Kisses from Hell

floods with memories stretching far before my time.

Moving across my face to my cheek before working his way to the space below my ear, brushing my hair to the side, and he whispers, “This is forever,” as his fangs sink into my flesh.

Seven

We loved with a love that was more than love.

—Edgar Allan Poe

When I wake, Bram’s leaning over me, all cleaned up with a new set of clothes and freshly washed hair, gazing at me with loving concern when he says, “Sorry, Lily. I didn’t mean to surprise you like that.”

“My name’s not Lily,” I mumble, struggling to sit up, though I’m far too weak to even lift my head.

“Well, it used to be.” He smiles, running his finger down the length of my cheek. “But if you prefer, I’ll call you Dani—or even something else entirely. We’ve got an eternity to get it all figured out, no need to rush into anything.”

I look at him, gazing into eyes that look just like Lucian’s, wondering how I got it so wrong.

Realizing my thoughts are no longer private, haven’t been all along, when he says, “You didn’t. You didn’t get it wrong, or choose wrong. The fact is, Lily-Dani, you chose the exact same way you did before. Over a hundred years ago. And apparently Lucian never got over it.” He shakes his head. “Though I guarantee you he’s over it now. I’m afraid my brother won’t be visiting anytime soon.”

“Your brother,” I whisper as my hand flies to my throat, wondering which is more horrifying—the two sets of puncture marks, or the fact that I’m no longer breathing.

“Listen.” He climbs onto the divan and grasps my hand in his. “The only thing I lied about was your connection to this place.” He pauses, eyes gazing into mine when he adds, “Well, that and the painting. I painted it, over a hundred years ago, and you painted the one of me just beside it, but everything else was true.”

“How could I have possibly painted that when I’m only seventeen?” I cry, his words not making the least bit of sense, even though deep down inside, I know them to be true.

“I’ve waited a long time to find you,” he says. “Gave up on that reincarnation crap years ago. But then, when I heard about the restoration, I swung by to see for myself, and the moment I saw you, I knew. And when I saw your Doc Martens, I knew for sure. You always had that independent, rebellious streak, and well, you know the rest.”

“But I don’t,” I say, my voice hoarse, scratchy, as though I haven’t used it all day. “I don’t know anything. All I know is that I’m no longer breathing, I think I might’ve killed someone who was already dead, and—” I close my eyes, unwilling to voice the worst of it, so I think it instead: And I think I might be a vampire.

“You are a vampire.” He nods, and by the glint in his deep, dark eyes, it’s clear he’s quite pleased by the fact.

And was I a vampire before—a hundred years ago?

He shakes his head. “No. Although Lucian tried to trick you into letting him turn you, when you discovered it was he, not me, who tried to sire you, you fled. And in your haste, knocked over a candelabrum, which burned down the house and took Lucian right along with it. By the time I returned, there was nothing left to save. You were gone, Lucian was six feet under, and though the servants clung to the hope that he’d someday hasten your return, I never believed it. But don’t worry about them—they bear no further allegiance to Lucian. Now that they know we’ve no plans to leave, they’ll happily serve us for the rest of eternity.”

I stare at the wall, the furniture, the heavy drapes that are forever drawn. Trying to make sense of it all, but it’s a lot to absorb.

“Everything you see here is ours, just as it was always meant to be. You’re an integral part of this house —without you, without our eternal love, it can’t thrive, it all falls apart. It’s been that way from the moment you first set foot in this place—over a century ago. The house was in a shambles but your mere presence was enough to start the process, and your artistic gift brought it to life. And that’s when I knew you were the one I’d been waiting for. Your connection to this place is very real—this is where you are meant be.” He looks at me, his gaze filled with reverence, voice soft and tender, when he adds, “I’ve waited so many years for you to return, Lily-Dani, and while Lucian may have sent you the dreams, it was you and I who were lovers. He met you first and swore that I stole you from him—but you can’t steal what was always meant to be yours, now, can you?” He smiles, smoothing my hair between his thumb and index finger. “I know you remember. I felt it in your kiss.”

“So what does it mean?” I ask, my gaze fixed on those deliciously chilled lips and longing to taste them again.

He smiles, exposing a full set of teeth, including, yes, fangs, kissing the tip of my nose when he says, “It means you’ll live forever. You’ll be young and beautiful forever. And you’ll never have to deal with Nina, high school, or the likes of Jake and Tiffany again.”

“And my dad? What about him?” I ask, suddenly overcome with the pain of missing him—a pain that subsides the moment I realize the truth: The person I miss is long gone. My old dad, the man he used to be, disappeared the moment he hooked up with Nina. Leaving behind a new, not at all improved dad in his place. One who barely takes notice of me. One who’s clearly eager to forget the past and embrace a future I prefer to avoid.

He shrugs. “That’s the only downside. You can never see him again. But still, there’s always something, right? Nothing ever comes without a price.” He slips his arm behind me, supporting my back as he helps me to sit. “But for now, you need your strength. You need to eat.”

He rings a bell and Violet, still transformed into her younger self, Camellia, hurries in. “Miss.” She bows before me, no longer wielding any type of strange power over me. No longer daring to make eye contact now that our positions as mistress and servant have been newly established. Setting down a plate piled high with sausage links, she says, “They’re fresh. Courtesy of that nice young stable boy from the next manor over.”

Bram glances between us, then dismisses Camellia with a wave of his hand. “So.” He leans toward me. “More of that blood sausage you seem to like so much?” He smiles. “Or—more of me?” He loosens his collar, exposing an area of his neck I vaguely remember feeding from—just after he bit me.

And when I look at him, I know it’s just one more experience I need to embrace—one that won’t just feed my art, but also free my soul—like he said.

I glance at the mirror before us, seeing him with his slicked-back hair, black waistcoat, black pants, and white frilly shirt, and me in my black watered-silk gown, with a jet-black tiara now secured at my crown.

And I reach for him, pulling him to me as my lips swell toward his. Remembering how it felt to be loved, truly loved, all those years ago, back when we first met, and knowing I’ve found that love once again, I lower my head, press my lips to his neck, and drink.

Aware of his arms circling around me, lovingly, protectively, bringing me home.

My real home.

The one that was always meant to be.

Above KRISTIN CAST