Blood
Iwake to the cruel intrusion of morning light.
My eyes flutter open. The ceiling stares back at me, water-stained and unfamiliar. For a moment, I don’t know where I am. Then memory crashes back—the manor, the masters, the portrait. The shadows.
I sit up too fast, my head spinning. My hand flies to my throat, fingers pressing against the skin. Smooth. Unmarked.
I scramble from the bed, nearly tripping over the tangled sheets, and stumble to the vanity mirror. The glass reflects a pale, wild-eyed girl with tangled red hair and dark circles beneath her eyes. I tilt my head, exposing my neck.
Nothing. No bruises. No evidence of what happened last night. But when I turn back to the bed, my stomach drops.
There is blood on the sheets. A dark, rust-colored stain spreading across the white fabric like a bruise.
My hand drifts to my lower belly. A familiar ache settles there, low and dull.
Oh no.
I’m on my period.
I exhale, a strange mix of relief and horror flooding through me. Relief because the blood is not from a bite wound. Horror because I have to report it.
The rules. Pets must report their cycles.
It is one of the rules that comes with severe consequences.
They will lock me in the tower for the duration.
Isolate me. And I can’t let that happen.
My gaze falls on the desk. The notebook.
The one I found last night, the one with the red circle on the cover.
It sits open, pages covered in my own handwriting.
I cross to it, my fingers trembling as I pick it up.
The words stare back at me. My words. But I don’t remember writing them.
Old cemetery. North wing. Chapel adjacent to his tomb. Gold. Gemstones. Enough to pay the debts. Leave tomorrow. Never look back.
His voice echoes in my memory, fragmented and fading like a dream dissolving at dawn.
“One gemstone would be enough to pay your father’s debts a hundred times over. Take as many as you want. Go tomorrow. Then leave this place and never return.”
I press my fingers to my temples, squeezing my eyes shut. The memories are slippery, difficult to hold. I remember shadows. A promise of escape.
But I also remember fangs. Blood. A kiss that tasted like copper and darkness.
Was it real? Or did I dream it all in some fevered hallucination born from exhaustion and terror?
I look down at my neck again. No marks.
But the notebook is in my handwriting. I wrote this. I know I wrote this. Didn’t I?
I touch my lips. They are warm, but I feel an ache lingering there. The ghost of a kiss. The phantom pressure of teeth against my skin.
I don’t know what is real anymore. The lines between dream and memory have blurred into something indistinguishable.
I shake my head hard. It doesn’t matter if it was real. What matters is the plan. Perhaps I have a chance to escape.
I will go to the tomb and see if the gold is there. If it is, I will take it and run. If it is not—
I refuse to consider that alternative.
I drag my attention back to the present. The blood on the sheets. The servants will be here soon. I need to clean this, hide the evidence.
And I need to decide: do I tell them about my cycle?
If I tell them, they will lock me in the tower and I will lose my chance to investigate the tomb. It must be a secret at least for today. Just long enough to see if the tomb is real.
I strip the sheets from the bed, balling them into a heap. The blood is still wet. I grab a cloth from the vanity and scrub at the mattress, working the stain with frantic energy. The rust-colored smear fades but doesn’t disappear entirely.
Good enough. They don’t inspect the mattresses. They won’t notice.
I pull my uniform from the wardrobe and dress quickly, my fingers clumsy with urgency. I tug wads of toilet paper from the small supply in the water closet and stuff them into my undergarments, a crude makeshift pad. It will have to do.
I’m lacing my doll shoes when the first knock comes at the door.
My heart hammers. I smooth my skirts, paste a neutral expression onto my face, and open the door.
Three servants stand in the hallway, their faces blank as usual, they don’t look at me.
Thank God they never speak. No explanation is asked for. Their eyes remain empty.
“Breakfast,” I say, hitting the corridor. And they follow, herding me with the false appeal of control.
The great hall is already half-full when I arrive. Long tables groan under the weight of platters and pitchers. The girls chatter in low voices, their eyes darting to the head of the room where the masters sit in their thrones.
I slide onto the bench next to Meg. She gives me a small smile. I return it, though my mind is elsewhere.
The masters are watching. All four of them. Their eyes scan the room like predators surveying a herd.
I keep my head down and reach for bread. I try to be invisible but I fail.
A guttural growl vibrates through the stone floor. Then another. And another.
I look up.
The masters are rising from their thrones. Thomas’s face is twisted into something feral, his nostrils flaring. Cain’s eyes have gone dark and hungry. Lord Peter and Lord Francis are on their feet, their bodies coiled with tension.
“Blood,” one of them hisses. “Someone is in heat.”
Chaos erupts. The girls scream, scrambling back from the tables. Platters crash to the floor. Chairs scrape against stone. The masters stalk through the hall, their heads turning, their nostrils working, tracking the scent.
I realize with dawning horror that they are tracking me.
I press my thighs together, my makeshift pad suddenly feeling like a target painted on my body. The blood. They can smell the blood.
The scent hits them like a physical blow. Thomas’s head snaps toward me. His eyes lock onto mine, and a slow, predatory smile spreads across his face.
“There you are,” he murmurs, and the words are a death sentence.
I bolt from the table, shoving past a cluster of screaming girls. My shoes slap against the stone floor as I run for the nearest exit—a side door I spotted earlier, half-hidden behind a tapestry.
“The north wing,” I hiss to myself. “Get to the north wing.”
Footsteps thunder behind me.
“Lucy!”