the exalted master and, therefore, your superior. I’ll show you to your quarters.”
Hang on. Did he say “Dracul”? As in Dracula?
Oh, come on! That’s the demon in the portrait?
It explains the castle, though. Talk about believing your own press.
Go figure. Dracula himself must’ve been the one lurking in the Dallas cemetery. Granted, I never got a look at him. Not flat on the ground with Michael’s sword at the back of my neck. But why else would Miranda be here? Be called “princess”?
Miranda. I’ve seen bloodsuckers before, spat on them.
I’ve never loved one.
It’s no surprise, what Miranda has become. I suspected from the moment the archangel said “her very soul is forfeit.” I knew when I saw Kurt, fangs bared, in the cemetery with Lucy. If Miranda hadn’t been killed in the explosion, this would be the fate I’d sealed for her.
For over a year, I’ve mourned Miranda, dreamed of Miranda, tried to pretend other girls were Miranda, called them by her name, and seen her when she wasn’t there. She should be in heaven right now, playing Scrabble and snacking on chocolate-chip cookies with her grandfather. Instead, she’s here. And so am I.
Harrison doesn’t seem to notice my zombielike state. “The castle is twenty-five thousand square feet. Each floor is composed of four wings, forming a rectangle, with two connecting hallways in the middle — both running north-south.
“The west wing houses the overflow social and recreational halls; the north, the dining room, throne room and/or ballroom; the south houses the kitchen and the supply rooms; and of course this, the east wing, is our business center. It’s locked daily at sunrise and during events.
“The mistress may give you a key to her office. I have an office of my own.”
How nice. I wonder if he was this passive-aggressive before the midlife crisis. Harrison’s petty attitude, his apparent acceptance of his place, pisses me off.
I like it, the anger. I like it more than the way my knees keep threatening to buckle. Much more than the price Miranda has paid for my screwup. And I like it better than the thought of disappointing the Big Boss again.
“You’ll also notice,” Harrison goes on, “three interior courtyards opening from the first floor. The largest is in the middle and often used for entertaining. You may peer down on them and across the grounds from the third floor or climb from there up an additional flight of stairs to a rather pleasant lookout tower.”
Like I care about the view. “Where is —”
“Situated on the second floor are the quarters of the executive administrative staff: me, the senior PA; you, the very junior PA; Laurie, the chauffeur; Nora, the chef; and the maids, all of whom have recently had their tongues cut out — long story.”
As we climb the narrow, curving stairs, I’m suddenly very aware of my own tongue.
“A handyman, Boris, resides in a cottage on the west side of the property, along with our gardener-groundskeeper, Bruno, though the latter is currently overseeing the landscaping at our estate under construction in San Miguel. The dungeon manager generally stays downstairs, thank God.”
“Dungeon?” I ask.
“Along with the wine cellar and the majority of our storage space, it’s located, as you might imagine, underground. One of the tunnels beneath the building leads from the dungeon control center onto the east grounds so we don’t have to parade human stock through the main house.”
I grab Harrison’s forearm, harder than I meant to. “You’re human, right?”
The answering nod is sharp, punctual, and noticeably begrudging.
“You keep people, fellow human beings, locked up here and feed them to monsters?”
He blinks rapidly. “Just their blood.” His tone has lost some of its arrogance. “Not the whole . . .” He gestures at himself, realizes what he’s doing, and drops his hands. “Not the whole person.”
“And you’re okay with
Hang on. Did he say “Dracul”? As in Dracula?
Oh, come on! That’s the demon in the portrait?
It explains the castle, though. Talk about believing your own press.
Go figure. Dracula himself must’ve been the one lurking in the Dallas cemetery. Granted, I never got a look at him. Not flat on the ground with Michael’s sword at the back of my neck. But why else would Miranda be here? Be called “princess”?
Miranda. I’ve seen bloodsuckers before, spat on them.
I’ve never loved one.
It’s no surprise, what Miranda has become. I suspected from the moment the archangel said “her very soul is forfeit.” I knew when I saw Kurt, fangs bared, in the cemetery with Lucy. If Miranda hadn’t been killed in the explosion, this would be the fate I’d sealed for her.
For over a year, I’ve mourned Miranda, dreamed of Miranda, tried to pretend other girls were Miranda, called them by her name, and seen her when she wasn’t there. She should be in heaven right now, playing Scrabble and snacking on chocolate-chip cookies with her grandfather. Instead, she’s here. And so am I.
Harrison doesn’t seem to notice my zombielike state. “The castle is twenty-five thousand square feet. Each floor is composed of four wings, forming a rectangle, with two connecting hallways in the middle — both running north-south.
“The west wing houses the overflow social and recreational halls; the north, the dining room, throne room and/or ballroom; the south houses the kitchen and the supply rooms; and of course this, the east wing, is our business center. It’s locked daily at sunrise and during events.
“The mistress may give you a key to her office. I have an office of my own.”
How nice. I wonder if he was this passive-aggressive before the midlife crisis. Harrison’s petty attitude, his apparent acceptance of his place, pisses me off.
I like it, the anger. I like it more than the way my knees keep threatening to buckle. Much more than the price Miranda has paid for my screwup. And I like it better than the thought of disappointing the Big Boss again.
“You’ll also notice,” Harrison goes on, “three interior courtyards opening from the first floor. The largest is in the middle and often used for entertaining. You may peer down on them and across the grounds from the third floor or climb from there up an additional flight of stairs to a rather pleasant lookout tower.”
Like I care about the view. “Where is —”
“Situated on the second floor are the quarters of the executive administrative staff: me, the senior PA; you, the very junior PA; Laurie, the chauffeur; Nora, the chef; and the maids, all of whom have recently had their tongues cut out — long story.”
As we climb the narrow, curving stairs, I’m suddenly very aware of my own tongue.
“A handyman, Boris, resides in a cottage on the west side of the property, along with our gardener-groundskeeper, Bruno, though the latter is currently overseeing the landscaping at our estate under construction in San Miguel. The dungeon manager generally stays downstairs, thank God.”
“Dungeon?” I ask.
“Along with the wine cellar and the majority of our storage space, it’s located, as you might imagine, underground. One of the tunnels beneath the building leads from the dungeon control center onto the east grounds so we don’t have to parade human stock through the main house.”
I grab Harrison’s forearm, harder than I meant to. “You’re human, right?”
The answering nod is sharp, punctual, and noticeably begrudging.
“You keep people, fellow human beings, locked up here and feed them to monsters?”
He blinks rapidly. “Just their blood.” His tone has lost some of its arrogance. “Not the whole . . .” He gestures at himself, realizes what he’s doing, and drops his hands. “Not the whole person.”
“And you’re okay with
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