The Board Short Story Series:
Sanaa Meets With Ambrose
Dorothy Darrow
Copyright 2012 by Dorothy Darrow
Smashwords Edition
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Written in the U.S.A.
This life is not ordinary, Sanaa thought as she filed paperwork, pages fluttering between her manicured fingers, her soft, lotioned hands pushing the air out from between the files to compact them all into the cabinet. She mused that someone watching her might not consider anything extraordinary about a secretary at an international relations firm performing mundane tasks, but that would only be if the person watching didn't know who her bosses were. Sanaa's lips stretched into a smile.
"Sanaa," the crackling intercom beckoned. Keeping the smile, Sanaa crossed to her desk. She set down the files before mashing the speak button on the intercom.
"Present," she announced to the machine and released the button.
"Ambrose wants you in his office."
Crap. She pressed the button, her smile gone. "Be right there."
Sanaa retrieved a hand mirror from her desk drawer. Although her bosses didn't care whether every hair on her head was flawlessly in place or if she had her designer shirt tucked in evenly, Sanaa cared immensely about how she looked around them. Her bosses always looked perfect. No matter how much stress they were under from the insurgences of the world they managed, they always looked perfect without having to put any effort into their appearances, while it took Sanaa two hours to get ready each evening, and she never looked anywhere near as perfect as they did. It was enough to shatter a girl's self-esteem every day.
Sanaa desperately wanted to be like her bosses--despite the fact that Ambrose had made it sadistically clear to her that her ambition was impossible. But Sanaa decided to be optimistic for once in her life and refused to accept his decree. That old adage "Dress for the job you want" cycled through her mind--except Sanaa had altered it slightly. Her personal mantra was "Dress for the life you want."
Worn-out notebook in hand, Sanaa bustled down the dim hall toward Ambrose's office. Ten feet from his door, she tripped over the bundle of extension cords that traveled from the conference room into Costa's office, where he'd installed more computers than he had voltage in his outlets for. Sanaa had meant to tape the dastardly cords down each time they hooked her foot, which was pretty much every time she walked down that hallway. She made a mental note to do it later.
Sanaa made it to the last door of the hall without further incident. She knocked on the polished ebony entry.
"Come in, Sanaa," Ambrose's charming Southern drawl invited. Sanaa's grin returned at the sound of her name. Even if Ambrose hadn't just sent for her, he would have known it was her at the door. The Board members were special like that.
Sanaa opened the door to the huge, windowless office. A single lamp lit the space, situated on the desk that Sanaa's favorite boss was currently circling continuously. Her grin faltered. Soon after she first met him, Ambrose had told her he had developed the circling habit during his days as an army officer. He said it relaxed him. The fact that he needed relaxing was not a good sign.
"Take a seat," Ambrose instructed, his eyes glued to the slightly faded ring he followed in the carpet around his desk. "I need you to take dictation."
Sanaa sat in the lone metal chair in front of the desk. Ambrose stopped circling and rubbed his temples. Even in his distressed state, Sanaa couldn't help but admire him. He was one of the most beautiful men she had ever seen. The only child of a wealthy political family, he possessed an innate poise that shone through his every movement. He carried his lean figure like a prince passing through court. His pale skin retained a vivacity others of his kind had lost long ago. His thoughtful brown eyes displayed the wisdom of his years, even though he didn't look a day over thirty.
"This is going to be a tough one," Ambrose confided, sitting at his desk. "Even tougher than Clementine." Sanaa nodded, though she had no idea who Clementine was. "This is one of mine."
In that instant, Sanaa knew precisely both what she was about to write and to whom she would send it. She had transcribed that kind of message for Ambrose twice before, and each time he'd had to order the death of an old friend.
Sanaa whisked through her notebook, hunting for a blank page. She had meant to stop at the supply closet on her way up to the office that evening, but she was too excited about what the night might bring. Working for the Board was an adventure, even for a simple secretary such as herself. She got to convene with some of the most intriguing beings in the world, who often placated her wide-eyed enthusiasm at meeting them with wild stories of their lengthy lives. Sometimes she got to follow her bosses to a benefit or gala, where she would rub elbows with the elite, the famous, and anyone else whose name was worth knowing. And every day she prepped herself for her long-awaited promotion to the glamorous role of consort, as which she would travel the globe and be an essential part of the firm's peacekeeping efforts. Not to mention, as a consort she would be one step closer to fulfilling her lifelong dream of being just like her bosses.
She finally located half a page in the notebook that had no writing and figured it would be adequate. Ambrose usually kept communications of that nature brief.
"My dearest dear," Ambrose began. Sanaa scribbled the words. "I regret to notify you that my last communiqué contained false information. Regrettably, instead of withdrawing from public society as she had promised, Letta has continued her disloyal contact with the humans. I have alerted the team. As soon as I receive correspondence that you do not want to handle the situation yourself, I will give the word. As always, your loving servant, Colonel Ambrose Charles Craft."
Sanaa barely had enough room in the short space to fit the message, even using her tiniest shorthand. Ambrose usually didn't go into that much detail about the process. He had to be really upset. Sanaa marked the page and closed the notebook.
"Get that out as soon as possible," Ambrose directed. "This matter is time-sensitive."
"Of course." Sanaa prepared to leave, but curiosity overpowered her. "I have one question, if you don't mind." Ambrose gestured for her to ask. The gesture said he already knew her question. "What did Letta do?"
"The same as they always do." Ambrose extinguished his lamp, submerging the room in darkness. Sanaa took the hint and left.
In five minutes, Sanaa had the letter typed, printed, sealed, and in a courier's hand. The undertaking complete, she reluctantly returned to her filing. She hadn't filed two items before her mind began to wander.
She speculated as to what "they" kept doing. Ambrose had said this Letta person had continued her disloyal contact with the humans. Sanaa wondered whether the contact was disloyal to the firm or to the humans. Still, it didn't sound all that bad. He must have been speaking in code. Letta had to be doing something much worse than just having contact with humans to receive a death sentence for it. Her kind had been having free contact with humans for the better part of a century, and the Board had unbreakably strict rules about killing one of their own kind: rules laid out long ago by Ambrose's "dearest dear," known to everyone else as The Queen.
Endless tales abounded of the Queen's immeasurable beauty and charm--not to mention the tales of her wily ways. Sanaa had heard a millennium worth of the Queen's legend, which brimmed with blood and sex and deceit, and adoring love from most of her subjects. Sanaa could listen to those stories for days on end, and those who had seen the Queen were always willing to give details.
Sanaa took out her hand mirror. She stretched her neck to look at the two small scars in the skin above her carotid artery. All her life, she had listened to romanticized myths about vampires, but she'd never cared much for the facts of actually becoming one until it was too late. The faded scars taunted Sanaa, telling her that because of the particular poison in her blood from the bite of the vampire who had deceived her, she could never truly have the life she wanted anymore. The Board, mainly Ambrose, had sympathized with her and gave her a secretarial position to help her at least be a parallel part of their world. Sanaa could never express how much she appreciated their understanding, and she did everything she could to convince them she'd be a perfect human consort for their relations with the daytime community. She figured if she couldn't be a vampire like her bosses, the least she could do was help them survive.
Sanaa resumed filing. She could only hope everyone was wrong about her situation. She clung to her optimism, dreaming about that one fine day when she would finally meet the Queen--the originator of the vampire race. If anyone could help her, it was the Queen. Sanaa knew in her heart she was meant to be so much more than just a human. She was supposed to be just like Ambrose and Costa and the rest of the Board. She was supposed to be an immortal of incomparable charisma. One day, she would join the magnificent living dead. She would become a vampire: esteemed, powerful, and beautiful. Just like she'd always wanted to be.
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About the Author
Dorothy Darrow is a writer from the United States. She has degrees in many creative pursuits, including writing. She likes to write supernatural fiction, such as vampire novels. That is all she wants you to know. For now.
Connect With Dorothy Darrow Online:
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Look for the second novel in the Vampire Queen series, When the Moon Tires of the Night, a prequel to These Flowers Have a Taste for Blood that partly explains how the Queen's prophecy formed, out in late 2013.