Dearly, Beloved (13 page)

“I follow your instructions to the letter. If you actually put names on them instead of numbers, I could try to get them into someone’s hands, but …” Coco shrugged. “I’m not usually invited into the best houses, now, am I?”

“You can get into any house you like, Miss Perdido,” I informed her, doing my best to keep my temper in check.

“How?” she snorted.

“The same way you got into this one. I believe, to put it indelicately, that the keys to the castle are kept between your legs.”

Coco’s eyes opened fully. “I won’t be talked to like that! I might be a—a—”

“Prostitute?” I tried, helpfully. “Former two-penny actress?”

Twisted with rage though her features became, she was still sublimely beautiful. My father never employed less than the best. He’d kept a mistress as long as I could remember, and I’d never had cause to dislike any of them. They’d played with me when I was a child, told me how handsome I was as a youngster, and now treated me to kind and deferential conversation. Although their continued youth was beginning to disturb me, somewhat. Coco looked young enough to be my sister.

“
Lord Allister’s
mistress! I’m an honest woman.” She stood and picked up her valise. “You know what? Deliver your own damn letters. I don’t even see why you bother with paper notes, you obsessive little freak. Write your friends emails like a normal boy, and never speak to me again. Or I’ll tell your father everything!”

All at once, the fear I’d tried so hard to ignore all night burned through me. My father aside—without Coco I’d have to deliver the notes myself.
No
. That wasn’t an option. I’d be spotted, or my carriage recognized. Everything would unravel. God damn it, I’d not spent the night riding around New London, watching ten thousand things go wrong, just to be talked back to and possibly unmasked by an overglorified whore!

I would not be humiliated again. Ever again.

As Coco started to storm out I gained my feet and caught her by the arm, twisting her around to face me. Boy though I might be, I was still taller than her, and able to squeeze her flesh till she released a cry of pain.

“Stupid,” I told her. “What is it with mouthy, stupid women ruining my life lately?”

“Let go of me!”

“Not until we get a few things straight.” I gripped her arm even tighter, and she dropped her bag. “First of all, you work for my father, you work for me. Or I’ll tell him a pair of cuff links came up short, a silver knife—oh, the things you could be accused of taking. And a slut who steals is a slut who never works again.” She opened her mouth, but I spoke first. “You think he’d side with you? You’re nothing more than a plaything for him. Don’t act like you’re some king’s pet, the balm for his loveless marriage. He makes you sneak in and out like a streetwalker. You are not his first pillow-warmer, and you certainly will not be his last. If I were you, I wouldn’t jeopardize my chance to save up while my flesh is firm and the work is steady.”

Coco’s eyes rounded. Finally, she was listening.

“For your information, my parents have access to my email and Aethernet history now, and digital ghosts are hard to exorcise. Ashes tell no tales. Which is why I need you to shut your trap and continue to do what I pay you for, before I’m forced to … well. Have I made myself clear?”

It took a moment, but she nodded. “Please … don’t. I have a little boy …”

“As long as he’s not my illegitimate brother, I do not care.” Releasing her and returning to my desk, I removed the day’s mail from a bottom drawer. Five letters on honest-to-God parchment paper sealed with black wax stamped with a generic image of a raven, each bearing a series of random numbers in the top left corner. I slid them into a large envelope. “Your money is inside. Leave my mail behind the wainscoting when you come back tonight.”

Coco regarded me suspiciously, but took the letters, sliding them into her bag as she retrieved it from the floor. “Anything else?” Her defeated voice cheered my mood considerably. When women just did what they were
told
, oh, how easy life became.

“That will be all, Miss Perdido. You may go.” The woman did so, swiftly. You’d think I’d savaged her.

Once she was gone I realized I had no choice but to involve my father in some aspect of this after all.

My family was currently staying at Bestia del Oro, our country home in northeastern Honduras—close to the Talgua, or the Cave of the Glowing Skulls, an ancient pre-Colombian ossuary full of bones coated in light-reflecting calcite deposits. It was a territorial landmark, and nothing I wished to think about now that I’d seen the dead up and walking.

My father’s library was located squarely in the middle of the
building. The hallway leading there was lined with enormous windows on the eastern side, and long, horizontal flat screens in fanciful silver frames on the western. The screens were already on and tuned to the news, the sound muted. I could see the headlines reflected in the glass as I glanced outside, making out the shapes of other mansions in the morning mist.

ORIGINATOR OF MUTANT STRAIN OF LAZARUS MOVED TO DRIKE’S ISLAND ARE MILITANT ZOMBIE GROUPS INEVITABLE?

PRIME MINISTER TO ADDRESS PARLIAMENT TODAY RE: UNDEAD

The sprawling white house at two o’clock was Éclatverre, the Minks’ country retreat—oh, the conversations Vespertine Mink and I had had along her garden fence since our flight from New London. I spent a while contemplating them, before moving on. I wasn’t looking forward to what I had to do.

When I came to my father’s door, I knocked.

“Enter.”

I did so, bowing the instant the door was closed. “Good morning, sir.”

“Ah, my idiot son. Help yourself to a cup of tea.” My father, Lord Leslie Allister, waved toward the large brass samovar in the center of the oval room. Not once did he divert his eyes from the thirty or forty floating displays surrounding him, a sectioned globe of light created by scores of tiny high-def holographic projectors located throughout the gilded library. Then, to the air he said, “Virtual rat batch 23-3.41, terminate testing, destroy file.” One of the screens went black.

I tried to swallow the insult so casually tossed my way—like every morning since the Siege. “Experiment not going well?”

Dad shrugged. “Unassigned screen, access virtual rat batch 23-3.42. Rez and run at twenty-times speed.” My father always
appeared to take everything in stride, to calmly accept situations rather than emotionally oppose them. Despite the fact that he made everything look effortless, his face was creased, his sandy hair edging toward colorlessness, his eyes careworn.

I joined him in the middle of the sphere once I had a cup of tea. Along with NVIC and the usual financial channels, he was also keeping an eye on T-SPAN and footage from security cameras located within the Maria Bosawas-Allister Memorial Animal Preserve and Gene Bank, home of Allister Genetics, the source of the vast majority of our family fortune. Usually if one was both a lord and involved in business or industry, any professional titles were mere formalities, indicators of either inheritance or more than average investment—but my father actually worked for his paycheck, refusing to delegate, often micromanaging.

One of the cameras was following a group of hunters in the brush—new aristocracy, naturally. “People are still trying to squeeze more hunting in, even though the Season’s supposedly under way.” He frowned. “Computer, email relevant employees—ten more tigers in the vat by Tuesday. They always want to bag a bloody tiger. And after all that’s happened.”

“There were parties going on in New London last night,” I told him. “Dregs presenting their girls to other dregs, most likely. Not even the walking dead could get the true blue-blooded debutantes to come out before May.” The Season—when the rich and titled moved closer to New London and Parliament was in full swing—usually ran from March to August. Of course, the Siege had changed that. My family was not the only one reluctant to return to its house near the city, and Parliament had been in emergency session since December. Like my father, I was forced to conclude that those trying to engage in Seasonal activities were either stupid or suicidal. Or in denial.

“Hmm. Just behave yourself in town. I don’t need a repeat
of that bit of stupidity with Miss Roe and Miss Dearly.” His lip actually curled as he spoke the latter name. “I’ve told you for years that she’s too much like her father. That she’d lead you to ruin.”

“Yes, sir,” I got out.

“Don’t make me regret giving you a certain amount of latitude again. You will not get another chance.”

His words cut, and for not the first time I wished I hadn’t spilled my guts upon my return so many months ago. But I’d had so much to atone for. I didn’t want to think about Roe, latitude, or sowing anything. Hell, my “friends” couldn’t even get their orders straight so I could
sow
the freaking bomb where it was supposed to go. “Yes, well—”

“Quiet.” Dad held up a hand. “Cue sound from screen showing T-SPAN.”

Parliament was engaged in a new round of dead-related talks—and, as usual, those “talks” seemed to involve a lot of screaming, finger-pointing, and outright mockery. On the screen the PM, Lord Esteban Alba, stood at a podium. Since becoming Prime Minister back in December he’d started shedding his silvery hair, leading to the creation of an ever-increasing bald spot. “No. The suggestion by Lord Ashburn is not up for consideration—nor do I hope it will
ever
be. There is to be absolutely no talk of sending the undead to camps, receiving areas, or anything of the sort. Quarantine has
ended
.”

Lord Cecil Khan, an earnest middle-aged man with skin like flawless brown book leather, jumped to his feet and declared, “With all due respect, Prime Minister—this is not an issue of civil rights. This is about keeping track of the diseased who walk among us!” Many on the floor cheered at this outburst.

One of the northern country MPs, Alejandro Meral, stood up and countered, “You’re exactly right—and I urge you to think on that! What would you have us do, Lord Khan? Punish the
sick
?
The majority of the infected out there pose absolutely no danger to anyone. These are ill people, not monsters! Their families have spoken for them, even threatened to take up arms to defend them, and we ought to respect that.”

Lord Khan stood up again and gestured with his digidiary at Meral. “They’re destined to
become
monsters—don’t lie!” He turned his attention back to the PM. “Point is, we ran the Punks off for doing little more than these dead scoundrels have done. We made a swift, forceful decision that undoubtedly saved us years of violence and heartbreak. We need to do the same thing here!”

“You’re exaggerating!” cried Meral. “The Punks burned computerized factories, attacked the aristocracy, acted like mad neo-Luddites. People were murdered in cold blood. The dead who attacked the city were mindless, and a living man was responsible for them being there in the first place.”

“What about the attacks at the port yesterday? Were those zombies ‘sane’ until they started biting?” yet another lord argued.

Lord John Ashburn rose. “We should quarantine them all in the Elysian Fields. The EF is mostly empty at this point—it’s the safest place for them. At the very least, those gathered at Dahlia Park should be forced to move down there.”

“Oh, yes!” yelled Meral. “Stick them underground.
Bury them alive!
”

Talk of the dead just made me angry now, but I did my best to listen rather than tune it all out. I hated to think about the fact that New London was swelling with zombies. I hated to think about the fact that the government, under Alba, was
protecting
them.

I hated to dwell on the idea of Miss Dearly still living in New London with a bunch of maggot men. With one maggot man in particular.

It didn’t matter. She would soon learn the error of her ways. And Dad would never have to know about it.

“I want a job,” I said. “Since school is still out.”

Dad seemed genuinely surprised by this, and ordered the screen to mute before turning his piercing eyes on me. While I’ve always known my lot in life was to follow in my father’s footsteps as owner, chairman, and CEO of his beloved company, I’d never before displayed real interest in anything having to do with Allister Genetics. I needed something to do with my days, though. An alibi. Especially if Coco decided to turn against me.

I needed something to deflect attention away from my nights.

Clearing my mind, I did my best to render my face as unreadable as possible. It’s a skill of mine. When I was but a child I discovered the intense joy of hiding my true self and emotions from my parents, and then from my schoolmates at St. Arcadian’s—learned about the freedom that comes from suppression. If no one knows your motives, if no one suspects you or even truly understands you, you can get away with anything.

“Is this about money?” he asked.

“No.” I could get all the money I liked from my mother—a fact I decided not to remind my father of. Things were going so well. “I just want to continue to prove myself to you, my lord. To make up for sneaking away to help Miss Roe. I know now that it was not only stupid, but selfish of me. That my first concern should have been my family.”

My father thought about this for quite a while, leaving me in suspense. “I think we can do that, then.” He looked into my eyes. “Success takes effort, son. A willingness to work. I’m glad to see that trait in you. I know we’ve treated you harshly these last months, but as I said—you have one more chance. That alone should show you how much we love you.”

“Yes, sir.”

One of the screens in his globe flashed—an incoming call from
my maternal uncle, and my father’s closest friend, Lord Robert Cross. Turning away from me, Dad said, “Come back around eleven. We’ll find something for you to do.”

“Thank you,” I said, bowing, and favoring him with a slight smile. I then returned to my room, my heart going a mile a minute. My father’d been surprisingly easy to deal with. Coco was good.