Page 17 of Nosfer-Meet You

Juliette lifts her head from my shoulder and sighs. “What?” There’s no missing the irritation in her delicate voice, but this is bothering me.

“He always wanted to … what? Be a father, you said?”

She nods.

“That’s fucking creepy, Jules,” I say, wincing.

Juliette glares up at me. “Oh, I am ‘Jules’ now? And yes, I realize it wasn’t good of him, but please allow me to continue telling the story. Unless you’re bored and wish for me to stop?”

I shake my head. “No, no, no! Sorry, sorry. Tell it. I’ll shut up, now.”

“Good. I’ll continue,” she says. And then she puts her head back on my shoulder.

Chapter 11

Juliette

BITTERSWEET LONGING

1793

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.”