Kisses From Hell Part 5

"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 b.u.t.tons 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 c.o.c.k 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 gla.s.s 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 ap.r.o.n, 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.

Any relic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living.

-Emily Bronte

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 pa.s.sed 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 cla.s.ses they went on and on about in the brochure? From what I saw, there're no cla.s.srooms, no studio s.p.a.ce-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 gla.s.ses.

"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 gla.s.ses-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 embarra.s.sed 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 t.i.tles. "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 cla.s.srooms, 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 c.o.c.ked 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 ap.r.o.n, 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 c.r.a.p 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, spa.r.s.e 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 cla.s.sic rebound situation.

Not that I've ever had an opportunity to have a cla.s.sic 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?