Kristin Cast Page 7

  “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 a
n 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.”

  Despair has its own calms.

  —Bram Stoker, Dracula

  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 al
one. 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.