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[text] they'll none of them be missed

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Twyla smiled at Alistair where he stood motionless, awaiting her next command, and wriggled her nose at him. The spell didn’t technically require any physical movement on her part but she’d grown up watching reruns of Bewitched and loved incorporating Samantha’s mannerisms into her own magic whenever she could. Alistair obediently untied his apron and hung it up carefully, took off his hairnet, allowing his luxurious beard to unfurl to its full length down his torso, and then placed his hands back at his sides, returning to stillness.

At first, she’d found it eerie. The periodic greenish miasma that emanated from him was much easier to adjust to than his calm. He was entirely unruffled, and she didn’t just mean the lack of decoration on his no-nonsense Canadian tuxedo. When living humans held themselves still there were so many tiny movements that continued—the breath entering and leaving their lungs, the blood pumping through their vessels, their eyes blinking—so you could always sense a thrum of energy underlying their presence. Alistair’s stillness was different. It was utter and complete, otherworldly even, and it had taken a few weeks to stop being startled every time she found him waiting wherever she’d left him.

He’d been a gift, an offering really, from Mr. Stoker. Stoker was attempting to cajole her into taking over so he could retire. Just a little taste of the type of power she could command if she accepted. She wasn’t going to, of course she wasn’t. Twyla had zero desire to manage some galactic sales empire, which is exactly what she’d told Stoker when she’d quit her job as Vice President of Prestidigitation. He’d promised to respect her choice —his last job before forming FID had refused to let him leave and he’d sworn he’d never put his employees through that sort of ordeal—and yet here he was, trying to woo her back. He’d, rightly, claimed that no one else understood the full scope of his vision, nor had the necessary skills to fulfil it. Still though, just because she had the talent didn’t mean she enjoyed it. She was much happier back home in Schitt’s Creek, with the unsuspecting townsfolk dancing along on her puppet-strings.

Even knowing she had no intention of taking the job, she hadn’t been able to resist the offer of a man who would calmly and quietly obey her every whim. His undead status meant she couldn't put him in charge of food preparation, but she wouldn't have wanted to lose George anyhow. His immortality meant that, so long as he didn’t get injured, his body would never break down. All she had to do was give him someone to eat, once a month or so, and put him to work. She didn’t think the café had ever been so clean ... and there were still plenty of names on her list.