Chapter 7 #2
I track her footsteps through the labyrinthine stairways and ancient corridors.
My mind holds a perfect map of all six stories of this castle, my hearing acute enough to discern her location at all times.
Her mutterings reach my ears with perfect clarity: “What the hell!” “Oh, great.” “That’s nice.
” These last phrases are in a tone suggesting she’s found nothing nice or great at all.
I see potential in her—once she settles into her role.
It comes to me that she is a bit like Elisabeta—more so than all the rest of them.
I brush away the thought. If anything, her reminding me of Elisabeta will make it more pleasurable to kill her if and when the time comes.
Some minutes pass, and then I hear her exclaim, “Aha!” from the castle’s kitchen, nestled between stone walls blackened by centuries of cooking fires. She has found the phone.
She mutters to herself. I hear the distinctive click-click-click as she spins the dial, followed by a frustrated sigh.
“Operator? Yes, I need to place a collect call to the United States.” A pause. “Ohio. InovaSpire Incorporated in Ashwood.”
She chats with whoever is on the other line in a hushed manner.
I catch phrases like, “This phone has seen nine popes and the entire big band era...” “... funeral is a bit more comprehensive than I imagined...” “middle of the night here” “A ton of estate duties, let’s just say.
..” “need a powerful satellite Internet connection sent... fast as humanly possible... small generator...guess an locker was too much to hope for, huh?”
She rustles around the kitchen, looking for food, I suppose. Then, “Thank you, Jesus!” followed by a period of silence.
She makes another call to somebody named Josie, who peppers her with questions about an inheritance.
“I got something all right, yeah, a big freaking obligation. I know. I know. It’s bananas.
” A pause. “No, I wouldn’t say ‘bad,’ just…
a shit show.” Another pause. “No, I’m fine.
I’ll explain everything when I see you. Love you. ”
She’ll explain things when she sees her? Does she think she can host tea parties here? The next call is different.
“Mom! Yeah? Great! Things are fine here—it’s just taking a little longer to manage the affairs than I expected.” Her voice is steady and bright with effort. “How’s the store? Did the fridge keep humming? Any news on Granabelle’s thing? Tell me, was it today or tomorrow?”
Another pause. Then, lightly: “Do you need me to arrange someone to help? One of Josie’s cousins?”
She’s soothing them.
Gregor returns at some point, and she ends the call, peppering him with questions about her newfound siblings and demanding the name of the hospital and the doctors’ credentials.
She asks him for her suitcase and a place to sleep, explaining that she’s been awake for “a million hours at this point.”
“I will ask the master,” Gregor says.
“Why are you calling him that? You shouldn’t call him that,” she whispers sharply.
Their voices grow louder as they make their way toward the library. She seems obsessed with coffee—if we have it, where it’s kept, and the process for making it, all of which Gregor explains patiently.
“Over the fire? You mean in the fireplace?” Her tone is incredulous. “Wow. Okay.” Then, “How long have you worked for Alexandru?”
“Five hundred and thirty-seven years,” he says.
She gasps. “Are you a vampire?”
“No.”
“But how can you live so long? Are you some kind of other thing?”
“Some things do not concern you,” he hisses, voice tight and grim.
“Sorry.”
They continue to the library in silence. Ms. Renfield comes right in and sets her hands on her hips.
Gregor hesitates at the threshold because, unlike Ms. Renfield, he has decorum. “Where shall the lady sleep?” he asks.
I set the book aside and rise from my chair. There will be little reading done before this one is settled. “Bring her bag to her father’s bedroom. Come, Ms. Renfield.”
“Not my name.” Even so, she follows me through the corridors past portraits of forgotten nobles.
I push open a heavy oak door to reveal a sparse bedroom. A single bed with crisp linens sits against one wall. The rest of the space is dominated by a large writing desk positioned for optimal light from the narrow window.
“Your father’s room, milady,” Gregor says.
“Seriously, call me Harriet.” She touches the desk and gazes out the window onto the mountainside, where the first fingers of dawn stretch over the valley. The forest below is still dark as ink.
She goes to the wardrobe—tall, dark, paneled in carved walnut. “So this was his life. All those years. This room. The ledgers. These…” She runs her hand over the sleeves of the suit.
Whereas her father was gaunt and haunted, always presenting himself with his trembling hands clasped together and his eyes downcast, she stands with a straight spine and a disconcertingly steady gaze.
Her features are strong and solid, the set of her jaw hard, chin tipped up, and I find myself wondering if her chin-up stance is part of her pose of defiance, or if it’s due to the way her glasses sometimes slide down her nose.
“Do you think he was... happy with this life? I mean, is this what he wanted?”
“The inner lives of Renfields are not my concern,” I inform her.
Her outrage is evident even before she turns her hot glare to me.
“Question?” I ask, stepping into the room.
“How did he die?”
“He died as he lived, milady,” Gregor says. “In service.”
“What does that mean?”
“I mentioned needing a particular document from the archives in the village below—records of a property deed dating back to the seventeenth century.” I run my fingers along the edge of his desk.
“Your father insisted on retrieving it himself, despite the approaching storm. The village archivist warned him to wait until morning, but he knew that it would please me to receive it before dawn. The storm worsened on his return, and the mountain road collapsed in a landslide.”
“Oh no,” she whispers.
“Gregor and I found him half a mile from the castle gates, hanging on to life by a thread. His leg had been crushed, yet he had stubbornly dragged himself toward the castle, eager to fulfill his duty to his master.”
“Oh my god,” she whispers.
I pause, remembering the scent of Renfield’s blood mingling with the rain, his breathing pathetically labored.
“Before his arms gave out, he had apparently crawled to a low, hollowed-out tree trunk. With the last of his strength, he fashioned a waterproof covering from his own clothing and positioned the document inside to keep it elevated from the mud. He used his final moments not to call for help, but to craft an arrow in the dirt beside him—made from twigs and stones—pointing toward the hiding place, in case he lost consciousness.”
Her heartbeat quickens. I can feel her horror rise.
“His final words were an apology for a small bloodstain on the corner of the top page. Even as he bled to death on the mountainside, his concern was for the precision of his service.”
“Wait—he was still alive? Did you call him a medical helicopter or something?”
“He would not have wanted that. What use would he have been to me with a crushed leg?”
“What use?”
“He begged to kiss my hand, which I allowed. And that was that. Gregor buried him in the Renfield cemetery behind the castle.”
She adjusts her glasses, all the better to goggle at me with maximum disgust.
“He was exemplary,” I say. “An excellent model for you to follow.”
She hisses out a breath and turns from me, continuing with her exploration. She eventually reaches the far wall. She draws the curtain aside to reveal a large, dark glass pane. “He had a TV in here?” she asks, incredulous.
“It is not a television, Ms. Renfield.”
She gasps. “This is full of ants!”
“Your late father’s formicarium. It connects to a larger colony beneath the castle foundations,” I explain. “He required sustenance during his midnight labors. He found flies and ants particularly nourishing. A family trait, I believe.”
“You would believe wrong,” she says. “Like, so wrong.”
Gregor goes to her, ponytail clasped neatly at his nape, jacket buttoned all the way to his collar.
“Milady.” He bends to show her the intricately carved silver door set into the upper corner, complete with a tiny arched entryway and flying buttresses.
A delicate filigree handle no larger than her pinky nail allows it to swing open on hinges that haven’t tarnished in centuries.
He points out how the air holes are punched in patterns resembling the castle’s own windows.
“He was very proud of his formicarium,” I inform her. “And now it’s yours.”
“Excited as I am about my very own insect buffet, is there maybe another bedroom available?”
“I tire of your obstinacy. This is your new room. This is your new life. The consequences of further resistance will be educational.”
“As in, the dungeon?”
“Gregor will see to anything more that you need.”