My Bad Boy Werewolf Quadrillionaire Space Lord

Past Regrets and Future Hopes

Calling a human flawed was an exercise in vocalizing redundancy.

Alcuard walked the luxuriously wide halls of this strange man's flying palace with a twisting torrent of warring emotions. The ship was quite a bit larger than his own palace, and even if it were landlocked would be an expression of extravagance more obscene than anything Alcuard's decadent people had attempted to build. To have auditoriums, theatres, stadiums, and more in a spacecraft was a demonstration of wealth so absurd that it threatened to cripple his imagination.

But there was one thing that could redeem even the darkest of empires. One sound that could not be heard without a degree of virtue, even grandeur. It was a sound that Alcuard had stopped hearing in the days before he had torn down the dark empires of his home. And it was a sound that, every few years during his millennia in the COFFIN, he would ask his computer to play, to remind him of what mattered most.

Children's laughter. It was a sound this ship sang with.

Its echo lingered in the empty halls; still audible over the quiet hum of the air scrubbers and electronics. It vibrated the steel of the hull and the support beams, leaving quiet tremors that Alcuard could feel as he rested his fingers on one of the observation windows. It danced in the air, and rose in volume at unexpected intervals, a chaotic melody that was beautiful not as music but for all it represented.

"This is not the world I left behind when I entered my long sleep," Alcuard whispered.

"I should hope not, sir," someone said from behind him. Alcuard turned to see a young woman in a business suit, who, despite her unimpressive height, had the good sense to wear flat shoes. Her suit, while looking fairly bland from a distance, was finely tailored, and the weave of the silk so thin he suspected the material had to be made with a microscope. The rims of her glasses were made of real silver, and the glass inside was entirely decorative. The woman carried a small computer in her arms, and the open screen contained an email that seemed to ordering a quantity of platinum.

"I recognize your voice," Alcuard admitted. "From the other side of the portal."

"I imagine you did. Viviana Carrow, I'm Mister Cardego's personal secretary," the woman introduced herself, and offered him her hand.

Alcuard shook her hand, and was surprised to find it well calloused, and her grip firm. "Alcuard Cominetti von Dracul. And only a fool would think you are just a secretary."

She smiled at him. "What gave it away?"

"Your suit's thread count would make an impressive number on a paycheque," Alcuard explained, looking the woman over. "Your earrings and your necklace, while understated, look like they were handmade by an expensive artisan. Your hair looks like someone else spends hours maintaining it, and your open email has a commission request for a platinum bikini."

"Well, when you put it like that, I suppose it should be fairly obvious. But my job title is 'Personal Secretary' to Mister Cardego," Viviana said as she pushed her hair back.

"I take it 'Personal Secretary' means something else to Mister Cardego?" Acluard asked.

"What do you think it means?"

"You smell of your boss. Faintly, but it's there and mixed with sweat. The callouses on your hands are interesting, they suggest you hold tools quite a lot. Tools or weapons. You have the good sense to wear flat shoes, and it looks like you make enough money to commission a 'platinum bikini'," Alcuard said. He smiled, enjoying the offered puzzle. "Going by my nose, Ms Carrow, I'd believe you were both a lover and a fixer. And probably his best lieutenant. You sleep with him, and solve his problems."