Eternal by Smith Cynthia Leitich

Author:Smith, Cynthia Leitich [Smith, Cynthia Leitich]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Speculative Fiction
ISBN: 9780763647735
Publisher: Candlewick
Published: 2009-02-10T07:00:00+00:00

"I know," I reply. "I know many things." That sounded stupid. "Think of what I could show you, what we could do together." That was worse. How do women do this? Be saucy, be sexy?

"Have you visited them? Talked to them?" Zachary counters. "They're just kids."

I shift my hips, take a few steps in my heels, and wobble on the right one. "Let's speak of the future," I suggest. "Our future. There are castle rooms we've yet to visit."

Rooms with beds, rooms with werebear rugs, rooms not drenched in Theo's blood. Doesn't Zachary find me tempting? Doesn't hewant me?

"Right now," he says, "I want to talk about the dungeon."

This is going nowhere. He doesn't even seem to realize what I'm offering. But why not? He sought out this job. He sought me out specifically.

Perhaps the wavering eye contact is the problem. I could take his chin and force his gaze to mine. I consider and dismiss the idea.

It's a shame. Here I am, in the company of the most drinkable boy...

Oh, well. However intriguing, if he doesn't come around soon, I can always toss him downstairs with the cattle he cares about so much.

I snatch away the battle-axe, giving up for the night, and reposition it on the sidewall next to theLittle Shop of Horrors poster. "I'm not merely an eternal citizen or even an aristocrat. I'm royalty. It's unrealistic to expect me or Father, as busy as we are, or the sentries who guard our grounds to go hunting in the city every night. Besides, no one else wants those humans. They're only good for their blood."

"How do you know?" my PA asks again

"I know. Nobody ends up here by accident."

He blinks like I've slapped him across the face. Then, as if I'm his own kind, as though he needs no invitation and has every right, Zachary bridges the distance between us and threads his fingers through my hair. When he speaks again, his voice isn't angry. It's comforting. "Are you talking about them or about yourself?"

"They're runaways," I say, batting his hand away. "Or throwaways or shipped in from places more miserable than this. Some are bought outright from their pimps or their parents. What difference does it make? You'll draw from them, too, sooner or later. Or at least that's your goal, right? That's why you're here, isn't it? To become one of us?"

The look on his face...It's as if I've wounded him. As if he doesn't know who he is.

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