by Anna Katmore
“No, Nana. Of course, not. I was just—”
“You were worried that your great-grandmother might drop dead from a little milking,” she mocks me and gives me a very wrinkly grin. “Go unpack your things, Abby, and then run so you’ll be back before lunch.”
“Run? Where?”
She straightens and resumes pulling on the teats of the grass-munching goat, but I can hear her chuckle from the other side. “You think I forgot what you do first every summer you come to visit me? Run up to Emilia Dalca’s paddock, of course. I heard her white horse foaled three weeks ago.”
Oh, right. That’s what Nana thinks I’ve been doing every summer when I leave her house in the morning and return sometime before dark. Actually, I couldn’t care less about those horses.
What I really did each time was run up to the dark Castle on Mount Cetatea. Nana’s little village lies right at the foot of the hill. Tilting my head, I gaze off into the distance. We’re so close to the plateau that I can even see the west tower from here. The view is enough to make me sigh with excitement, but Nana can’t know. She would lock me inside my room for the entire summer if she found out that I spend most of my days in Romania around an old, abandoned castle that, in her estimation, is haunted. I’d better let that sleeping dog lie.
The only person who knows about my secret is my friend Rosemarie. We used to go up there together to explore the musty place or just hang out around the wild gardens. It’s alleged, the castle once belonged to a real vampire. The infamous Count Dracula.
In all those years of exploring, Rosemarie and I found as little evidence to prove that particular theory as we have to affirm the rumors of Nana being a witch. But I’ve never come across a better playground than those ruins. In some rooms, one can still find ancient furniture. We especially liked the master bedroom and the kitchen. Playing house there was great, and we always pretended that a real dragon lived in the dungeons—even though we never dared venture down there.
Rosemarie is a little older than I am; she turned nineteen a few weeks ago. And while I still have to finish my A-levels before I can pick a college next year, she graduated from high school—or the Romanian equivalent thereof—last spring. She lives at the very end of the road that goes past Nana’s house. Not many kids live in this residential area, so I enjoyed knowing at least one person my age when I spent my vacations here every summer and winter.
The mountains and the old village were beautiful enough to get me excited every time the end of a school year neared. At the prospect of seeing Rosemarie again in a few days, my anticipation doubled. And Nana’s apple strudel and the fancy old stories about Castle Dracula—as my grandma often called it—make this place my personal paradise.
Since Rosemarie already texted me that our summer reunion had to wait a few days because of a camping trip she’s on, I head out of our garden and straight for the plateau. No detour to her house first, or to Emilia Dalca’s horse paddock.
The dirt road leading to the black castle is broad enough for two cars and winds up the hill like a drunken kite tail to the iron gate in the high stone wall surrounding the place. The front door has been locked for as long as I can remember. However, during one of our early trips up here, Rosemarie found a tunnel close to a fir tree behind the ruins that leads straight into one of the upstairs rooms. A secret escape, probably. We’ve never told anyone about it and made sure to cover the entrance each time we left.
With some effort, I move the branches and stones that we used to cover the rabbit hole last time out of the way and then stoop to fit inside. It’s almost a walk on all fours through the black pit. Feeling my way more than I see, I finally reach the exit and shove the tapestry that seals this side of the tunnel out of the way. Immediately, the familiar waft of musty air creeps into my nose, bringing on lovely memories of my childhood.
This is not the master bedroom. It must have been used as a nursery in old times if the rotting crib in one of the corners is any indication. Right now, I can’t see anything, though. The big windows that always flood this room with daylight are now hidden behind heavy curtains. I pull the one closest to me aside and then wipe the cobwebs I gathered on my way here out of my ponytail. My jeans are dirty from crawling on my knees, and some moss or grime clings to my fitted, black t-shirt.
Swiping my front, I cross to the door and step into the hallway that is lined with a row of arched windows on one side. What the hell? All the curtains are closed out here, too. Somebody must have been here since the last time I came to this place, and it certainly wasn’t Rosemarie, because she wouldn’t do something as stupid as shut out all the light. So, who? Is some rich baron or something going to buy the property?
“Hello?” I warily call into the silence. My voice echoes off the walls, but other than that, there’s no reply. I didn’t really expect one. Maybe some other kids from the village came up here and found the secret entrance. Whoever it might have been, they aren’t around today.
Seriously, they could have at least opened the curtains again before leaving. Now, I have to take a tour around the castle and do it myself.
Humming a song from the movie I watched on my morning flight from England to Romania, I draw back the corridor windows’ curtains one by one until I reach the stairs. I want to walk down first, so I leave the other half of the hallway untouched for now.
It’s no longer pitch-black inside, but I still have to watch my feet as I take one step at a time with my hand sliding down the rail for guidance. In the hall, it’s dark again. The only windows down here are right beside the massive entrance, so I carefully make my way over there.
I slam my shin into something hard. The immediate pain draws a groan from my throat, and I fall over, bracing my hands on the thing I ran into. There’s never been anything standing in the middle of the great hall. But now there is. Smooth wood, slightly curved top. What in the world is it? A screwed coffee table?
I stumble to the other side of the hall and feel for the curtains along the cold stone to pull them aside. A beam of light penetrates the smudgy pane, forcing me to squint. When my eyes focus again, I turn to face the hall and soak in the full view of my favorite place.
Except what I see stops my heart. My lungs shut down, and all the blood rushes from my face.
It’s a coffin. Right in front of me.
I can’t move. There is a coffin in the middle of the hall. A goddamn coffin! For dead people! And I knocked into it. Oh, my God!
A terrified screech echoes in my skull, yet my vocal cords seem frozen, unable to produce sound. I swallow so hard that the noise fills the silent air but does nothing to drown out the hysterical screaming inside my head.
Out! I want out of here!
After what feels like endless seconds, my breath returns with a tremble that rattles my bones. I force my legs to move in one direction. Around the coffin...for dead people…and toward the stairs. Halfway there, a whimper escapes me, and the shrieking hysteria in my mind subsides to sheer panic. Faster. I need to get away from here faster! Why won’t my legs do as I tell them?
I try not to look at the coffin, one that may as well hold a corpse right now, but even with my hardest attempts not to, I still see out of the corner of my eye. I’m in a room with someone’s dead body.
Help!
The moment I reach the stairs, I force enough air into my lungs to finally let out the earsplitting scream I had been containing and dash up the stone steps, imagining how the lid of the coffin could be opening behind me with a very dead person sitting up to watch me run. Stiff with terror, I stumble on my way up and fall to my knees, but I’m running again before I even have time to think. The whole place around me turns into a dark blur. Please don’t faint now! It can’t be that far to the top of the stairs. I just need to get up there, back into the nursery, and crawl out through that rabbit hole of an escape. Then I’ll be safe.
You’ll be safe in a minute, I tell myself repeatedly to keep my mind focused on something. Anything but
the coffin in the hall. And then I bump into someone.
Oh my God, it’s the dead person from the coffin! The dark haze takes over. I’m going to pass out. No, I can’t let that happen. So, instead, I scream my head off.
“Shhh,” the dead person says in my face. “Calm down. I’m not going to…hurt you.”
It’s a man. A young man from his voice. He doesn’t speak Romanian but English with an American accent. So the dead man was a US citizen. Nice. With hysteria blurring my vision, I can’t see much of him. Besides, we’re standing in the shadows with him holding me in a tight embrace. If he weren’t, I would have already collapsed to the ground.
I don’t want to be held by a rotten corpse!
“Let go! Let go! Let go!” I shout. It might have come out something like “l’ugh.” Forming actual words is a little hard right now.
The dead man pulls me deeper into the shadows and leans me against the cold stone wall of the corridor. I slide down until I sit on the floor because I currently have no feeling at all in my legs. He squats down in front of me and says in a soothing voice, “Everything’s all right. It’s just me here, and I’m not going to do you any harm. Now, please”—he grimaces, and his tone gets just a tiny bit harsher—“shut up!”
I would if I could, but it takes him planting his hand over my mouth to silence me. He waits until I look into his eyes, then he demands with soft insistence, “No more screaming, okay?”
Even in this dark part of the hallway, he doesn’t look dead. And he doesn’t smell rotten. His hair is a warm blond—probably California sun-streaked. When he offers me a small smile and a hopeful lift of his eyebrows, I stop shrieking against his palm.
“Now, that’s better,” he says. “Good girl.”
I don’t want to be a good girl. I want out of here. “Who are you?” I croak as he slowly takes his hand away.
“My name is Quentin Etheridge.”
That is certainly a mouthful, but right now, I couldn’t care less. “There’s a coffin downstairs.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“It’s mine.”
Dead person! Dead person! Dead person!
Obviously noticing the next flood of shock enter my eyes, he quickly pleads, “Don’t scream again. It’s just”—he blinks several times—“film equipment.”
Film? Really?
“I’m supposed to check out this castle for a new film set,” he explains and sounds more certain now. “The casket is a requisite. It’s not real.”
Film… That explains a lot. No dead people anywhere. Chills still run down my arms, but as the seconds tick by, and I just stare into this stranger’s blue eyes, my racing heart gradually returns to a healthy, normal beat. He relaxes when I do.
However, with the cold wall behind me, and the cool shadow enveloping me like an eerie blanket, the chills keep coming. I scramble to my feet and move into the light, staying close to the wall for support. When I turn around on shaky legs, Quentin has followed me, but he still remains concealed in the shadows.
There’s just enough light for me to see more of his face. His jaw is set while he silently scrutinizes me with almond-shaped eyes. Unless the shadows play tricks on me, his skin is flawless, and his cheekbones are high-set. His blond hair is long enough to fall tousled over his forehead yet not into his eyes, and his body appears lean yet muscular under his t-shirt, which looks vintage with a Jack Daniel’s logo on the front. He’s quite cute.
“Are you an actor? Because you look like one.”
He laughs softly. “I get that all the time. But, no. I merely work for this…guy who wants this place cleaned out.”
“Did you bring a film crew?”
“I was sent here alone.” His face turns sober, his expression almost annoyed as he tells me so.
“You’re from the States, aren’t you?”
He nods. “L.A.”
Wicked. He probably works for one of those really big Hollywood production companies. “What movie are you shooting in the castle?”
Quentin opens his mouth then closes it—once, twice—then his gaze drifts thoughtfully to the side. Maybe he isn’t supposed to talk about it. Finally, he clears his throat and reveals, “Frankenstein.”
Of course, it would have to be something about monsters. “So…are you going to be around here long?”
“Until everything is taken care of. It’s more practical for me to move in here while I’m doing my job.”
“Did you close all the curtains?” When he nods, I add “Why?”
“Actinic dermatitis,” he answers curtly.
He’s allergic to sunlight? That explains his pale skin. All of a sudden, his eyes go sharp, and I wonder if he wants to convey something different with his look. His jaw clenches briefly, but otherwise, he doesn’t move. I take a step back.
“Umm…I guess I should go now. You’re probably really busy.” I turn around and hurry to the nursery at the far end of this corridor.
“Where exactly are you going?” his voice follows me, louder this time and bouncing ominously around the hall.
In front of the nursery, I stop and look at him. He’s still standing rooted in the shadows across the hallway. “Outside.”
“By jumping out the window?”
“There’s a tunnel leading from this room to the higher plateau of the garden.” Then I wonder. “How did you get in?”
He hesitates, narrowing his eyes. “Door?”
“That door has been locked forever.”
“My boss got the key. You can walk out there now.”
Ah, right. But I’d prefer not to walk past that flipping coffin again. No matter if it’s just film equipment, it creeps me out. And his whole keeping to the shadows and staring at me so hard that a vein might pop from his temple thing doesn’t make me want to walk closer to Quentin either. “I’m fine with the tunnel, thanks.” I offer him a quick smile and dash away.
Chapter 4
A cookie type A-positive
Quentin
The living blood bag on pretty legs is gone. I remain in the same spot as the previous few minutes and curse myself for not biting her while I had the chance. But, seriously, with her ear-battering screams hassling my equilibrium, that wasn’t going to happen. And when she finally shut up, she crawled out into the deadly sun.
It surprised me that she spoke my language. We’re in Romania. Shouldn’t she speak Transylvanian or whatever is the custom here? Her English wasn’t as fast as mine, rather lordly, actually, but it still sounded like her mother tongue. I always imagined the Queen of England speaking that way, so maybe that’s where she’s from. Not from the royal palace, of course. Her casual clothes and the cobwebs and dust clinging to her black and blue hair made that clear.
Her scent still fills the castle. She smelled nice…and I’m hungry. I don’t know if I do it for the pleasure or maybe just to torture myself when I draw in a deep breath through my nose. Blood type A-positive. My favorite. It always has this distinct sweet note to it. I fancy the desserts among vampire food.
Then I realize I didn’t even ask the cookie for her name. What a pity. But I was too damn occupied with fighting to get into her mind. I couldn’t concentrate on anything else. I focused on her really hard, struggling to compel her back to the shadowed side of the hallway and offer her neck to me. But all my effort was fruitless. On the contrary, I got the feeling that I drove her even farther into the sun.
How the hell do other vampires do it? For the first time in two decades, I wonder if Uncle Vlad’s countless lectures on my being too pampered and lazy were perhaps justified. With a sigh and a grumbling stomach, I return to my bedroom and lock the door by moving the chest of drawers in front of it. Bad enough that the girl snooped around the castle as if she owned it and, on top of everything, opened the curtains, restricting me to this corner of the west wing for the rest of the day. If I zonk out and somebody walks in on me, I doubt they will believe I’m just a film requisite. Not breathing an
d with a missing heartbeat, it’s much too easy to mistake a slumbering vampire for the dead.
I saw how the girl with the fancy hair reacted to my casket. I really didn’t need her finding me in my death sleep.
At least I have my suitcase. I quickly change clothes and rummage for my battery charger, then hunt for an outlet. But this castle is as old as dirt, and somehow, they seem to have left out a great deal of comfort when building it. No sockets, no power. A quick glance at the ceiling, and I know I’m screwed. There are no lights, no signs of electricity anywhere. The only comfort I get comes from the lazily dancing flame of the candle.
On the plus side, there’s a load of them in the chest of drawers. I don’t have to live in bloody darkness the entire day, at least. And the day drags on endlessly when you’re suffering from jetlag…
With a dramatic sigh, I drop onto the bed. If I weren’t already dead, the boring afternoon would have killed me for sure. After some time, I start scratching at my arms and nape. Holy bat shit, if I could, I’d tear my skin right off. Who knew that fleas were such a nasty annoyance? The sheets certainly house a colony of them or bedbugs. Now I know what a vampire meal must feel like, getting bitten over and over.
Around six, I give up tossing and turning on the creepy-crawly mattress and saunter out of the room. Falling asleep now would be a stupid thing to do anyway because the night would slip away without me getting a chance to go out and eat.
