Kisses from Hell Read online

  Miraculously, Eric remained standing. He charged Dennis again, and the two became locked in a fierce hold that neither seemed to gain ground on. Each struggled to shove away the other or at least get a punch in. Every so often Eric would manage to push Dennis back, and then Dennis would push Eric forward. The problem was, Eric’s back was at the cave opening. If he was pushed too far, he’d stumble onto the cliff’s edge that Rhea suspected was right outside.

  With as little exercise as they got, feeders didn’t have much muscle. Nonetheless, that lack didn’t seem to hinder Dennis, and he began to slowly press Eric toward the opening, one step at a time. Eric sweated, his teeth clenched as he tried to fight back. Neither were trained like guardians, and there was something very brutal and primitive about the fight.

  At last Dennis managed to get Eric to the cave’s entrance, and that was when Rhea knew she had to act. She just didn’t know what to do. If she tried to hit Dennis, Eric might get pushed farther out. Still, there seemed to be no other options, and it would be better if she took action sooner rather than later.

  Running forward, she kicked Dennis in the leg, hoping to knock him off balance. She did, but not enough to make him fall. He shouldered her away but lost a few steps to Eric. If she could keep distracting Dennis, Eric might be able to make progress again. Only, everything she tried seemed useless. She didn’t have the strength to really land any punches. She didn’t really even know how to punch. Eric began moving closer to the edge once more.

  Then she caught sight of a rock sitting in the corner, a little smaller than a bowling ball. Hoping she could knock Dennis out the way he’d done it to her, she hefted the stone up, struggling with its weight. She and Dennis were similar in height, and gathering all her strength, she swung out with the rock and smashed it against his head. He didn’t collapse like she’d hoped, but he did completely let go of Eric and stagger forward, disoriented. In fact, Dennis was so addled and badly coordinated that he kept stumbling farther and farther forward—toward the cliff’s edge.

  Rhea screamed again. “Stop him!”

  Eric reached for the man who had just been trying to kill him, face frantic. Dennis, realizing what was happening, reached out to try and grip Eric’s hands, but he’d lost his footing. The cliff’s edge began crumbling, bits of rock and dirt pouring over the edge. Dennis screamed, trying desperately to hold on to solid ground—but failing. He couldn’t reach Eric or secure footing. Realizing he might go over if he stayed at the edge, Eric thrust himself back to the cave, taking Rhea inside with him, away from the danger. Dennis disappeared over the edge, still screaming—and then a few seconds later, there was silence.

  Rhea buried her head against Eric’s chest, surprised to find herself sobbing. “Hey, it’s okay,” he said, stroking her hair. “You’re safe. You’re okay.”

  It was eerily reminiscent of the night they’d met on the boat, when he’d comforted her there, too. Unbidden, she remembered his question from the conservatory, asking who was ever there to comfort her.

  Lifting her head up, she saw that Eric’s face was stricken. He was as shaken as she was but putting on a good show for her. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I am now that you’re safe,” he said, though there was a haunted look in his pale green eyes, one Rhea suspected she shared. Rhea had never seen anyone die before. Dennis had terrified her. She’d wanted desperately to escape…but she hadn’t wanted his death. Surely no one deserved to die like that. Swallowing, she focused on Eric again.

  “How—what are you doing here?” she stuttered out.

  “When I couldn’t find you…I just kept asking and looking. No one knew anything. No one thought anything was wrong.” The bitterness in his voice rang out. “Then the guardians said Dennis escaped, and I…I just knew. I knew he had you. The guardians were still sweeping the house and not finding anything, and I remembered Jared talking about how he went rock climbing here. I took a chance.”

  Distantly, Rhea recalled Dennis saying a “pretty brown-haired girl” had encouraged him to run off with Rhea. Rhea had a good idea who that girl was but decided not to bring it up just yet.

  “Why didn’t the guardians come here?” she asked instead.

  “They didn’t believe me. They thought he was too drugged to be dangerous. They figured he was just hiding somewhere on the grounds. Plus Stephen said you take walks by yourself all the time, so no one thought you and Dennis were connected.”

  Eric was still running his fingers through her hair, and it felt like the most perfect thing in the world. “You should have tried harder to convince them. You shouldn’t have come alone,” she argued. “With your family…if anything had happened to you…there’d be no more Dragomirs….”

  He still seemed shaken by what had happened but mustered a small smile. “It was worth the risk. I was too afraid there’d be no more Rhea.”

  She stared up at him, hardly daring to believe anyone would do that much for her. A strange, wondrous feeling rose in her chest, and this time, she was the one who kissed him. It seemed so strange to be kissing in a place where death had just occurred before their eyes, and yet…it also seemed right. They were alive. The kiss was alive.

  She wanted to keep kissing him forever and had a feeling he would have been happy to do the same. There were too many things to worry about, though. Horrible things. They had to get back and report what had happened. They had to…

  “Emma and Stephen,” she murmured when she and Eric pulled apart. “What will we do?”

  “We’ll talk to them,” said Eric. He hesitated. “If you…I mean, if you want to…”

  She studied him, reminding herself that she barely knew him. What did she want? She and Stephen had been friends for a long time—almost like brother and sister. He loved her…but she wasn’t in love with him. Until now, she’d thought it didn’t matter, so long as she cared about him. Now she realized it did matter. Love had to be more than liking the other person. She didn’t want to break his heart…but she also didn’t want to regret taking this chance to be with someone who actually seemed to want to be with her and not just what she could do for him. Eric had been right about her always looking out for others. Now, for once, she would do what she wanted.

  “We’ll talk to them,” she repeated.

  He linked his hands in hers and led her out of the cave, steering her clear of the cliff’s edge. She had a feeling it was less about safety and more about making sure she didn’t catch a glimpse of Dennis’s body. The way back down to the house actually had a well-worn trail, explaining why both Eric and Dennis had managed to reach this height.

  Halfway down, Eric stopped and stared at her, an awestruck look in his eyes. “What is it?” she asked.

  “Your hair. Even in moonlight…it looks like sunshine. I’d never have to go outside again if I was with you.”

  She tugged him forward. “I think you hit your head in your heroic struggles.”

  “You were the heroic one,” Eric said, stepping around a rock bend. “Reminds me of the stories from Russia my grandmother used to tell me. You know any of them? Vasilisa the Brave?”

  “Nope. My family’s from Romania. Never heard of any Vasilisa.” Looking up, Rhea stared up at the sky thoughtfully. “But I kind of like that name.”

  Bring Me to Life

  ALYSON NOËL

  For the dead travel fast.

  —Bram Stoker, Dracula

  One

  I stop.

  Despite the mobs of people jostling around me, ramming their bags into my back and mumbling obscenities under their breath, I remain firm, rooted in place. Taking a moment to survey the airport terminal—from the filthy tile floors that have traveled so far from their original shade of white they’ll never return, to the depressing beige walls sporting garish black signs with yellow arrows pointing toward important destinations like the toilets and the line for taxis and buses. I readjust the strap on the small bag of art supplies I’m toting and wonder what happened to th
e rest of my group—if they somehow got lost, turned around, confused by the signs and headed the wrong way. I mean, I can’t really be the only one who made it this far—can I?

  The crowd continues to shift and move until it finally thins out and it’s just me, and him—Monsieur Creepy Guy, with the plaid pants, weird shoes, and ill-fitting, gnarled blue sweater. Or, as I’m in England, make that Sir Creepy Guy. And since he’s holding a sign that reads SUNDERLAND MANOR ART ACADEMY, I’ve pretty much pegged him as my ride.

  I move toward him, doing my best to ignore the overly affectionate couple before me—the way they grope each other, gaze into each other’s eyes, and kiss like it’s their first—even though, unbeknownst to one of them, it could very well be their last. Painfully aware of that small, familiar knot of cynicism that now resides in my gut—the one I’ve named Jake after the person who put it there. Remembering how we used to be like that, grope like that, kiss like that, until Jake woke up one day and decided he’d rather grope and kiss my best friend, Tiffany.

  “Sunderland Manor?” the Creepy Guy says in an accent so thick it takes me a moment to realize he’s speaking English.

  “Yeah, um, I mean, yes, that’s me.” I shake my head, not faring much better with the native tongue. “I’m a Sunderland Manor—uh—student.” I nod.

  “So, ’at’s it?”

  I glance around and shrug, unsure how to answer. Unsure how any self-respecting artist in the making would take the time to painstakingly piece together a portfolio, hoping to gain entry into the newest, most exclusive art academy for youths (as claimed by the brochure), only to either miss the flight or just bail completely. But then, maybe they didn’t need it as much as me. Maybe their lives are Jake and Tiffany free.

  I sweep my long, dark hair aside and switch my army green art bag to my other shoulder. Still remembering the look on Nina’s face when I chose it over the one she bought for the trip. I mean, even though I promised my dad I’d do my best to accept her, the fact that she gave me a turquoise bag covered in pink hibiscus flowers pretty much proves she’s not trying all that hard to accept me.

  “Name, please?” he says, or actually, snaps; it sounded way more like a snap, like he’s in a big hurry or something.

  “Um, Danika.” I nod. “Danika Kavanaugh?” I say it like a question, as though I’m looking to him to confirm my own name. I roll my eyes and shake my head. Nice to know I’m as big a dork in the UK as I was in the U.S.

  He nods, checks the box next to my name, and barrels right out the double glass doors, just assuming I’ll follow—which I do.

  “Um, what about my bags?” I ask, my voice high-pitched, overeager, in the most pathetic, please like me kind of way. “They said they didn’t make it—do you think they’ll deliver them—or will we have to come back?”

  He mumbles something over his shoulder, something that sounds like “Deliver ’em,” but he’s moving so quickly, I can’t be too sure.

  “So, do you know what happened to all the others?” I ask, my gaze fixed on the back of his head, the bald spot glinting like a bull’s-eye and surrounded by a thatch of hair so red it’s suspicious, like he dyes it or something. Doing my best to keep up with this skinny old guy, who moves awfully fast for someone of his advanced age, gasping and wheezing with the effort, I say, “I mean, aren’t there supposed to be a few more of us?”

  And just after I ask it, he stops so abruptly I bang right into him. Seriously, like straight into him. So embarrassing.

  “’Fraid it’s too late for ’em now, miss,” he says, totally unfazed by the way my carry-on bag just nailed him in the back. Not missing a beat as he eases it off my shoulder and adds, “Not with the way the mist is rolling in like ’tis.”

  I squint. My eyes crinkled, nose scrunched, gazing all around and not quite getting what he means. Yes, it’s a bit overcast, cloudy, and gray, but hey, it’s England, that’s pretty much a given, right? And the thing is, I don’t see any fog. Not even a trace. So I turn to him and say just that, sure I misunderstood due to his accent and all.

  But he just looks at me, gaze stern, fingers flapping at me to hurry up and get in. “Fog got nothing on the mist,” he says. “Come along now, got to get moving before he gets any worse.”

  I huddle in the back of the van, pulling my navy peacoat tightly around me as he slams the door and settles in. Digging my fingers deep into the right-side pocket and fingering the small coin my grandmother stitched into the seam many years ago, back when it still belonged to my mom, long before she died and it was passed on to me. Squinting out the window, with my forehead pressed against the smudgy glass, thinking that if I just look hard enough I’ll see this mist he’s so worried about. But I don’t. So I make one last attempt when I say, “Looks pretty clear to me—”

  But he just grunts, hands gripping the wheel in the ten and two position, eyes on the road when he says, “That’s how the mist works—’tis never what he seems.”

  I fall asleep.

  I mean, it’s not like I can remember the drive, so I guess that’s what happened. All I know is that one minute we were pulling out of the municipal airport parking lot, and the next, it’s like I’m in another world, jolted awake by a series of bumps in the road—a bad combination of really deep potholes and really bad shock absorbers.

  “Is that it? Up ahead?” I squint into the distance, still unable to see any trace of that mist he’s been mumbling about. Making out a large stone structure at the top of a hill that looks just like one of those creepy manors you read about in old gothic romance novels—the kind I like best. Like it’s one of those drafty, foreboding homes filled with priceless antiques, hidden secrets, strange servants, resentful ghosts, and a lonely, plain-faced governess who can’t help but fall for the tall, dark, and handsomely brooding master no matter how hard she fights it.

  I reach over the seat and grab my bag, fumbling for my sketch pad, wanting to jot down my first impressions, document everything I see from beginning to end. But the road is too bumpy and my pencil gets dragged off the paper repeatedly, so I quit before I can really get started, and settle for gawking instead.

  We pull up to a large, imposing gate, and the driver leans out the window, presses a button, and says, “She’s here.”

  Which, frankly, I find a bit odd.

  I mean, She’s here? Shouldn’t he have said, We’re here?

  Aren’t they expecting a group of us?

  Five talented, lucky young artists chosen from a pool of thousands.

  Five fortunate souls who not only aced a rigorous, multilayered application process but also had to submit a portfolio of paintings created specifically for this very event—a portfolio of paintings representing our dreams.

  And I don’t mean dreams as in goals. I mean the nocturnal vision kind. Since I’ve always had an active dream life, always had those kind of superpower, Technicolor, lucid dreams, the moment the brochure arrived in the mail I knew this was the school for me. Figuring I had a pretty good shot at making it, and it seems I was right.

  But no matter how vibrant my dreams may be, I never dreamed of a place like this. A place with a drive so long and winding and steep, lined with lushly colored roses atop sharp, thorny stems that practically reach out and scrape the paint right off the side of the van. When we reach the top, I leap out and crane my neck all around, determined to take it all in.

  Stone facade, gargoyles, flying buttresses, odd little carvings of winged creatures and gremlins—it’s just…spectacular. Totally and completely perfect. It’s everything I’d hoped for and more.

  “Plenty of time for that later,” the driver says, tossing my bag over his shoulder and heading for a door that’s opened by a stern-faced woman, her long, gray hair coiled into a tightly braided spiral at the back of her head, dressed in a stark black dress with a white lace collar and apron to match. Her skin so pale and translucent, it’s as though she’s never known a single day in the sun.

  “Now just look at ye. Ye must be
Dani?”

  I nod, wondering how she knew to call me by my nickname when I filled out all the forms as Danika.

  “I’m Violet,” she says, almost as an afterthought, as though she’s too busy appraising me to pay attention to small pleasantries. “Well, you’re a bright and pretty one, aren’t ye?” She looks me over, her thin, dry lips curving up at the corners as the fragile skin around her eyes fans at the sides. “Young, strong, and made of good, healthy stock, I imagine. How old are ye?”

  “Seventeen.” I wrap my arms tightly around me, wondering if she’s ever going to get around to inviting me in.

  “Well, you’ll do just fine here, ye will.” She nods, ushering me inside and exchanging a look with the driver I can’t quite interpret, adding, “Hurry on, now, you’ll catch yer death out there,” and leading me into a foyer so warm, so cozy, it feels just like home.

  Well, not my home exactly. Not the overcrowded condo that used to be perfect back when it was just my dad and me—before Nina and all her “stuff” moved in—but the kind of home I wish I had. A house of mystery and history—filled with dark polished woods, antique rugs, large chandeliers, and bouquet after bouquet of those amazing red roses with long, thorny stems—pretty much the opposite of what I’m used to.

  “Wow,” I say, my voice barely a whisper as I gaze all around, looking forward to exploring every nook of this place over the next few weeks. “This is just so…grand,” I add, surprised by my use of the word. I mean, really? Grand? What happened to awesome, or amazing, or—

  “Yes, ’tis comin’ along, ’tis.” Violet nods, yanking my coat off my shoulders, the chill of her touch lingering long after she hands it to the driver, who disappears with it upstairs. “Almost finished now.”