by Drew Hayes
“Okay,” Krystal said, slowly lowering her gun. “But that doesn’t explain the silver.”
“Perhaps it’s only ineffective when applied externally,” Arch suggested. Before I could offer an opinion of my own, he had thrown a small dagger across the table and struck me in my shoulder.
“Gaah!” My yelp came as soon as the blade pierced my flesh, more reaction than an actual expression of pain. After a few seconds, I realized that the dagger didn’t really hurt at all. Reaching up carefully, I wiggled it a bit and found that, while it was certainly not comfortable, it wasn’t exceptionally painful either. “Actually, I would like to retract my scream. This isn’t really all that bad.”
“Pure silver,” Arch said. “And it doesn’t bother you in the slightest?”
“Sorry . . . but no. The fact that you just ruined my shirt, however, does have me a bit miffed.” I pulled the dagger out and set it on the table.
“It has to be a side effect from whatever Gideon did,” Krystal said. “I have no idea how that could have happened though.”
“Amy warned me several times that dragon magic is unpredictable.”
“We’ll have to call in a specialist,” Arch told Krystal.
“I very much dislike the sound of that,” I said.
“Don’t worry about it.” Krystal reached over and took my hand. If she felt any compunction about such a tender action less than a minute after pulling a firearm on me, it certainly didn’t show. “We’ll figure this out. You’ve always been a bit different than most vampires; this is just another thing that makes you one of a kind.”
“Though, really, the accounting job is far more bizarre,” Arch added.
“I get the feeling that this is sort of a big deal,” Charlotte said. “So, if you all want to skip dinner—”
“No,” I sighed, shaking my head. “Charlotte, you will learn this sooner or later, but with us, there is seldom a time when there isn’t some worry or emergency to deal with. Curious though my silver immunity might be, I see no reason to skip an excellent meal over it. Besides, you and Arch have reason to celebrate. As of today, you have a full-time tenant, and he has a place to live.”
“Okay then, let’s eat,” Charlotte said.
The kitchen doors sprang open and the wait staff filled the dining room, trays of food already giving off aromas that made my mouth water. As they paraded around us, Krystal leaned over and whispered in my ear.
“I’m proud of you, Fred. A year ago, something like this would have had you in fits.”
“Sadly, I think I’m slowly beginning to build up a tolerance to the panic-inspiring events that seem to plague us,” I whispered back.
“Just don’t get too tolerant. I like you just the way you are, panic and all.”
“And I love you as you are, death-courting job and all.”
That wasn’t how I’d ever intended to say it for the first time. In truth, I don’t know that I had ever really intended to say it. That was the sort of thing that took more bravery than men like me were born with, but it seemed folly could intervene where courage dared not tread. But there it was—in Charlotte Manor, the sentient house, and surrounded by non-existent waiters and an agent I didn’t wholly trust, while still processing the fact that I might not be as back to normal as I hoped—I’d told Krystal Jenkins that I loved her for the first time.
She stared at me for a long moment, then gave me a tomcat grin and slid back to her chair. It wouldn’t be until later that night, when we were alone and the environment was more intimate, that she would echo my sentiment with her own voice. That was fine, I didn’t need to hear it right away. I’d known it for a long while, just as she had no doubt been aware of my feelings for her. Neither Krystal nor I were the most expressive of people, emotionally speaking, but it didn’t mean we were incapable of getting better.
Undead or alive, human or parahuman, everyone is capable of taking steps forward. Ours might have been moving at a lurching, unwieldy pace, but we were taking them all the same. It was irrelevant if we might have been a bit slower than more socially adjusted people.
We were taking our steps together, and that was all that really mattered.
ABOUT DREW
Drew Hayes is an aspiring author from Texas who has written several books and found the gumption to publish a few (so far). He graduated from Texas Tech with a B.A. in English, because evidently he’s not familiar with what the term “employable” means. Drew has been called one of the most profound, prolific, and talented authors of his generation, but a table full of drunks will say almost anything when offered a round of free shots. Drew feels kind of like a D-bag writing about himself in the third person like this. He does appreciate that you’re still reading, though.
Drew would like to sit down and have a beer with you. Or a cocktail. He’s not here to judge your preferences. Drew is terrible at being serious, and has no real idea what a snippet biography is meant to convey anyway. Drew thinks you are awesome just the way you are. That part, he meant. Drew is off to go high-five random people, because who doesn’t love a good high-five? No one, that’s who.
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COPYRIGHT
Undeath & Taxes Copyright 2015 by Drew Hayes. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover design by Ashley Ruggirello
Cover art Copyright 2015 silinias/NokieSchafe/withmycamera/Giallo86 on DeviantArt.com
ISBN: 978-1-942111-16-0
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locals is entirely coincidental.
REUTS Publications
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