by J Bennett
There’s that word again. I glance into the living room at my PERSEVERANCE poster, but I’m not so much worried about PERSEVERANCE as PRESERVATION.
“I ran out of the house screaming,” I inform Betsy.
“Oh dear,” she says again. “I suppose that didn’t make such a good first impression. Perhaps I can speak to Mr. Hayward and see if he’d be willing to give you another try.”
This is right about the time I crack wide open. “HE’S A GOD DAMN VAMPIRE!” I screech.
“Now look here,” Betsy huffs, “we at Bullseye Employment do not discriminate on the basis of race, religion, gender or undead status. I’ll let Mr. Hayward know that you are not interested in the position. It’s a shame though. He is willing to pay a generous salary and provide room and board. With your resume, I’m not sure there’s much else out there for you.”
“Wait,” I hear myself say. My eyes linger on the pile of bills on the counter. That Past Due rent notice is right on top. “Did you say salary…and room and board?”
Betsy drops a number in my lap. A big one.
Now my gaze moves from the pile of bills to the poster on the wall. I stare at the woman chugging up those steps. The word PERSERVERANCE burns in my brain.
***
I only own one skirt. I have to dig for it in the back of my closet. After the slacks go off and the skirt comes on, I make a stop at the grocery store and spend the last three dollars that I have.
Then I drive back to Nathaniel’s mansion. Standing on the porch, the bottle of garlic salt clutched tightly in my hand, I pound the brass knocker into the door. No one answers. The sun has just set, so maybe he went out to…I stop the thoughts right there and hold the garlic salt in front of me like a can of mace. That’s when I hear little grunts coming from the backyard.
I find Nathaniel struggling to dig a grave near the mulberry bushes. Either vampire strength is vastly over-rated, or Nathaniel’s got a bad back, because his digging is just plain pathetic. He’s only managed to open up a shallow ditch, and he’s panting like he just ran a marathon.
I re-grip the garlic salt in my sweaty palm.
“No more killing Mormons,” I say.
The old vampire looks up and scowls at me. “I’ll kill whomever I choose, and I’ll not allow a servant to speak to me in such tones.”
“First of all, I’m a housekeeper, not a servant. Secondly, you won’t have a housekeeper at all if you d…d…don’t agree to my terms.” So far I haven’t peed my skirt from fear, so I keep
going. “You can taste, but no more murder. Understood?”
Nathaniel’s scowl increases, and I can actually see the tips of his fangs peeking out of his upper lips. “Your skirt is too short,” he mutters. “You look like a floozy.”
My Grandpa Charlie used to sound exactly the same way. I remember him sitting on his porch ranting about how the kids these days had no respect and could hardly be bothered to wear a scrap of clothing. He was a bitter old man trapped in a bygone era.
Suddenly, I’m not afraid of Nathaniel anymore.
“I look just fine,” I tell the old vampire. “Now give me that shovel.” I put down the garlic salt and hold out my hand.
“You are extremely improper,” Nathaniel says, but he holds out the shovel. I take it from his cold, lifeless hands.
“I demand tea each noon when I arise,” Nathaniel says, “and I expect you to learn the magics of the television so that you can bespell the TiVo to show I Dream of Jeannie at my whim.”
I press the shovel into the soil. “Does that mean you’ll agree to no killing?”
Nathaniel straightens his bow tie. “It just so happens that I no longer have adequate burying space in this yard. I am not of a temperament to move, so I have concluded – long before your arrival, might I add – that I shall withhold from killing for an indeterminate amount of time.”
“What a happy coincidence,” I murmur.
“And I expect that urine stain to be taken care of.”
I sigh. Perseverance. “Of course.”
“Very good then.” Nathaniel whirls his cape and turns into a bat. I have since learned that swirling the cape is wholly unnecessary to the bat transition, but I have to admit that it does make for quite an effect.
Nathaniel flaps away.
I pick up the shovel again and repeat to myself, perseverance, perseverance, perseverance as I continue on the graves.
***
I know what you’re thinking, but it’s really not so bad working for a vampire.
I’ve got my own crypt in Nathaniel’s mansion, which is pretty spacious. I’ve told the ghosts to stay out, and they mostly listen. I’ve also put up my PERSEVERANCE poster. Sometimes it helps to look at it in the morning before I get out of bed.
That’s not to say that life is easy.
Housekeeping in a haunted mansion is a total bitch. I try to spruce up the place with some vases of fresh flowers and a nice new paint job, but the flowers wilt overnight, and the paint blackens and curls off the walls. I can never seem to clear out the vast network of spider webs, and the ghosts are always up to nasty tricks like releasing scorpions into the bathtub or animating broken dolls in the attic. Nathaniel tells me that they only haunt people they really like, so I try to take everything in stride.
The food is almost always burned. This might have less to do less with restless spirits and more to do with my severe lack of culinary skill. I blame it on the ghosts though, and I don’t think that Nathaniel has caught on.
Speaking of my new boss, we’re getting along better and better. Sure, he can be cranky, and he still berates me whenever I wear pants or say something silly like “I’m going to go out and vote now,” but I’ve grown use to his theatrics...and the money is very good.
We’re also working on the not killing people thing.
Just the other day, for example, Nathaniel was thrilled to hear that the Tea Party was back in action and holding a local rally. He demanded that I drive him there in my horseless carriage. So, off we went, toting Nathaniel’s authentic musket and some tar and feathers just in case the group had managed to capture a tax collector or two.
Turns out, the Tea Party rally was just a lot of fat white people shouting about jobs and religion and stuff. Nathaniel, wearing his best cape, somehow got on stage and made a very impassioned speech against the Stamp Act of 1765. Even the crickets were quiet when he finished.
Nathaniel was a little put out by the unenthusiastic reception of his speech, and his idea of a pick-me-up was to sink his fangs into the fleshy neck of one of the participants. I got him un-leeched before the poor woman was dead, but Nathaniel was sour about it the whole way home.
That’s kind of my life now. Babysitting a grouchy vampire. Cleaning a house where the walls drip with blood at least every other day. Trying to still live a normal life.
Like I said, I’m not a lucky person. However, I’m learning that sometimes even curses aren’t so bad if you just cultivate a little perseverance.
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Works by J Bennett
The Vampire’s Housekeeper Chronicles
Employment Interview With A Vampire (Short Story, # 1)
The Vampire Hunter Comes To Call (Short Story, # 2)
Duel With The Werefrog (Short Story, #3)
When Ninjas and Vampires Collide (Short Story, #4)
Girl With Broken Wings Series
Falling (Book One)
Coping (Novella, 1.5)
Landing (Book Two)
Rising (Book Three, to be released in 2014)
THE VAMPIRE HUNTER COMES TO CALL
THE VAMPIRE’S HOUSEKEEPER CHRONICLES, #2
When Nathaniel is tracked down by a ruthless vampire hunter will it be a fight to the death, or will someone break a hip first?
***
I’ve got to get Nathaniel’s mind off the biography kick, but the guy honestly has no life. I think he’s lonely. He never gets any visitors except for the Mormons who just keep coming, despite the fact that Nathaniel has killed at least a dozen of them over the last decade and buried their bodies in his backyard next to the mulberry bushes.
So, when I make it my personal mission to get Nathaniel some friends, it’s partly about generosity but mostly it’s about preserving my sanity against an onslaught of biographies. On my quest to improve Nathaniel’s social life, the place to start is obvious.
Facebook.
I blithely create a profile for Nathaniel and do more than a little fibbing along the way. For instance, I don’t mention the fact that Nathaniel is a vampire or that he’s an irritable old biddy with an I Dream of Jeannie obsession. I say that he is a gentleman of leisure. The little birthday box only goes down to the year 1900, so I give Nathaniel’s birthday as 1946 instead of 1746. Then it’s just about airbrushing the fangs out of his profile pic, and I’m done.
I show Nathaniel. He is initially excited only because he doesn’t know the difference between the television and the computer and thinks I have a new episode of I Dream of Jeannie for him. When he figures out that what I’m pointing at is not the television but the “portal of damned souls,”(Nathaniel assumes there are spirits inside the computer continually updating news feeds, writing blogs and making pointless YouTube videos), Nathaniel immediately loses interest.
Things don’t get better when we discover that there’s no alumni group for Harvard, class of 1768, or when I try to divert his attention by joining some vampire fan groups. Nathaniel is extremely perturbed by the content of these groups, and for the next three hours I am forced to post adamant arguments explaining that vampires do not sparkle when exposed to sunlight.
Right before I beg off to go feed The Thing In The Basement, Nathaniel gets his very first friend request. It’s someone named Silas whose profile pic is a cheerful cartoon lawn gnome and who was also a member of several of the vampire groups. I happily accept, proud of myself for having helped my cantankerous boss actually make a friend.
For his part, Nathaniel is cautious. “Is he of the gnome folk? Gnomes are often mischievous and untrustworthy creatures. I also do not favor their pointed hats.” Nathaniel says as he adjusts his ruffled sleeves.
“No; that’s just his profile picture,” I explain to Nathaniel. “He probably just likes gnomes.”
“Then I have reservations about his judgment. Perhaps I shall comment upon it when he comes to call.”
“Comes to call?”
Nathaniel raises one of his bushy black eyebrows. “When he calls upon us to formally introduce himself like a true gentleman.”
“Uh, Nathaniel, people don’t really call upon other people anymore.”
“Nonsense,” Nathaniel waves a pale hand. “If he is a man of honor, or a gnome of honor, he shall call upon us and perhaps invite me up to his estate for dinner. You, as a servant, won’t be invited of course. That would be unseemly.”
I sigh. “Don’t get your hopes up,” I tell Nathaniel as I log out of the site.
Little did I know that Silas would come calling; seeking not to invite Nathaniel to a fancy dinner, but to plunge a stake through my boss’s heart.
Also by J Bennett:
FALLING
Book One, Girl With Broken Wings Series
“Your head,” the boy with elf eyes murmurs as he puts me into a car. Then, “this is, um, awkward.” He can only get me half in. I hear his steps moving quickly around the back of the car. He opens the opposite door and pulls me the rest of the way across the back seat.
“Thank you,” I say. I want to touch the blue glow around him. This will soothe the pain inside of me. Not pain. Hunger. Great, gaping hunger. I am shivering, still sweating. The strap of my bra has fallen to my elbow.
“Do we, uh, have a blanket in the trunk or something, Tarren?”
“Get in the car.”
I hear sirens. They sound closer than they could possibly be. Just like I think I can hear the boy’s heart thudding in his chest, but that can’t be real.
“Yeah, it’s a warm night. She’ll be fine.” The door by my head closes. I flinch at the sound. After a moment it opens again.
“Seatbelt.” He leans over me, grappling with the buckle under my back. His heart is a drum. I hear the whoosh of air in and out of his lungs. I smell him, the sweat on him, the damp of his clothes. Glowing spirals of blue cloak his body like colored steam. I must touch the color. I am moving my arm, dizzy with even this effort but desperate. He is so close. My hands grow hot. Something is happening to them. The skin of my palms is puckering, splitting open.
“There we go.” The boy is gone. The door closes. I keep reaching up hoping to catch any lingering wisps of the glow. The skin furls back over my palm, seaming itself up into a dark X across the center. The car is moving. Every breath smells like blood. I’m giggling like a maniac, but only in my head. I shove my hands under my body, because this will somehow help. I’m still burning to death, by the way.
The driver whispers to himself, “We had him. We had him.”
The one with the backwards ball cap and elf eyes says, “Look, we got her; that was the whole point.” He turns to look at the driver. “We’ll kill Grand some other time.”
The driver doesn’t say anything, but the color ratchets around him, bright along the edges. I close my eyes, but I can still feel the skin pulling away from my palms again.
“Your eye is swelling up,” the passenger says.
“I’m fine. You?”
“Ankle. Just twisted it a little. I’ll throw some ice on it whenever. No cops behind us. We need to switch our plates when we stop. Ditch the guns too. We left shell casings. Damn shame, though.” The passenger pulls a gun from his belt, hefts it in his hand. “My guy went through a lot of trouble to get this baby. Not that you care. Anyone can get Glocks.”
“Put that away,” the driver says. “We’ll cover cleanup later.”
The passenger turns to stare at me. I watch the delicate shades of blue pulse around him.
“We should probably get her a shirt,” he says. The driver doesn’t reply, but his eyes flick up to the rearview mirror when we stop at a light.
After a while, the elf turns to the driver and asks, “Is there any way this isn’t going to totally fucking ruin her life?”
I can’t stop shivering. My body jerks, so that I fall back painfully onto the buckle. The fire is starting to separate. There’s the part ripping up my bones and evaporating my blood, but there is something entirely different lifting out of the flames. This is an exquisite hurt, all neural and twitchy. It’s hunger, but not like a hunger I’ve ever known before. This hunger is cutting me wide open with a song, carving out its own channels in my brain and snuffing out the human parts of me.
I think that I am going to die, and I don’t want to, except that I do, because Ryan is dead, at least I think he is, but maybe he isn’t, because he can’t be. He can’t be.
The hum of the car seems so loud, and the passing street lamps blaze like sudden flares in the night. We leave behind the highway and then the street lamps and then the other cars. I cry, but these are silent tears, hot by the time they tip over my chin. We sail through the night for a long while, and the tears eventually dwindle. All that is left is the hunger growing louder and louder in my bones.
Eventually, the car stops. The driver gets out. The door by my head is wrenched open. He grabs my shoulders and pulls. The seatbelt digs into my hips, and I cry out.
“Damn,” he mutters. He grabs my wrists in one hand and pins them against the back of the seat while he leans over and undoes my buckle. The passenger side door opens.
“Jesus, where are we? You gotta piss?”
The driver pulls me roughly out of the car. I hit the ground and curl my legs into my chest. There is only the hunger and the pain and the shadow of Ryan lingering behind the trees that edge each side of the road.
The driver pulls a gun from his waistband, and I am not afraid. The amber glow is so bright around him that it looks like some sort of unnatural fire. Everything is fire. I stare at the scar running along his jaw and recognize him. The enforcer of Avalon levels his gun at me. The blood stains across his shirt and jeans are already turning dark. In his eyes I see a cold that I would never be cliché enough to call arctic except that I can’t think of anything else. There’s a lot of blood on him.
“Tarren, no!”
Pant legs intrude into my visual field.
“She’s infected. We have to do it now while she’s weak.”
“One shot Tarren. She only got one shot. She’s like…a hybrid or something.”
“We can’t take the chance.”
“Yes we can, because, uh, because you could use her in your research. She could be, like, the key. The hybrids are always the key in, you know, stuff.”
“We’ll take the body back to Lo’s lab.”
“Cold hearted bastard! She’s blood.”
“His blood.”
“Our blood. She’s our blood Tarren.” The elf boy’s voice has gone harsh. “She’s our family, and you can pretend that you don’t care about anything anymore, that you’re suffering the weight of the entire world on your shoulders, but you’re just afraid. Fuck you. I’m not moving.”
“You done?” The gun doesn’t move.
“Yeah.” The elf takes a shaky breath. “I mean no! She could help us. Think about it. She’ll get strong. She’ll get fast. She can fight with us. We can…”
“And the hunger?”
My protector turns and looks at me. I can hear how fast his heart is beating, the faint rush of blood as he clenches his fists. The light around him swells. So blue with sudden streaks of lavender lashing across. The song. They act as if they can’t hear the music flowing in hot torrents all around us.