Kisses From Hell Part 4

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 gla.s.s doors, just a.s.suming 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 embarra.s.sing.

"'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 st.i.tched into the seam many years ago, back when it still belonged to my mom, long before she died and it was pa.s.sed on to me. Squinting out the window, with my forehead pressed against the smudgy gla.s.s, 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 munic.i.p.al airport parking lot, and the next, it's like I'm in another world, jolted awake by a series of b.u.mps 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, doc.u.ment everything I see from beginning to end. But the road is too b.u.mpy 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 b.u.t.ton, 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, th.o.r.n.y stems that practically reach out and sc.r.a.pe 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 b.u.t.tresses, 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 ap.r.o.n 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, th.o.r.n.y 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."

All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.

-Edgar Allan Poe

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 s.p.a.ce 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 gla.s.s 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."

Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

-Alexander Pope

Three.