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“Just a sense of wonder I haven’t seen in a very long time.” He laughs almost to himself. “It reminds me of Julian.”
“Is he part of the kindred?”
Carver’s smile slips as he glances back at the graveyard. “Not anymore. Come.”
We continue walking along the beach. The sea breeze tangles in my wet hair, and the sand is cool beneath our feet. Carver points toward the castle. Two large wooden doors are left wide open, beckoning us inside. The castle itself is stunning with its flying buttresses, a perfect match to the hallowed ground it was built on. All sharp angles and darkened slate with countless arched floor-to-ceiling windows encouraging pockets of natural light to enter. It’s somehow gorgeous and mysterious all at once—much like its inhabitants.
A vampire on one of the terraces overlooking the shore draws my attention. It’s the blond from the rite. He gives a brief salute before he leaps from the balcony. A scream lodges in my throat as I reach toward him as if I could catch him. A phantom pounding in my chest echoes through me. My heart isn’t thundering, it won’t ever again, but if I close my eyes, I can almost imagine the chaotic thumpthumpthump.
Barely a second later, he manifests directly in front of us, grinning from ear to ear.
“You’re such a dick, Eivor.” Carver shoves the other vampire. “You nearly scared Rory to her second death.”
Don’t let them bother you. I jolt as Quill’s sultry voice whispers throughout my mind. He laughs, caressing my thoughts gently. It does nothing but make my throat blaze with desire. Soon, tiny monster.
“Ver heill ok sæll, Rory.” Eivor kisses my cheek. The light dusting of golden hair across his square jaw scrapes against my skin. It’s the same shade as the long strip of hair braided down his back. The sides of his head are shaved, exposing markings inked onto his bald scalp, trailing down the length of his neck. “I’m Eivor.”
“It’s lovely to meet you,” I say, brow furrowing as I try to make out the first part of his greeting. “What did you say? Before?”
Carver rolls his eyes. “Eivor, here, still greets people like a goddamn Östman.”
I blink. “A what?”
“I’ll give you a history lesson another day.” Eivor holds out an arm, and Carver swats it away, looping his arm through mine instead. “Come on, Rory. Let’s get you inside.”
Inside, the castle is dripping in grandeur with stained-glass windows, gilded furnishings, and sparkling chandeliers dangling from polished chains. Countless candelabras illuminate the entry in flickering shadows as if they’re ghosts putting on a puppet show along the stone walls.
“You’ll find yourself living in luxury at this estate,” Carver says as he leads us deeper into the castle. In the next room, he spins us in a circle with one of his arms held out wide, and I follow his gaze all the way up, up, up to the arched ceiling where multiple pieces of stone stretch toward one another like ribs or finger bones. “Well, you’ll live in luxury at any of our estates, but Quill kept going on and on about how much you’d love this one the most because of the ocean.”
I smile. “He told you that?”
“He tells us everything.” Eivor smirks as my eyes widen. Another phantom sensation, this one of warmth rushing to my cheeks, flows through me, followed by relief when he adds, “Except the sexy bits.”
They lead me around the castle, pausing only briefly to point to random rooms and rattle off what they are used for. On the first floor, they show me the tepidarium (an immense bathing chamber with a steaming pool of water), kitchen (fully stocked with blood), training area (packed with gleaming, deadly weaponry), art studio (which is off-limits unless explicitly stated by Risna), ballroom (dreadfully empty save for a few scant tables and chairs) and a shared living space with unscuffed wooden floors, overstuffed velvet couches, a blazing fire, and a gorgeous view overlooking the ocean through arched windows. Upstairs on the second floor is where Carver, Eivor, and Risna’s bedrooms are located. The walls are decorated in tasteful wallpaper and black crown molding while gorgeous watercolor paintings line them intermittently. On the third floor, there are several guest rooms, though apparently no one visits the Shore of the Damned anymore. I want to ask more about why the Shore of the Damned doesn’t receive visitors but refrain for the sake of shortening the tour. I’m surprisingly… tired and overwhelmed.
“Where is my bedroom? And Quill’s?” I ask as we descend the stairs.
“You’re both staying in the celestial wing,” Carver says. He leads me past the kitchens and down a lengthy corridor lined with exquisitely handcrafted pottery and candelabras dripping crimson wax as if they’re weeping tears of blood. “This wing is the newest addition to the castle. It houses both of your suites, a private tepidarium connecting your bedrooms, and Quill’s library and adjoining observatory.”
“He has an entire library?” I ask, thrilled.
“Another bibliophile. Risna is truly going to love you,” Eivor mutters. “Quill has two libraries. One here and one at Garden’s Gate.”
“Save the geography lesson for later too, Eivor,” Carver snaps playfully. He points to a set of black-painted doors with jeweled doorknobs. “That’s the entrance into Quill’s bedroom, and just over here is yours.”
It’s an identical set of double doors with even prettier knobs. Eivor pushes inside with a whoosh, and I follow on shaky legs.
Heaven and stars eternal.
It is the most opulent suite I’ve ever seen, fit more for a queen than for me.
With wide eyes, I try to take in everything, as if I’m a child in a confectionary shop, unsure where to look first. I stroll across the light-and-dark brown herringbone flooring to the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows wrapping across two of the walls and overlooking the endless sparkling sea. The moon is barely a sliver in the darkened sky.
Eivor settles onto a velvet settee opposite the unlit hearth. His massive frame takes up a majority of the small couch, and he has to drape his arm over the back to fit.
I move toward an ornate wardrobe, handcrafted with delicate wood moldings bearing floral motifs and scrolled branches. Its doors are firmly shut, the lock unlatched, and as I pull them open— “Oh.”
Inside, there’s an onslaught of tulle, ribbon, and lace. I run my fingers over polished pearls, glittering gemstones, and glass beads before moving on to the crushed velvets, sleek silks, and buttery leathers. The gowns range from muted earth tones to vibrant slashes of color—blood red, emerald, indigo, and plum. Along the bottom of the wardrobe’s base are dozens of pairs of shoes, dainty and delicate and petal soft.
