Managing the Vampire’s Mansion (Magiford Supernatural City)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Abi

“You got kidnapped, didn’t you? I knew it! I knew that house manager job sounded sketchy!”

“No, Mom.” I leaned back against my car and peered up at the imposing house before me, looking valiantly for the house number. “I called you because I made it to the house and I wanted to let you know my location.”

Just in case this job does prove to be a front for illicit activities… but it wasn’t like I could say that part out loud to my mom. She was already questioning my sanity for taking this job in the first place. I couldn’t admit I had my own doubts.

“Oh. Well, you made it safely, right? Did you stop and eat like I told you to?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Are you sure about this, Abigail?”

Oof, she’d busted out my full name for this four-times repeated conversation. That meant she was serious.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she continued, not giving me a chance to reply. “I’m thrilled you left that accounting job of yours—that company was going to suck you dry until you dropped dead from overwork. But leaving town and heading north into the boonies of Wisconsin to take a job as a house manager?”

“Algoma, Wisconsin isn’t the boonies, and as summer has just started, it’s going to be the height of the tourist season so this area is going to be very busy.

” I squinted, still looking for the house number in the quickly dwindling sunlight.

“And I needed a change of pace, something to break my cycle of overwork. This job is a perfect fit. Plus, it pays so well I should be able to knock out the last of my student loans!”

“I know, you told me all about that while raving about compounding interest and waving graphs in my face. But I still don’t like you moving so far away from everyone you know.”

“Bonnie worked in this area for a summer when she was in college,” I reminded her, referring to my younger, extroverted sister.

Bonnie had given me the idea, actually, when I’d impulse quit my job. She said a summer in the Door Peninsula—the finger-shaped part of Wisconsin that jutted into Lake Michigan—might be just what I needed to clear out my head.

Of course, she’d been referring to the more typical seasonal work you could get in the area—at a restaurant, hotel, bed and breakfast, etc.—and not taking on a position as a house manager.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t gifted with charisma like my charming little sister, and I’d blown all my phone interviews for service industry positions.

“Yes, but Bonnie thrives on personal interactions,” My mother continued, her tone careful. “You Abigail, are… well… you’re very talented with numbers.”

Mother, it seemed, shared my reservations regarding my people skills.

I finally spotted the house number—I was at the right place. “I’m hanging up now. I need to go inside and meet my employer.”

“Carry your pepper spray, and did you take a baseball bat with you like your father suggested?”

It took another minute of assuring my mom I’d brought plenty of self-defense tools before I was finally able to get her off the phone.

In that time the sunset had morphed from a bright pinky-orange to something closer to a crimson red, but when I compared the Queen Anne styled Victorian mansion before me with the picture the interviewer back in Magiford had texted me, it was easy to see it was the same building.

The place inspired a curious mixture of awe and unease.

Naturally, it was beautiful, the siding colored blue-gray and the gables, trim, and various porch fencing all white made it quite stark against the gardens and greenery of the vast mansion grounds.

But the asymmetrical building seemed unable to settle exactly how many floors it was as various turrets, cupolas, and roof peaks competed against each other to poke higher and higher into the sky.

The army of trees that surrounded most of the lot only added to the air of almost sinister mystery as they blocked out a lot of sounds and all sights except for the stretch of Lake Michigan beachside, not to mention that while the mansion had the Algoma postmark, it was far enough out in the country that the only neighbors I’d seen that broke the swaths of farmland and occasional patch of trees were antique farmhouses.

None of this, however, bothered me much.

I’d been hired by a reputable real estate company that operated out of Magiford—the hub of magic for the Midwest. It was unlikely they worked for a serial killer when they managed a number of apartment buildings in the magical city that were—according to my research—in high demand.

Although, admittedly, breaking my apartment lease and selling everything I couldn’t fit in my Toyota Rav4 was perhaps a bit of a gamble.

But I was determined. The old workaholic, no-social-life Abigail that had worked as an accountant was dead. This was a new era. Apparently an era for managing-houses-that-looked-expensive-but-haunted.

I grabbed my folder that contained all my signed paperwork as proof of identity, locked my car, and strolled up to the front door, ringing the doorbell that sounded more similar to a church bell than a door chime.

I peered around the doorway and the immense porch it was nestled into. Some of the house’s weirdness faded with this closer look. It became obvious to me just how much money this home owner had sunken into it.

There wasn’t so much as a chip in the paint job, and the cushions on the wicker furniture looked brand new.

The door opened, revealing a tall, handsome, but simultaneously imposing man. “Abigail Marshall?” he asked.

“Yes. Mr. Kinge?” I replied, unsure.

“Yes,” he said in a deep and gravelly voice that matched his broad-shouldered build.

The man that interviewed me had explained Mr. Kinge had recently inherited the house from a relative, but I hadn’t thought he’d be—going by his appearance—only a few years older than my thirty years.

“I’m glad to see you arrived safely. Come in.” Mr. Kinge stepped aside for me.

“Thank you, Mr. Kinge.” I stepped into the mansion, which had a fairly standard entrance as far as my knowledge of Victorian mansions went, with a white stair case, a long hallway, and doorways that broke off into rooms on either side.

I was more curious about my employer, and took the few moments he spent closing the door—not locking it, a good sign that he wasn’t the axe murderer Mom feared he would be—to further study him.

The most eye-catching part about him was the stark black tattoo on the left side of his neck. His hawkish nose and face—sharp, like he’d been chiseled from stone—gave him an almost royal air that was at odds with the very fashionable haircut his feather black hair was kept in.

No wonder the interviewer told me when he had me sign all the necessary paperwork to take this job that I was exactly the person they’d been looking for, even though the only similar position I’d had before was serving as a dog manager/nanny for a pair of golden retrievers owned by a wealthy couple.

The interviewer explained that the biggest requirement of the position was that I didn’t plan to move to the area permanently.

At the time I’d thought it was weird. Now it struck me that it was probably due to Mr. Kinge and his good looks, to make sure I wouldn’t be hanging around and turn into a potential stalker.

“Please, call me Kinge.” Kinge smiled—a gesture that did absolutely nothing to soften his face—and adjusted his wire rimmed glasses that also didn’t soften his image.

“I’ll show you around the house and confirm your duties, although, when you signed the paperwork you should have been given a basic list of job expectations? ”

“Yes.” I opened my folder and produced the list. “I’m to manage everything the house needs, whether that’s scheduling the lawn service or meeting with the contracted handyman to give him the list of necessary repairs and/or fixes.”

Kinge nodded, then beckoned for me to follow him down the long hallway. “You, naturally, are allowed in almost all spaces in the house. The exclusions are my personal study and bedroom, and the basement.”

“Understood,” I said.

We passed a couple of openings into other beautiful, magnificent rooms, but the one that caught me was the library.

The room was stuffed with wall to wall bookshelves, except for the giant fireplace and the huge floor to ceiling windows that streamed light in to give the library a magical feeling.

The ceiling was so high there were a few rolling ladders strategically placed on a few shelves, and comfortable, velvet-upholstered furniture set over a Turkish rug were strategically arranged in front of the fireplace.

It was the kind of room book lovers would pin to vision boards, or marry a beast for. It was perfect.

“A pair of cleaners and the handyman come twice per week,” Kinge said, jerking my attention back to him. “They’re contractors, and managing their work is also part of your duties. You’ll meet them tomorrow morning—we start early here.”

I hustled after him, quickly catching up. “Got it. Besides the lawn service, are they the only contractors?”

“Yes,” Kinge said.

No chef or cooking staff? Interesting, considering he seemed to contract out for everything else in his life—including house management.

The hallway ended at the kitchen, but Kinge threw open a small door just before it. “This will be your office,” he said.

Curious, I slipped inside.

The space was dominated by an ornate wooden desk—it was a mystery how it had ever gotten inside the room as it was absolutely huge—and an equally giant red velvet upholstered armchair that served as the desk chair.

It was cozy with olive green wallpaper patterned with cream colored flowers that were yellowed with age, and hunter green velvet drapery that drowned a small window that overlooked part of the mansion’s impressive grounds.

The office was a touch on the smaller side; it possibly had served as a pantry in a past life, but it was bigger than my cubical had been, and much nicer.

The desk alone probably was worth more than my previous company had ever spent on any furniture/equipment for me in all my years of working for them.

“Is it acceptable?” Kinge asked, reminding me of his existence.

“Yes, of course.” I turned around and smiled at him—it wasn’t even a customer service smile, but a genuine one. “It’s lovely. Thank you.”

Kinge nodded. “It’s my duty to see that you’re outfitted with everything you should need, so there is a laptop and a tablet in the top drawers for your use.

There is a small black and white printer-scanner in the desk cupboard, too.

Should you need anything else, write it down and email me—the laptop and tablet are both already logged into the house internet system.

I’m a contact in the address book along with the other contractors. ”

“You’re admirably organized,” I said.

Kinge tucked his hands in his black trousers and shrugged—a massive motion given the breadth of his shoulders. “The previous house managers set up most of this. They left a black password book and a blue address book in one of the drawers for your convenience, too.”

My estimation of the previous house managers rose even higher. My company would have committed tax fraud to get their hands on office managers who were even half as meticulous and detail orientated!

It was a shame they’d already left, I would have loved to meet them.

“Your hours are flexible,” Kinge continued. “But given that much of your work deals with reaching out to the contractors, I imagine you’ll mostly stick to typical business hours and work weekdays only.”

“If I’d like to run an errand in town during the week, though, can I adjust my hours and work late?”

“That’s perfectly acceptable, although if you can finish your work despite the errand you don’t need to make up the hours. I am a strong believer of work/life balance so I discourage overtime and working into the late evening.”

I studied my new employer and considered the possibility that he might be a wizard, or some being made of magic.

Supernaturals had gone public years ago but they—besides the shifters—usually stuck to larger cities. As far as I knew there wasn’t even a fae Court in Algoma, but a part of me suspected he had to be made of magic to be an employer who didn’t want overtime and made up hours.

“You’re mythical,” I said.

Kinge blinked. “Pardon?”

Woops. I hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“Nothing.”

“Ah.” Kinge shifted from his position in the doorframe, then pointed to the window.

“Continuing on, you’ll be staying in the remodeled carriage house.

I’m told the previous house managers—a couple, who worked for my uncle before he passed— lived there.

Everything should be in working order, but if there are any problems, you have free reign to arrange for it to be fixed, and I will pay for it. ”

I peered out the window. There was just a sliver of sunlight that let me make out the shape of a cute little brick building that had similar trim and roofing style as the main mansion.

“Excellent,” I said. “The interviewer said it’s one bedroom, one bathroom, with a kitchen and living room?”

“Yes.”

I nodded and waited for Kinge to go on.

Kinge briefly scrunched his eyes shut and rubbed at them. “Sorry, contacts,” he said.

“Ah. You must be going for a very specific fashion aesthetic, then?” I said.

His dark eyes popped open. “Sorry?”

“To wear contacts and glasses.” I motioned to his artwork-worthy face, then paused. “Unless—do you have vison problems and I need to make allowances for that?”

“My eyes are fine,” Kinge said, his voice flat.

Ah, I had offended him. I’d been infamous at my previous office for my blunt manner of speaking, but I’d been attempting to bridle that given the perks of the position and my need to make this work.

“My apologies,” I said.

Kinge shrugged, then slipped out of the doorframe. “Come on. I’ll show you the kitchen—which is where you’ll typically meet with the cleaners and handyman—and then you can get settled in the carriage house.”

“Excellent, thank you.”