Four, p.8
Four, page 8
“I can bloody well have all I want,” Geoffrey said with a defiant pout.
“Well, there is only so much pig’s blood you can get over the weekend, so you need to make it last—and hold still!” she said as she finally yanked a mat out from behind his ear. “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it? No? Good!” she snapped as she tossed the tangle into the trash bucket, which contained a few centuries of gnarled nail shavings, hair knots, and other ancient bodily scrapings. Georgia pulled off her latex glove for a moment to grab her own drink and cool off before returning to her Herculean hairstyling efforts.
Mr. Lambley looked equally uncomfortable as he slouched in his chair with his gut poking out from under the camisole nightgown he still wore from nearly two weeks before. His only concession to modern modesty entailed a pair of silk boxer shorts he finally deemed worthy enough to touch his delicate skin.
As his slumping and pouting became punctuated by intermittent sighs, Georgia finally stomped her foot and bent around to face him. “Look, if you ever want to go out of this brownstone, you need to rise to twenty-first-century levels of hygiene, OK?”
“Who says I even want to go out?” he grumbled.
“You did!”
His lip quivered, accentuating his distinctive lack of a main chin on his doughy face, but he managed to hold still for a few minutes and let the assistant yank a few more sections smooth. His eyes widened as she pulled out a tube of minty freshness and a brand-new toothbrush. His secondary chin wobbled with anxiety.
“Yours is the pink one, mine is the blue,” she said. “Don’t mix it up.”
His eyes widened, and he shook his head vehemently. “There is no way in heaven or this earth—” he started, but his blustering only gave Georgia the prime opportunity to shove the brush in his mouth and start scrubbing. He spit the pinkish foam immediately on the floor. “You! You! You—”
“You have dead puppy breath, deal with it,” she said as she shoved it right back in there. “Come on, you don’t want to lose any more teeth, do you?”
“Vampires don’t get tooth decay!” he protested.
“Well, they do get bad breath, so brush up before I keep brushing for you,” she said as she grabbed another bottled water and the waste bucket. “Spit in here this time, if you don’t mind.”
Reluctantly he swished the toothbrush a few times around his mouth. He then grabbed the bottle and tried his best to rinse out any trace of the minty foam and spewed into the little bucket. Georgia smiled before cleaning up the spray that didn’t quite make it.
“This is intolerable,” he said before grabbing his kiddie cup. “The smell alone is atrocious. How do you humans stand smelling like cheap strumpets all the time?”
“It’s better than what you smelled like, that’s for sure. Now, it’s almost dawn, and I haven’t slept in nearly twenty-four hours. Can I put on your show and send you to bed?” Georgia asked.
“My show isn’t on till noon,” he said.
“Aha, I’ve got something from this century that you will actually like. Come with me.”
She took his hand and led him out of the upstairs formal bedroom he had once used to entrap her and into his much darker and smaller sleeping chamber. There only a bed, nightstands, and an old-fashioned little television filled the space. She picked up two remote controls, causing her boss to tilt his head in wonder.
“Why are there two of those infernal things now?” he asked.
“Because the cable guy finally showed up this afternoon. That’s why I was up all day.”
“There was a stranger in my house while I slept!” Geoffrey cried. “Was he in my chamber?”
Georgia rolled her eyes. “I told him you worked nights and were asleep, so he left the last box with me. I hooked it up while you were on your second bath.”
“But I already have the cable in my television. Stefano had it hooked up in the eighties—”
“You had crap, so I fixed it. Welcome to the wonderful world of DVR. You can record the show while you should be sleeping and then watch it when you wake up,” she said as she started flipping through menus. “I even had the guy set it up so that all the soap operas you like are in the record list already.”
“If it’s like a video recorder, then it’s a waste of time. I always end up destroying the tapes.”
“I have it all the way across the room, and there are no magnetic tapes, OK? Just don’t fry this cable box. I really don’t want to have to pay the replacement fee.”
Geoffrey threw his hands up in the air. “This is just too much for me to handle right now. I can’t believe there was a stranger in my home. You don’t have the right to—”
“I live here too, and I can’t live on four hours of sleep indefinitely, so we’re going to have to adapt. You need more rest and a better diet too.”
“You know nothing—” he started.
“Oh really? I know that you like your blood warmed to exactly ninety-seven-point-five degrees and that you prefer it with a splash of lime. I also know that the extra key is hidden under the second rabbit statue outside and that our mailman’s name is Bob. I’ve learned all this in less than two weeks, and I have the bonus of finding stacks upon stacks of old notes left by a Mr. Higgins, who I can only assume was your last assistant.”
“Higgins left notes?” Geoffrey asked weakly.
“You would have found them if you ever cleaned,” she snipped. Her face softened slightly as her boss’s shoulders slumped and he gave a hangdog look toward the bed. With a sigh she pulled back the covers and then tucked him in with the remote. “How could someone as helpless as you survive for over thirty years on your own?”
She made sure his almost empty sippy cup was within reach, and she helped him find something sappy and black and white on the very-early-morning cable schedule.
“Trust me, if you could have someone care for you, you’d embrace the opportunity,” he said as he snatched the remote and started flipping around the stations again. He stopped as he noticed his short pink nails with nary a trace of dirt hiding under them. “Is the rest of me as well-groomed?” he asked.
“Let’s just say, you’re a work in progress, but we’ll get there,” she said as she eased back toward the door. “Hey, if you’re ever willing to wear some pants, we might even be able to take a walk one night. Now, can I please get some shut-eye?”
Mr. Lambley was already engrossed with a chef extolling the virtues of a new all-powerful blender with titanium blades. “I’ll call if I need anything, Georgia,” he said dismissively. “Good day to you.”
“Good day to you too,” she said as she slipped into the hall. She thought she heard him mumble something about bills and REM sleep or something like that, but she just trudged her way into her own little fortress of solitude. The drop cloths and cobwebs had been swept aside, and plastic crates of jeans and DVDs now mixed in with the classic mahogany furniture.
She pulled her second key out of her pocket and locked the door before flopping unceremoniously on her squishy plastic-topped ancient mattress. None of the lumps seemed to be able to stop her from snoring within seconds of face-planting on top of her fuzzy blue blanket. However, after only two hours of tossing, turning, and sawing logs, her eyes snapped open, as she could distinctly hear someone or something barging through the front door.
“What the—” she said as she then heard loud, heavy footsteps. She rolled out of bed, peeked out the curtain, and had to immediately squint at the glaring midmorning sun. “Burglar, not vampire,” she sighed before snapping awake. She immediately grabbed the first heavy object she could muster and unlocked her door.
At the same time, a strange voice said, “Mr. Lambley, it’s rather bright, so I wouldn’t come down.”
Georgia looked at the flatiron she was carrying in her hand. “Am I dreaming?”
“Mr. Lambley, sir, I’ll just leave the . . .” The voice trailed off as Georgia appeared on the landing, still wearing the same jeans and cami that she had been rocking during her vampire-scrubbing session overnight. Her bright yellow cheetah-print bra stood out marvelously under the stained-white spaghetti-strap number.
The stranger at the base of the stairs stopped dead in his tracks, and the overflowing pile of mail and grocery bags in his arms nearly ended up on the now-sparkling checkerboard tiles. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Well, who the hell are you—Agent Smith?” Georgia snapped as she rubbed the little crusty bits from her eyes.
The stranger looked down at his neatly pressed black suit, gray tie, and starched white shirt. His jet-black hair was slicked back into a tidy, gel-infused helmet, and his eyes were indeed still covered by black plastic lenses. He even wore one of those black plastic earpieces that characterized both the Secret Service and the executive douche-bag elite and shoes so shiny Georgia could clearly see his reflection in them. Only the mountain of unwieldy plastic in his arms broke the illusion of his being a trained government killer.
“I’ll say this again, what are you doing here?” he asked flatly.
“I live here,” Georgia said without skipping a beat. “Now are you going to explain exactly who you are, or do I need to wake up Mr. Lambley?”
The stranger just walked right past the stairwell and disappeared into the kitchen. Georgia stumbled down the stairs and followed him. She found him gawking at the new state of the room as he unencumbered himself by setting a veritable mountain of papers alongside a bag labeled “Izzy’s Exotic Pets.”
“What in the world happened to this place?” he asked as he saw a coffeemaker next to neat little jars marked sugar and salt. “The stain is gone,” he said, pointing to a spot near where rat traps had once flourished. He also seemed utterly entranced by clean dishes in a dish rack and a half-devoured loaf of bread sitting in a bag on the counter.
“It’s amazing what you can do with elbow grease plus a metric ton of industrial degreaser,” Georgia said flatly. “Now could you possibly answer one of my questions, Mr., um—?”
The heretofore plastic-faced stranger finally took the time to pull off his sunglasses and tuck them neatly into his breast pocket. He then extended his right hand. “Ren Matsuoka,” he said. He eyed the hair-styling appliance still in Georgia’s hand. “Were you planning on straightening an intruder to death?”
Georgia set it down on the counter sheepishly and finally shook his hand. “Georgia Sutherland,” she said. “Mr. Lambley forgot to mention that we were expecting company.”
“Well, Mr. Lambley is often one to omit certain key details,” Ren said, still eyeing Georgia with some degree of suspicion. “And you are Mr. Lambley’s—?”
Georgia crossed her arms across her chest. “I work for Mr. Lambley as his personal assistant, and you are Mr. Lambley’s—?” she asked in the same bitchy tone.
“I am nothing to Mr. Lambley,” Ren said. “I serve Master Stefano DeMarco.”
“Master DeMarco? What century did we just enter?” Georgia asked. She found herself fascinated suddenly by just how freakishly light Mr. Matsuoka’s eyes were in comparison to his otherwise completely Asian features and coloring. Indeed, his bright gray-green irises simply invited her stare.
“I am Master DeMarco’s assistant, and I serve as financier for several related parties, including Mr. Lambley. My master insists that his allies are well-treated, and your master has been an ally for quite a few years.”
“First off, Mr. Lambley isn’t my master—he’s my boss—and how do I know anything you say is true . . . ?” She trailed off as she saw a package of previously frozen whole rats in plastic wrap. “Oh, you’re the one who brought the rats before.”
“Yes, my master looks after your boss rather well,” he said, rolling the word boss off his tongue with particular disdain. His gaze then slipped downward for a moment. Unfortunately, Georgia caught him trying to recover.
“Did you need to do anything else here, or should I let you take a picture?” Georgia asked.
Ren’s face remained utterly passive. “Should I tell my master that the food drops are no longer required, and should I arrange for an allowance in Mr. Lambley’s operating account?”
“I can take care of getting him rats, if that’s what you mean, and he eats much better now, by the way.”
“I’m sure he does,” Ren sighed.
“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” Georgia snapped. “Wait, you don’t think that he . . . that he and I . . .” She stopped to read his damnably blank face. “What gives you the right to just barge in here and drop off rats anyway?”
Ren placed the bags in the refrigerator. “No offense was intended,” he said without even looking at her. “Are you taking any responsibility for his finances as well?”
“I moved the cash out of his freezer and put it in the safe,” Georgia deadpanned. “I didn’t even know he had a bank account until today.”
Ren pulled a business card out of his black leather wallet. “If you need any clarification on his financial matters or status, my cell is on there. I normally work later than average business hours, of course.”
“Oh yeah, your master must keep you up all night too,” she said. “Look, I haven’t had a decent day’s or night’s sleep in two weeks—”
“I’ve sorted all of Mr. Lambley’s financials for the month, and you can let him know that the property tax is up-to-date. He hasn’t specified a stipend for you yet, but if you give me account details, I can confirm all the necessary transactions with your boss.”
“Well, thank you for that,” she sighed. “Anything else?”
He pulled a red and gold envelope out of the mass of mail. A thick old-fashioned wax seal and embossed lettering caught Georgia’s eye.
“You’ll want to tell Mr. Lambley that I wouldn’t normally bring an invitation over, but this year the Solstice Ball is being hosted by the Pendragon clan for the first time in fifty years, so he might want to consider ending his boycott of society gatherings,” Ren said as he handed it to her.
“Vampires have balls?” Georgia asked, wide-eyed.
“Not all of them,” Ren deadpanned as he reached for his glasses once more. “If you have any questions, you have my card; otherwise I shall see you at the end of the month with the updated balances.”
“What a dick,” she muttered as he left without another word. Instead of poking through the pile he left, she ended up stumbling right back to her room and flopping back on her bed with the invitation just lying on her nightstand and her door only halfway shut . . .
“So, every vampire has an assistant?” Gail asked.
Georgia shook her head. “Not everyone, but most of them do. Ren, however, wasn’t just one bloodsucker’s butler. He worked for several of the area elite as a financial advisor.”
“And he’s the one who told you about the ball? Were you excited?” she asked.
“Oh, excited wouldn’t be the first word I’d use, but I eventually got there . . .”
“So, who is Ren Matsuoka?” Georgia asked as she poured Mr. Lambley’s first shake of the night.
“Oh, you met Stefano’s boy?” Geoff asked. He shuffled a bit as he tried to adjust to the cotton T-shirt Georgia had finally stuffed him into.
“I wouldn’t call him a boy, but I nearly decked him with a styling tool when he showed up unannounced this afternoon.”
“Oh, I thought I told you he was coming with the bills. He also brings lunch,” Geoffrey said. “Though his cooking is not nearly as good as yours.”
“He brought an invitation to something called the Solstice Ball—”
Mr. Lambley didn’t even wait for Georgia to finish. He jumped to his feet and shoved away from the table. He actually moved so fast that it took Georgia a few minutes to hunt him down in the dark recesses of his sleeping chamber. She could barely make out him shivering in the little strip of exposed carpet between his bed and the far wall. Little tufts of hair peeked over the comforter, while she could hear his slippers slapping against the ground.
“Oh no, no, no, how could he do this to me?” Geoffrey whimpered. “I gave explicit instructions that no invitations were ever to come to me.”
“He said it was because the Pen and Dragon clan or something—”
“The Pendragon clan is hosting?” Geoffrey gulped. “Oh, this is even worse!”
“Calm down, just calm down,” she said as she eased down next to him and started rubbing his back. Slowly but surely, the trembling slowed. “Take a deep breath.”
“Too much . . . too fast,” he choked out. “Too much, too fast.”
“Is this gonna be a long night where I end up hiding in the bathroom again?” Georgia asked. “Come on, talk to me. What’s so bad about a party invitation? Just don’t RSVP if it bothers you so much.”
“I wish it was that simple,” Geoffrey said. “An invitation from family is considered a formal request. If I see it and refuse to attend, then I might be seen as breaking my word, and that would break one of the four laws.”
“Well, you technically haven’t seen it, though,” Georgia offered.
“But I do know it exists, and it has been accepted in my home by my servant—”
“Assistant,” Georgia corrected.
“Assistant,” he sighed. “What am I to do? June is not that far away—”
“June is months away—”
“What are months when you live forever? I’ve blinked, and a month has gone by,” Geoffrey gasped. “I cannot even leave my house. How can I possibly go out on the scene? I’ll be a laughingstock, an utter laughingstock! Toothless Geoffrey, toast of the ball? No, I’ll be the designated fool—the jester.”
“How can you panic so much about something so far away?” Georgia said. “What can be so terrifying about a party?”
“They will all be there. The Solstice Ball is the start of the social season. It marks the shortest night of the year and the celebration of ever-increasing hours of darkness in which to revel. It is always hosted in the most exclusive of locales, and all of the local family heads will at least make an appearance. If the Pendragon clan is hosting, then the Pendragons will be expected—” He devolved into wheezing, panicked breathing.
