Last Ditch Effort

by Isobella Crowley

  So she’s originally from Britain. There’s no accent but some of her quirks make more sense now.

  He gestured toward the book again. “Are you studying to get your GED?”

  “Not quite.”.

  “Well, I can’t quite understand why you would be interested in ‘maths’ otherwise. I knew a guy once who enjoyed math problems but then again, he freaked out after a total of three hits on a joint—three—and he used to keep all his old grocery receipts for five years and arrange them carefully in a pile on the corner of his desk with the edges perfectly aligned.”

  Her mouth quirked into a smile. “He was probably a brilliant man. I keep up with my studies because they are useful and remind me of more dignified times. The idle rich used to spend their days differently. We lazed around but used our leisure to learn new languages, pursue scientific discoveries, and try to push the boundaries of the human mind.”

  Remy nodded and puckered out his lips. “That’s a unique approach. Back in my day, we spent our time doing coke and licking jello-shots out of a woman’s belly button. Those were fun times.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Taylor said in a monotone. She no longer looked at him and began to shuffle some papers under her book.

  He gestured toward them. “And what is that, if I may ask?”

  Taylor flicked her dark gaze toward him for a moment before she returned her attention to her materials. “I’m reevaluating a paper I wrote on Quantum Loop Gravity a few years ago. There has been some interesting work done on topology in mathematics, and it might alter my original conclusions. We may be looking at a breakthrough in our fundamental understanding of science in the coming months if I’m not mistaken.”

  Blinking, he almost took a step back. He’d never even heard of whatever a Quantum Loop Gravity was and had to admit he was rather impressed. “Damn, I wish I still did drugs, too,” he remarked. “Although I guess it’s good you’ve kept busy. Personally, I always thought immortality might get boring.”

  She looked evenly at him. “It does.”

  Remy matched her stare. “Tell me all about it some time. Quantum Loop Gravity, I mean.”

  “So,” she went on and ignored the comment, “tell me how things went. Presley already made it clear, I would hope, that you are not to be late again. And that you are not to touch my cars or other possessions. We’ll add a fuel stipend to your wages. You kept track of your mileage, right?”

  “Uhh…” he stammered, “I seem to vaguely recall about how many miles I had before I drove the car today for the first time in two years, so yes, that should work.”

  “In the future, please keep all your gas receipts and turn them over to Presley once a week. With the edges perfectly aligned.” Finished with her book and papers, she folded her hands in her lap and turned her full attention to him and motioned for him to sit in a chair across the table.

  He seated himself and adjusted his tie. “Well, I delivered all the messages, so mission accomplished. And I even resisted temptation with the elves. So don’t worry about that.”

  “Indeed,” she said, unimpressed.

  Since she didn’t say anything else, he kept talking. “I’m allergic to cats, though. That farmer’s market…ugh, I sneezed all over someone’s tomatoes. Don’t send me back there. I don’t think they’d want to see me, anyway.”

  Taylor pursed her lips. “I will make a note of that, but necessity is necessity and I can’t make you any promises at this point.”

  He went on to briefly describe his experiences at each stop and the reactions—or lack thereof—which he had from each of her contacts. He ended with a rough summary of Porrillage’s grumpy indifference to the whole affair but omitted the part about having a beer while he was there.

  The woman nodded through his anecdotes, politely attentive but never surprised. “That is satisfactory. We’ll want you to speed up in the future,” she stated, “but with this being only your second day of work—ever—I’d say you did acceptably.”

  “Acceptably. Gee, thanks.” He inhaled through his nose. Now was the time to assert himself as he’d vowed to do.

  She started to speak again. “In a moment, you may—”

  “Listen.” Remy cut her off. “I’m not necessarily opposed to helping with some of the operations, but I’m the owner of this company. Officially, the entire company exists under my authority and for my benefit. As such, I’m entitled to be treated as an equal partner in all this—not merely some errand boy whom you can boss around and assign all the menial labor to.”

  Taylor leaned back in her chair and extended a hand to drum her fingernails on the surface of the table—only once, as she’d done in the restaurant.

  “No,” she said quietly. “On the contrary, this is your apprenticeship. If you want to have an equal hand in running the place, you must first learn all the ins and outs. And the only place to start from is the bottom. That’s how it is for almost everyone on Earth in almost every situation, even those of us born to wealthy parents.”

  He scoffed. “This isn’t some philosophical work-ethic situation. It’s the cold hard facts. My name is on the documents that ultimately control the flow of money. The company can cease to exist if I want it to. I, as primary shareholder, can have you fired and replaced.”

  When he saw the hard, black coldness of her eyes on him, he almost quailed but took a deep breath and pressed on. “So I insist on being treated with more respect. I will not do any more bullshit chores.”

  Taylor opened the bathroom door. “How is it coming along?” she asked, her voice gentle but firm.

  Remy was on his hands and knees in front of the toilet and scrubbed at the inside of the bowl. A can of cleaning chemicals designed to neutralize mineral buildup in water stood on the floor next to him.

  “Uh…” He gasped. “Fine…yeah, great. I’m almost half-done with this one.” His hair was disheveled and he’d removed his overshirt and tie, exposing the sweat stains on the undershirt.

  She nodded. “Good. Once you’re finished with this one, you may take a five-minute break to have a glass of water. Then, scrub the one upstairs in the guest bedroom and I’ll allow you to call it a day.”

  He cleared his throat and said earnestly, “You’re so kind. Thank you, mistress.”

  The vampire turned to leave but stopped on her way out. “Oh, before you depart, though, speak to Presley. We have paperwork to do to ensure everything is kosher as far as having you officially on the payroll is concerned. We’ll need your Social Security number and all that kind of thing. You will be paid at the end of the week. Keep up the good work.”

  Before he could annoy her with inquiries as to how much he’d actually earn, she stepped over the threshold, shut the door behind her, and strolled to her sitting room.

  She was almost done reviewing the paper. It looked as though it would indeed be necessary to make a few adjustments and revisions. The march of science moved on, swifter and swifter all the time, to make more and more of yesterday’s knowledge obsolete by morning. Or dusk.

  Of course, she would have already completed the paper if she hadn’t had to waste time playing surrogate mother to the problem-child she’d taken under her wing. There were other, more important things she still needed to do tonight and only a few hours before dawn.

  Footsteps approached, not from the bathroom but from the kitchen, and they were both lighter and yet more studied and deliberate than Remington’s, anyway. By now, she could recognize Presley’s even gait against every other pair of human feet in the world. Each person had their own subtle rhythm and frequency.

  “Madame,” the butler said, “I’ve brought your tea.”

  Taylor looked up. The aged man held a saucer in both hands. Atop it was a generations-old, ornate cup, and a delicate spoon lay next to it. The spoon was made of stainless steel, not silver.

  She motioned him to bring it in and set it on the table. “Thank you, Presley.”

  He walked up and set it before her. Wit
hin the cup was a dark crimson liquid—Red Salt Tea was the beverage’s traditional, formal name. It had long ago stained the cup’s interior a deep, rusty brown.

  “How is our supply doing?” She stirred it with the spoon and inhaled the bouquet.

  Presley, standing beside her, folded his hands behind his back. “Quite well, quite well. We shouldn’t need another delivery for three and a half, perhaps four weeks, I’d estimate. I will contact the bank tomorrow, though, just to be safe.”

  “Good.” She took a sip. For the sake of her family dignity, she suppressed the almost electrical tingle of pleasure that went through her. Even after all these years, it still happened whenever she fed.

  Some vampires got addicted to that feeling. It was far too easy to succumb to helpless bloodlust. She’d seen it happen even to individuals whose self-discipline she had once respected.

  The butler waited a few moments as she drank the first half of her tea. After a respectful pause, he asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you at present, madame? Far be it from me to pry, but it seems something is troubling you.”

  Her jaw tightened a little, and the sharp points of her teeth dragged against the porcelain of the teacup.

  “I am troubled,” she admitted, “by the fact that several individuals who ought to know better may be planning my demise. That kind of thing tends to be troublesome, yes.”

  The old man gave an apologetic frown and immediately, she regretted snapping at him.

  “I’m sorry, Presley. I know you’re only concerned. But we have several situations going on that are…still developing. I haven’t sifted my own thoughts on all of them yet.”

  He nodded. “I see, yes.” He did not leave.

  “Ohhh.” She sighed and gestured toward the bathroom down the hall. “I’m already growing tired of this. For so long now, it’s been only the two of us and that arrangement really has worked well, hasn’t it?”

  The butler’s eyes grew distant as he seemed to ponder her words. He always thought through his responses before he gave them. She liked that about the man.

  “In most regards, yes,” he agreed. “We’ve kept things running smoothly. But sometimes, a state of affairs can stagnate when it never seems to change.”

  Taylor ran a fingertip over her chin. “I suppose that’s true in a fashion. But Remington is such a colossal handful…even by the standards of a short human lifespan, he’s more of an overgrown child than anything. His arms can reach where mine cannot but suddenly, it’s as though I’m responsible for a wriggling mass of inexperienced arms.”

  She shook her head and half-reclined in her massive chair. “It’s only been a few nights and I’m already growing nostalgic for the good old days when I had only myself to worry about. I knew exactly what had and hadn’t been done, and how, and when, because I did it all myself. Well, aside from the things I trust you with, of course.”

  “Mm, yes, ma’am.”

  “And,” the woman went on, “every moment I have to waste trying to lecture him or correct his behavior is a moment I don’t spend on my own work. And since I know what I’m doing to a far greater extent than he does, it’s really quite inefficient. I have to spend ten minutes instructing him for every five minutes’ worth of work he does, which I myself could accomplish in merely one or two.”

  The butler nodded but replied calmly, “Yes, madame, but there’s always this period of investment early on, the idea being that the extra time you spend now will pay for itself in the future. And there are many minutes in the day. Not to mention that your future extends somewhat further ahead in time than mine does…and much further than Remington’s.”

  She considered the ramifications of this. “That’s true enough. But we’re entering a potentially difficult and even deadly time. I’m on the verge of another power struggle. Dealing with that as well, I’m not sure how much longer I care to keep up with babysitting duty. At what point, exactly, is the hassle of playing nanny no longer worth the extra anonymity he brings to the table?”

  “Well,” Presley began, “I will agree that he needs to shape up, and quickly. But let us not be too hasty to dismiss him. For all his immaturity and obnoxiousness, he does bring numerous potential advantages.”

  Taylor raised an eyebrow.

  He continued. “Furthermore, well…it’s rare for you to express interest in any mortal. The mere fact that you selected him yourself for this job suggests that you might end up getting along with him quite well.”

  While the surface content of the man’s words made sense, Taylor saw the subtext equally as clearly—Presley was worried about her, given her long years of self-imposed isolation. He wouldn’t be so bold as to try to push her in a direction in which she did not want to go but he cared deeply about her welfare.

  “Thank you, Presley,” she said. “You know that I tend to…bear down on myself and focus too much on…work. Or distractions, such as a paper I wrote twenty years ago that has no bearing on the current situation.” She sighed again. “It does help to talk about things. I will come to my own conclusions, in the end, but I do value your advice and will weigh it against my own instincts.”

  He smiled. “Thank you, madame. A second opinion never hurts, and I am honored to provide it.”

  In the bathroom, Remy seemed to be finishing up. Taylor could hear him flush the toilet to rinse it, knock the excess droplets from the brush, gather the can of cleaning chemicals along with his clothes, and scrape his pants and shoes against the floor. She could hear everything.

  He didn’t make a great deal of noise, all things considered. But she was used to her house being quiet. It was a peaceful, orderly place and she’d adjusted to the sounds of Presley, the birds and insects outside, and the occasional settling of the wood and stone.

  And that was all.

  “That racket, however,” she muttered, “hurts my ears.”

  Chapter Ten

  Gold Reveal Hotel, Park Avenue, Midtown Manhattan, New York City

  Three men had gathered in the Presidential Suite where they would be guaranteed both comfort and privacy.

  Midnight was the hour of their meeting, but the suite itself was well illuminated. All the lights were at their brightest and glinted on the gold-leaf which covered the fixtures and appliances. An oval table stood in the center of the broad sitting area, where three huge leather-bound chairs were arranged.

  There was also a bottle of wine on the table but only two glasses next to it.

  “Gentlemen,” said Gabriel, who did not have a glass resting before him, “I will assume that all of us have heard the news by now.”

  The other two nodded.

  Both of them could be talkative but they tended to restrain themselves when he had things to say. And even when, as now, he kept his mouth shut for the moment and only leaned back in his chair, flexed his hands around each other, and cracked his knuckles.

  The light glinted on his eyes but did not penetrate them. They were wide black voids, deep-set beneath his heavy brow—the only coarse feature of his otherwise elegant and symmetrical face. Given his ivory pallor, he could stand still and almost be mistaken for a statue.

  His light brown hair, although neat and short, had a curious tendency to waver in even the slightest of breezes. It never seemed to shed, though, onto the snug black turtlenecks he always wore.

  “This,” Gabriel continued after a long moment, “is not the result we were hoping for and yet, we still succeeded in learning what we most needed to know.”

  In front of him and to his right, one of the other men responded.

  “Yessir,” chortled Tucker, “we learned that James was exactly what we all thought he was, after all—a mangy dog that changes into a dumbass human when the moon ain’t out.” He spoke with a thick Southern accent which many decades living outside the South had not softened in the slightest.

  Opposite Tucker, the third man added his own two cents’ worth.

  “Yeah,” Albert began, “he was a stupid, lo
w-level enforcer type who got to thinking he was a self-made man.” He adjusted the cuffs of his dark gray suit.

  Gabriel almost smiled considering that the phrase “made man” had a certain pedigree in the background Albert came from.

  Their leader cracked another knuckle. “Had he survived, James might have been useful as a low-level enforcer and nothing more. But with him dead, at least we know he won’t fuck anything up for us, either. And we know that the precious, all-important rules are still being enforced.”

  “Yep,” Tucker agreed.

  Albert frowned. “Some rules are worth enforcing,” he suggested. “Codes of honor, basic standards to keep mad dogs from stirring up too much shit, yeah. But Taylor’s little moratorium on doing anything…it’s a load of crap is what it is.”

  Gold light flashed from Gabriel’s black eyes. “That’s putting it very mildly, Albert,” he stated. “What she’s doing is unnatural. It is the equivalent of putting every bat and spider in a glass cage and allowing the flies to proliferate. She runs this town like a cattle farm and yet no one ever seems to get any steak.” He separated his hands and clenched both into fists.

  Tucker smirked. “Steak ain’t the only good part of a cow, Gabe,” he remarked. “It’s all good, far as I’m concerned.”

  Albert looked across the table at the Southerner. “It doesn’t mean you have to put it on a skewer over an open barbecue pit where everyone can see the carcass, ya uncivilized reprobate.”

  The other man gestured toward the mobster. “This from a body-disposal guy.”

  “Disposal’s a private matter,” he retorted. “The whole point is that no one ever sees the body.”

  “’Cause you ate it.” Tucker laughed. “There ain’t no proper difference between having a pig roast and ordering prosciutto at a restaurant.”

  Gabriel was already tired of this nonsense. “Shut up,” he snapped, “both of you. All your kind can talk about…meat, as much as you want once our task is accomplished. But for now, we need to focus on the common objective.”