Kisses from Hell

shoulder at me.

“Oh, I didn’t mean—,” I start, feeling embarrassed 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 titles. “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 classrooms, 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 cocked 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 apron, 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 crap 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, sparse 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.”

Five

Despair has its own calms.

—Bram Stoker, Dracula

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 classic rebound situation.

Not that I’ve ever had an opportunity to have a classic 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?

I take a deep breath and look up at the girl again, my mind suddenly flooding with a long list of questions. Questions that vanish the moment she returns my gaze and says, “Not to worry.” Her voice is calm, soothing, eager to put me at ease. “I’m certain the dress can be cleaned, and if not, there’s plenty more where that came from.” She turns toward the canvas, her eyes growing wide as she takes in my progress. “I say, you’ve come a very long way in just a day’s time.” She clucks her tongue as her hands twist at her apron. “Such great progress indeed,” she adds, her voice lifting. “Oh, and in case ye were wonderin’, the instructors have also been delayed. But the good news is, this mist should lift in no more than a day or two now, and when it does, all will git back to normal again.”

“Really?” I look at her. “Violet said it would be at least a week.”

She looks at me, gaze thoughtful when she says, “Did she? Well, let’s just say that things are lookin’ up, miss.” She tilts her head and looks me over, and something about her gaze, her movements, the way she clutches at her apron is so familiar. Then I realize what it is—she looks and acts like a much younger version of Violet, and