When I was first turned into a vampire, I’d known immediately that my employment options had suddenly become vastly more limited. Certainly, there were (and are) jobs out there that have to take place in darkness; however, most of them are either criminal in some nature or simply use a different skill set than what I possessed. Even if I could have talked my way into a night janitor position or dock-working job (which would have been a hard sell given my very apparent lack of muscle), I wouldn’t have been happy. For all its faults, I have always loved being an accountant, and what’s more, I consider myself to be quite adept at it.
In a way, being turned undead was one of the greatest blessings of my professional life, because it forced me to take a step I would never have found the courage to do without sheer necessity: I started my own business. I’ll admit, the first year was a rough one. Not everyone was comfortable dealing with an accountant who kept the sort of hours that precluded daytime meetings and preferred to work through a messenger service. Luckily, a combination of teleconferencing, and rates so low I feel cheap even recalling them, allowed me to get my feet in enough doors to build a reputation. One of the few upsides of being a vampire, or at least, one of the few that comes in handy given my peaceful nature, is that sleep becomes optional. We can only do it during the day, and that’s only if we’re so inclined. With twice as much working time as regular accountants, and a healthy drive to see my fledgling company succeed, I was able to put out quality work in fractions of the time.
After a while, my reputation grew to the point where I had consistent work whenever I needed it, and of course, becoming a CPPA opened a whole new avenue of clients, many of whom were aching for the services I offered. Still, even at the point I had reached after Albert’s sword debacle, there was no getting around the fact that some of the bigger client’s required more wooing than I could deliver via phone, text, and mail. To quote one of Bubba’s favorite sayings: “If you want the biggest fish in the pond, you have to be willing to wade out and get your feet muddy.”
It was that reason which had me on the outskirts of my town of Winslow, Colorado, staring up at a large, pristinely kept building. The architecture was immaculate and clearly Victorian inspired, with three stories and a generous size. Once, it had been home to someone of affluence, but now it served as a bed and breakfast, though I had no intention of availing myself of either of those services. I was here for a dinner meeting with Mr. Price, one of the three partners at Price, Wordsworth, and Stern, a local investment firm notorious for using multiple outside accounting sources to ensure accuracy and compliance. Getting in with them represented a huge amount of well-paying business, and openings came along rarely.
I walked carefully up the steps of the building, my briefcase clutched firmly in hand. It was fortunate that vampires didn’t sweat, as for once, I was able to go into a situation like this without looking like I’d just been caught in a light shower. At my old firm, Torvald & Torvald, I’d been respected for my acumen with numbers, but was never permitted to meet with actual clients. It was a policy I’d neither objected to nor found particularly offensive.
As I neared the front door, I noticed a bronze placard resting just above the frame. In elegant script were scrawled two words: “Charlotte Manor.” Perhaps this would have been comforting, assuring me I’d come to the right place, if there had been any other building within the last two miles that might have qualified as a B&B. The outskirts of Winslow were nowhere near as vibrant as the downtown scene, and I couldn’t imagine a place like this saw very much business, quaint charm and all. Heaven only knew why Mr. Price had chosen this as the place for our meeting, but after all the effort I’d put into getting this far in the interview process, I would be damned if I missed out over a thirty-minute drive.
As I stepped through the door, a small bell tinkled overhead. The sound echoed off the wooden walls, stopping only when it hit one of the many plush carpets running the length of the halls. To my right was a welcome desk with cubby holes set behind it, a cash register that easily dated back to the turn of the century, and an old woman with a warm smile. I’d scarcely made it two steps in when she greeted me.
“Good evening, young man. Are you here to take a room or for the dinner party?” Once upon a time, I might have described her voice as ancient; however, meeting beings who counted their lifespans in centuries had removed such wanton hyperbole from my thinking. Her voice was merely appropriately old for the number of years she’d evidently been alive, yet it was still friendly and welcoming. This place wasn’t all superficial charm, it seemed.
“The dinner party, I believe. I assume that’s the one being held by Mr. Price?”
She nodded, an action far more time consuming than it might have been for a younger person. “You’ll be eating in our dining room. We don’t usually rent that out in respect to the other guests, but you managed to get lucky and catch us when we were empty.”
Though the words were delivered in the same cheery manner as earlier, I found myself questioning their truthfulness. Somehow, I highly doubted that it was very hard to find this place without many guests. Of course, having been raised with half a modicum of decency, I kept such notions to myself.
“I can’t imagine why, your home is perfectly lovely.” That part was certainly true; everything from the molding to the paintings on the walls looked vintage and hand-crafted. “Would you be so kind as to point me to the dining room?”
“Well, aren’t you a polite one.” The old woman gave me a larger smile, this one appearing more genuine than what she kept on for guests. “Just go down the hall. The doors should be open and on your left. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you very much.” I began my trek down the lengthy hallway and within ten steps, I knew exactly where I was heading. Despite usually keeping my vampiric hearing under control, it still tuned to ear-catchingly loud noises on its own. Mr. Price’s robust voice certainly qualified as such a sound, his booming tones racing through the air to all who might be within reasonable vicinity.
“Now, none of that,” I heard him say. “We’ll talk shop when everyone gets here, and not a moment before. Get yourself a drink and relax. This is the social part of the evening.”
Then, having tuned into the conversation, I overheard a new voice. This one was softer and more controlled than Mr. Price’s, though achieving either of those things was hardly a mean feat. Despite its delicate nature, the sound of that voice froze me in my place. I stood, halfway between steps, as it spoke.
“We certainly understand, Mr. Price, I just wanted to answer any lingering questions you might have while we’ve got this opportunity.”
I knew that voice. It belonged to a woman who’d led several meetings a month during my tenure at Torvald & Torvald, one of the top minds in the legal department. She was one half of the best closing team the company had to offer, paired with an accountant who was all wavy hair and white teeth instead of actual numbers knowledge. Almost on cue, I heard his voice.
“Besides, we can save you the trouble of spending dinner with the second-stringers. At Torvald & Torvald, we’re dedicated to being the best. Our reputation speaks for itself.”
And there it was, the old dynamic duo still in action: Asha Patel and Troy Warner. This made matters far more complicated. Not only did they represent some incredibly stiff competition, but they represented an issue I hadn’t really dealt with since reconnecting with Krystal: talking to someone who’d known me when I was alive.
I’ll admit it: I briefly considered turning tail and racing out of there. By this point in my memoirs, I can’t imagine that bit of information will shock or amaze you. However, I am proud to say that I fought that urge down and instead, continued my trek forward. I’d known going in that this wouldn’t be an easy client to win, and I refused to give up before even trying. I might have been a useless coward in most matters of life (as well as the supernatural), but by God, I was a good accountant, and on that single battleground, I refused to concede.
With a quick adjustment of the tie I’d worn over my pressed button-down shirt, I finished walking down the hallway and stepped into the dining room. As far as heroic charges went, I doubt it would make anyone’s top ten, but for me, it was enough.