State of Independence Page 5

  Silent, serving John gives the slightest bow and disappears. It's quiet for a time after the door closes. I watch one-eyed Lucian pour wine into both our glasses, and try not to rip into the steak with both hands. I’d been living off gas-station beef jerky and fast-food burgers for...six days?

  Instead I let the mystery of this stranger occupy my brain. Fangs to me say vamp.

  He’s got a regular eye, though. No blood-red there. What’s real and what’s made-up theatrics?

  “Please, dig in.” Lucian lifts his wineglass to his lips and gives a sniff before taking a sip. Wine snob.

  “You aren’t eating?” That’s my subtle attempt at fleshing out clues about what he is.

  “I had an early dinner.” His posture is relaxed. He’s leaning back in the chair, one leg crossed over the other.

  I just bet he did have an early dinner. I can’t find it in me to care at the moment.

  But the minute the steak knife is in my hand, it hits me. I pause with my fork tines pierced in the steak.

  “It's not poisoned. Trust me, I could’ve done anything I wanted to you when you were out earlier. There’d be no reason to spike your food.”

  “What are you - a mind-reader?” I ask him.

  “No. You just broadcast your thoughts so clearly on your face.”

  I shrug my shoulders deciding death by steak would be a fine way to go anyways. Guess I need to work on my poker-face. I carve a healthy-sized bite and put it in my mouth.

  It melts. Literal meat candy. Tender and juicy and to-die-for.

  I don’t look up for the next few minutes, absorbed in the experience of satiating my hunger.

  I get through half of it, and lift my head.

  He’s staring at me intently. I reach for my wine glass to wash away some of the awkwardness.

  “What?” I take a sip. Sour grapes. Holy moly. Wine is weird.

  I take another sip just to make sure it doesn’t get better. Maybe not as bad. But still not my cup of tea. I put the glass back down carefully.

  “It’s a Chateau Margaux. A nice red from France.”

  I dip my fork into the mashed potatoes. They are just as heavenly as the steak.

  “It’s Chateau no-go for me.”

  He gives a closed mouth smile, seemingly insulted. He stands and I grip the steak knife hard in my left hand. He walks over to dresser, and bends down beside it. Opens a little mini-fridge and grabs a bottle of water out of it.

  He puts the bottle beside my hand as if knowing what I am thinking. Protect myself at all costs. But he’s not threatened.

  When he sits back down across from me, he’s back to his normal relaxed posture. Maybe a little contemplative. He twirls a ring around his pinky finger.

  This is what a lion looks like in the Serganti. Relaxed but could tear you in half with one swipe of it’s claws if you get too close.

  “What did you mean when you said you didn’t have a home to return to?” He asks as I go back to cutting up another bite of steak.

  “You went through my stuff?” It only makes sense that is how he knew my name. Would he return my money? Two thousand bucks is probably chump change to someone like him. But to me, it’s my whole world.

  He gives a small nod of his head.

  “Well, then you know where I’m from. Who I am.” I shrug hoping he’ll take it as answer enough.

  “I know your name, but I hardly know who you are.”

  I roll my eyes at his words. Freaking rich-guys and they’re smart-ass responses.

  “Look,” I set my fork down on the now clean plate, “I’m just passing through. So if this is your territory or something...you got nothing to worry about. I’m not sticking around.”

  I give him my best little-ole-me face.

  “And where will you go?”

  “That’s my business.”

  Again with another small smile. He switches his one-eyed gaze to his wine glass, picking it up off the table.

  I’d have thought it would have been hard to converse with a one-eyed man without awkwardly staring, but his contrasts are too magnetizing to feel weird about it. He’s an interesting guy and I like interesting.

  Still, I’d love to ask him how he lost it without coming off as rude. There’s a small line that bisects his eyebrow and disappears behind the patch. Sword or dagger? Or running with scissors?

  I’ll have to chalk the mystery up as unsolvable at the moment.

  “What if I could offer you something better than what you have planned?” He asks.

  Here we are. The whole reason I’m here. I pick up my fork again and stab it in the piece of tall chocolate cake.

  “I’d say if you have a proposition for me, spit it out and I’ll decide if it’s better or not.”

  “You are…” He shakes his head. “...amazingly insolent.”

  “Thanks.”

  “That wasn’t a compliment.”

  I shrug my shoulders, but can’t reply verbally because my mouth is full of cake.

  He’s quiet as I chew. I finish the last few bites waiting for him to tell me his offer. When he doesn’t, I lean back in my seat and pat my now full stomach.

  “Is this the part where you tell me you can make me immortal and all I have to do is drink your blood?”

  His eyebrow raises. “No,” He pauses, maybe deciding how much to divulge to me, “I work for Queen Kaida Martine. Our chosen ruler of the Southern territories.”

  I don’t say anything. So vamps elect their leaders and they call them king/queen. I wonder what encompasses the Southern territories.

  “As it happens, she has an opening in her security detail. One that might benefit by being filled with…” He turns his palm open to indicate me.

  “What? A woman?” I smirk.

  “A woman with special abilities.” He answers without comment on my smart-assness. I wanted him to say it. So then I could call him out on what he is. But I guess we aren’t going to play that game.

  “Can we be honest here, Lucian?” I elect to go with the straightforward.

  He gives a nod of his head.

  “I’m not qualified. Or interested.”

  “Qualifications are moot. We’ll train you for what you need to know. Hand-to-hand combat, weapons, soft skills…”

  I wonder what soft skills are. But my curiosity isn’t enough to make me agree.

  “As for the perks. Fifty thousand annual salary a year. Room and board paid for,” He indicates the room, “A car, meals, travel, an expense account for clothes, and in-house medical if you should need it.”

  “Wow. You really serve it up on a silver platter. But still not interested in being some queen’s lap dog,” I smile, “All puns intended.”

  He doesn’t smile at my jokes.

  He leans closer. Face serious. “Those are just the material considerations, Indy. The fact of the matter is you are a lone female wolf without a pack. How long before you run into a lone wolf or a group of lone wolves? They’d catch you and gang-rape you everyday, multiple times a day, doing the bare minimum to keep you alive until you got pregnant. With us? No wolves will touch you.”

  I swallow fear at his words. He’s come too close to the truth. That gang in El Paso would have done just that. And, when I’d gone down swinging against his group of five? I’d been amazingly inept. Sure boxing gave me a little something. But I’d only ever have a chance in a one-to-one fight. That’s just the kicks. I’m small and lack the upper body strength men have.

  “Fine. But I don’t want a car. I want a new bike.” Might as well get as much bang for my buck as I can. And after a fifty yard slide across asphalt, my own bike is probably out of commission.

  He doesn’t gloat as I thought he would. He accepts my answer with a generous tip of his head.

  “What kind of motorcycle would you like?”

  Chapter 15

  He doesn’t waste time. Calling room service again to bring me clothes.

  John arrives again, with two shopping bags. The k
ind that are expensive. Paper with rope handles. No plastic here.

  Lucian takes them from him, and deposits them in the counter on the bathroom.

  “You have an hour to get ready for an audience with her majesty. When you are ready, use the elevator and the keycard to reach the penthouse.”

  I nod. He holds open the door and looks back to me.

  “Tomorrow night we will begin our training.”

  I shower, peeling the gauze taped to my left side and hip off tentatively.

  I have a nice patch of road rash where my jacket and shirt lifted up from the slide. Someone had slathered a nice amount of goop on it, and it was already scabbing up nicely. Still, I hiss when the water hits it.

  A vampire queen. Her one-eyed henchman. Doing business in a hotel. I guess things could be worse.

  I take the time to blow dry my hair. It’d been in a braid and under a helmet for a lot of days. When that’s done, I pull open the bigger shopping bag.

  A shoe box, undergarments, even a roll of gauze and some tape for my road rash.

  I open the other bag and pull out the clothes inside.

  “A dress?” I hold the garment up, and then inspect it.

  Yes. It’s simple, black and modest. The fabric is excruciatingly soft.

  “Fine. I can rock a damn dress.”

  I scan the key card Lucian had given me at the elevator. Inside, a plain button lights up with a ‘p’ and I push it. Obviously heading to the penthouse.

  I fidget a little with the hem of the dress. It’s just above the knee and I feel a certain precariousness wearing such delicate clothing.

  .

  Should I be concerned I’m headed for a vampire’s lair? Probably. But more than anything, I’m just curious.

  When the elevator doors whoosh open, I’m deposited in a small white foyer that oozes richness. White gleaming marble, ornate side tables with lavish floral arrangements. And two bodyguards packing serious heat posted outside a double door. They could have been two of the five that formed the blockade causing me to crash, but they barely acknowledge me.

  “I’m here to see the Queen.” I brazen out.

  “Name?” Left bodyguard asks.

  “Independence Skollen.”

  He nods his head and opens the door.

  I’m not gonna lie. I was expecting a throne room. But this is...a very stylish sitting room.

  Richly and ornately furnished, yes, but none of the chairs sit higher than any of the others. One corner has a tucked in bar, and along the west wall is a line of windows out to a patio of sorts. The space is amazingly light and comfy for a vampire’s personal quarters. Grays and whites. Candles and luxurious textiles. A fur throw over the back of the couch. Big poofy cushions.

  Far from the deep, dark dungeon I imagined a vamp-queen like her might live in.

  Behind the couch, a long sofa-table style cabinet holds candles and an ornamental sword. It’s long. Viking style, perhaps a replica, but more than likely the real deal. My eyes glide over it, not surprised to see such a relic in a vampire’s den.

  Above the fireplace is an old-style shield. Wood and iron. The sigil painted on front is too faded to make out the details.

  When I left my room it was nearing midnight, and out her windows, I can see that the city is still awake with artificial light. The east wall has a closed door.

  Lucian sits supremely on the white loveseat.

  Next to him, in a regal looking white pantsuit, with a lacey style bustier under the light jacket, is an olive-skinned, exotic looking woman.

  Fashionable and elegant. No cape and crown - a pity.

  “Independence, please come, sit.” She indicates the loveseat opposite Lucian.

  I sit down on it, remembering to cross my legs. Not knowing what to do with my hands, I clasp them loosely in my lap, but that feels too demure and lady-like for me, so I quickly unclasp them and cup my knee, one hand over the other.

  Does a flicker of a smile lift Lucian’s lips? Or is that a jaw tick?

  She seems normal enough. For a vamp. Lucian speaks in her ear and she looks me over with eyes contemplative, before nodding.

  “I know you and Lucian have hammered out the details, so I won’t waste our time with that. What I want to know, Independence, is how loyal you are.”

  I consider my words. “As loyal as your money is good.”

  Translation: keep me housed, fed, and happy and we won’t have problems.

  She gives a nod. And taps her fingers on the arm rest.

  “And our protection?” She tacks on.

  “Your protection is...appreciated.” I answer. Look at me being all diplomatic and shit. I really want to protest that I can protect myself, but I stuff down the antagonizing for the moment. I think Lucian approves.

  Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, Indy. I lift my lips at the irony of that thought in a den of vampires.

  “Good. Then we understand each other. I look forward to working with you upon the completion of your training.”

  She stands then, holding out her hand. I stand too, and shake her hand. It’s not a corpse hand, but soft and normal.

  “Lucian will show you out.”

  We leave, and in the elevator Lucian punches the button for the lobby.

  “Floors two through ten are legitimate hotel rooms with human guests.” He twirls the ring around his finger. “Floors eleven through fifteen are our apartments. Twelve houses the training gym.”

  Good to know.

  In the lobby, he guides me over to a small sitting area in front of the check-in desk and between the bar. “Sit. Don’t move.”

  He enters the employees only door to the side of the check in desk. The bar has only a few patrons this time of night, and one guy about my age is working the check-in desk. He makes eye contact with me and gives a smile.

  From this distance I can’t tell if he is a vamp or not, but being that he saw me come down with Lucian, I don’t think I have to worry about him approaching me. Demanding answers for why I’m waiting in the lobby.

  The back half of the hotel opens into a courtyard, complete with pool. Wonder if my perks include use of it?

  Lucian comes back then, paperwork in hand. I want to roll my eyes, but instead I slide the paperwork to me when he puts it on the circular table between us.

  If I’m doing this, I better read the fine print.

  Six months of training for a bodyguard position, then an additional six working as a bodyguard, with option for working more. Lucian didn’t lie about the perks. Room and board in her posh hotel. Room service whenever I want it and a big fat paycheck. It's all outlined here in standard legalese. How had he managed to get this typed up so quickly? Just keeps it on hand as a normal set of paperwork? There’s no mention of a motorcycle, but I won’t be a choosing beggar at this point. Just get through the training. Besides with the money they are direct depositing into an account with my name on it I can buy ten bikes.

  I sign the contract of employment. There’s also an NDA. I sign it too.

  When I’m done, Lucian slides the papers back to him and aligns them all neatly with a serious type-A OCD tap on the table.

  “You’ll need to visit the bank tomorrow to finalize the bank account set up. Are your only clothes what you had on you?”

  “You went through my bag, so you know it is. I’m not Mary freakin’ Poppins.”

  He reaches into his suit breast pocket and slides out a piece of plastic. “I don’t know who that is, or what she has to do with us, but take this, get appropriate attire for training. Clothes that breathe and move, yet protect your skin.”

  “Oh daddy. Just what I always wanted - a shopping spree!” I say it deadpan while taking the card.

  American Express black card. Nice.

  He grabs my wrist. For a second, his eye seems yellow-gold in the light. “We will start training tomorrow night.”

  “Right. Floor twelve?”

  He nods and releases my hand. “Nine p.m.”
<
br />   I head to the elevator, push the button and go back up to my room. I flop down in the bed, kick off my shoes, and pull the blanket up to my chin while clicking on the TV.

  Employment starts tomorrow, so I’ve got to make the most of my last hours of freedom.

  Eight hours later, I’m hitting the bank promptly. After that stop, I make my way to the nearest shopping mall, thanks to the directions the morning-shift desk lady gave me.

  I find the woman's department inside a popular athletic store, promptly pick out four new pairs of black workout pants, three sports bras, three tank-tops, and three long-sleeved tees. A hoodie and a new pair of sneakers and I am set.

  It feels weird using Lucian’s card to pay for it all, but I console myself with the fact that it is all functional and practical wear. Not like I can train in my scuffed up jeans, leather jacket and torn t-shirt - of which had yet to reappear in my room.

  And I can always pay him back when I get my first paycheck.

  I head back to the hotel and spend the day in bed, gorging myself on room service pizza, chocolate ice cream and French fries. At five p.m. there is a knock on my door, and the same service guy that delivered my meal the night before sits in the hall with a luggage cart full of bags.

  “What’s this?” I ask him.

  He shrugs his shoulders. “Mr. St. Clair sent it up.”

  I let him in and help him unload the bags.

  “If anything doesn’t fit, please just notify the front desk, and we will work to get you a replacement.” He leaves then, and I peek in the first bag.

  Black jeans. The second bag has black boots. Regular jeans. Soft shirts. One bag has ten pairs of soft, comfortable underwear. A fancier, softer-than-butter, new leather jacket.

  Guess what I bought wasn’t approved.

  I fold it all up, stick it in the drawers and tuck the bags into the trash can. Then I get dressed and put on my shoes.

  Tonight I begin my training.

  I go to the gym fifteen minutes before nine. No one is there; I take my time looking at the machines, the matted space, the bathrooms. When Lucian enters the gym, I’m standing by the squat rack.

  He walks to me, then around me slowly in inspection.

  I spin with him, not happy to have him at my back.