not always follow the rules. I cannot trust him not to attempt to harm you.”
“Trust him? Rules? Miguel, what are you talking about?”
“Consistency. Honor. In eternity, our reputations are all we have.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Andy will not harm you. You will stay here until I manage this.”
“I will stay here until I walk my happy little ass out the front door. I’m not gonna be some little kept pet. Not for one second. You should know that.”
I didn’t bring up the saving his ass thing. I didn’t need to.
“Annie,” he said, and I could tell that he was “tasting” me through the air, “I would regret your death for a very long time. Do not ask me to risk you.”
Hmf.
I wasn’t going to ask him anything. If I chose to, I would get gone. But he would not have brought me here if the possibility of danger were not substantial. After all, he hadn’t moved me from the Banana Grove before now, not even when he’d butchered the witch. But I hated Andy. I hated that hot, dead son of a bitch more than I’d ever hated anybody in so little time. We were the kind who were born to butt heads. Like Max could of Miguel, I could just tell.
Miguel seemed to read my next thought.
“Do not antagonize him. He has opened his house to you. Do not make me rue having asked this favor.”
I dug my toe into the patio. I favored it with a frown. Finally, I looked up.
“You’ll apprise me of everything that’s going on. You won’t leave me here one minute longer than necessary.”
He nodded.
“You won’t kiss any strange girls. You won’t get yourself killed and eaten.”
He shook his head.
“You’ll remember to brush your teeth every night and…”
“This is not the first time I have dealt with an immortal.”
“Yes, but it’s the first time since you became my vampire. I intend to keep you that way.”
He flicked the puff of hair on my forehead. He smiled down at me.
“Andy is doomed…I may be away several nights.”
Then, he walked into the dark. I did not see him leap into the air. I was not with him. I was stuck here on the ground. Human.
I must have sat out there under the stars for hours unconsciously waiting for Miguel to return. Eventually, I drifted off, and when I awoke, the sun was rising.
Someone had thrown a blanket over me, which immediately pissed me off for a variety of reasons. I threw it off and rose. I made a vain effort to get the now double-sized cloud of hair out of my face as I checked my phone for messages. None. I stretched out the stiffness of having slept in a chair as I headed for the door to the house. No one was around. I needed to find someone to ask about Miguel, though something told me he would have awakened me had he returned.
I didn’t want to go inside Andy’s House of Horrors. Who knew what I would find in there? Bottled blood? A blood fountain? Male Living magazines? Massive quantities of gayness? Who was I kidding? That was a given.
I slid the door open and stepped into another world. The room into which I walked was eye-popping white. The tile that ran through the traffic areas was pearly and white. The carpet in the sitting areas was white-white. The mosaic designs running up the high walls, depicting subtle, abstract designs –like embroidery that you didn’t really notice unless you really looked, were various shades of white. The furniture, modern
-looking, low-profile stuff was only very just slightly accented in off-white. The whole effect was that of coolness, calm, and above all, cleanliness. I might have had microscopic vision and not seen a single mote of dust in the place. It was awe-inspiring design, overpowering cool, unbearably stylish.
The vampire touch was that every single ray of sunlight was sealed out by the equivalent of storm shutters over every window.
“You’re up,” said one of the men I’d seen the night before –not the Brit, the other one, only now he was markedly more clothed.
He laid down his Manly Health magazine and got up from his chair, picking up a remote on the table beside him and hitting a couple of buttons on it. The door through which I had just come and not completely closed now sealed itself shut with an audible engaging of locks. Apparently that remote didn’t go with the stadium-sized plasma screen playing sports center from its alcove in the wall. I looked at him suspiciously.
“That bother you?” he asked, “Just hit number twenty-three if you want to get out. Just security, you know.”
He saw me looking around.
“What do you think of it?”
“It could use more color.”
“Ooh, I won’t tell Andy you said that.”
“Because he might rip my throat out?”
“No,” he looked at me strangely, “but he might lecture you to death about the eternal virtues of Spartan sensibilities of design. My name’s Mark.”
He reached out a hand. I observed the torsion of muscles in his thick forearm. I looked at him.
He retracted his hand, scratched the back of his head with it.
“You’re Annie. We met last night, but I was a little…” he smacked himself on the head with the flat of his hand, barely mussing up his strategically disheveled hair. He rolled his eyes at his own behavior, “…you know. Hey, can I get you anything for breakfast? The kitchen’s right there. I could throw something together for you. What do you want? Pancakes, a croissant, an omelet? We have everything.”
I stared at him.
“Anything you want. I can just whip it up.”
At my failure to reply, he headed for the kitchen of his own volition.
“You look like you eat healthy. Can I make some whole-grain Belgian waffles? Fresh blueberries, blackberries, crème fraiche? Or a truffle omelet?”
Was this guy for real?
“I’ll just throw something together,” he said and began scrambling around the kitchen doing just that.
I sat down on the living room side of the bar.
“Have you seen the guy I came with?”
“Oh…Miguel,” he almost whispered the name. “No, I haven’t seen him.”
He began warming up the biggest skillet I had ever seen. It looked like it would be great for hitting someone with.
“Do you mind me asking, how do you know him?”
I mind.
“…I mean, nobody knows Miguel. He’s legendary. I suppose someone would know him, but it’s hard to imagine. Knowing him would be like knowing Ziggy Stardust –not Bowie, but really knowing Ziggy personally. Imagine.”
He poured oil from some snazzy bottle into the pan. The kitchen was perfectly white too and ultra-modern and cool. I wondered how all that oil was going to look splattered all over that shiny white countertop.
“What does Andy say about him?”
“He doesn’t,” he said, slicing up tomatoes, chives, and various fungi with a deadly-sharp knife, “He’s never said anything about him to me, but some of the others –Max, Monty…”
The full Monty? I think I saw him last night.
“…and the guy who travels with him sometimes, Alec –they’ve said some things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Oh, just guy talk, really. He’s like the one who taught Andy everything he knows,” he paused, knife in hand, staring into space for a moment as in memory. Then he laughed, “Everything.”
I shifted uneasily on my barstool. I think Miguel had taught me a little of that everything last night. Something told me it was just the tip of the iceberg, like everything with Miguel.
“Oh,” said Mark, misreading my unease, “I didn’t offer you anything to drink. How silly of me.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Oh, it’s no big deal. Coffee, fresh-squeezed seven-juice blend?”
“No, really.”
“It’s no trouble,” he said, troubling himself. “I’ll make you a smoothie. My favorite. Very healthy…”
He threw the vegetables in the pan with a hiss, wiped his hands on the kitchen towel stuffed in his waistband, and headed for the fridge. From magical compartments all around the sleek kitchen, he produced a blender, a cup of yogurt, protein powder packs, fresh fruit, a carton of soymilk…
“So how long are you staying with us? It’s so nice to have visitors. Andy doesn’t allow most people in this part of the house. This is the family area. You must be someone very special to him.”
I guffawed. It was probably impolite.
“Special?” Especially loathed. “You could say that.”
“Oh, I don’t mean to insult you,” he said, halting his work and putting a hand on his chest, “I’m sure I should know who you are. It’s my fault for being so oblivious. I have a problem with that. I get lost in my own head sometimes. Andy says it’s part of my charm, but I think it annoys Max and Marvin –and Monty gets the most upset about it.”
“Wait a minute. Max and Marvin? Monty? And your name’s Mark?”
“Yeah. That’s the house,” he said, chopping eggs with a spatula.
“Son of bitch.”
The son of a bitch coordinates his friend’s names. Son of a bitch.
“Yeah. They’re all great guys. Max is from Haiti. He’s in charge when Andy’s not up or around. He’s a dead shot, and he’s a marauder at the ping pong table. Marvin’s an animal. Nobody messes with him, and Montgomery was in the secret service. Killer with a knife.”
Mark made a couple of enthusiastic slashing motions with the spatula. From what I saw he was probably killer with a knife too.
Mark folded over the omelet, sealing all the goodies inside, slid the breakfast confection onto a plate, garnished it with a nasturtium blossom from a bowl of water by the sink, scooped up the smoothie, and arranged the whole ensemble before me in a wink. Three seconds later, there was a tall glass of crystal-clear ice water, silverware, and a napkin all arranged neatly around the plate. Was this guy a professional chef?
I stared at the food. I didn’t eat like this. I never ate like this, even when I was at the top of my game as a fighter. I celebrated at Badd Burger.
Mark was hovering, eagerly anticipating my first bite. The agony of watching him do it was great enough to make me take one.
I held the cumulus on my head out of the way and sampled the omelet. I tried the smoothie. I ate the nasturtium.
Still, he hovered.
“You ever heard of The Chow House?” I asked.
“No. What’s that?”
“You should work there.”
“But, is the omelet too dry? Sometimes I overcook them a little. What do you think of the smoothie? It’s my own recipe, so I don’t know if anybody else will like it. I like more protein in mine than most people. I’m on something like the Atkins Diet, so I put double the protein powder in there and less juice. I find it helps for those really long workouts. Though, some of the other guys prefer to use those simple sugar packs, and Marvin goes for ketosis…”
I looked at the food, looked at the rinds of emptied fruit piled by the blender, looked at the aftermath of cooking, looked at Mark. He had dark hair, dark eyes –soft eyes. He might have been part Latino, or part Nepalese, or part Chinese, or part Polynesian. Part friendly gay man, part bodyguard, part fighter, part professional chef…
“So is it any good? You can tell me if it doesn’t taste good. I can take a hit…”
“It’s fine. Food’s fine. Omelet’s fine. Smoo
thie’s fine.”
“Oh, it is! That makes me so happy. I can’t tell you.”
Where did Andy find you? And how does he keep you? How can someone like you stand someone like him?
Then, he answered the question he hadn’t heard me ask.
“You are so nice. You know that? Telling me my omelet’s perfect. I never get an omelet perfect. You should hear Monty go on about it. Now, he knows how to cook an omelet.”
I finished breakfast, listening to Mark go on and on about everything and nothing. He reminded me a little someone else I knew, although Yoki was in a banter-black-belt class of her own. If Mark had said fifty words in the past minute, Yoki would have beaten him by about two hundred. She talked at techno rates.
When I finished shoving food into my maw, I belched and asked, “You got a place to work out in this hive, Mark?”
“Do we ever. Come on, I’ll show you. I can clean this up later.”
I followed my suffocating host through the white house, past more of the sheik and the expensive, the pristine and the practical. The ceilings were vaulted, the halls spacious, and the floor plan reminiscent of the Pentagon’s: rooms connected by easily-navigated passageways, arranged around some invisible central axis point, so that every place was within a very short travelling time of every other place. Everywhere I saw sanity. Nowhere did I see blood fountains.
And when he opened the door to the workout room, I saw Heaven.
The place was positively cavernous, vast, drafty, sixty-five degrees. I looked to the left and saw free weights, then Nautilus machines, then apparatus. I looked to the right and saw bags, machines, closets of equipment, floor-to-ceiling mirrors. And on the opposite end was a boxing ring, a combat floor, more closets of equipment –everything four guys who guard a vampire for a living would need to stay fit, stay deadly, and stay happy. It was also, I was convinced in that moment, everything I needed to stay happy.
I turned to Mark.
“Busy?” I asked him
“Only with you.”
“You wanna hit that ring?”
“You want to?” he said brightly, “Of course. Let’s suit up.”
“You got a sweatband around here?”
“Sure do,” he opened a drawer, tossed me one. I subdued my hair cloud with it.