Page 18 of Nosfer-Meet You

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.

Chapter 12

Juliette

AND THEN THERE WAS NOTHING

1793

Selene bathes me and, while I’m still submerged in the tub, forces me to drink some of her blood in order to heal my throat. I don’t want to at first, of course, for obvious reasons, but she easily overpowers me and forces the metallic-tasting sludge between my lips. It’s viscous and awful, just as I imagined it would be, and when it hits my stomach, all my body wants to do is vomit it back up in her face. But I don’t.

“Give it a couple of minutes. Then you should be able to speak again,” Selene says in that strange, preternatural accent I can’t place. Where is she from? Selene is a name I’ve never heard before. She also doesn’t look human, so it’s impossible to guess her origins. Truth be told, I’m not sure I even want to know. “Master Dante will want you looking and feeling perfect before your…” She pauses and looks me up and down with her milky, opaque eyes that were crimson orbs only moments ago. “Transition.”

A shiver runs through my naked body as I step out of the clawfoot tub and into a soft bath robe. Over the course of the next hour, she dresses me in a black, frilly, gaudy dress. I’ve never seen a frock in this style before. I hate it with every fiber of my being. Hideous. She combs my beautiful, honey blond hair at least a hundred times and sighs as she runs her fingers through the silky strands.

“Such pretty hair … such pretty, pretty hair,” she trills. “A shame, a shame.”

None of this feels real. It is like I’m locked inside a tomb of nightmares, unable to scream for help. When she finally finishes her work, she leads me down to the dining room, where Dante is sitting at the head of a long, black table. Most things in Dante’s mansion are black or red or some combination of both. No one else is in the room save for the three of us. Strange. I’ve heard the footsteps and muffled voices of other members of the staff, but I suppose they aren’t permitted in the dining room like Selene is.

A disquieting pause passes before Dante rises to his feet. “Ah, there you are, my dear. I was beginning to worry,” he says, and lifts a wine glass filled with more sludge I can only assume is blood. I try not to look at it. My stomach still churns at the thought of drinking more. “I take it your throat is now healed?”

I blink at him, then look to Selene, who nods at me.

“Yes, your throat should be healed by now,” Selene says to me.

“Then speak, little dove,” Dante commands.

But for whatever reason, I can’t muster the courage to say a single word. It’s then that Dante’s eyes blaze with a fiery amber, and he slams the wine glass down onto the table. A deafening roar follows. “I said speak! Tell me your name or I will rip those vocal cords from your throat and throw them into the river!”