I don't deny it. "Not only for Zachary, but, yes, he is part of it."
"You love him."
Sabine may be wicked, but she understands love.
"Help me," I say, "and you will be rewarded. I am the rightful heir. I can facilitate the smoothest transition."
"I like you, princess. I do. But we are beings of self-interest, not of honor."
I don't blame her for doubting me. I play a card I have no right to. "I'm not only giving you my word, Sabine. I'm giving you the word of my angel, too."
She audibly gasps. "The word of God?"
It's blasphemous to agree. For all I know, doing so may cause me to burst into flames. Hopefully, though, He will forgive me this, if nothing more. "Yes."
277
Zachary
I'M CHAINED FLAT ON MY BACK to the thirty-foot-long buffet table in the middle of the courtyard. I can't believe this is happening. I've never felt so helpless, stupid, or ridiculous in my entire life. It was one thing to have thought I was a fallen angel. Another to hear from Joshua that I've only "slipped." But being laid out as the decorative centerpiece of The Dracula's social high point must go down in the history of heaven as the single most revolting performance by an angel of the order guardian.
As Harrison unbuttons my shirt, I spit in his face.
"I like it," his brother, Freddy, says. He backs away, positioning his hands like a movie director trying to figure
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out the camera shot. "I like the drama, the composition. An angel, you say?"
"A fallen angel." Harrison scowls as he wipes his cheek.
"Foolish, fallen angel," Drac proclaims, puffing on his stogie. He slams the kukri knife into the wood, through the light-blue tablecloth, alongside my temple. "Don't you know you're supposed to have changed sides?"
Where is Miranda? I wonder. Where?
"The first guests are parking in the west lot," Harrison announces.
At that, Drac dissolves into mist.
Freddy flips open his cell and talks as he walks the perimeter of the setup.
Harrison risks leaning over me, back into spitting range. "I knew you were too good-looking to be human." His voice drops. "I didn't know there were angels."
I may have failed with Miranda. But I give the pitch another try. "You knew firsthand about the demonic. Why wouldn't you believe in us?"
"We were raised in this world, Freddy and I, children of servants who were children of servants for generations. It's all we've known."
I'm buying that only up to a point. "Your brother doesn't want to vamp out."
"No," Harrison agrees. "He would've run from this life long ago..."
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"If it weren't for you." That's what I figured. That whole Hannibal-Lecter-party-planner shtick might fool the vamps. Not me. "It's not too late,'' I tell Harrison, hoping I'm right. "You can still make a choice for good."
Before Harrison can reply, Freddy rejoins the conversation.
"You're lucky that this one showed up, Harrison," he says. "The master's original plan for tonight was to put you in the holy-water dunking tank."
Harrison nods absently. "You have a little angel tattooed on your chest," he tells me, like I don't know that. "A cherub."
Freddy pushes up his wire-frame glasses. I almost swallow my tongue when he says, "That is not one of the cherubim. That is a fat, naked white baby with wings."
Where did I hear that before? Joshua. Amtrak.
It's no coincidence. It's what? Divine nudging, I suppose.
Freddy is a human being. He has a guardian angel. Freddy, Nora, all of the human servants scheduled to be killed. Their angels must be doing what I used to. Indirectly encouraging, inspiring. Pulling strings.
Even if Miranda has deserted me, I'm not alone in this. I remember what Josh said at the museum. Heaven is on my side.
"Speaking of the fallen," Freddy adds, "oh, brother of mine..."
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"Not now," Harrison says, walking off. "There are guests to greet."
"What's going to happen next?" I ask.
Freddy begins tossing blue and white rose petals on me. Artfully. "Well, we're going BYOB since the party favors are AWOL. The resulting kitsch factor at a royal gala is in itself something, but it's not that nifty. So, the idea is to cut out your heart, the heart of an angel, and exhibit it around on a silver platter. The guests will be warned not to taste but invited to stab it with their lobster forks."
"You're going to do that?" I ask Freddy. "Cut out my heart?"
When we first met, I would've believed it of him in, well, a heartbeat. But since then I've been getting a much more complicated vibe.
"Oh, no," he clarifies, working the blade of the knife free. "The master is reserving that honor for the princess."
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Miranda
I TWIRL THROUGH THE GALA, biding time, until Sabine moves to my side beneath the south wall overhang.
"Philippe has seen to the sentries," she says. "Only three are left. They are taking a little nap."
I know this isn't Sabine and Philippe's first coup d'état, but I'm still impressed. "The crowd?"
"The local aristocracy is more loyal to the master than the international set is, but they are survivors. They will gauge the situation. Even if most of the domestic eternals stand with Radford, we will not be without support."
An underworld war. Sabine speaks English fluently, but her accent is noticeably thicker. She's nervous, too.
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"Be ready," I tell her, turning the kukri knife. "Philippe, too."
She raises a large brass goblet as if to toast me, but doesn't drink.
Later, at the buffet, I don't have time to say anything to Zachary. He can't see me because of the blue silk blindfold. He can't say anything because of the matching gag.
Radford appears immediately by my side.
The hilt of the knife I'm holding is cold to my touch and at times seems to vibrate slightly. Or maybe that's my hand shaking.
It might seem ill advised, Radford's decision to have the knife placed in my hands. Yet he's always surrounded himself with deadly materials--the weapons throughout the castle, the fire of the torches and candles, the holy water in the reflecting pool. Furthermore, he's yet to let his gaze stray from the blade while I'm within striking range.
Harrison rings his handbell, calling the attention of all assembled. As befitting their seniority, Sabine and Philippe flank us. She to Radford's right, he to my left.
Once the crowd quiets, Harrison announces, "Tonight it is the great pleasure of The Dracula, exalted master of eternals, king and ruler of the Mantle of Dracul, to present for public torture and humiliation an angel of the Lord."
The crowd shrinks back. A few raise their faces to the
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heavens. Some stare at Zachary like he's a sideshow freak. Others stare at Radford in awe.
He booms, "Understand that your master is no fool. I know there are those among you who have doubted my capacity to rule. Yet I present to you the desecration of a holy being. No mere human devotee of the enemy, but one who foils our efforts on a universal scale. He is an angel fallen--stripped of flight and radiance--but still in the service of the opposition."
Zachary protests against the gag, struggles against the chains.
"Sugar," Radford prompts.
I've been improvising as I've gone along, but now I don't know what to do next and I've run out of time. I raise the kukri knife in both hands high over my head as if to plunge it into Zachary's heart. I'd meant to stab Radford instead, but my positioning is wrong. The master vampire is too attentive.
For the first time since I died, I close my eyes and pray.
"One moment, Your Highness! Excuse me. Coming through." Freddy steps in front of the onlookers to record the moment on video. "Look this way! Exalted Master, Princess Cutie." He pans. "Frenchies?"
Even under the circumstances, I can't help being amused.
Fred
dy gets away with the attitude because he's the best at what he does, and Radford insists on having the
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best. He demanded the finest effort of his "princess" from the beginning, and tonight that's what he's finally going to get.
Freddy adjusts his focus. "That's fantastic! Carry on!"
The lure of preening for the camera distracts Radford. I take one last look at him, my murderer, the monster who ripped me from everyone I loved, the one who stole my future and reinvented me for his own wicked purposes.
He's handsome, distinguished-looking, there's no denying it. But those GQ looks and the royal posturing, they're a lie. I'm sick of lies. I'm sick of this whole existence.
I take a half step closer to Philippe, tighten my grip on the knife, and bring the blade down at an angle, driving it through the tux and into Radford's abdomen.
It's not a killing blow. But if I'd tried to turn and strike upward through the heart, he would've blocked me.
Radford reaches out, his hand breaking the scab around my neck.
This is it, I realize, the moment I find out whether my alliances hold.
And then Sabine tosses the contents of her goblet into Radford's face. He lets go of me with a piercing cry, covering his burning skin with his hands, only to bum his palms, too. Holy water, I realize. The knife is still firmly lodged, bleeding him out, as he staggers backward and falls to his knees.
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Victor--he of the baby-teeth necklace--is next up, rushing to his master's defense, only to be blasted by an electric charge from Philippe's bat-head cane.
Elina leaps over the buffet table to land in front of me. She pauses just long enough to show off her forked tongue. It's all I can do to dodge the attack when Sabine steps between us, knocking out Elina's fangs with one punch.
As for me, I have powers but no clue about hand-to-hand combat. It was one subject Radford overlooked in my training.
I'm the only one of my kind, though, who seems to have that problem. The courtyard has become a frenzied battle zone. Vampires are skittering up and down the walls like scorpions, leaping into battle. Three in wolf form collide in the middle, a blur of flying fur and dripping jaws.
Freddy and Nora shout to the human PAs, food servers, and the harpist, herding them out of the way, out of the fray, through the castle to safety.
The parking lot will empty fast.
And Radford? He lies, twisting on the courtyard's stone floor. His forearms cover his face like a shield. He's wounded, weakened, but still lethal.
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Zachary
PHILIPPE TEARS APART the chains and helps me down from the table. I rip off the blindfold. Spit out the gag. Both of my legs are asleep from the hips down. They buckle.
"Easy, monsieur," Philippe says. "Take my arm."
"You're not an evil vampire?" I ask.
His tone is friendly. "We are all evil vampires," he says. "But some of us are on your side. I would ask forgiveness for me and Sabine, but it is too late for us, non?"
"Not my department," I say. "But I'll put in a good word."
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I don't know where Drac is, and I don't care. Once I get enough circulation to stand, I take Miranda's arm. "Your throat!" I exclaim. "You're bleeding!"
Miranda grabs several light-blue napkins and presses them against the wound. "It's not deep," she says, "and I heal fast, much faster than a human. I'll be fine."
I press my lips to her dark hair. "You're sure?"
I still don't know if she's redeemable, but for just a moment it matters less.
Miranda gives me a brisk kiss on the lips. "We'll talk later."
"Hang on," I say, but she's so fast. In a flash, I lose sight of her in the crowd.
Frustrated, I take in the larger scene. The party has turned into pandemonium. A fury of fiends. Tables and chairs are flying. One vamp after another stumbles or is tossed into a reflecting pool, where they're vaporized.
Philippe's bat-head cane shoots out an electric charge, blasting an incoming wolf-form attacker.
I'm knocked to the ground by a vamp who keeps on going. Standing, I'm smacked down again by a stray elbow.
At first I can't tell who's winning. I can't even tell who's on whose side. I'm not even sure the combatants know or if they're just creating carnage for the fun of it. Based on the curses being thrown around, though, it looks like the majority back Miranda. Or at least Sabine.
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I'm on my feet when three werebears burst into the courtyard.
Brenek has returned; he's brought along Mama and Papa Bear, and man, are they pissed! Did I mention that Brenek is a big guy? Turns out he's not even full grown. His parents look supersize.
Immense claws rip through undead skin. They tear off heads and limbs.
Only problem? They're not fighting on anybody's side. They're lashing out at any vampire they can reach.
"Miranda!" I don't see her anywhere. "Miranda!"
Something falls from the sky and breaks on my head. I'm drenched.
I duck a flying armless body and spot more black balloons raining down.
On the rooftop of the castle--it's the dungeon escapees. A handful of them anyway. Maybe ten, sporting street clothes. The ones in good enough shape to fight.
To my left, Freddy is in trouble. He draws a stake from his inside jacket pocket, and a snarling female vamp bats it away. Before I can move to help him, a balloon explodes against the attacker, dousing her. She shrieks and crumbles, smoking.
Like the pool, I realize, the balloons are filled with holy water.
Freddy takes advantage of the moment to grab a nearby torch.
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Another vamp wails--loud and furious--as a balloon finds its target.
"Miranda!" In the chaos, I can barely hear myself. "Miranda!"
Across the courtyard, a fiend grabs Nora and bends her neck.
In midair, I fling the punch bowl at the monster's lower back. The force of it sends both him and Nora tumbling. I just manage to catch her. Rise with her in my arms.
I'm flying! Flying. It's a miracle.
"Good Lord, boy!" Nora exclaims. "What are you? A werepelican?"
I guess she missed Drac's announcement.
When I don't reply, Nora is quiet a moment. Then she exclaims, "Oh, my God!"
"Closer," I say, setting her down on the roof and taking flight again.
She's not the only one who's noticed. Vamps below catch sight of me. My wings.
I'd acted on reflex, and there they were. I don't know if this means I'm reinstated. But it has to be a good sign, right?
Unless I just blew it again by accidentally showing my wings in a courtyard largely filled with denizens of hell. That would be my luck.
I don't think so, though. It's not just my wings that are
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back. Once again, I can feel the power to radiate heaven's light. It's singing through my body.
Like in the Dallas cemetery, it would be so easy to shine.
But no. Not here. Not now. Not with Miranda in the open like that.
Still, I scan the crowd. Do they know what my radiance could do to them? At least some of them do. A sultry brunette morphs into a bat and bails. Others cower. Two of those in wolf form change back.
The balloon attack stops.
Freddy raises his torch.
Mama Bear and Papa Bear and Brenek rear up on their hind legs and roar.
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Miranda
RADFORD'S SHAPE CHANGES, blurs. The tux melts away. He lifts his head, showing a raw, hairless, wolf-form face. His skin looks like lava. Meat hangs off the bones. Sabine knew how to hurt him.
This isn't like the lovely whoosh of the holy-water pool.
"Sugar," he growls, staggering to his feet. In his anguish, there's no pretense. The southern accent is thick. "Traitor!"
He writhes, his face a man's again. A fang falls from the disintegrating gums. His torso goes lupine. He bends, gasping. Tiny,
useless bat wings spring from his shoulder
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blades. He yanks the knife from his chest but doesn't have the fingers to hang on to it.
The weapon falls with a clack onto the stone. I take a step toward it, and Radford opens his mouth, spewing a cloud of smoke that smells like hell.
"Princess!" It's Harrison, holding up my battle-axe.
He tosses it my way, and my preternatural reflexes allow me a one-handed catch.
I charge Radford's flailing form, swing the weapon, and end so much suffering. His head falls from his body and rolls into oblivion. The body disintegrates, too.
It's not showy, like what happened to Geoff. The pieces simply turn to ash.
The crowd is silent. I count half a dozen motionless bodies on the ground, some dismembered. I have no idea if any of the dead were human. Sabine's skirt is torn and her lip is cut, but she looks satisfied. Philippe is hardly ruffled.
I glance up, and there he is, Zachary, his wings-- wings--strong in the cool wind.
I remember illustrations in the Bible in which an angel appears with light shooting from his halo. Zachary doesn't have a halo. His body isn't glowing.
A glimmer of light is there, though. It's in the way he looks at me.
The way we're looking at each other.
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Some in the crowd follow my gaze and gesture to the rest. They're staring back and forth between us, as if we're players in an unearthly tennis match.
The Bears lower their heads.
Whoever's on the roof, they've joined hands and raised them high.
A few vampires try to shield themselves. Others flee on two legs or four. Penelope crouches, hissing low. Victor rips off his baby-teeth necklace and begins to cry.
The majority inch toward me, for protection.
My audience is shaken, receptive. At least tonight, they won't question my youth or raise challenge. I step forward, plant my dress slippers on the ash, and raise my voice. "I hereby claim the Mantle of Dracul." I pause, awaiting a reaction.
Nobody's arguing. Is that it? Sabine said that would do it.
Should I say something else regal to sort of seal the deal? I'm at a loss. Then Sabine curtsies, Philippe bows, and all of the assembled undead follow their example.
"Your Exalted Majesty," Harrison calls, walking toward me, "there's a DustBuster in the cabinet in the storage closet off the kitchen. With your permission, I'll fetch it, clean up that"--he gestures toward what had been his master--"mess for you, and dispose of the ashes in the reflecting pool."