Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Alexandru
Ms. Renfield’s car is a boxy thing, its door groaning like an aged hound.
Yet she guides it down to the village with ruthless precision, sliding into a space so carefully that I have no doubt the gaps on either side are identical to the inch.
Her father was the same. The green truck.
The obsessive symmetry. The refusal to leave anything to chance.
It’s not far from our parking place to the stationer, but no fewer than a dozen villagers gawk at us as we make our way down the sidewalk.
“People here in America are not as shy as the ones around my castle,” I say. “They stare openly.”
“Dude, you bought Kingston Manor in secret, rehabbed it in secret, and then Sloane told everyone that you’re a prince, and here you are walking around town looking like David Gandy and a Bond villain had a lovechild. Of course, they’re staring.”
“I do not know who that is. But if this Gandy resembles me, he must be quite impressive.”
She sighs. “They’re probably wondering why I’m with you, too.”
“Have you not told villagers that you are my servant?”
“Yeah, ‘servant’ isn’t exactly in vogue anymore. FYI.”
“Why not?”
“It’s disrespectful, that’s why.”
“You are a servant. You are not to be respected; you are to be commanded. That is the place of the servant.”
“It’s just wrong. And it has baggage and implies you are superior to me.”
“But I am superior to you. In all measurable ways.”
She gives me a look that I have come to call her “WTF” look, being that she often utters the letters “W.T.F.” after displaying this expression, wherein she widens her eyes.
“It is true,” I say.
“Bet I could beat you in a hot dog eating contest.”
“Insignificant.”
“Cartwheels?” she tries.
I give her a dark look. “What’s more, my station is superior in that I am your master.”
“Yeah, and master is definitely out. You might inform Gregor of this as well. He can’t go around calling you master. Not cool.”
“I care nothing for your human rules.”
“Well, you should. You need to act normal because I promise you, the Ashwood villagers may prove far more troublesome than the villagers in your old country, if they start suspecting you’re not human.”
“The Ashwood villagers will not be a problem to one such as myself.”
“Midwesterners can make a salad out of Jell-O, canned fruit, and mayonnaise. You think they can’t take down a vampire?”
“I think they can’t.”
We proceed on.
“Not to be respected,” she repeats my words with disdain. “Whatever. I’m just a tool for you, aren’t I?”
“Yes. You are a Renfield.”
“What’s up with you and Renfields?”
I turn to her. “Do not think just because we hunt together that you may question me like a barrister.”
“Fine. Then don’t think you get to know things about me.”
“I know you’re a Renfield. It’s all I need to know.”
“How could I forget? My inner life is of no concern.” She adjusts her black cardigan as we near the stationer’s shop, as if steeling herself for a duel. “I’m serious about the master-and-servant thing. You need to not be an offensive freak. Or at least not offensive.”
I sigh. I’ve found through a long trial-and-error effort that it is sometimes worthwhile to appease a Renfield, and indeed, the villagers around the castle back in Karsovia were tiresome in the way that they would rush off when I appeared. “Very well. What would you both call me?”
“Gregor can call you ‘boss.’ I’ll call you ‘my client.’”
“Ludicrous. Unacceptable.”
“Pick something better, then.”
“You will both refer to me as your overlord.”
She blinks. “Seriously?”
“Does that have baggage? Will it offend?”
She considers. “I guess not. Unless people hate medieval tyranny. Or the ‘Immigrant Song’ by Led Zeppelin.”
“So it shall be. And you are my underlings.”
“That’s not a word people use.”
“Now it is.”
We reach Aster Press, which occupies the bottom floor of a narrow brick building. Its display window shows a set of cream-colored invitations arranged on dark green velvet.
She turns to me before we go in. “You’ll be polite, right? No beast mode stuff.”
I smile and open the door for her. It’s a small gesture, one I’ve done a thousand times in a thousand lifetimes, but she startles. Like she hadn’t expected manners from me.
“Oh. Thanks,” she mutters, and steps through—tense, wary, the way a rabbit might edge past a wolf who hasn’t yet lunged.
“Prince Miramonte, hello!” Ms. Cunningham calls out from behind the counter. Her eyes are set wide, and there’s an elegance to her bone structure.
I incline my head. “Please, Ms. Cunningham. Call me Alexandru.”
“Alexandru, then,” she says, overcome with a mixture of awe and just a whiff of fear, a natural human reaction to one such as me. “And you may call me Sloane.”
Her gaze flicks to Ms. Renfield, and her smile cools. “And our Harriet!” she exclaims in the tone one might use for a bothersome pet.
I find I do not like it. My gaze falls to her neck, where her blood flows sure and strong.
Harriet follows the line of my gaze and stiffens beside me. “Just a quick question,” she says, but it’s as if Sloane hasn’t heard.
Sloane says, “Your cards will be ready Monday, as discussed. They’re coming out so beautifully.”
“Of that I have no doubt.” I step closer, lifting a delicate sheet of ivory stock from a nearby tray. My fingers trace the grain. “French linen?”
She flushes, visibly pleased. “It is. I’m impressed.”
Her scent is sweet. She would be easy to run down.
Ms. Renfield steps forward. “Not to ruin the ‘French linen Burning Man festival’ here, but we have an important request, Sloane.”
Sloane sighs wearily. “What?”
“We’d be really grateful if you could get us the guest lists from the following weddings.” She steps up to the counter and slides a piece of paper across it. It’s her list of seven accidents. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t a matter of life and death.”
Sloane examines the paper and then looks up at me. “We?”
Ms. Renfield flicks a glance my way. “Alexandru and I.”
Sloane frowns. “How is this a matter of life or death, Alexandru, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“The list will aid us in hunting a killer, who we very much want to end.”
“End their career,” Ms. Renfield puts in. “Their career of killing.”
“Thus, we require the list.”
Sloane slides the paper back across the table.
“Alexandru, I know you’ve probably heard America is crawling with killers, and no doubt Harriet’s encouraged that view.
And yes, she has every reason to see a murderer behind every potted plant, given what she’s been through—but I’d strongly advise against getting dragged into one of her sleuthing sprees. ”
I gaze at her, unmoved. “Nevertheless, I require the list.”
She turns to Ms. Renfield, alight with gleeful defiance. “I’m truly sorry, but I can’t hand out information like that. People trust me with their privacy.”
“There are pictures of these weddings all over the internet,” Ms. Renfield says.
“Then go look at the pictures.”
Ms. Renfield’s jaw tightens. “Do you keep the guest lists?”
“That’s proprietary.”
“How is that proprietary?”
Sloane crosses her arms, brightening with amusement. “Because I say it is.”
“That’s like saying the temperature outside is proprietary.”
“Then go outside and take the temperature. No one’s stopping you.”
Ms. Renfield draws in a breath, fighting to hide her frustration. “Look, if we’re right, somebody’s out there killing people, and they could kill again. Your help could save lives.”
“In your imagination,” Sloane says, but I can tell that she’s intrigued. Curious.
I lower my voice. “We require your help.”
“I’m sorry,” Sloane says. “I cannot divulge private lists.”
I stare at her, confused. “You are denying a request from one such as me?”
“I’m sorry, Alexandru,” Sloane says. Her eyes flick to Ms. Renfield. “I simply can’t. Even for a prince such as yourself.”
“Come on, we have to go.” Ms. Renfield seizes my arm and attempts to drag me from the shop.
I blink, unable to process this. A mere shopkeeper would deny me? She seems to get pleasure from denying Ms. Renfield, but who is she to deny me? What’s more, there’s a part of her that seems to want to divulge the list. It’s positively maddening.
“Please,” Ms. Renfield whispers under her breath for only me to hear. “There are things you don’t understand... critical to the hunt.”
I slide my gaze to where she has grabbed my arm. The heat of her frail little hand sparks a strange shiver through me. She lets go.
I turn to the insolent shopkeeper. “Good day, Sloane.”
“Good day, Alexandru.”
I stroll out.
Ms. Renfield comes up alongside me.
“This peasant thinks to deny me?” I grumble.
“Alexandru, I get that people bowed and scraped before you in terror back in ye old country, but you have to play it cool here. You can’t pull rank on people.”
“A mere shopkeeper!”
“Yes, a mere shopkeeper, because this is America and a mere shopkeeper gets to deny whoever she wants. But here’s the important thing.
.. how can I explain it…” She ponders intently as we stroll past the bright little shops.
“As a soldier, were you ever forced to kind of camouflage yourself in order to blend in with the enemy?”
“Do not insult me. I fully understand the utility of camouflage.”
The fussily ornamental streetlamps cast a dainty glow upon the wide, clean sidewalks.
“Right. That’s why I’m saying not to pull rank.
And also, when you’re trying to get information from people, wouldn’t you agree it’s always better to stay on their good side?
Have you ever heard the expression, ‘You catch more flies with honey’?
It means people are more cooperative when you’re nice to them. ”
“I find people are more cooperative when I hang them upside down, bound hand and foot, and allow the rats to nibble their faces for an hour.”
“Yeah, but we’re not doing that, remember? You said you would do this my way. You want me to move into your place, right?”
I sigh wearily. “There is a limit to my patience, Ms. Renfield.”
I wait for her to say it. Not my name.
For once, she doesn’t. “Trust me, our hunt will go better if you’re nice to people and don’t pull rank.”
“Your methods are shockingly cumbersome.”
“But you said you would do it my way. This is my way, shockingly cumbersome as it is.”
“This shopkeeper enjoys saying no to you. It was... impressive.”
“It wasn’t impressive to me,” Ms. Renfield grumbles. “And what’s up with staring at her neck? I’m surprised you didn’t just come out and ask for her blood type.”
“I knew her blood type the moment I walked in the door.” I adjust my right shirt cuff. “What happened between you two?”
“I’m a Renfield. I thought that’s all you needed to know about me.”
“True enough.” I adjust my other cuff. “I’ll have you know that your friend Sloane wants a reason to comply. She would very much like to hand over the list. She needs to get something for her trouble. A bribe would probably do it.”
“A bribe? You think so?”
“Absolutely. She enjoys being the bearer of knowledge.”
Ms. Renfield’s lips part. “You’re right! Wow.” She’s quiet for a moment. “You think she needs a bribe.”
“She’s curious about the mystery, too.”
“You think she believes I’m onto something?” Ms. Renfield asks, brimming with hope.
She is so invested in being believed. Does she not comprehend her own abilities? The thought stirs a flicker of consternation.
No matter. As long as those abilities serve my ends, that is all that matters.
I say, “A bribe would enable her to comply without seeming to give in.”
I feel a bright satisfaction spark within her as the idea takes shape. She turns to me, eyes alight with triumph, red lips formed into a small smile. “And I know exactly what to offer. I know what Sloane collects.”
Ms. Renfield’s certainty is oddly pleasing.
Of course, progress in a hunt is always pleasing.
“It’ll take a little doing to hunt it down,” she says. “If I can hunt it down. And it will cost something.”
She unlocks her car and gets in.
“Cost is not a concern of mine,” I say, settling into the passenger side.
“Yeah, we know your beastly concerns.”
I fix her with a hard gaze, still unused to Renfields speaking to me in such a manner. “It would be prudent of you to bear my beastly concerns in mind.”
Heat steals up her neck, and she looks away, focusing on starting the car. “It’s something I’ll have to do real research to find. I’ll pay for it through your cash account and have it sent to your place. Tell Gregor to keep a lookout for it.”
“That would be your job, Ms. Renfield.”
“Fine. I’ll tell him. Now, next steps: we need to talk to wedding industry people. I especially want you to interview Berky the cake baker. And I have the perfect place to gather intel.”
“What would that be?”
A twinkle appears in her warm brown eyes. “You’ll see.” She turns the corner, maneuvering her car expertly.
“When your father desired intelligence from the villagers, he would take coffee at a place in Ostra. Very humble. Small.”
“With a healthy supply of flies? Perchance a dung beetle nestled prettily in the sugar bowl?”
“He ate what he felt kept him at peak function. His mind was… compromised. But his diligence never wavered.”
Her jaw tightens slightly.
We pass the gazebo, lit by spotlights in all its pink painted glory.
The hill slants upward toward the homes that overlook Ashwood, everything bright and cheerful, even at night, so unlike the misty mountains I’m used to.
The dogs here are fluffy rather than sleek.
The flowers are planted in rows. Even the trees flutter cheerfully in the darkness, nothing like the solemn, secretive pines of my homeland.
“What did she mean when she said you have good reason to suspect killers around every corner? Why do you have good reason?”
“Who knows?” she says breezily.
“You know.”
She stares at the road. “What does it matter, though, right?”
She would deflect my question? Deny me this information I have requested?
But she is right. What does it matter?
She is a Renfield.