Kisses from Hell

“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

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

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, ski

“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 go

“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?”