Kisses from Hell Read online

  I shrug, covering my mouth as I say, “It’s like hot dogs. Best not to ask.”

  “Ever try blood sausage?” He looks at me, head tilted as a smile plays at his lips.

  I blanch, making all manner of grossed-out faces when I say, “Gawd, no, why would I? I mean, is it really made from blood?”

  “Really and truly.” He nods. “Pig’s blood. Usually. It’s good stuff, though. Don’t knock it till you try it.”

  I stab a green bean and lift it to my mouth, inspecting it as I say, “Uh, no thanks, why would I even go there?”

  He shrugs. “Well, one could also ask, why wouldn’t you go there? I mean, you’re an artist, right?”

  I shrug and pick at my food.

  “Okay, so maybe you’re not Picasso—yet, but you’ve got an artist’s way of looking at things, which is nothing like the normal way of looking at things. Painters like you and me—we don’t see life the same way as everyone else. We notice the details, all the things they miss. Then we add and subtract and interpret them in our own way. So, with that in mind, why would we ever choose not to try something? To just settle for the same ole, same ole? Why would you even consider signing up for the usual, mundane experience?” He leans toward me, his brow lifted high over the rim of his glasses. “And, as artists, it’s practically our duty to look upon our lives as one long artistic experiment. The more you allow yourself to experience, the more your craft can grow. And trying new things is a very big part of that. You’ll be amazed at how it feeds your imagination and frees your—soul.”

  I shrug, watching as he pours some red liquid from a decanter into my goblet, thinking, Great. Now he thinks I’m an uptight prude! And immediately chasing it with, Who cares what he thinks? He’s a fellow student, not a Jake replacement. Clinking my glass against his and nearly choking when I bring it to my lips and discover it doesn’t just look like wine, but it really is wine.

  He looks at me, laughing when he sees my reaction, then continues to drink and eat like he’s used to dining like this.

  “You actually like it?” I ask, watching as he makes good progress toward emptying his glass.

  Seeing him nod when he says, “I’ve spent a lot of time on the road, traveling all over Europe with my mom and her band. It’s not at all like the States, here there are a lot fewer restrictions. You can drink, go to clubs, live like an adult, it’s all good.” He smiles. “Everything in moderation—right? Or at least, almost everything.”

  I nod, immediately pegging him as way out of my league. I mean, a guy like that, a guy so worldly and experienced, would never be interested in a small-time girl like me. Not that I care or anything. I’m just saying.

  “Your life sounds so…exotic,” I mumble, finally able to look at him again.

  But he just shrugs. “To me it’s just—my life. It’s what’s familiar—what I’m used to.” He spears a sausage link and chews thoughtfully. “The idea of going to a normal American high school—now that’s exotic.”

  “You don’t go to school?” I look at him, wondering how he qualified for the program, since it was open only to high school seniors.

  “Nope, I have a tutor. Think of it like a traveling home school, if you will.” He shrugs, running his tongue over his teeth. “My mom’s been dragging me back and forth from London to New York since I was a little kid. She yanked me out of public school way back in kindergarten, didn’t even let me graduate with my class.” He laughs. “So how is high school? Is it anything like you see on TV?”

  I gaze down at my plate, thinking about the hell I went through last semester when the whole humiliating Jake and Tiffany story broke. How everyone stared at me, gossiped about me, and how the couple in question obviously enjoyed flaunting it, by the way they always chose to make out right in front of her locker, which was just two rows from mine. I had no one to turn to. I was completely alone. My dad was too busy, Nina too…bitchy, and, unfortunately, for the last few years I’d relied so much on Tiffany, I’d forgotten to make other friends. And even though my coming here to England has handled the out of sight part of it, I’m still waiting for the out of mind part to follow. I wish it would hurry.

  “It’s nothing like you see on TV,” I say, trying to peer into his glasses, see what lurks behind those dark lenses, but the only eyes I see are my own reflecting right back at me. “Nothing like it at all.” I sigh. “Trust me, it’s far worse than that.”

  The second we finish eating, Camellia clears our plates and tries to get us to head back to our rooms so we can paint. But we don’t want to head back to our rooms, and our saying as much really upsets her.

  “It’s not like we need babysitting,” Bram says, smiling at her in that charming way that he has. “If you want to head out—head out! We can look after ourselves.”

  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.

  A wounded deer leaps highest.

  —Emily Dickinson

  Six

  When he pulls me toward him, pulls me tightly to his chest, the mist clears. Everything clears. And at las
t 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 of his tongue washing over my wound, as the excited, hushed voices of Camellia and her friend urge me to hurry, to get it done with already.

  “We’ve waited so long for this moment,” Camellia murmurs as her friend stands alongside her. “And it was well worth the wait, ’twas. Yer just perfect, miss, just like ye were back then. We knew it from the moment we lured you back here with the contest. Oh, do hurry up and kiss him already! You’re the key! All yer dreamin’ and paintin’—just yer presence alone was enough to spur the restoration in ways we could only hope for. And now it’s time to complete it, miss, to restore Master Lucian so we can serve this house as we used to. Just one kiss, miss—’tis all it takes—”

  I turn. Did she say I was the key?

  “Well, surely you realize by now that yer wearin’ yer own dress and yer own jewels, and even staying in the manor that was always meant to be yers?” She shakes her head and clucks her tongue. “There was a bit of a mix-up—a misunderstanding of sorts—and then with the fire—” She twists the pendant at her neck. “But never ye mind that, miss—we can have it all again—start over, as it were—all you need to do is kiss Master Lucian, and the past is forgotten.”

  “Hurry up now!” her boyfriend says, his beady eyes narrowing on mine. “We’s all been waiting a very long time—”

  I turn toward him, Lucian, standing silent and still, unable to do anything more than wait patiently for me to begin. My blood dripping from his lips, luring me to press mine against them. Knowing that’s all it takes, all that’s required, one deep kiss and I can bring him to life.

  He groans, grasping me tighter, so tight I can’t breathe. His mouth moving against mine, at first softly, then with greater urgency, attempting to part my lips just ever so slightly—

  And I’m just about to do it, just about to surrender, when I hear a muffled scream, a commotion, and I turn to find Bram standing behind me.

  “Hey, Dani.” He pushes his filthy, smudged glasses up past his forehead and onto his mud-slicked hair. “I hate to kill the moment you got goin’ here, but trust me—you might want to rethink it.”

  I glance between him and Lucian, struck by their resemblance—the clothes, the hair, even their dark, heavily lashed eyes—everything identical, except for the way mist flows from Lucian’s mouth, and words flow from Bram’s.

  “Trust me,” he says, moving closer. “This is one guy you do not want to play tonsil hockey with. Remember when we got separated outside? That was no accident—that was them.” He jabs his thumb over his shoulder toward Camellia and her friend, who cower behind him. “Oh, and that sore on your neck? Not a rose, like you think. I’ve yet to see the thorn that can do that particular brand of damage, leaving two strategically placed puncture wounds right smack-dab in the sweet spot.” He shakes his head as he plucks mud, leaves, and debris from his shirt. “And as for that graveyard outside? That would be lover boy’s most recent address. Seriously, he’s spent the last century six feet deep, just waiting for you to show up and save him. And once he moved out, he tried to make me move in.” He gazes down at himself. “Sorry for the mess, but I was forced to dig my way out.”

  “But that’s ridiculous,” I say, aware of Lucian’s hands on my back, my neck, urging me to turn away from Bram and back to him.

  “I know it sounds crazy.” Bram shrugs. “And believe me, I’ve got plenty more where that came from. But here’s the thing, I’ve attended enough goth festivals through the years to know the real from the fake. And Dani, this ain’t fake.”

  Lucian’s hands are at my waist, while his lips push at my ear, and I know he wants me to kiss him again, more fully this time, while we still can. And even though I want to, even though I know that he’s fading, just barely hanging on—I can’t. Not when Bram’s looking at me like that. Not when Camellia’s freaking out. Not when there’s still so much left unsaid.

  “Did you check out your painting in the hall?” Bram shakes his head. “Is that creepy or what? But here’s the thing. It wasn’t painted in 1896, that’s just what they want you to think. It was
probably painted sometime last week.”

  “How would you know?” I say, thinking how ridiculous it is that out of all the things he’s told me, that’s the one I choose to question. But when I remember how touching the painting felt like touching myself, I narrow my gaze even further.

  He shrugs, deciding not to push it when he says, “Anyway, I digress, that’s hardly the point.”

  “So what is the point?” I lift my shoulder to my ear, so Lucian will quit lapping at my neck.

  “The point is, none of this is what you think. They’re using you. You’re their missing link. Your whole reason for being here is to paint the dead guy, raise the dead guy, kiss the dead guy, and bring him to life. Oh, and in case you haven’t noticed, those two”—he points toward Camellia and her friend—“they’re indentured servants, bound to the house. They live and die with it. It’s a package deal.”

  And when I look at them again, I know that it’s true. Camellia isn’t Violet’s daughter—they’re one and the same. And the red-haired guy is the driver, the creepy old man who brought me here.

  “Different flower, same girl.” Bram shrugs, reading my expression. “Seems you and your paintings have restored them all.”

  “But—how?” I squint, confused by just about everything he’s said. None of it makes the slightest bit of sense.

  He looks at me, face composed and serious when he says, “They lured you here for the restoration. Trust me, Dani, this is no art school—or at least not the kind you were hoping for. There was never any real contest, no other students delayed by the mist—no other students at all! It’s just one big, carefully orchestrated ruse to get to you. It was always about you, Dani. They needed your dreams, your vision, your talent—it’s your artistic gifts that completed the restoration, returned everything back to its former glory. But as for your connection to the place—the way it feels so familiar—so homey—or in your case, even better than home, perhaps?” He quirks a brow and takes me in. “That’s their influence. It’s not real.” He pauses, allowing enough time for the words to sink in. “You don’t have to do this, you don’t have to do their bidding. You’re the one in charge here. All of this, everything you see, including them”—he motions toward the servants behind him—“depends entirely on you, and your willingness to go along with their plan.”