Eternal (10 page)

“Get out,” he replies.

“What?”

“Out, out! Get the hell out of my cab!”

“I —”

“What are you, deaf? Go! Move! Now!”

I’ve barely cleared the car when he peels out, skidding on ice.

As I catch my balance on the curb, I realize I forgot to mention the fifty-percent tip.

Feeling less optimistic, I try to flag another ride. I’m tempted to go back inside the restaurant and grab a table. But generally speaking, we aren’t supposed to put off missions from upstairs for a little hot mustard sauce.

Ten minutes pass. I inhale egg roll after egg roll from the brown paper bag. They’re fantastic. Pork, carrots, shredded cabbage, the right amount of grease.

The breeze picks up, blowing sleet into my eyes and cheeks. It’s like every cab in the city is occupied or, I think as I wave my arm, driven by a blind man. The cold . . .

Enough about the weather. It’s Chicago, the Windy City, in mid-April. Anything’s possible. It could be eighty degrees tomorrow. Besides, I’m still an angel. Angels are not whiners. Even grounded, laid-off, practically pointless angels.

Almost half an hour later, egg rolls long gone, I slide into another taxi. Raise my voice over a Spanish music station to tell the driver where I’m going.

“Again?” he asks, squinting.

I repeat myself, this time remembering to offer the extra cash.

The cabbie makes the sign of the cross, opens his door, leaves his key in the ignition, and flees down the street like the puppies of hell are snapping at his heels.

“Uh, Josh?” I call from the backseat. “Joshua!”

Nothing. Oh, well. It’s not like he’s my genie. “Although a hint or two would be nice!” I release a long breath. Josh will show when he wants to, or to be fair, when Michael gives him clearance.

It’s not my place to question. The last time I did that, Miranda was ruined.

I should be grateful to the Big Boss for giving me this one last chance.

I should be, and I am.

Glancing at the steering wheel, I would love to write off the whole abandoned-running-car thing to some machination of Joshua’s. It would make my life easier if I could “borrow” the cab.

Leaning forward, I kill the ignition. Get out, locking the keys inside.

No need to panic. I trudge back toward the train station. I’ll take the El as far as I can and hoof it from there.

It dawns on me then that I need a weapon. I probably would’ve thought of it earlier, except that guardians are hardwired to protect, not destroy.

Hmm. I should have asked Father Ramos for help arming myself when I had a chance. I’ll give him a call if I can’t figure out something along the way.

I’m cautiously optimistic, though. It feels good to have a purpose again. And after all, this whole mission is a journey of faith.

Besides, I’m not exactly fresh off the cloud. I’ve been an angel since the Truman administration, back when Edward J. Kelly was mayor of Chicago.

I’ve spent as much time peeping at the world as the next angel. I’ve seen a lot of scary things. Prison riots, pageant moms, Devil’s Night, ’70s hair, the World Wrestling Federation, the crash of Japan Airlines Flight 123, that bloodsucker Kurt, who nearly killed Lucy back in Dallas . . .

No. No need to go there, not again. If I begin obsessing over that night — over the sweet, fearful sound of Miranda’s voice calling out to her friend — I’ll be no good to the Big Boss. The mission is what matters now. It has to be.

A third cab pulls up with the driver’s window down. It’s an old sedan, but freshly painted under the spray of road salt and slush. The cabbie is a young man, and he’s giving me the once-over.

Holding my ground, I rattle off the address again. I mention the tip and add that I’ll need to make a quick stop along the way.

“Get in,” is the answer. “No extra charge.”

I hesitate. “You’re sure?”

His warm brown eyes gaze into mine. “It is okay. I am good with God.”

I’m not about to argue with that.

Once I’m settled in the backseat and we make the illegal U-turn to head north, I begin: “Uh, about that stop, do you know where I could buy a —”

“Weapon?” he asks. “For where you are going?” The driver pops open the front seat armrest and hands me a sharp wooden stake. “Here.”

I slide it up my sleeve. “Thanks.”

If I ever make it back upstairs, I owe this guy’s GA a beer.

OUR HUMAN HIRES
, much like the White House staff and funeral directors, tend to have been born into the tradition. Part of it’s a matter of discretion. Part of it’s the sensibility of those being considered. They’ve grown up in the business.

Turnover is steady. Humans tend to be fragile creatures, the longest living of them rarely surpassing their eighties, and, for the most part, their physical decline makes them ugly and useless to us long before that. Still, it’s safer than one might imagine, working for the eternal royalty and aristocracy. House servants, especially personal assistants, are most useful. Those exceptionally well placed enjoy a higher standard of living than the average eternal, and if approved for elevation, they enter their new existence with the most desirable of connections. A royal servant may become a royal family member someday. It’s all very Cinderella-meets-
The Addams Family.
On the other hand, any failure to please may result in a quite literal termination of service.

“Ready, mistress?” Harrison asks. Any other servant would wait for orders, but he can be cheeky that way.

“Send the first one in.”

At sunset, I decided to field applicants in my office and slipped on a turquoise chenille sweater, prefaded jeans, and running shoes. With Father gone, it seemed an opportune time to take a break from the Goth glam.

I scan the long, rectangular room. My office is lit by two candle chandeliers, one over my mammoth 1950s-style industrial desk and one over the plush gray seating area. The room is otherwise furnished with floor-to-ceiling barrister bookshelves on one side and more of the same three rows high on the other.

Above the shorter cases, the rock walls are punctuated with matted and framed theater posters —
Little Shop of Horrors, My Fair Lady, West Side Story.

I considered and rejected
Romeo and Juliet.

Notepad? Check. Pen? Check. Résumés? Check. Battle-axe? Check.

The latter was a gift from Father. Apparently, every eternal worth his or her hemoglobin has a custom axe mounted on an office wall (although Father himself doesn’t actually bother with an office). Mine is forged of steel. The twenty-four-carat gold inlay handle features a repeating design of dragon heads with emeralds for scales and rubies for eyes. A five-carat, round-cut diamond, embedded in platinum, decorates the end.

Last night before turning in, I asked Harrison to cull through the candidates.

I glance over the application at the top of the stack. Flavius Fielding: age twenty, originally from Peoria, a recent truck-driving-school dropout.

I frown at the typo — an
e
at the end of
Chicago.
The paper is rumpled. A dark-green sticky splotch clings to the top right-hand corner of the page.

I did mention a preference for candidates between ages seventeen and twenty-five, though. Plus, Flavius is a legacy. His grandfather was the PA to our leading Romanian aristocrat.

“Presenting Flavius Fielding,” Harrison says.

Flavius, wearing an off-the-rack suit, scurries in and folds himself into the chair.

“When was the last time you washed your hair?” I want to know.

He twitches and reaches into his jacket pocket for a small tin. “Mind if I snack?” He doesn’t wait for my reply. Instead, Flavius opens the lid and lifts out a large brown, furry squirming spider, which he shoves whole into his mouth and chews. With his mouth still full, he extends the box in my direction. “Want one?”

Three gooey, mangled arachnid legs stick out from between his stained teeth.

“Harrison!”

“Mistress?” He must’ve been waiting right outside the door.

“Next!”

“You’re not pleased?” Harrison asks, not trying to hide his amusement. “His manner, it’s classic.”

Classic Renfield, he means. The human servant to Dracula Prime.

Flavius plucks a roach from the box and, in two crunchy bites, eats it, too.

I grimace, wryly acknowledging the PA’s joke at my expense, admiring the bravery and stupidity of it. “Too old school for me.”

As for the next several interviewees, they may be neatly summed up as awkward, boring, clueless, morose, tedious, needy, obsessive-compulsive, and generically high maintenance.

I’m baffled. This is the royal household. There is no station more sought after. Either the local pool has evaporated to a puddle or Harrison is seriously off his game.

“Presenting Kyle Anderson,” the PA offers.

Then
he
walks in. Clean-cut, more cute than handsome and, granted, not tall, but at five foot seven, he still has six inches on me. He wears creased jeans with a wool sweater almost the same color as mine, and he walks right up to shake my hand. He’s from the Hyde Park neighborhood and will graduate from high school this spring. His mother is a CPA, his late father taught law, and he looks every bit as toned as soccer star Geoff Calvo. However, the legacy line has been left blank.

“You do realize that this position is unusual?”

He nods. “Right, because you’re all vampires.”

As they say, fools rush in. “Eternals.”

“Sorry, ‘eternals.’” Kyle rubs his chin, a thoughtful gesture.

I can’t help finding it endearing. Perhaps I can offer a gentler hand within my inner circle. After all, I’ve been so understanding of Harrison’s eccentricities, and in retrospect, his little joke with Flavius tonight inspired my first sincere smile in some time.

“You didn’t know,” I acknowledge. “You won’t make that mistake again.”

Does Kyle find me attractive? I wonder. Eternals are more luminous than humans and not only through the eyes of the enthralled.

“How did you come to learn of us?” I ask, standing. “Not eternals per se.” Again, we’re considered rare, but not fictional. “Rather this household?” I make my way around the brushed steel desk, thinking that if his answer satisfies, I might whisper in his ear that he’s mine. That’s sexy, right? Ear whispering?

Right then, a stake drops from his sweater sleeve to his waiting palm, and he arches from the chair to strike.

He’s not here for the job, I realize. At preternatural speed, I grab the weapon, break it in two, and toss the pieces into my trash can.

“You’re too slow to be a hunter,” I say, extending my teeth. “Too sloppy.”

Kyle scrambles, overturning his chair. “I’ve been tracking you.”

I grab him by the sweater. “Because?”

“You killed my —” He chokes up.

My grip goes slack. “Who?”

“My father,” Kyle spits out. “I saw you leaving my house that night. I’ve been searching for you all month.”

It wasn’t me. I haven’t hunted on the South Side since the Fourth of July. I have killed, but not this boy’s father. It must’ve been someone else from Whitby Estates.

How dare he enter this home under false pretenses! How dare he attempt to punish me for what another eternal has done! I toss the Van Helsing wannabe, and he flies across the room. His shoulder cracks as it hits the bookshelves. Then he falls forward, facedown, nose shattering, unconscious on the wood floor.

“Mistress?” Harrison inquires from the doorway.

“How in hell’s name did he get past you with a stake?” I demand.

Harrison’s eyes widen. “Forgive me, Your Highness! I haven’t been myself lately. Please don’t tell the master, I beg of you! I swear on my life that it won’t happen again!”

“I should hope not!” I say, making an effort to calm myself.

I’m reluctant to punish Harrison. First, he belongs to Father, and the truth is, I enjoy the PA’s company. I’m more shocked than angry anyway. Harrison has been nothing but the picture of competence since we met. Granted, his moods have seemed strange lately. His judgment has been a bit off. Yet given the stress of service to the royal family, it’s a wonder any of our servants can maintain their mental health.

I won’t tell Father about this incident, I decide. Perhaps, though, I’ll suggest annual psychological and medical checkups for the staff. In addition, I’ll speak to the doctors and ensure that Harrison has a CAT scan, just in case.

“Your Highness . . .”

“Oh, never mind. Let’s just move on.” I gesture at Kyle. “This one isn’t a complete waste. Let’s break for an hour. Is Nora’s pumpkin bread ready?” At Harrison’s nod, I add, “Excellent. Do fetch a bowl and the loaf. I’ll take my meal in here.”

I’ll tear off small pieces of the bread and dip them into the blood of the unconscious boy on the floor, much in the fashion of Vlad.

After Kyle is removed, a maid arrives to clean the excess blood. She pauses outside the open office door, her eyes downcast, and I order her in.

I go to my desk and log onto the Internet on my laptop. I’m doing it to appear occupied, unconcerned about the submissive maid.

She kneels, nearly frantic as she scrubs.