by Sky Winters
Isabelle stopped in the garden shed and grabbed a shovel. She had decided that he couldn’t be dead, or at very least, she had decided that she had to see him dead for herself. Isabelle couldn’t say what it was, but something was telling her that Edmund was fine, she only had to go to him. Isabelle was dancing on air as she walked through the town and it wasn’t long before she reached the low stone fence that encircled the cemetery.
“Who goes there?” It was one of the night watchmen. Isabelle turned abruptly and threw her shovel over the fence at the same time. The watchman was holding a lantern, but he didn’t seem to notice the shovel. “Oh, Miss Bernard, I didn’t recognize you.”
Isabelle felt bad, because she didn’t recognize this man at all. Her father was on the Parish council and fairly well known in town. Everyone seemed to know who Isabelle was, and it made her feel snobby to not know them back. Kitty knew a few of the night watchmen, but that was because she had spent so much time being delivered back to her father. This was really the first time in her life that Isabelle had been defiant.
“What are you doing out so late?” The watchman’s tone had changed, but his question remained. He had to speak more politely to a highborn lady, but he was still obligated to return her to her father’s home if he saw her out late at night.
“I came to say good bye to my lover,” Isabelle knew that everything she said to the watchman would run through the town in a matter of hours. “My father caught me with Edmund Bellemorale and that is why he was put to death. Please, you have to let me say good bye to the only man I ever loved.”
Isabelle was surprised by how much pleasure the whole exchange was giving her. She was not completely lying, she was getting what she wanted and bringing shame to the family that tried to offer her to a filthy old man. The watchman seemed touched by her story. Isabelle thought she saw a tear welling up in the man’s eye. He stepped aside and let her pass.
Isabelle hopped the fence and found her shovel. She ran up the hill and found the loose dirt of the freshly covered grave. The shovel was singing as she repeatedly drove it into the dirt. She was going fast, but soon tired and fell to the ground. Why am I doing this? She asked herself as she lay down crying in the dirt.
“Should I dig for a while?” It was Edmund. He was standing over her almost shining in the sun. He no longer looked grey and the mark from the cane was gone. Isabelle was frozen in place for a moment as she tried to process the sight of the hanged man standing before her.
“You’re alive!” She shouted and hugged him, but then fear ran down her spine and she backed away. “So you’re…you are…are a,” Isabelle couldn’t find the words.
“I am a vampire,” Edmund said. “I was turned and I tried to stay on Saint Helene with my master, but I could not.” Edmund grabbed Isabelle’s quivering hand. “I have loved you since we were kids playing in the woods. I thought of you every day while I was away.” Edmund took a deep breath, “If there was a way for me to leave here without you I would, but I cannot be away from you for another minute.”
Isabelle looked into his eyes. She could feel the truth of his words and she knew the truth of her own feelings. “Make me a vampire,” She almost whispered. It had been shocking to see him alive, and yet Isabelle had known since the ball that something was different about her childhood friend. AS he stood there before her professing his love she realized that she wanted nothing more than to be with Edmund. She was willing to go through anything.
“Are you sure?” Edmund asked.
“You are asking a woman knee deep in your grave if she is serious?” Edmund got into the hole and kissed Isabelle deeply.
“I love you,” was all that Edmund said as he grabbed the shovel and lifted Isabelle with one hand out of the grave. Edmund dug the grave down three feet and started padding down the loose dirt at the bottom. The black carriage was pulling up as Edmund cast the shovel aside. He pulled Isabelle down into his arms and laid her down in the grave. Edmund kissed Isabelle deeply as they lay entwined in each other’s arms. As he broke away from the kiss he bared his fangs and dug deeply into Isabelle’s neck.
The lifeless eyes of the coach driver were the only eyes upon them. Isabelle could feel dirt falling on her legs and body. In a few minutes she was buried completely. She was not scared. She could not even feel it. She couldn’t tell where her body was at that moment. It was like being in a cocoon. She could feel the changes coming over her.
Isabelle felt the warm blood that coursed through her veins only moments before stop. Her body was hardening. She felt like stone. There was pain, Isabelle wanted to scream out, but there was no way to open her mouth. She was not in control. She could hear Edmund trying to calm her down inside her own mind.
“You let a young woman into a grave yard by herself?” It was her father’s voice. It sounded miles away. “You are taking your job title too literally, you do not only have to watch! You also need to take action!” Sir Thomas Bernard was organizing a manhunt for his daughter. He clearly wanted to get her back.
Clearly a great deal of time had passed, and yet, to Isabelle it felt like only a few minutes. She heard her father yelling at the watchman. When the other’s had cleared away she heard her father offer Lysa to the old colonel. It made Isabelle feel horrible to be traded away so easily.
“Ah yes, I do enjoy a younger bride,” Raglan’s drool could be heard in his tone. It was disgusting to think about the old man touching one of her sisters, but Isabelle laughed when she thought about that match. Lysa is going to eat him alive. Lysa was money hungry. Isabelle hated to think badly of her sister, but he knew that Lysa cared more for things than for love. She will likely be happy about it, Isabelle thought.
The noises, which had seemed hundreds of miles away to begin with, faded away and after what seemed like a minute a surge of power rose through Isabelle. Edmund started moving and his new vampire followed him through the dirt. Edmund was brown and his clothes covered in dirt. Isabelle didn’t even want to know what she looked like. The couple stood in the open grave and drank in the moonlight as they waited for the carriage to arrive.
Isabelle threw her arms around Edmund. She had never been a girl to sit around thinking about happily ever after, but in her heart she knew that she had found hers.
THE END
BITTEN BY THE BILLIONAIRE
Lucinda Waters stumbled over the top step to her apartment building’s lobby door and went down hard on one knee, barely saving herself from falling flat. Her legs, numb from exhaustion, had given out just a little too soon. The tall, curvy brunette sighed, gritting her teeth, knowing passers-by would be staring and she’d better just force herself up and move on quickly. New York City’s Upper West Side in a nutshell: age, elegance, beauty, and indifference to suffering. And so she pulled herself up on the railing, got her wobbly legs under her, and shoved herself forward through the door.
Her apartment lobby glowed under its antique chandeliers, the mosaic floor and Gilded Age trappings of mirrors and brass shimmering at her with the promise of better things. Right now, fresh from another stage audition after two shifts starting at 6am, the beauty brought tears to her pale blue eyes that weren’t exactly of joy. Defeated, she limped for the tiny, narrow elevator, thinking to herself well, I made it home without breaking down, at least.
The apartment was an old rooming house for young ladies, very dormitory-like, with tiny rooms, a bathroom at each end of the hall and a kitchen down on the first floor. She found it like living in a filing cabinet, despite the prettiness of it all, but after a twelve hour day the glorified closet with its narrow bed, chair, desk and bureau were a welcome sight. She stripped out of her audition dress, trashed her ruined pantyhose, got a shower down the hall and then just sat in her nightshirt and shorts out on the fire escape, staring out over the city. The Big Apple, city of promise, where people with dreams of Broadway made their start….
...as long as they were skinny and hot enough.
A sob caught in Lucin
da’s throat. The audition had gone as they always did. She had sung every note of the score perfectly, with passion, precision and the right mix of emotions for the scene. She had acted rings around others on the stage. Her voice had compelled passers-by in the hall to stop, looking in the doors to see who it was. But who was it? No one they knew, and built more like a Wagnerian Valkyrie than anyone who should be performing in a Broadway musical. She could perform everything about the part perfectly, but she couldn’t turn herself into the size-two diva that these people always seemed to want center stage.
There had been comments afterward, meant to be supportive but as always, they came with barbs that the advice-givers probably hadn’t even meant. She really did have a good voice, but there weren’t very many roles for women of her body type.
“I hate you people,” she mumbled, tears rolling down her cheeks. It was all so petty, so shallow, so hateful. She knew she had both the talent and the skill, she knew she was hardworking enough, that she could do everything asked of her for these roles except be thin. But that one thing, it kept her back.
Two years ago Lucinda had realized that all the dieting in the world would not drag her down below a size sixteen without making her incredibly sick. She had eased off, focusing on regular exercise instead, and simply tried to learn to love her body as it was. She did all right, her confidence improving month by month, but times like these, she found herself torn between loathing her body and loathing people who wouldn’t accept her because of it. So here she was, sobbing on a fire escape instead of celebrating finally getting her big break. There were thousands like her in this city, and most of them couldn’t even sing, but had more of a chance because they looked the part. Crazy, stupid, fickle...and there was nothing she could do about it.
She had struggled ever since arriving in the city four years ago at age eighteen, fresh off the bus and ready to fight for what she wanted. Now she worked three crappy service jobs to pay for the rooming house, food and transportation...and now and again maybe a new pair of pantyhose. She even worked here to cover some of her rent, polishing brass and glass and sweeping the mosaic floors while she sang to keep herself company. But in the end she had just been treading water for four years, with nothing to show for it; no savings, no billings, no closer to her goals. And she knew that tomorrow, she’d pick herself back up and plan to try again, somehow, in some way. But right now, she was just too tired, and she let the tears fall.
A tap on the door startled her. She grabbed her short, fake-silk white kimono off the chair and threw it on as she padded over and looked through the spy-hole. The tall, lean figure beyond lounged idly against the wall, sleek in a tailored black leather skirt suit, her straight jet-black hair gleaming across her shoulders. Lucinda opened the door, feeling a little tug of apprehension. What did her landlord want? “Hi, can I help you?”
“Hullo dear.” The landlord—Claudia smiled at her, and Lucinda wiped her cheeks self-consciously. “Actually I was thinking I could help you.” Her gray eyes twinkled, and her lips quirked. Lucinda blinked at her, and then stepped aside as Claudia breezed in and opened the door. She leaned against the back of it, tenting her fingers. “A relative of mine is holding a singing contest at his next party, this weekend. I thought perhaps that you’d like a go. I could get you in, supply you with a dress and a ride, all that sort of thing.”
Lucinda stared at her, eyebrows going further up the longer Claudia went on. “I don’t...understand why?” she ventured finally.
Claudia chuckled and waved a hand. “Really, I’m getting quite tired of Yohan dominating these contests with his own entries. You’re quite good--everyone in the building has heard you now and again, singing as you work. It makes the place more pleasant.” Her eyes twinkled in amusement at Lucinda’s blush. “I think you could give Yohan a run for his money.”
Lucinda sat down in her chair, absorbing all of this. A contest in two days, a dress and a ride for the evening, a chance to sing in front of an audience. “What...kind of people go to these parties?”
“Oh, it’s quite exclusive. Lots of power-behind-the-throne types, lots of eccentrics like Yohan. Not terrible, but...they have their own ways of doing things.” She tapped her lips with a finger, gazing thoughtfully at Lucinda, up and down. Lucinda squirmed slightly under her scrutiny but tried to keep her smile on. Saturday was her only night off. She wouldn’t even be able to spend Sunday recovering if the party ran very late. But….
“I’ll do it. But I’ll need, um, I mean...what sort of party is it?”
“It’s a masked ball, dear. You’ll love it.” She gave Lucinda another once-over, then nodded. “Definitely Italian Renaissance.” She produced a black business card and handed it over. “Call my assistant at five o’clock tomorrow evening, and as soon as is convenient she’ll come over for a fitting.”
A while later Lucinda sat on her fire escape again, a little stunned, but neither teary-eyed nor hopeless. A singing contest at a masquerade ball for rich eccentrics. She thought of her earlier humiliation and despair, and lifted her chin, hunting around inside of her for her resolve. I’m coming home with the prize money, damn it.
Chapter 2
Two nights later, she smoothed the front of her midnight blue dress nervously as she stepped out of the Bentley that had picked her up at sunset. The velvet was just light enough for the weather, clinging to her at the silver-threaded bust and then spreading out into a full skirt gored with brocade. Simple silver slippers on her feet; white gloves to match her dove-feather mask, and a silver band holding her curls back from her face. In the mirror, being fussed over by Claudia’s makeup artist, she had felt like an Italian princess. Now, mounting the steps to the grand hotel where the party was being held, she wondered if she could pull the look off as well in public.
Just think of it as a role to play. Tonight I’ll show these rich weirdos that music isn’t just for girls sized like underwear models.
She walked in, looking around at the masked and gowned figures milling in the lobby. Of course there was no way of telling who these people really were...but they had no way of telling who she was either. The anonymity comforted her a little. She found her way to an elevator, following the crowd toward the rooftop ballroom where the party was to take place.
The ballroom, Gilded Age as well, shimmered with light: the carpet plush and golden, the windows tall and shining and draped in pale silks, the chandeliers enormous affairs that glittered with what looked like a thousand lights held by spidery golden arms. At the very center of the ballroom, surrounded by dancing couples, a grand piano stood on a dais, played by a man in black.
She paused in the doorway, staring at the tall, lean figure in the white domino mask and black tailcoat. She could see nothing of his face, of course, but the figure he cut was memorable regardless: black velvet, shining porcelain mask, the face beneath it pale and set in lines of concentration. She couldn’t see his eyes, but his hair fell to his shoulders in crisp dark waves that threw back auburn gleams, and his long-fingered white hands danced over the keys unerringly and without hesitation, as if he and the instrument were one. She had witnessed some very good piano performances during her education and auditions, but the simple waltz he played outshone most of them in virtuosity alone.
She headed that direction. She didn’t expect any of these people to ask her to dance, or speak to her; she was a stranger here, and a less than conventionally pretty one. But she could certainly kill a few hours listening to the man’s music. And so, on pretense of staying near the punch bowl, she stationed herself as close by as she could while staying unobtrusive.
No one much noticed her as she sipped the wine-based punch and quietly listened. Sometimes he played dance music; sometimes he performed requests; sometimes he simply played something from his own memory as background for the conversations going on. Lucinda listened more to him than what the others talked about, which was all business, money, buying this, avoiding tax on that. Boring one-percenter talk so far
from her realities that it both irritated and amused her. Better to focus on the man--er, rather, his music. Though he himself wasn’t hard to focus on either.
What will I sing? she wondered as she watched him. He seemed to like Mozart a great deal. She knew some arias...including one that lesser singers didn’t even dare tackle. Lucinda considered, then lifted her chin, her resolve firming. Mozart wasn’t kind to his singers; in fact he had written one of the most famously difficult arias ever performed. It was one she had pulled out a few times in audition when offered free choice of song; once, she had broken into it in a fury when told her voice was nothing special, and left her critic gaping at her as she walked out. "Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen", song of the Queen of the Night from The Magic Flute, was not for amateurs. And with a Mozart lover on the bench, chances were he would know how to accompany it.
I’ll do it. Let’s see anyone else win this one once I trot this baby out. In the back of her head she knew she was pumping herself up to leave no room for self-doubt, but...she really could do the song justice.
A blonde in scarlet brocade and a golden quarter-moon mask had been eyeing her from the dance floor. The woman had made a business of dancing with a succession of men, walking away dismissively from each when each song was done, as if they were toys she quickly grew bored of. Now, staring at Lucinda with open skepticism, she went over to the pianist and hissed something in his ear.
