11. Juliette
Juliette
BITTERSWEET LONGING
I’m shocked when the Nosferatu takes me not to some dank hovel on the outskirts of the woods but a castle I didn’t even know existed.
By the time we reach it, rain has moved in and pelts me like tiny glass shards.
The Nosferatu pulls his cloak over my face to shield me from the elements as much as possible, an unexpected kindness.
My mother wouldn’t have done that for me.
In cold carriage rides through the rain, when we were exposed to the elements, she would place a blanket over her head and leave me to fend for myself.
“If you didn’t want to be cold and rained upon, you should have brought your own shawl,” she would say in her clipped tone.
The irony is not lost on me.
As he glides down to the balcony, I realize we probably aren’t even in France anymore. The landscape doesn’t look familiar. It’s far too flat and brown, and there are dead trees everywhere. Isn’t it supposed to be summer? It’s as though time has stood still on a cold day in November.
The castle itself is stark and gray, with several ominous towers that reach for the heavens. The Nosferatu tosses the cloak behind his shoulder and sets me down on my own two feet. Then he watches me like one would observe a rare bird in a tree. Waiting for me to run, perhaps?
I don’t. Instead, I watch him in turn. He tilts his head at me. I do the same. After a few moments of this nonsense, he finally says, “Come. Let us fix up that throat of yours. You must be in pain.”
I am, but showing this monster any sort of weakness, even if he’s been kind to me, would be foolish. Especially since he’s been so kind to me.
He leads me into a stately room with high ceilings and a fireplace roaring in the far corner.
A couple brocade fabric chairs sit in front of the fire, with a fluffy black cat sleeping in one of them.
Not at all what I expected from a monster.
The Nosferatu hangs his cloak on the mahogany coat rack by the balcony window.
At first, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he goes over to the chair in front of the fireplace and scratches the cat between the ears.
I can hear it purring all the way from the balcony window.
“Lace, we have a new member of the family. You should get up and say hello,” he murmurs to the cat.
My heart pounds in my ears. A new family member?
This creature is deranged if he thinks that I’m in any way, shape, or form his family.
My entire body tenses as I watch him glide across the floor, as though levitating, toward me.
No. No, I can’t let this creature touch me again. I turn to run back out onto the balcony.
“Where are you going, little dove? There’s nothing out there for you,” he calls, his voice sharp and commanding and not at all endearing like it was before.
I throw myself against the balcony railing with a gasp. There is only darkness below. Who knows how far of a jump it is? It does not matter. If I jump, it will be the end. The end of me, this life, this pain. I wasn’t ready before, but I sure as hell am now, because if this monster touches me I’ll—
With my feeble, quaking arms, I pull myself up onto the stone railing. The Nosferatu hisses.
“Little dove, step down from the balcony at once. I will not tell you nicely again.” His voice is a drum against the torrent of rain and wind.
Such a slender, thin creature, yet his voice projects better than that of an opera singer.
I stare him down. He bares his fangs and takes a single step forward.
I climb up the rest of the way onto the cold stone. The slickness of the rain makes it difficult to keep my footing. My eyes widen in defiance against the monster that ravaged and pillaged my village. My neighbors. The only family I had in the world, even if they didn’t truly want me.
I throw my arms out to my sides and allow myself to fall backward into the abyss below. The Nosferatu lets out a deep, guttural cry that sends the birds from their trees.
Waiting for the ground to meet me is a bittersweet longing, like thick, glossy ribbons of honey laced with cyanide.
But seconds later—or perhaps hours; time has lost all meaning in the abyss—the Nosferatu crashes against me and pulls my body against his.
His leathery wings unfurl and carry us high above the trees, away from the sweet release of death.
“I told you not to do that, little dove.” His whisper is a serrated knife against my ear. I flinch as his grip tightens around my waist. “Perhaps you will be more trouble than you are worth.”
We land on the balcony for a second time, but he does not release me.
He’s no fool, and realizes I am not to be trusted.
That I do not fear death. He takes me by the wrist and yanks me inside the room, then barks orders for his servants to lock the windows behind us.
My head swivels about frantically as new people enter the room and make a mad dash to the window to close it.
“You are a naughty, naughty girl,” he seethes.
When the Nosferatu’s eyes meet mine, I notice how they glow like pieces of amber.
Merde. He must truly be angry with me, now.
“If you don’t start behaving, dearest, then I will not heal your vocal cords before you’re turned.
And then what will you do? Spend an eternity voiceless. ”
What does he mean by turned? Surely, he doesn’t mean to…
Before I have a chance to run again, he stalks forward, his icy grip still on my wrist. I stagger behind him, all at once trying to resist him and keep up so I don’t fall.
My body doesn’t want to go with him, but my mind doesn’t see any other choice.
Hot tears streak my cheeks as we fly down the plush red carpet of the hallway.
More brocade designs all over the wallpaper.
More gilded picture frames with odd oil paintings imprisoned within—all displaying scenes of violent deaths, wolves, and the occasional serpent.
When we reach the stairwell, another servant stands with her hands behind her back, ready to receive instructions.
She’s no bigger than me, with hair as white as freshly fallen snow.
So pale I can’t even make out her eyelashes or eyebrows.
At first I think her hair is natural, but I notice her unnatural hairline. It’s a wig. How odd.
She bows at the waist, not one bit disturbed by the scene in front of her as I pull against the Nosferatu’s grasp. She doesn’t even look at me. Instead, she murmurs, “Master Dante. Welcome home.”
Dante.
And here I was beginning to think he did not have a name. Why would a monster have such a mundane name?
Dante all but throws me at the girl. When I land against her chest, I half expect us to go tumbling down the stairwell. Instead, her arms wrap around me and stop me from falling to the ground. Gods, she’s strong. That doesn’t make any sense.
“Take her downstairs. I want her ready for the party within an hour. Put her in something purple. I do believe purple is her color,” Dante says, and doesn’t wait for the servant to say anything before stalking off down the hallway again.
The servant presses a palm against the back of my skull. It’s as if the gesture is supposed to be a soothing one, but from the way she runs her fingernails across my scalp … it’s threatening. This woman is threatening me.
I’m not safe with her. I’m not safe with anyone here.
“There, there. Everything will be all right,” the servant girl says in a monotone. “Master Dante may seem harsh, but he is a fair man. He will treat you well, little miss.”
More tears fall wordlessly down my cheeks. She lifts my chin to look deep into my eyes. It’s then I notice her irises are twin blood moons against the whites of her eyes.
“Brown. Like chocolates,” she says flatly again. “They will be even more beautiful once you’ve turned.”
I open my mouth to scream, but only a rasp makes its way past my lips.
Her impassive expression melts into a frown. “Oh. That will not do. Come with me, little miss. I will fix you up before your party.”
What party? I want to ask. And what do they mean by turned? Not having one’s voice is a special layer of Hell, one created especially for those unwanted by their loved ones.
“I am Selene, by the way. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says in a tone that contradicts her statement, then releases her hold on my chin to take me by the hand.
Her touch is tender, much gentler than Dante’s was, but still too firm for me to pull away.
She tugs me along like a puppy on a leash, leading me down the hallway, toward what I can only assume is my end.