Kisses from Hell

She glances between us, obviously so unhappy by our refusal to go along with her plans I’m about to agree just to please her, figuring we can always just sneak out later. But when she disappears with a tall stack of dishes, Bram leans toward me and says, “What’s her deal?”

I shrug. I don’t know what anyone’s deal is. I’m nothing like him. I didn’t grow up on the road, drinking wine in exotic locales, with a goth band mom. I’m a half-orphaned only child, from an L.A. suburb, who’s used to a pretty normal, ho-hum existence, who, oh yeah, just happens to have artistic ambitions. But still, no matter how weird it is here, with our clothes, the mist, Violet, and Camellia—I’m not the least bit homesick. I mean, yeah, I miss my dad—or at least the old version of him. But I don’t miss Nina, or high school, or either one of my two former friends.

And the next thing I know Bram is beside me, offering his hand as he says, “Come on, let’s ditch this place before she comes back.”

We slip out the front door and straight into the mist, the two of us laughing as we stumble along, clutching at each other so as not to get lost. And even though his hand feels so good with the way his soft, cool palm presses tightly, and the way his fingers entwine so nicely with mine, I’m quick to remind myself that it’s purely for practical purposes. So that we don’t get separated and lose each other in the haze. No matter how nice, no matter how right it may feel, it means nothing to him, so it shouldn’t mean something to me.

We move forward, slowly, carefully, heading toward the area where the mist is at its thickest, not realizing we’ve stumbled into a graveyard until I’ve fallen head-first over a tombstone.

“Must be the family plot,” Bram says, voice coming from somewhere just above me as he helps me to stand. “And watch out for the roses. They’re so big and vicious they practically jump out at you.”

But a second after he says it, it’s too late. I’ve already been scratched by one of those thorns, digging into the side of my neck, somewhere between my ear and the hollow.

I let go of his hand so I can assess the damage, my fingers slipping through something warm and wet that can only be blood—my blood.

“Too late,” I say, wincing when I touch it again. “Maybe we should head back inside so I can clean it up, get a Band-Aid or something. Okay? Bram?”

I reach out beside me, in front of me, behind me, my hands groping into thin air, the space he just filled— but he’s gone. No longer there. No longer—anywhere.

I turn all around, calling his name, as my arms flail through the mist. But I can’t see him. Can’t see anything. And no matter how loudly I call, no matter how many times I shout out his name, there’s no response.

I’m alone.

And yet—I’m not.

There’s someone else. Something else. And when I see that soft red glow in the distance, I turn and run the opposite way. Falling over a mound of freshly dug dirt, not realizing until a hand is clamped over my mouth that that loud, piercing scream came from me.

Six

A wounded deer leaps highest.

—Emily Dickinson

When he pulls me toward him, pulls me tightly to his chest, the mist clears. Everything clears. And at last I can see him, look right into his deep, dark eyes. His gaze probing, penetrating, luring me in, framed by lashes so thick they hardly seem real.

“You’ve come,” he whispers, the words like a song on his lips. “You’ve come to save me, haven’t you? You’ve traveled all this way, across oceans, across time, so that we can be together again.” His dark eyes search my face. “Through so many years, so many lives, I’ve tried to find you, and I’ve finally succeeded. You’re as beautiful as you ever were, as you’ve ever been. Look at me, please look at me and see me as you once did.”

So I do. I gaze into his eyes and see all of it—everything. Our love, our grand, sweeping love, and the fire that destroyed it in an instant…

I press my hand to his cold, smooth cheek, shivering from the chill of his touch as he covers it with his own. “I’ll make you whole again,” I promise. “We’ll live together, forever. We’ll never be apart….”

When my eyes meet his, I know exactly what I must do. And even though I don’t want to leave, would do anything to remain here in this beautiful ballroom, wrapped in his arms, with the chill of his lips at my ear, my cheek, my neck…I must go. In order to have this forever—I must wake up and paint.

It’s the only way….

I open my eyes to a mist-filled room. Despite the fact that the doors and windows are closed, it snakes all around me—curling around my legs, my torso, my head, lingering at the stinging, wet sore on my neck as I rise from my bed and head for my canvas, knowing I must complete the portrait, finish the scene, then head downstairs and wait.

There is music. Soft, lilting music that drifts from below. Music that calls to me—signaling the time has now come.

The painting is done.

I place my brush on the ledge and stand back to survey my work. It’s perfect. He’s perfect. Just like my dream. And now there’s only one thing left to do in order for my perfect lover to return to me.

One small task to make this restoration complete.

I gaze into the mirror and run my hands down the front of my black watered-silk gown with the deep, plunging neck. Having no memory of when I swapped out the purple one, but still more than pleased with the reflection that stares back. And when I see the way the mist curls and slithers around me, I know that he is pleased too. I understand now what I failed to see before.

He causes the mist.

He is the mist.

They are one and the same.

He leads me down the hall, the mist trailing behind me, in front of me, all around me, drawing me to the very end, where I stop before a large portrait of me—Lily Earnshaw—painted in 1896 and wearing the same gown and jewels I wear now.

I reach toward it, trailing my fingers along the smooth silk of the dress, the pale expanse of skin, feeling the sensation of my fingers as though touching myself, and knowing we are connected.

Art is life. Life is art. It’s never been truer than at this very moment.

Moving to the one just beside it—the one of him. The frame is singed from the fire, its plaque missing, but I’m not the least bit surprised to find the portrait itself fully restored—just as he shall be, as soon as I reach him.

I head down the stairs and into the ballroom that’s now fully refurbished—looking just like it does in my painting. The walls creamy and glistening and dotted with gold leaf, the floors shined and polished to their former splendor, as Camellia and some red-haired guy I assume is her boyfriend laugh joyously, heads thrown back, faces radiant, as they waltz across the room.

He waits in the corner—so dark and handsome, I can’t help but rush toward him. Wincing as the chill of his touch sends an icy jolt straight through to my bones, as he presses my body tightly to his. The red glow that emanates from his chest drawing me closer, luring me near, begging for me to complete him.

My fingers slip through his dark, glossy hair as I bring his lips to my neck, closing my eyes against the feel