Eternal by Cynthia Leitich Smith

Author:Cynthia Leitich Smith [Smith, Cynthia Leitich]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
ISBN: 978-0-7636-5153-4
Publisher: Candlewick Press
Published: 2009-12-30T05:00:00+00:00

AFTER OUR SPAT LAST NIGHT over the prisoners, Miranda excused me to enjoy her blood wine in private and summoned the maids back into her office. I suspect that tonight we’ll get started on party planning. Put mildly, I’m not looking forward to it.

After what Gus said about the literal bloodbaths, I’m sure we’re not talking face painting, fireworks, or pin-the-tail-on-the-weredonkey.

But Miranda isn’t up yet. So I take advantage of the lull in my schedule to roll a cart stocked high with cardboard boxes into the dungeon. The boy who last time said “God damn you” as I walked by settles for glaring at me.

“What’s that?” Gus asks from his intake desk. He looks up from a handheld video game. It’s one of those urban shoot-’em-ups so popular with budding sociopaths.

“Long underwear,” I say. “Orders from upstairs. The hospital gowns are tired.”

“Little princess doesn’t like her food bare-assed, huh?” Gus frowns down at the screen as he’s virtually killed. “Eh. The master will just change them to something else when he gets home.” He reboots the game. “Have fun.”

“Fun” is too strong a word. It makes me feel only marginally better to distribute the new long-sleeved shirts and elastic-waist pants, courtesy of Miranda’s platinum card and same-day delivery. I wanted to buy mattresses, too. But I’m already pushing my luck.

About half of the kids ignore me or shrink back when I approach. I drop theirs in the cells. Others waste no time pulling on the duds.

I only wish I could give them some hope to go with the polyester.

“Thank . . . Thank you,” mumbles a girl with a Jamaican accent. She slips the pants on under the hospital gown. Turns to the corner of her cell to wiggle into the top.

I avert my eyes, catching a whiff of cigar smoke. I can’t tell where it came from.

The next prisoner reaches through the bars. “Gimme, man.”

“What’s this?” asks the burly guy, the one with the unibrow. “You playin’ us?”

“I’m trying to help,” I say.

He looks skeptical. But he, too, takes what I offer.

Who are the angels assigned to these kids? Not that they could’ve necessarily prevented this. At the risk of stating the obvious: crappy things happen to good people. The influence of angels is touch-and-go, and most don’t interpret the rules on indirect intervention as liberally as I used to. As I toss out another set of long underwear, I consider the possibility that maybe it was the prisoners’ GAs who lobbied Michael to send me here. That, in addition to taking out Drac, I may be the only one who can make all this better somehow. It’s an overwhelming thought.

Before I can dwell on it, a guttural noise echoes through the chamber. I look in the direction of the sound. It’s Harrison. Drac’s flunky. His hair sticks out in every direction. His eyes are blazing red. He’s wearing house slippers and a black silk kimono with a crimson dragon embroidered on the back. He’s one of them now. A vampire.

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