The Shape of Things to Come (Hypernaturals 15)

What Do You Want?

Mr. 'Broken Hands Turn Me On' must have been convincing of the need for a meet. We did not have to wait for long.

"Just a moment, dears. I need to fix the seating." Fiona had said and then moved three chairs out and away from the seating over to the edge by a planter.

"Now: Claremont's Vampires sit along here." Fiona instructed, and we arranged ourselves along three adjacent sides of the table. This left the brother and sister two places to sit, opposite of us.

"Majordomos are also social experts." I commented.

"I was a teacher when I was human. Parent/Teacher conferences. Sometimes those do not go well, and you need to have your position clear from the start." Fiona explained.

Denise put the icing on the parent/teacher conference arrangement by laying her loaner gun on the table in front of her with studied carelessness. "We have a little more authority than that." She commented.

"We do indeed, but it never hurts to do a wee bit of stage work to underline the point." Fiona replied with her Irish brogue.

I tried to imagine a parent/teacher conference with Fiona when she was human. Older looking. Hair shot with gray. The minted at the forge competence that attracted Helen to her for this job. Must have been a hell of a talk about how little Suzie was going with her homework, or how sweet darling Bobby was a terror and needed to be in timeout yet again.

Helen probably could have had anyone in Vampiredom for this job. It's not easy, but it's pretty nice. Running Claremont in the French countryside is a good gig. Helen chose Fiona for a reason. A woman of capability (and for centuries) knowing it in another woman when she sees it. I often doubt Helen would have felt comfortable giving me Claremont if she had not already had Fiona there to keep me from fucking it up. I'm not that good in bed. No one is. Claremont is Helen's pride and joy. Her baby before she had a real one.

"What do you want, Claremont?" came the annoyed, upper class accented French voice.

I made a point of rotating to look at her slowly. The woman asking me what I want is dark-haired. Her coiffure is designer cropped to bounce along above her shoulders in a laser-cut line. She wore a sweater under a business jacket and over matching slacks. Her frame is trim and her movements demonstrated both youth and time spent in the gym. I immediately jumped to the conclusion that gym time is, for her, 'me' time.

Her brother is the same height, has the same color hair, is in open-necked business attire, and slightly softer looking. Not as much 'me' time in the gym. He has a defiant expression that managed to be irritating and querulous. I could see everything Fiona said about the relationship between the two in their aspects. That Sylvie is the one in control, and Duval a self-indulgent prick.

Sylvie addressed me by my last name, with no honorifics. A measure of her defiance and open lack of respect for me. Fair enough. I would do the opposite and be overly familiar.

"Yes. So lovely to finally meet you. Don't you just cut a figure of overly styled competence? Sit Sylvie, my dear." I instructed her. "You can stop the act. It is not a good look for you. I know your lightly damaged security critter told you why we are here, right before he went to get some ice for his hand. Probably in there worrying about how he is going to find all the parts to his favorite gun, currently spread out over there in the grass."

I did not need to go look around the shades to be sure no one else was close. No nearby well-armed security. I can see perfectly well they are not through the shades. Also, if they were there, Denise would have shot them by now. She does not like to kill. She likes to protect me more. I prove repeatedly I can take care of myself, yet I am surrounded by protectors.