Kisses from Hell

One

I stop.

Despite the mobs of people jostling around me, ramming their bags into my back and mumbling obscenities under their breath, I remain firm, rooted in place. Taking a moment to survey the airport terminal—from the filthy tile floors that have traveled so far from their original shade of white they’ll never return, to the depressing beige walls sporting garish black signs with yellow arrows pointing toward important destinations like the toilets and the line for taxis and buses. I readjust the strap on the small bag of art supplies I’m toting and wonder what happened to the rest of my group—if they somehow got lost, turned around, confused by the signs and headed the wrong way. I mean, I can’t really be the only one who made it this far—can I?

The crowd continues to shift and move until it finally thins out and it’s just me, and him—Monsieur Creepy Guy, with the plaid pants, weird shoes, and ill-fitting, gnarled blue sweater. Or, as I’m in England, make that Sir Creepy Guy. And since he’s holding a sign that reads SUNDERLAND MANOR ART ACADEMY, I’ve pretty much pegged him as my ride.

I move toward him, doing my best to ignore the overly affectionate couple before me—the way they grope each other, gaze into each other’s eyes, and kiss like it’s their first—even though, unbeknownst to one of them, it could very well be their last. Painfully aware of that small, familiar knot of cynicism that now resides in my gut—the one I’ve named Jake after the person who put it there. Remembering how we used to be like that, grope like that, kiss like that, until Jake woke up one day and decided he’d rather grope and kiss my best friend, Tiffany.

“Sunderland Manor?” the Creepy Guy says in an accent so thick it takes me a moment to realize he’s speaking English.

“Yeah, um, I mean, yes, that’s me.” I shake my head, not faring much better with the native tongue. “I’m a Sunderland Manor—uh—student.” I nod.

“So, ’at’s it?”

I glance around and shrug, unsure how to answer. Unsure how any self-respecting artist in the making would take the time to painstakingly piece together a portfolio, hoping to gain entry into the newest, most exclusive art academy for youths (as claimed by the brochure), only to either miss the flight or just bail completely. But then, maybe they didn’t need it as much as me. Maybe their lives are Jake and Tiffany free.

I sweep my long, dark hair aside and switch my army green art bag to my other shoulder. Still remembering the look on Nina’s face when I chose it over the one she bought for the trip. I mean, even though I promised my dad I’d do my best to accept her, the fact that she gave me a turquoise bag covered in pink hibiscus flowers pretty much proves she’s not trying all that hard to accept me.

“Name, please?” he says, or actually, snaps; it sounded way more like a snap, like he’s in a big hurry or something.

“Um, Danika.” I nod. “Danika Kavanaugh?” I say it like a question, as though I’m looking to him to confirm my own name. I roll my eyes and shake my head. Nice to know I’m as big a dork in the UK as I was in the U.S.

He nods, checks the box next to my name, and barrels right out the double glass doors, just assuming I’ll follow—which I do.

“Um, what about my bags?” I ask, my voice high-pitched, overeager, in the most pathetic, please like me kind of way. “They said they didn’t make it—do you think they’ll deliver them—or will we have to come back?”

He mumbles something over his shoulder, something that sounds like “Deliver ’em,” but he’s moving so quickly, I can’t be too sure.

“So, do you know what happened to all the others?” I ask, my gaze fixed on the back of his head, the bald spot glinting like a bull’s-eye and surrounded by a thatch of hair so red it’s suspicious, like he dyes it or something. Doing my best to keep up with this skinny old guy, who moves awfully fast for someone of his advanced age, gasping and wheezing with the effort, I say, “I mean, aren’t there supposed to be a few more of us?”

And just after I ask it, he stops so abruptly I bang right into him. Seriously, like straight into him. So embarrassing.

“’Fraid it’s too late for ’em now, miss,” he says, totally unfazed by the way my carry-on bag just nailed him in the back. Not missing a beat as he eases it off my shoulder and adds, “Not with the way the mist is rolling in like ’tis.”

I squint. My eyes crinkled, nose scrunched, gazing all around and not quite getting what he means. Yes, it’s a bit overcast, cloudy, and gray, but hey, it’s England, that’s pretty much a given, right? And the thing is, I don’t see any fog. Not even a trace. So I turn to him and say just that, sure I misunderstood due to his accent and all.

But he just looks at me, gaze stern, fingers flapping at me to hurry up and get in. “Fog got nothing on the mist,” he says. “Come along now, got to get moving before he gets any worse.”

I huddle in the back of the van, pulling my navy peacoat tightly around me as he slams the door and settles in. Digging my fingers deep into the right-side pocket and fingering the small coin my grandmother stitched into the seam many years ago, back when it still belonged to my mom, long before she died and it was passed on to me. Squinting out the window, with my forehead pressed against the smudgy glass, thinking that if I just look hard enough I’ll see this mist he’s so worried about. But I don’t. So I make one last attempt when I say, “Looks pretty clear to me—”

But he just grunts, hands gripping the wheel in the ten and two position, eyes on the road when he says, “That’s how the mist works—’tis never what he seems.”

I fall asleep.

I mean, it’s not like I can remember the drive, so I guess that’s what happened. All I know is that one minute we were pulling out of the municipal airport parking lot, and the next, it’s like I’m in another world, jolted awake by a series of bumps in the road—a bad combination of really deep potholes and really bad shock absorbers.

“Is that it? Up ahead?” I squint into the distance, still unable to see any trace of that mist he’s been mumbling about. Making out a large stone structure at the top of a hill that looks just like one of those creepy manors you read about in old gothic romance novels—the kind I like best. Like it’s one of those drafty, foreboding homes filled with priceless antiques, hidden secrets, strange servants, resentful ghosts, and a lonely, plain-faced governess who can’t help but fall for the tall, dark, and handsomely brooding master no matter how hard she fights it.

I reach over the seat and grab my bag, fumbling for my sketch pad, wanting to jot down my first impressions, document everything I see from beginning to end. But the road is too bumpy and my pencil gets dragged off the paper repeatedly, so I quit before I can really get started, and settle for gawking instead.

We pull up to a large, imposing gate, and the driver leans out the window, presses a button, and says, “She’s here.”

Which, frankly, I find a bit odd.

I mean, She’s here? Shouldn’t he have said, We’re here?

Aren’t they expecting a group of us?

Five talented, lucky young artists chosen from a pool of thousands.

Five fortunate souls who not only aced a rigorous, multilayered application process but also had to submit a portfolio of paintings created specifically for this very event—a portfolio of paintings representing our dreams.

And I don’t mean dreams as in goals. I mean the nocturnal vision kind. Since I’ve always had an active dream life, always had those kind of superpower, Technicolor, lucid dreams, the moment the brochure arrived in the mail I knew this was the school for me. Figuring I had a pretty good shot at making it, and it seems I was right.

But no matter how vibrant my dreams may be, I never dreamed of a place like this. A place with a drive so long and winding and steep, lined with lushly colored roses atop sharp, thorny stems that practically reach out and scrape the paint right off the side of the van. When we reach the top, I leap out and crane my neck all around, determined to take it all in.

Stone facade, gargoyles, flying buttresses, odd little carvings of winged creatures and gremlins—it’s just…spectacular. Totally and completely perfect. It’s everything I’d hoped for and more.

“Plenty of time for that later,” the driver says, tossing my bag over his shoulder and heading for a door that’s opened by a stern-faced woman, her long, gray hair coiled into a tightly braided spiral at the back of her head, dressed in a stark black dress with a white lace collar and apron to match. Her skin so pale and translucent, it’s as though she’s never known a single day in the sun.

“Now just look at ye. Ye must be Dani?”

I nod, wondering how she knew to call me by my nickname when I filled out all the forms as Danika.

“I’m Violet,” she says, almost as an afterthought, as though she’s too busy appraising me to pay attention to small pleasantries. “Well, you’re a bright and pretty one, aren’t ye?” She looks me over, her thin, dry lips curving up at the corners as the fragile skin around her eyes fans at the sides. “Young, strong, and made of good, healthy stock, I imagine. How old are ye?”

“Seventeen.” I wrap my arms tightly around me, wondering if she’s ever going to get around to inviting me in.

“Well, you’ll do just fine here, ye will.” She nods, ushering me inside and exchanging a look with the driver I can’t quite interpret, adding, “Hurry on, now, you’ll catch yer death out there,” and leading me into a foyer so warm, so cozy, it feels just like home.

Well, not my home exactly. Not the overcrowded condo that used to be perfect back when it was just my dad and me—before Nina and all her “stuff” moved in—but the kind of home I wish I had. A house of mystery and history—filled with dark polished woods, antique rugs, large chandeliers, and bouquet after bouquet of those amazing red roses with long, thorny stems—pretty much the opposite of what I’m used to.

“Wow,” I say, my voice barely a whisper as I gaze all around, looking forward to exploring every nook of this place over the next few weeks. “This is just so…grand,” I add, surprised by my use of the word. I mean, really? Grand? What happened to awesome, or amazing, or—

“Yes, ’tis comin’ along, ’tis.” Violet nods, yanking my coat off my shoulders, the chill of her touch lingering long after she hands it to the driver, who disappears with it upstairs. “Almost finished now.”

I look at her, wondering what could possibly be left undone when it seems so finished, down to the last old-timey detail. Watching as she worries the odd, shiny, black pendant that hangs from her neck, her eyes raking over me as she points toward the ballroom and says, “That’s where it started—the fire.” She continues to scrutinize me. “As you can see, the restoration’s not quite—complete.”

I squint, gazing into a large room that really does bear a good deal of damage, and as I peer a little closer at the rest of the house, I see it’s also showing a good deal of wear and tear I must’ve missed in my initial excitement.

“Come now,” Violet says, her tiny, cold hand pressing against the small of my back. “I’ve made ye a nice supper and some tea before bed.”

Bed?

I stop, my eyes seeking a window, but they’re all covered by thick, heavy drapes. Wondering why she’d say such a thing when I know for a fact it’s still light out—still morning, for that matter.

“Ye traveled a long way, ye did.” She nods, as though she’d made the transatlantic journey sitting right alongside me. “Must be a bit jet-lagged, no?”

And just as I’m about to say no, that I’m not at all jet-lagged, that I’m completely wide awake and ready to explore until the other students arrive, she turns to me, watery blue eyes meeting mine as I hear myself say, “A bite would be good. I really am rather tired, come to think of it.”

Two

It’s cold. Frigid and bitter and cold. But it’s not like I feel it, so it doesn’t really affect me. All my awareness is focused on the insistent pounding of my heart as my feet cross the polished stone floor. Pushing through a mist so thick, so dense, it practically pulsates with life—as though it’s a real, living thing.

It won’t stop me, though. No matter how bad the visibility gets, I’ll just keep moving forward, making my way toward that glowing red light. He’s in here…somewhere…and he needs me to hurry….

I flip the switch, squinting as the room fills with shadow and light. Noticing a thin layer of mist hovering all around, and wondering how it found its way in when the door is closed and the windows are covered with heavy, fringed drapes.

I toss my sheets aside and slip into the robe that was left at the foot of my bed. Pausing to run my fingers over the soft, silky feel of it, so different from the scruffy flannels I usually wear, and tying it snugly around my waist as I take in the large space before me—the dressing table covered with delicate lace doilies and silver-handled brushes and combs, the crystal chandelier hanging overhead, the stone hearth with embers still glowing from the fire Violet set, the small velvet settee just off to the side. And an easel that awaits me—all set up and ready to go with a fresh, new canvas just begging for me to bring it to life.

“Paint your dreams,” I was told, and so I do. Wondering briefly if I should try to call home, let them know I’ve arrived, but just as quickly abandoning the idea. Now that Nina’s moved in, my father’s too busy for me, has probably forgotten all about me. Besides, I’d rather paint. I need to paint while the images are still fresh in my mind.

I retrieve my bag from the bench at the foot of my bed, glad I was smart enough not to check my very best brushes and paints along with the rest of my luggage. Squeezing color from the tubes marked black, white, and red, knowing that for this particular dream, a dream I’ve had before, but only in pieces, fragments, never as vibrant as this, it’s the only palette required. And I’m so immersed in my subject, I hardly notice when Violet peeks in.

“Sorry fer disturbing ye, miss, but I heard ye moving about and thought you might like somethin’ to eat?”

She comes toward me, placing the tray on a small table beside the velvet settee, as I frown at my painting. I’ve been struggling with the mist for over an hour, and it still doesn’t feel right. In my dream it felt so alive, but here, it’s just a blotch of white static.

“I say, I’m no expert, but that seems to be coming along just fine, miss. Just fine indeed.” She comes up alongside me and squints.

I shrug, twisting my lips to the side, wishing I could agree. Even though I’ve always been my worst critic—the fact is, it isn’t quite there yet. Not even close.

“Maybe just a touch more…red. Right ’ere, miss.” She points toward the center, the only place where any real color exists. “If ye don’t mind me sayin’ so.”

I glance between her and the canvas, noticing how she looks so much younger than she did earlier—her face rounder, fuller, with a spot of color on each cheek. Blaming my earlier impression on a combination of dim lighting and jet lag, I focus back on my canvas and do as she says, then the two of us stand back to scrutinize it.

“As I said, I’m no expert, but it looks better now, doesn’t it? Gives it a bit more…life—wouldn’t ye say?” Her blue eyes light up as her cheeks flush bright pink, and for a moment she’s so transformed I can’t help but stare.

“It is better.” I nod, glancing between her and the painting. “I thought I’d get dressed and head into town, have a look around and pick up some stuff to tide me over until my luggage arrives. Can you lend me a map or something? Or at least tell me where the shops are located?”

She bites down on her lip and narrows her eyes. And for a moment she seems upset by the question, but it’s soon erased by her words when she says, “Sure, miss, I’d be happy to. But now’s probably not the best time. Best to put it off for a while still, yes?”

I tilt my head, paintbrush dangling by my side, wondering what she meant by that.

“Well, in case you hadn’t noticed, ’tis still dark out, and a long ways from morning.” She heads for the window, drawing the drape in one quick move, showing a flash of pitch-black landscape before closing it again. “Oh, and you might want to watch yer paints there, miss.” She points toward my feet. “A lot of work went into the restoration, and we’d hate to mess it up so quickly.”

I lower my gaze, gasping when I see what looks like a pool of thick, red, viscous fluid swirling around me. But as soon as I blink, it’s gone, and all I can see are the few small drops she promptly cleans.

“I’m sorry—I—” I shake my head, still stricken by what I know I saw just a second ago.

“No matter.” She heads for the door. “Just—” She pauses, eyes surveying me as she grasps the shiny black pendant hanging from her neck. “Just mind yerself, that’s all.”

The moment she’s gone, I put my painting aside and decide to get dressed. I mean, even though it’s the middle of the night, the fact is, I’m so wide awake now, I may as well do some exploring and check out the rest of the house. So after shivering under a weak spray of water that never really ventured anywhere past lukewarm, using some kind of weird, oddly scented, handmade soap that made me long for my nice, sudsy body wash back home, I sit at the dressing table, comb through my wet hair with one of those silver-plated combs, and dab on a little perfumed oil from an old-fashioned glass bottle, hoping to kill some of that soap stench. Then I go searching for the clothes I arrived in, since, thanks to the airline losing my bag, I have no other option.

But after checking the armoire, the chest of drawers, and just about anywhere else you could stash a black V-necked sweater, faded jeans, and a navy blue, hand-me-down peacoat, and coming up empty, I ring for Violet, only to be told they’ve been sent out for cleaning.

“But now I don’t have anything to wear,” I whine, realizing my voice has risen a few octaves louder than planned. But hey, I’m an only child, I’m not used to people messing with my stuff.

“Sorry, miss.” She averts her gaze in a way that makes me feel this big. “Just trying to keep things runnin’ smoothly.”

I sigh. Knowing that to say anything further would just peg me as a spoiled American brat. Besides, wasn’t the whole point of coming here to improve my art and experience something different from my suburban L.A. condo community? Not to mention, enjoy some time away from Jake, Tiffany, and Nina? And now that I’m here, maybe it’s time I embrace it.

“Sorry.” I shrug. “I didn’t mean it like that—it’s just—”

“I’ll check on them come morning.” She nods. “I’m sure they’ll be returned to ye in good time. But for now, why not pick something from this here armoire to wear?” She smiles encouragingly. “There’s some beautiful gowns in there, miss. Real antiques they is. It’s all part of the restoration. Every last detail was noted and attended to.”

I tilt my head and scrunch my nose, not near as convinced as she. I’m not really into fancy vintage gowns. I’m much more of a peacoat-and-cargo-pants girl.

And I’m just about to say it, just about to ask if she could possibly find something a little less fussy, when she says, “Don’t really know which type ye are until you try a few, right?”

I squint, wondering if I voiced the thought out loud, though I’m pretty sure that I didn’t.

“Besides,” she adds, “it’s not like you’re goin’ out or anyone’s comin’ in—at least not anytime soon. So if it’s bein’ seen that’s got ye worried, forget it. Even though it’s still dark out, I’m afraid the mist has rolled in so thick now, he won’t be burnin’ off fer days, maybe even a week. Everything’s been delayed because of it, so you may as well enjoy the free time.”

“But what about the other students?” I ask, wondering who I feel worse for, them or me? I mean, yeah, it’s kind of cool to get a head start and poke around on my own, but a little artistically inclined company wouldn’t hurt either.

“Oh, I’m afraid I don’t know about that, miss. But I will say, they won’t be coming by today, that’s fer sure.”

She heads for the armoire and removes a red silk gown with a deep plunging neckline, tight bodice, and full, trailing skirt. Gazing at it in such an admiring, covetous way, I’m about to suggest she wear it herself when she turns to me and says, “Didn’t you ever play dress-up, miss? In your mum’s clothes?”

I squint, thinking about my mum, a no-nonsense, no-frills, hardworking third-grade teacher who didn’t really have many occasions to dress up for, or anything to really dress up in—unless you count cotton cardigans and pleated khakis, that is.

“No,” I say. “Not really.”

She looks at me, her eyes glinting with excitement. “Well then, I’d say now’s as good a time as any.”

Three

“Now normally, I’d be slipping you into a corset and pulling the strings so tight you’d be screaming for mercy, but nowadays, you’re all so skinny and muscled from athletics, a corset’s no longer necessary, at least not in your case.”

“Nowadays?” I turn to look at her, wondering if I need my eyes checked, as she appears even younger than she did a few minutes ago. Shaking my head as I gaze at the mirror, knowing I’m somewhere on the side of thin-ish, but not skinny. Definitely not skinny. Nor sporty, for that matter.

She bites her lip tighter and fastens the long row of tiny, covered buttons that line all the way up the back. Her fingers moving so quickly and nimbly, you’d think she did this sort of thing all the time. “So, what do you think?” She pushes me before the full-length mirror as she stands off to the side, just out of view.

I gasp, astonished by the way my normally way-pasty complexion is practically transformed, providing a lovely contrast to the deep, gorgeous red of the gown, and the way my chest practically heaves, appearing far more abundant than I know it to be, thanks to the ultra-low neckline. And as I run my hands over the severely nipped-in waist and soft folds of the extra-full, bustled skirt, I can’t help but think how it suits me.

Even though I never thought of myself as this kind of girl—the shiny, fussy, sparkly kind—even though I’ve always preferred neutral colors and clean, simple lines, maybe I’ve had it all wrong. Maybe this is who I really am. And it took just one day at an art academy in England to discover it.

I turn from side to side, unable to stop mirror gazing. Wondering if it’s possible to really start over, start fresh, and completely reinvent myself.

Wondering if it’s possible to wipe away the memory of Jake and Tiffany and Nina, simply by discarding my old look for this dazzling new one.

I gaze at my hair, admiring the way it dries in soft, wavy tendrils that curl around my face, and the way my normally unremarkable brown eyes now seem to sparkle with life. “I think—I think I’m looking at someone else!” I say, my fingers lost in the deep, silky folds of the skirt as a smile widens my pink, flushed cheeks.

“Maybe ye are?” Violet whispers, her gaze somber, far away, as though lost in another time and place. Then, shaking her head and returning to me, she adds, “But you’re not through yet.”

I cock my head, taking in my reflection and counting so many jewels, ribbons, and special effects, I’m wondering what we could possibly add that wouldn’t send this dress straight over the top. Then I turn to see her heading for the dressing table and lifting the lid off a silver-plated jewelry box, retrieving a beautiful velvet choker with a gorgeous, shiny, black-beaded pendant hanging from its front that’s very similar to the one she wears.

“It’s made of jet,” she says, answering the question in my gaze, as she fastens it around my neck. “The fossilized remains of decaying wood often found right here in these very cliffs.” She nods, grabbing a few more pieces she secures in my hair before standing back to survey her handiwork. “The Queen often wore it as mourning jewelry.”

“Mourning jewelry?” I raise my brow. “That seems a little…grim, doesn’t it?”

But Violet either misses the comment or chooses to ignore it, because a moment later, she just claps her hands and says, “You’re perfect, miss. Just perfect.”

The dress is gorgeous. Totally and completely gorgeous. And even though I decide to go with it, and all the jet jewelry Violet foisted on me, when it comes to the shoes, well, that’s where I draw the line.

Never mind the fact that, just like the dress, they fit so perfectly we both gasp in astonishment. Never mind the fact that I can’t help but feel just the tiniest bit Cinderella-like when I perch on the velvet settee and slip that elaborate velvet pump right onto my waiting foot. Because the fact is, there’s something integral left out of that particular fairy tale: The truth about glass slippers is they don’t make for comfortable footwear, and the same goes for these.

“But you have to wear them,” she says, voice raised and urgent, eyes wide and fixed on mine.

Her gaze so convincing, so compelling, I’m just about to fold and give in, when I force myself to look away. Finding my voice again when I say, “You like ’em—you wear ’em.” I shrug ’em off, replacing them with my trusty Doc Martens that fell under the bed. “Seriously, go ahead, knock yourself out. I’m sticking with these.” I nod, clicking my heels together and smiling when the rubber soles make a dull thud as they bounce off each other.

She shakes her head and presses her lips so tightly together they’re lined by a thin band of white, and I’m not quite sure how to take that. I mean, it’s just a game of dress-up. What’s the big deal? Why’s she so invested in it?

“And yer breakfast, miss?” She pulls herself together, rubs her hands down the front of her apron, and motions toward the barely touched tray she’d left earlier. “Shall I take it?”

I gaze at it for a moment, about to let her have it, when I spot two of those delicious sausages I remember from the night before, and find myself overcome by a sudden craving for more.

“No, leave it,” I say, my skirts swishing around me as I move toward it. Figuring I’ll sit down and enjoy a quick bite before I set out to explore. “I’m actually pretty hungry,” I add, already stabbing a sausage with my fork and enjoying the warm, savory flavor that explodes in my mouth as she quietly lets herself out.

Four

I’m surrounded by mist—thick, white, viscous mist. My hands held before me, cupped, as though I can scoop it out of my way. Only I can’t. It slips right through my fingers and re-forms again. But no matter how indomitable it may be, it can’t keep me from the glowing red light that leads me to him.

He needs me—and strangely, the closer I get, the more I realize I need him, too.

Just a few more steps and I’ll be there—able to grab hold of the hand that’s managed to pierce through the haze—grasping, reaching, beckoning for me to come closer—closer still—until—

At first it appears disembodied—obscured by the vapor—but the closer I get, the more I can see. A vague and shimmering outline of a tall, strong, darkly handsome guy, with sleek black hair, straight nose, squared jaw, determined chin, high cheekbones, strong brow—but the eyes—the eyes are elusive, something I can’t quite distinguish just yet—

When I wake, it takes a moment for me to place it—the gown, the room, the tray of cold tea, untouched toast and eggs, and a half-eaten sausage lying diagonally across its plate. None of it making any immediate sense until it slowly starts to creep back—who I am, where I am, and why I’m dressed like this.

I raise my hands up high over my head and stretch from side to side. Amazed by how I could just fall asleep like that, right in the middle of eating, but then, that’s what jet lag does—whacks out your body clock and throws you completely off balance.

But none of that’s important, what matters is the dream. As I stand before my canvas, I’m amazed at how easily it flows, how these new images fit so perfectly into the scene I painted earlier. I’m just finishing up the last stroke of my subject’s shiny, slicked-back hair when there’s a knock at my door.

“Hey, Violet,” I say, still focused on painting. “You can take the tray if you want. I guess I was more sleepy than hungry. I totally passed out.”

“Great! Only problem is, I’m not Violet.”

I turn to find a guy about my age leaning in the doorway, his voice containing just the slightest hint of a British accent, one that’s been heavily Americanized, when he says, “I’m Bram.”

I lift a brow. Not really a name you hear all that often these days.

“My mom’s a goth, what can I say?” He shrugs.

“And your dad? Is he a goth too?” I ask, taking in the dark, skinny jeans, the gray hoodie, and the black blazer he wears over it, thinking he looks so normal this apple must’ve fallen miles from that particular tree.

“My dad’s dead.” He nods, voicing it in a way I haven’t been able to manage quite yet when it comes to my mom—totally neutral, without the slightest trace of quiver or tremble. Just a simple stating of the facts, with no room for emotion.

“I’m sorry.” I place my brush on the ledge, then immediately regret it since I have no idea what to do with my hands.

“Don’t be. I’m pretty sure it’s not your fault.” He shrugs, and when he smiles, his whole face lights up in a way that feels really familiar—or at least the parts I can see—the dimples, the straight teeth, the clear skin, but the rest is obscured by a pair of dark shades. “So, what’s the deal around here? This is Sunderland Manor, right? Don’t tell me I just broke into the wrong place.”

I nod, still studying him closely, wondering if he’s one of the missing students and really hoping he is.

“First good news I’ve had all day.” He sighs, dropping his backpack onto the ground and making his way toward me. “First the airline lost my bag, then my train was delayed, and then I couldn’t find a taxi to bring me here. Finally had to take three different buses and hoof it the rest of the way, oh, and I ripped my pants when I hopped the fence to get in. Not to mention this fog—what’s up with this fog?”

“Mist,” I say, my voice sounding ridiculously prim and proper, and wondering why I said it that way.

“Mist—fog—whatever.” He drops onto the velvet settee, eyeballing the tray of food when he says, “You gonna eat that?”

“It’s cold,” I warn, coming around and perching on the chair to his right.

“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbles, already digging into what’s left of the sausage. “I haven’t eaten for—” He squints as though trying to calculate just when his last meal occurred, then quickly giving up and reaching for another bite.

“Didn’t Violet offer to make you something?” I ask, remembering the warm welcome I received.

But he just looks at me, still chewing when he says, “Who?”

“You know, the house servant, or maid, or—whatever.” I shrug, unused to living in a place where people actually wait on you, and unfamiliar with the appropriate terms. “She works here.”

“All I know is no one picked me up at the station and no one answered the door. Took me forever to find this place, and I wasn’t about to sleep on the porch, so I let myself in and went from room to room until I finally found you. Which, I gotta tell ya, is more than a little strange. I mean, where the heck is everyone? Aren’t there supposed to be more of us? Teachers—students—and what about all those great-sounding classes they went on and on about in the brochure? From what I saw, there’re no classrooms, no studio space—nothing even remotely resembling it. A little peculiar, don’t you think?”

I watch as he finishes what’s left of the sausage, my gaze lingering on the way his long, dark bangs fall across his forehead and land on his cheek. Strangely unbothered by anything he’s just said, but knowing I need to reply in some way, I shrug and say, “Apparently there’s been a mist delay.” Absently picking at the folds of my dress, continuing to study him, I add, “So—what’s it like? The house, I mean. I pretty much crashed just after I arrived, and I’ve yet to even leave this room.” Cringing when I realize how I must sound to him—incredibly unadventurous, nothing like the real me, who would’ve fully investigated this place from the start. But for some reason, I just can’t seem to summon that girl. Maybe it’s the dress, the jet lag, or the sausage they keep feeding me, but the fact is, it feels so homey and comfortable right here in this room, I’ve had no desire to leave.

“Well—it’s quiet,” he says, wiping his mouth with a white linen napkin. “And appropriately creepy. My mom and her gang would totally love it.” He tosses down the napkin and rises from his seat, turning toward me as he says, “Wanna go explore?”

“So, is this your thing?” He motions toward my dress, tracing the line between my head and my toes and back again, calculating, appraising, though not necessarily in a bad way.

I squint, having forgotten all about how odd I must look until he mentions it. Pressing my hands into the folds of the fabric, feeling inexplicably shy, and hoping he’s not staring at the ridiculously low neckline, since I can’t see his eyes behind his dark glasses.

“Oh, no—I—my bag got lost too—and they sent my clothes somewhere to be cleaned—so I had a choice between wearing a robe all day, running around naked, or raiding the closet—or the armoire, as the case may be—and, well, I chose this.” I shrug, my cheeks heating as I quickly avert my gaze.

Not daring to look at him again until he says, “It’s nice. Naked would also be nice.” He laughs, the sound of it so oddly familiar, though I’m sure I’ve never met him before. “But trust me, I didn’t mean anything by it. You look really pretty. If you ask me, more girls should dress like that. Though I guess it’s probably not very comfortable.”

“You’d be surprised,” I say, remembering how I managed to fall asleep in it with no problem. “It’s not so bad.”

“Anyway, I think you’ll find it’s pretty hard to shock me. I just came here from a goth convention in Romania, Transylvania to be exact. My mom’s band was headlining, and you can’t even imagine the stuff I saw there.”

“Your mom’s in a band?”

“Yeah.” He sighs and rubs his chin. “I try to be supportive and all, but—” He shakes his head and decides to let that one hang. “Anyway, I figured the dress was your thing. You know, art school, body as canvas and all that. Nice juxtaposition with the shoes, though.”

I look at him, watching as he moves a few steps ahead, his black Converse sneakers making their way down the rug. And I can’t help but compare him to Jake, who would never use a word like juxtaposition. Wouldn’t even know what it meant.

“And the glasses—is that your thing?” I ask, my voice a mix of nervous flirtation and unadulterated geekiness, though unfortunately veering much more toward the latter.

“No. Not a thing, more like a necessity. I have issues with the light. I’m—sensitive.” He glances over his shoulder at me.

“Oh, I didn’t mean—,” I start, feeling embarrassed for bringing it up.

But he just waves it away, waiting for me to catch up as he says, “Have you seen the library yet?”

I shake my head. “I haven’t seen anything yet—well, aside from the dining room and my room, but that’s about it,” I say, entering a dark, wood-paneled room filled with comfortable-looking chairs, lots of reading lamps, a large stone hearth, and, of course, rows and rows of books.

“You a reader?” he asks, reaching for an old, leather-bound tome and flipping through the pages.

“Big-time.” I nod, scanning the titles. “I especially like old gothic romances. I know that sounds weird, but I just have a thing for ’em.”

“Then you’ll like this one.” He smiles, handing me a book with gold lettering on the front that spells Dracula. “It was written by my namesake.”

“I’ve read it,” I say, seeing the way he lifts his brow as he takes it from me and places it back on the shelf.

We continue exploring, checking out the dayroom, the sitting room, even an indoor swimming pool room I can’t wait to visit later when my luggage arrives. Both of us stealing occasional glances at each other, eyebrows quirked, shoulders raised—both of us asking the same unspoken questions—where are all the classrooms, the teachers, not to mention the other students? Making a quick stop in the kitchen, where Bram goes straight for the stove, lifts a lid off a cast-iron pan, and grabs us each another sausage we munch on as we explore some more. The two of us ultimately stumbling upon the ballroom I glimpsed earlier, though just like Violet, it doesn’t look near as aged, worn, and damaged as it did at first glance. In fact, even though there are still some visible traces of fire damage, it looks pretty good.

“This is where it started.” Bram nods, head swiveling from side to side as he takes it all in. “According to the brochure, there was an out-of-control blaze that nearly burned this place to the ground. Look—” He points toward the walls, the ultrahigh ceilings, then traces his finger all the way down to the singed stone floors. “You can still see some of the damage. Weird.” He shakes his head. “You’d think they would’ve fixed it by now.”

“Maybe they want to remember.” I shrug. “Or maybe they ran out of money and that’s where we come in. As soon as this mist clears, all the other students will arrive and they’ll hand us each a tool belt and tell us to get cracking.” I turn toward Bram, hoping to make him laugh, or at the very least, smile.

But he just stands before me, head cocked to the side, taking me in as he says, “Too bad I left my bag in your room or I’d sketch you.”

I look at him, wishing I could see his eyes so I’d know how he meant it. There’s just something about him, something so…familiar—but then I quickly look away when he catches me staring.

“Really,” he says, his voice soft, soothing. “The room, your dress, your shoes.” He smiles. “It’s just perfect. It really suits you. Maybe I should run up and get it?”

He turns to leave just as Violet comes in, takes one look at us, and turns white. And I mean white. Like just-seen-a-ghost white. Only there’s no ghost, it’s just us. And even though she quickly recovers, I can’t quite forget the look that flashed in her eyes.

She moves toward us, her fingers nervously twisting at the hem of her apron, clearly not addressing me when she says, “Can I help you?”

“I’m Bram.” He offers his hand. “One of the students.”

“But you can’t be,” she says, her voice so quiet we both lean closer to hear it.

“’Scuse me?” Bram scrunches his brow and retracts his hand as he takes her in.

“The mist—we’re invisible now—how did you find us?”

“Hard work, good luck, and a crap load of determination.” He shrugs. “But—did you just say we’re invisible now?”

Which is pretty much what I was gonna ask if he hadn’t beat me to it.

But she just squints even further, so much that the blue of her eyes is obliterated by a line of pale, sparse lashes and even paler skin. “Well then.” She squares her shoulders and struggles to pull herself together. “I guess it’s time we get ye settled in.”

Five

The rest of the day is spent in my room, mostly working on my painting and trying not to think about Bram, which only leads to more thinking about Bram. I mean, yes, he’s really cute. Yes, we share the same interests. Yes, he knows how to use multisyllabic words correctly in a sentence. Yes, he said he wanted to sketch me, which in my mind is pretty much the most romantic thing a person can ever say or do. But still, as cool as he may be, as familiar as he may feel, I’m also well aware, painfully aware, that I’m exhibiting all the telltale signs of a classic rebound situation.

Not that I’ve ever had an opportunity to have a classic rebound situation until now, with Jake being my first boyfriend and all. But after watching my dad go through it not long after losing my mom, when he just turned his back on the past and jumped right back into the dating pool with Nina, I’m pretty much an expert on these things.

Which is exactly why I can’t indulge myself now.

Exactly why I need to look upon Bram as a fellow art student and nothing more.

And that’s why I stay in my room. Determined to do what I came here to do, which is paint—not flirt, or hook up, or get emotionally attached to someone who’ll probably just end up breaking my heart at the soonest opportunity anyway. And when Violet comes in to leave a new tray of food, including a plate of those sausages I like, I don’t even ask if she’s seen him, or what he’s up to. I just carry on with my painting, as though Bram doesn’t exist, until the jet lag kicks in, I fall asleep again, and the dream picks up right where it left off, with me fighting through the mist, grasping for his hand, only this time, his icy cold fingers entwine with mine, pulling me closer, begging me to see him, really see him, as a pulsating red glow emanates from his chest….

And when I awaken, I head straight for my canvas and capture that, too, the long, cool fingers, the red glow, and am just making out the arch of his brow when a pale, blond girl comes in to clear the tray, takes one look at me, and suggests I change for dinner.

I squint, wondering where she might’ve come from, since this is the first I’ve seen of her. I wasn’t even aware there was another shift of servants working here. Then I follow her gaze to my dress, horrified to see that I’ve ruined it, smeared it with paint, and wonder why no one ever offered me a smock to wear over it. I mean seriously, no teachers, no smocks, no designated art studio—what kind of art academy is this?

I take a deep breath and look up at the girl again, my mind suddenly flooding with a long list of questions. Questions that vanish the moment she returns my gaze and says, “Not to worry.” Her voice is calm, soothing, eager to put me at ease. “I’m certain the dress can be cleaned, and if not, there’s plenty more where that came from.” She turns toward the canvas, her eyes growing wide as she takes in my progress. “I say, you’ve come a very long way in just a day’s time.” She clucks her tongue as her hands twist at her apron. “Such great progress indeed,” she adds, her voice lifting. “Oh, and in case ye were wonderin’, the instructors have also been delayed. But the good news is, this mist should lift in no more than a day or two now, and when it does, all will git back to normal again.”

“Really?” I look at her. “Violet said it would be at least a week.”

She looks at me, gaze thoughtful when she says, “Did she? Well, let’s just say that things are lookin’ up, miss.” She tilts her head and looks me over, and something about her gaze, her movements, the way she clutches at her apron is so familiar. Then I realize what it is—she looks and acts like a much younger version of Violet, and I wonder if they’re somehow related. “I’m Camellia.” She nods, heading for the armoire. “Violet’s me mum.” She pushes through the row of dresses, choosing two and then turning toward me. “So, what do ye say, miss—the green or the purple?” She lifts a pale blond brow that’s so light in color it practically fades into her skin. “They’re both beautiful—both perfect for yer colorin’—couldn’t go wrong if ye tried.” She nods, dangling a gorgeous silk gown in each hand.

I glance between them, finding them both equally stunning, equally outdated, and equally alluring. Wondering for a moment what happened to my bag—the one full of cargo pants, jeans, and black sweaters, then meeting her gaze and dismissing the thought just as quickly.

Deciding to enjoy this new version of me for as long as it lasts, I say, “What the heck, let’s go with the purple this time.”

When I walk into the dining room, I almost don’t recognize him.

No, scratch that. Because the truth is, I do recognize him—just not as Bram.

For a split second, when I find him at the table with his hair slicked back, and his modern-day clothes replaced with 1800s Victorian wear, he looks just like the guy in my dreams—the one who beckons to me.

I freeze. My breath freezes, my heart freezes, my entire body freezes, but then, when he turns and smiles in that familiar, easygoing way that he has, all systems are go again.

He’s not the guy from my dream. He can’t be. For one thing, he’s here right in front of me. And for another, that just doesn’t make any sense.

“Let me guess, they hid your clothes too?” I take the place across from him, the one set with fine china, crystal goblets, and more rows of silverware than I know what to do with. My eyes graze over him, taking in the white ruffled shirt, the blue waistcoat, and of course those glasses, which in an odd, unexpected way really seem to go with his clothing.

“No.” He smiles, helping himself to so many sausage links I hope he’ll leave some for me. “I found these in the armoire and thought I’d dress up to match you—you know, so you wouldn’t feel so alone. What do you think?”

I look at him, allowing myself a quick glance, which is all it takes to make my stomach start to dance. Then I help myself to what’s left of the sausage, grab my knife and fork, and dig in. “You look—nice,” I mumble, between bites. “Proper, elegant”—and sexy, and hot, and totally and completely irresistible—“and, with the glasses, a little bit edgy, even,” I stammer.

He laughs, dabbing his lips with the corner of his napkin as he says, “And you, fair lady, look stunning. That purple really suits you.”

I press my lips together and gaze down at my plate, reminding myself of my vow to not get overly excited by his compliments.

“So, I see you’re a fan of the sausage?” He looks at me, jaw dropping in horror when he realizes what he just said. “O-kay, not quite how I meant it, but, still, there it is.” He shakes his head and laughs, heaping a generous lump of mashed potatoes and some unidentifiable boiled, limp, green thing onto his plate. “Can’t say I blame you, though, it’s good stuff. Wonder what they put in it?”

I shrug, covering my mouth as I say, “It’s like hot dogs. Best not to ask.”

“Ever try blood sausage?” He looks at me, head tilted as a smile plays at his lips.

I blanch, making all manner of grossed-out faces when I say, “Gawd, no, why would I? I mean, is it really made from blood?”

“Really and truly.” He nods. “Pig’s blood. Usually. It’s good stuff, though. Don’t knock it till you try it.”

I stab a green bean and lift it to my mouth, inspecting it as I say, “Uh, no thanks, why would I even go there?”

He shrugs. “Well, one could also ask, why wouldn’t you go there? I mean, you’re an artist, right?”

I shrug and pick at my food.

“Okay, so maybe you’re not Picasso—yet, but you’ve got an artist’s way of looking at things, which is nothing like the normal way of looking at things. Painters like you and me—we don’t see life the same way as everyone else. We notice the details, all the things they miss. Then we add and subtract and interpret them in our own way. So, with that in mind, why would we ever choose not to try something? To just settle for the same ole, same ole? Why would you even consider signing up for the usual, mundane experience?” He leans toward me, his brow lifted high over the rim of his glasses. “And, as artists, it’s practically our duty to look upon our lives as one long artistic experiment. The more you allow yourself to experience, the more your craft can grow. And trying new things is a very big part of that. You’ll be amazed at how it feeds your imagination and frees your—soul.”

I shrug, watching as he pours some red liquid from a decanter into my goblet, thinking, Great. Now he thinks I’m an uptight prude! And immediately chasing it with, Who cares what he thinks? He’s a fellow student, not a Jake replacement. Clinking my glass against his and nearly choking when I bring it to my lips and discover it doesn’t just look like wine, but it really is wine.

He looks at me, laughing when he sees my reaction, then continues to drink and eat like he’s used to dining like this.

“You actually like it?” I ask, watching as he makes good progress toward emptying his glass.

Seeing him nod when he says, “I’ve spent a lot of time on the road, traveling all over Europe with my mom and her band. It’s not at all like the States, here there are a lot fewer restrictions. You can drink, go to clubs, live like an adult, it’s all good.” He smiles. “Everything in moderation—right? Or at least, almost everything.”

I nod, immediately pegging him as way out of my league. I mean, a guy like that, a guy so worldly and experienced, would never be interested in a small-time girl like me. Not that I care or anything. I’m just saying.

“Your life sounds so…exotic,” I mumble, finally able to look at him again.

But he just shrugs. “To me it’s just—my life. It’s what’s familiar—what I’m used to.” He spears a sausage link and chews thoughtfully. “The idea of going to a normal American high school—now that’s exotic.”

“You don’t go to school?” I look at him, wondering how he qualified for the program, since it was open only to high school seniors.

“Nope, I have a tutor. Think of it like a traveling home school, if you will.” He shrugs, running his tongue over his teeth. “My mom’s been dragging me back and forth from London to New York since I was a little kid. She yanked me out of public school way back in kindergarten, didn’t even let me graduate with my class.” He laughs. “So how is high school? Is it anything like you see on TV?”

I gaze down at my plate, thinking about the hell I went through last semester when the whole humiliating Jake and Tiffany story broke. How everyone stared at me, gossiped about me, and how the couple in question obviously enjoyed flaunting it, by the way they always chose to make out right in front of her locker, which was just two rows from mine. I had no one to turn to. I was completely alone. My dad was too busy, Nina too…bitchy, and, unfortunately, for the last few years I’d relied so much on Tiffany, I’d forgotten to make other friends. And even though my coming here to England has handled the out of sight part of it, I’m still waiting for the out of mind part to follow. I wish it would hurry.

“It’s nothing like you see on TV,” I say, trying to peer into his glasses, see what lurks behind those dark lenses, but the only eyes I see are my own reflecting right back at me. “Nothing like it at all.” I sigh. “Trust me, it’s far worse than that.”

The second we finish eating, Camellia clears our plates and tries to get us to head back to our rooms so we can paint. But we don’t want to head back to our rooms, and our saying as much really upsets her.

“It’s not like we need babysitting,” Bram says, smiling at her in that charming way that he has. “If you want to head out—head out! We can look after ourselves.”

She glances between us, obviously so unhappy by our refusal to go along with her plans I’m about to agree just to please her, figuring we can always just sneak out later. But when she disappears with a tall stack of dishes, Bram leans toward me and says, “What’s her deal?”

I shrug. I don’t know what anyone’s deal is. I’m nothing like him. I didn’t grow up on the road, drinking wine in exotic locales, with a goth band mom. I’m a half-orphaned only child, from an L.A. suburb, who’s used to a pretty normal, ho-hum existence, who, oh yeah, just happens to have artistic ambitions. But still, no matter how weird it is here, with our clothes, the mist, Violet, and Camellia—I’m not the least bit homesick. I mean, yeah, I miss my dad—or at least the old version of him. But I don’t miss Nina, or high school, or either one of my two former friends.

And the next thing I know Bram is beside me, offering his hand as he says, “Come on, let’s ditch this place before she comes back.”

We slip out the front door and straight into the mist, the two of us laughing as we stumble along, clutching at each other so as not to get lost. And even though his hand feels so good with the way his soft, cool palm presses tightly, and the way his fingers entwine so nicely with mine, I’m quick to remind myself that it’s purely for practical purposes. So that we don’t get separated and lose each other in the haze. No matter how nice, no matter how right it may feel, it means nothing to him, so it shouldn’t mean something to me.

We move forward, slowly, carefully, heading toward the area where the mist is at its thickest, not realizing we’ve stumbled into a graveyard until I’ve fallen head-first over a tombstone.

“Must be the family plot,” Bram says, voice coming from somewhere just above me as he helps me to stand. “And watch out for the roses. They’re so big and vicious they practically jump out at you.”

But a second after he says it, it’s too late. I’ve already been scratched by one of those thorns, digging into the side of my neck, somewhere between my ear and the hollow.

I let go of his hand so I can assess the damage, my fingers slipping through something warm and wet that can only be blood—my blood.

“Too late,” I say, wincing when I touch it again. “Maybe we should head back inside so I can clean it up, get a Band-Aid or something. Okay? Bram?”

I reach out beside me, in front of me, behind me, my hands groping into thin air, the space he just filled—but he’s gone. No longer there. No longer—anywhere.

I turn all around, calling his name, as my arms flail through the mist. But I can’t see him. Can’t see anything. And no matter how loudly I call, no matter how many times I shout out his name, there’s no response.

I’m alone.

And yet—I’m not.

There’s someone else. Something else. And when I see that soft red glow in the distance, I turn and run the opposite way. Falling over a mound of freshly dug dirt, not realizing until a hand is clamped over my mouth that that loud, piercing scream came from me.

Six

When he pulls me toward him, pulls me tightly to his chest, the mist clears. Everything clears. And at last I can see him, look right into his deep, dark eyes. His gaze probing, penetrating, luring me in, framed by lashes so thick they hardly seem real.

“You’ve come,” he whispers, the words like a song on his lips. “You’ve come to save me, haven’t you? You’ve traveled all this way, across oceans, across time, so that we can be together again.” His dark eyes search my face. “Through so many years, so many lives, I’ve tried to find you, and I’ve finally succeeded. You’re as beautiful as you ever were, as you’ve ever been. Look at me, please look at me and see me as you once did.”

So I do. I gaze into his eyes and see all of it—everything. Our love, our grand, sweeping love, and the fire that destroyed it in an instant…

I press my hand to his cold, smooth cheek, shivering from the chill of his touch as he covers it with his own. “I’ll make you whole again,” I promise. “We’ll live together, forever. We’ll never be apart….”

When my eyes meet his, I know exactly what I must do. And even though I don’t want to leave, would do anything to remain here in this beautiful ballroom, wrapped in his arms, with the chill of his lips at my ear, my cheek, my neck…I must go. In order to have this forever—I must wake up and paint.

It’s the only way….

I open my eyes to a mist-filled room. Despite the fact that the doors and windows are closed, it snakes all around me—curling around my legs, my torso, my head, lingering at the stinging, wet sore on my neck as I rise from my bed and head for my canvas, knowing I must complete the portrait, finish the scene, then head downstairs and wait.

There is music. Soft, lilting music that drifts from below. Music that calls to me—signaling the time has now come.

The painting is done.

I place my brush on the ledge and stand back to survey my work. It’s perfect. He’s perfect. Just like my dream. And now there’s only one thing left to do in order for my perfect lover to return to me.

One small task to make this restoration complete.

I gaze into the mirror and run my hands down the front of my black watered-silk gown with the deep, plunging neck. Having no memory of when I swapped out the purple one, but still more than pleased with the reflection that stares back. And when I see the way the mist curls and slithers around me, I know that he is pleased too. I understand now what I failed to see before.

He causes the mist.

He is the mist.

They are one and the same.

He leads me down the hall, the mist trailing behind me, in front of me, all around me, drawing me to the very end, where I stop before a large portrait of me—Lily Earnshaw—painted in 1896 and wearing the same gown and jewels I wear now.

I reach toward it, trailing my fingers along the smooth silk of the dress, the pale expanse of skin, feeling the sensation of my fingers as though touching myself, and knowing we are connected.

Art is life. Life is art. It’s never been truer than at this very moment.

Moving to the one just beside it—the one of him. The frame is singed from the fire, its plaque missing, but I’m not the least bit surprised to find the portrait itself fully restored—just as he shall be, as soon as I reach him.

I head down the stairs and into the ballroom that’s now fully refurbished—looking just like it does in my painting. The walls creamy and glistening and dotted with gold leaf, the floors shined and polished to their former splendor, as Camellia and some red-haired guy I assume is her boyfriend laugh joyously, heads thrown back, faces radiant, as they waltz across the room.

He waits in the corner—so dark and handsome, I can’t help but rush toward him. Wincing as the chill of his touch sends an icy jolt straight through to my bones, as he presses my body tightly to his. The red glow that emanates from his chest drawing me closer, luring me near, begging for me to complete him.

My fingers slip through his dark, glossy hair as I bring his lips to my neck, closing my eyes against the feel of his tongue washing over my wound, as the excited, hushed voices of Camellia and her friend urge me to hurry, to get it done with already.

“We’ve waited so long for this moment,” Camellia murmurs as her friend stands alongside her. “And it was well worth the wait, ’twas. Yer just perfect, miss, just like ye were back then. We knew it from the moment we lured you back here with the contest. Oh, do hurry up and kiss him already! You’re the key! All yer dreamin’ and paintin’—just yer presence alone was enough to spur the restoration in ways we could only hope for. And now it’s time to complete it, miss, to restore Master Lucian so we can serve this house as we used to. Just one kiss, miss—’tis all it takes—”

I turn. Did she say I was the key?

“Well, surely you realize by now that yer wearin’ yer own dress and yer own jewels, and even staying in the manor that was always meant to be yers?” She shakes her head and clucks her tongue. “There was a bit of a mix-up—a misunderstanding of sorts—and then with the fire—” She twists the pendant at her neck. “But never ye mind that, miss—we can have it all again—start over, as it were—all you need to do is kiss Master Lucian, and the past is forgotten.”

“Hurry up now!” her boyfriend says, his beady eyes narrowing on mine. “We’s all been waiting a very long time—”

I turn toward him, Lucian, standing silent and still, unable to do anything more than wait patiently for me to begin. My blood dripping from his lips, luring me to press mine against them. Knowing that’s all it takes, all that’s required, one deep kiss and I can bring him to life.

He groans, grasping me tighter, so tight I can’t breathe. His mouth moving against mine, at first softly, then with greater urgency, attempting to part my lips just ever so slightly—

And I’m just about to do it, just about to surrender, when I hear a muffled scream, a commotion, and I turn to find Bram standing behind me.

“Hey, Dani.” He pushes his filthy, smudged glasses up past his forehead and onto his mud-slicked hair. “I hate to kill the moment you got goin’ here, but trust me—you might want to rethink it.”

I glance between him and Lucian, struck by their resemblance—the clothes, the hair, even their dark, heavily lashed eyes—everything identical, except for the way mist flows from Lucian’s mouth, and words flow from Bram’s.

“Trust me,” he says, moving closer. “This is one guy you do not want to play tonsil hockey with. Remember when we got separated outside? That was no accident—that was them.” He jabs his thumb over his shoulder toward Camellia and her friend, who cower behind him. “Oh, and that sore on your neck? Not a rose, like you think. I’ve yet to see the thorn that can do that particular brand of damage, leaving two strategically placed puncture wounds right smack-dab in the sweet spot.” He shakes his head as he plucks mud, leaves, and debris from his shirt. “And as for that graveyard outside? That would be lover boy’s most recent address. Seriously, he’s spent the last century six feet deep, just waiting for you to show up and save him. And once he moved out, he tried to make me move in.” He gazes down at himself. “Sorry for the mess, but I was forced to dig my way out.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” I say, aware of Lucian’s hands on my back, my neck, urging me to turn away from Bram and back to him.

“I know it sounds crazy.” Bram shrugs. “And believe me, I’ve got plenty more where that came from. But here’s the thing, I’ve attended enough goth festivals through the years to know the real from the fake. And Dani, this ain’t fake.”

Lucian’s hands are at my waist, while his lips push at my ear, and I know he wants me to kiss him again, more fully this time, while we still can. And even though I want to, even though I know that he’s fading, just barely hanging on—I can’t. Not when Bram’s looking at me like that. Not when Camellia’s freaking out. Not when there’s still so much left unsaid.

“Did you check out your painting in the hall?” Bram shakes his head. “Is that creepy or what? But here’s the thing. It wasn’t painted in 1896, that’s just what they want you to think. It was probably painted sometime last week.”

“How would you know?” I say, thinking how ridiculous it is that out of all the things he’s told me, that’s the one I choose to question. But when I remember how touching the painting felt like touching myself, I narrow my gaze even further.

He shrugs, deciding not to push it when he says, “Anyway, I digress, that’s hardly the point.”

“So what is the point?” I lift my shoulder to my ear, so Lucian will quit lapping at my neck.

“The point is, none of this is what you think. They’re using you. You’re their missing link. Your whole reason for being here is to paint the dead guy, raise the dead guy, kiss the dead guy, and bring him to life. Oh, and in case you haven’t noticed, those two”—he points toward Camellia and her friend—“they’re indentured servants, bound to the house. They live and die with it. It’s a package deal.”

And when I look at them again, I know that it’s true. Camellia isn’t Violet’s daughter—they’re one and the same. And the red-haired guy is the driver, the creepy old man who brought me here.

“Different flower, same girl.” Bram shrugs, reading my expression. “Seems you and your paintings have restored them all.”

“But—how?” I squint, confused by just about everything he’s said. None of it makes the slightest bit of sense.

He looks at me, face composed and serious when he says, “They lured you here for the restoration. Trust me, Dani, this is no art school—or at least not the kind you were hoping for. There was never any real contest, no other students delayed by the mist—no other students at all! It’s just one big, carefully orchestrated ruse to get to you. It was always about you, Dani. They needed your dreams, your vision, your talent—it’s your artistic gifts that completed the restoration, returned everything back to its former glory. But as for your connection to the place—the way it feels so familiar—so homey—or in your case, even better than home, perhaps?” He quirks a brow and takes me in. “That’s their influence. It’s not real.” He pauses, allowing enough time for the words to sink in. “You don’t have to do this, you don’t have to do their bidding. You’re the one in charge here. All of this, everything you see, including them”—he motions toward the servants behind him—“depends entirely on you, and your willingness to go along with their plan.”

And he’s just barely finished when Camellia/Violet runs up behind him, gazing deep into my eyes when she says, “Don’t ruin this for us—please! We only want what’s best for the house—that’s all we’ve ever wanted. And look! Look how beautiful ’tis again! You belong here, Lily—this is your home, and we live to serve you and Master Lucian!”

I glance from her to Lucian, the guy from my dreams. He needs me.

He’s tremulous, faint, unable to speak. Neither alive nor dead—trapped in some kind of limbo state.

I’m sure of only one thing: This is my duty, my reason for being. My connection to this place is real, of that I’ve no doubt. I’ve never felt so at home, so content, so happy just to stay within these old walls. Besides, it’s like Bram said, they’re depending on me.

Hearing Bram’s voice at my ear, whispering urgently, “Listen, Dani, I get that you’re wrestling with some issues at home, really, I do. But still, you don’t really strike me as the suicidal type. But hey, if I’m wrong, don’t mind me, just go ahead and kiss him already, that should do the trick.”

I glance over my shoulder, annoyed by his constant interruptions and eager to get on with my destiny.

“Even though he appears animated—or at the very least, upright and visible—in order for him to be truly alive, he needs your soul. And to get it, he’ll kiss you, suck it right out of you, extract the life force, and then spit out what remains so he won’t have the burden of all that goes with it. Leaving you no more than an empty shell, which he may or may not send home in a box so your poor dad can bury you. Seriously, Dani, it’s not just the stuff of horror movies—in this case it’s real. See that red glow emanating from his chest? That’s the void he needs to fill. Is that what you want? To be a soul donor for him?”

I swallow hard and turn back toward the guy from my dreams, the guy I came here to help, promised to help. But when I glance over my shoulder at Bram, a real live, flesh-and-blood person who’s only trying to help me—save me from doing something risky that may not end well—that’s when I choose.

Hearing Camellia’s agonized scream crying out from behind me, as I push away from Lucian and rush straight toward Bram.

His arms circle around me as his mouth presses against mine—the feel of his lips so familiar, my mind floods with memories stretching far before my time.

Moving across my face to my cheek before working his way to the space below my ear, brushing my hair to the side, and he whispers, “This is forever,” as his fangs sink into my flesh.

Seven

When I wake, Bram’s leaning over me, all cleaned up with a new set of clothes and freshly washed hair, gazing at me with loving concern when he says, “Sorry, Lily. I didn’t mean to surprise you like that.”

“My name’s not Lily,” I mumble, struggling to sit up, though I’m far too weak to even lift my head.

“Well, it used to be.” He smiles, running his finger down the length of my cheek. “But if you prefer, I’ll call you Dani—or even something else entirely. We’ve got an eternity to get it all figured out, no need to rush into anything.”

I look at him, gazing into eyes that look just like Lucian’s, wondering how I got it so wrong.

Realizing my thoughts are no longer private, haven’t been all along, when he says, “You didn’t. You didn’t get it wrong, or choose wrong. The fact is, Lily-Dani, you chose the exact same way you did before. Over a hundred years ago. And apparently Lucian never got over it.” He shakes his head. “Though I guarantee you he’s over it now. I’m afraid my brother won’t be visiting anytime soon.”

“Your brother,” I whisper as my hand flies to my throat, wondering which is more horrifying—the two sets of puncture marks, or the fact that I’m no longer breathing.

“Listen.” He climbs onto the divan and grasps my hand in his. “The only thing I lied about was your connection to this place.” He pauses, eyes gazing into mine when he adds, “Well, that and the painting. I painted it, over a hundred years ago, and you painted the one of me just beside it, but everything else was true.”

“How could I have possibly painted that when I’m only seventeen?” I cry, his words not making the least bit of sense, even though deep down inside, I know them to be true.

“I’ve waited a long time to find you,” he says. “Gave up on that reincarnation crap years ago. But then, when I heard about the restoration, I swung by to see for myself, and the moment I saw you, I knew. And when I saw your Doc Martens, I knew for sure. You always had that independent, rebellious streak, and well, you know the rest.”

“But I don’t,” I say, my voice hoarse, scratchy, as though I haven’t used it all day. “I don’t know anything. All I know is that I’m no longer breathing, I think I might’ve killed someone who was already dead, and—” I close my eyes, unwilling to voice the worst of it, so I think it instead: And I think I might be a vampire.

“You are a vampire.” He nods, and by the glint in his deep, dark eyes, it’s clear he’s quite pleased by the fact.

And was I a vampire before—a hundred years ago?

He shakes his head. “No. Although Lucian tried to trick you into letting him turn you, when you discovered it was he, not me, who tried to sire you, you fled. And in your haste, knocked over a candelabrum, which burned down the house and took Lucian right along with it. By the time I returned, there was nothing left to save. You were gone, Lucian was six feet under, and though the servants clung to the hope that he’d someday hasten your return, I never believed it. But don’t worry about them—they bear no further allegiance to Lucian. Now that they know we’ve no plans to leave, they’ll happily serve us for the rest of eternity.”

I stare at the wall, the furniture, the heavy drapes that are forever drawn. Trying to make sense of it all, but it’s a lot to absorb.

“Everything you see here is ours, just as it was always meant to be. You’re an integral part of this house—without you, without our eternal love, it can’t thrive, it all falls apart. It’s been that way from the moment you first set foot in this place—over a century ago. The house was in a shambles but your mere presence was enough to start the process, and your artistic gift brought it to life. And that’s when I knew you were the one I’d been waiting for. Your connection to this place is very real—this is where you are meant be.” He looks at me, his gaze filled with reverence, voice soft and tender, when he adds, “I’ve waited so many years for you to return, Lily-Dani, and while Lucian may have sent you the dreams, it was you and I who were lovers. He met you first and swore that I stole you from him—but you can’t steal what was always meant to be yours, now, can you?” He smiles, smoothing my hair between his thumb and index finger. “I know you remember. I felt it in your kiss.”

“So what does it mean?” I ask, my gaze fixed on those deliciously chilled lips and longing to taste them again.

He smiles, exposing a full set of teeth, including, yes, fangs, kissing the tip of my nose when he says, “It means you’ll live forever. You’ll be young and beautiful forever. And you’ll never have to deal with Nina, high school, or the likes of Jake and Tiffany again.”

“And my dad? What about him?” I ask, suddenly overcome with the pain of missing him—a pain that subsides the moment I realize the truth: The person I miss is long gone. My old dad, the man he used to be, disappeared the moment he hooked up with Nina. Leaving behind a new, not at all improved dad in his place. One who barely takes notice of me. One who’s clearly eager to forget the past and embrace a future I prefer to avoid.

He shrugs. “That’s the only downside. You can never see him again. But still, there’s always something, right? Nothing ever comes without a price.” He slips his arm behind me, supporting my back as he helps me to sit. “But for now, you need your strength. You need to eat.”

He rings a bell and Violet, still transformed into her younger self, Camellia, hurries in. “Miss.” She bows before me, no longer wielding any type of strange power over me. No longer daring to make eye contact now that our positions as mistress and servant have been newly established. Setting down a plate piled high with sausage links, she says, “They’re fresh. Courtesy of that nice young stable boy from the next manor over.”

Bram glances between us, then dismisses Camellia with a wave of his hand. “So.” He leans toward me. “More of that blood sausage you seem to like so much?” He smiles. “Or—more of me?” He loosens his collar, exposing an area of his neck I vaguely remember feeding from—just after he bit me.

And when I look at him, I know it’s just one more experience I need to embrace—one that won’t just feed my art, but also free my soul—like he said.

I glance at the mirror before us, seeing him with his slicked-back hair, black waistcoat, black pants, and white frilly shirt, and me in my black watered-silk gown, with a jet-black tiara now secured at my crown.

And I reach for him, pulling him to me as my lips swell toward his. Remembering how it felt to be loved, truly loved, all those years ago, back when we first met, and knowing I’ve found that love once again, I lower my head, press my lips to his neck, and drink.

Aware of his arms circling around me, lovingly, protectively, bringing me home.

My real home.

The one that was always meant to be.