1. Violet

1

VIOLET

The dust motes dance in thecandlelight, glittering like tiny stars as I sweep the feather duster across the ancientbookslining thelibraryshelves. The mustyscentof old leather and parchment fills my nostrils, a smell that once would have been comforting. Now, it's just another reminder of my captivity.

I can feelNathaniel'seyes on me, a constant, oppressive presence that makes my skin crawl. He's seated in a high-backed leather armchair, a crystal tumbler of some dark liquid—blood—cradled in one pale hand. He hasn't taken a sip in the hour I've been cleaning. I don't think he needs to.

"Turn around,"he says."I feel like I haven't seen your face for hours."

I grit myteeth, forcing myself not to react."Yes,Nathaniel,"I murmur,turningto face him, but these actions areminenow. Whatever thrall he had me under at the beginning has been lifted. Now, it's just me and myfearof him that makes me obey. The action makes the skirt of thisdresshe's forced me to wear swish around my ankles. I hear hissharpintake of breath and fight back ashudderof revulsion as hisgazelingers on my plumped-up cleavage that is about to spill out from all the stretching and bending.

Three weeks.

It's been threeweekssince I woke up in this nightmare.

Threeweeksof beingNathaniel'sprisoner, his pet, this whatever I am to him. He hasn't left mealonefor more than a few minutes at a time, always watching, always controlling. I cook for him, though he rarely eats. I clean thismassive, gloomymansionfrom top to bottom, though I swear the dust reappears as soon as I turn my back. So, I wait, every moment of every day, for the other shoe todrop.

So far,Nathanielhasn't touched mebeyondthe occasional caress of my face or arm. But I remember his words from that first night, about other services. The thought makes my stomach churn. I know it's only a matter of time before he decides to claim me fully, to take the last shred of autonomy I have left. He is waiting because it's a form of torture for me, not knowing when he will strike. I know this, and he knows I know.

But I won't let that happen. I can't. I have to staystrongand stay alert, even though I'm exhausted from countless sleepless days where I can't relax enough to rest with him lying next to me. An opportunity toescapewill come. It has to, and when it does, I'll be ready.

Thehungergnaws at me constantly, a dull ache in the pit of my stomach that occasionally flares intoa sharp, painful need.Nathanielfeeds me cups of what he claims is animal blood, doled out at irregular intervals like treats to a dog. It takes the edge off, but it's never enough. Ihatemyself for craving it, for the way my newly sharpened canines ache when I smell it. But IhateNathanielmore for doing this to me, forturningme into this thing from my worst nightmares.

I'm nothumananymore. I know that. But I'm not sure what I am. Well, I know what I am: avampire, but that word conjures images of black capes and coffins, not this. Not the constanthunger, the heightened senses that make every sound and smell almost unbearable, theunnaturalstrength that surges through my limbs at odd moments. It's like my body isn'tmineanymore, like I'm a stranger in my own skin.

As I continue dusting, my mind wanders to my life before all this. My parents, their warm smiles and comforting hugs, now nothing more than a painful memory. My friends, few and far between, may be wondering where I've disappeared to. The art studio where I spent countless hours, pouring my heart onto canvas. It allseemslike a distant dream now, a life that belonged to someone else.

I wonder if anyone is looking for me. But would they even know where tostart? Millbrook feels like a completely different world compared to this Gothic nightmare I'm stuck in, and even if they somehow find me, what happens next? I'm not the same person they knew. I'm not evenhumananymore.

The thought sends a fresh wave of despair washing over me. I blink backtears, not wanting to giveNathanielthe satisfaction of seeing me cry. I've shed enoughtearsin the past threeweeksto last a lifetime.

Instead, I focus on my task, methodically working my way along the bookshelves, trying to keep my front facingNathaniel. Thelibraryismassive. Row upon row ofbooksstretch up to the vaultedceiling, their spines a rainbow of faded leather and gilt lettering. In another life, I might have found it beautiful. Now, it's just a gilded cage.

As I work, I can't help but steal glances atNathaniel. He hasn't moved from his chair, his eyes still fixed on me with that unsettling intensity. I wonder, not for the first time, how old he really is. He looks no more than thirty, with hissharpfeatures and dark hair, but there's an agelessness to him that speaks of centuries, not decades.

What must it be like, I wonder, to live for so long? To watch the world change around you while you remain constant? It's a dizzying thought, and not one I particularly want to dwell on. Because that's my future now, isn't it? An eternity stretching out before me, withNathanielas my jailer.

The thought makes me feel sick, a wave of nausea that has nothing to do withhunger. I try topushit away, to focus on something else, anything else.

"Tell me about thebooks,"I say suddenly, surprising myself as much asNathaniel. It's the first time I've initiated a conversation with him since he brought me here.

Nathaniel'seyebrows rise slightly, a flicker of interest crossing his face."Thebooks?"he repeats, as if tasting the word."Which ones in particular?"

I gesture vaguely at the shelves around us."Any of them. All of them. You must have collected them over a long time."I stillstruggleto talk about his age, about what he is—what we are—directly.

A small smile plays at the corners ofNathaniel'smouth. It pleases him and distracts him from watching me.

Good. I will learn. I will learn everything that keeps me on his good side because I have no doubt that if I anger him, it won't be pretty.

The smile is not his usual predatory grin, but something softer, almost wistful."Indeed I have,"he says, rising from his chair with that inhuman grace that still unnerves me. He glides over to one of the shelves, running his fingers along the spines of thebooks."Some of these volumes are older than you can fathom, little flower."

Ishudderat the endearment, butdespitethat, I'm curious. I've always lovedbooks, loved the stories and knowledge they contain. It's part of what drew me to art—the ability to tell a story, to convey emotion and ideas without words.

Nathanielselects a book and handles it with a reverence that surprises me. It's a small volume bound in dark green leather that's cracked and faded with age. When he opens it, Icatcha whiff of old paper and something else, something earthy and ancient.

"This,"he says, holding the book out to me,"is a first edition of William Blake's‘Songs of Innocence and Experience.'Printed in 1794."

I take the book gingerly, afraid I might damage it. The pages are yellowed and brittle, but the illustrations are still vibrant, Blake's unique style immediately recognisable."It's beautiful,"I murmur, forgetting for a moment who I'm talking to, where I am.

Nathaniel'ssmile widens, and for a fleeting moment, I see something almosthumanin his eyes."Blake was a visionary,"he says."He sawbeyondthe veil of the mundane world, caught glimpses of the supernatural realm. Some thought him mad, but he simply saw more than most."

I look up from the book, meetingNathaniel'sgaze."Did you know him?"I ask, then immediately wish I hadn't. It's too easy to forget whatNathanielis, what he's done to me, when he talks like this.

But Nathaniel doesn't seem offended by the question. "Yes. "

There is nothing more than that simple word. No big reveal of how old he really is, which annoys me. He knows what he is doing to me. It's deliberate, and it's driving me crazy.

I hand the book back to him, careful not to let our fingerstouch. As fascinating as this glimpse intoNathaniel'spast is, I can't allow myself to be drawn in. I can't forget what he is, what he's done to me, to my parents.

Nathanielsenses the shift in my mood. His expression hardens, the momentarywarmthvanishing as quickly as it appeared."Back to work,Violet,"he says, his tone cold and commanding.

Inodsilently, returning to my task. But my mind is whirling with new thoughts, new questions. Who isNathaniel, really? What has he seen in his long life? And, more importantly, how can I use this new knowledge to my advantage?

A knock at the front door startles me out of my racing thoughts. The sound echoes through the cavernousmansion, impossiblyloudto my sensitive ears. I nearlydropthe feather duster, my undead heart lurching in mychest.

Nathanielrises smoothly from his chair, setting down his untouched drink."Continue your work,Violet,"he says."I'll see to my guests."

Inodmutely, my mind racing. This is the first time since I've been here that anyone has come to the house. More than that, it's the first timeNathanielhas left mealonefor more than a moment. Could this be the opportunity I've been waiting for?

I watch from the corner of my eye asNathanielglides out of thelibrary, closing theheavyoak door behind him. As soon as I hear hisfootstepsreceding down thehall, I spring into action.

First, I try the windows, shoving theheavybrocade curtains out of the way. They're tall and arched, filling one wall of thelibrarywith panes of leaded glass. But when Ipushagainst them, they don't budge. Irunmy fingers along the edges, searching for a latch or lock, but there's nothing. It's as if the windows have been sealed shut and merged with thestonewallsto form an impenetrable surface.

"Fuckingfuck,"I curse under my breath, and I turn my attention to the door. I press my ear against the wood to hear what'shappeningin the entrancehall. A man's voice drifts to me, muffled but audible.

"… to see you before I dropped my son atMistHallow. There is that matter that needs addressing."

MistHallow?

"Of course," Nathaniel's voice filters through.

Two sets of footsteps join Nathaniel's, moving across the marble floor of the entrance hall. They're as loud as if they were in my head, such is the clarity of my vampire hearing. Slowly, I reach for the handle and push it down, cracking open the library door and peering out into the grand space beyond .

The entrancehallis cavernous, with a sweeping double staircase dominating the far wall. Ornate chandeliers hang from the vaultedceiling, their crystal pendants tinkling softly in some unfelt breeze. Thewallsare lined with portraits of stern-faced men and women, their eyes seeming to stare at me accusingly.

Nathanielis leading two men away from me,towardswhat I know is his study. They're both tall, with sandy blond hair that glows in the dim light of thehall. The taller one walks with a predator's grace, his movements fluid and controlled. The shorter one—though he's still well over six feet—has a more relaxed gait but is equally deadly.

More vampires?

My slow beating heart nearly stops altogether when the shorter man turns, looking back over his shoulder with a concentrated frown.Ice-blue eyes meetmine, and ourgazelocks. Surprise flickers across his face. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but I shake my head frantically, silently begging him not to give me away. He blinks, confusion replacing the surprise, but he nods once and turns back to face the front without saying anything.

My heart hammers in mychest, which is the mostunnaturalfeelingnow and makes me feel lightheaded and sick as I watch the three men disappear around a corner. This is my chance. It might be my only chance.

I slip out of thelibrary, my cold,barefeet silent on the icymarblefloor. The front door looms before me, amassiveslab of oak and iron that suddenly becomes the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Freedom is just on the other side of that door. The outside world is waiting for me.

With eachsteptowardsthe door, my resolve strengthens. I can do this. I canescape. I can find help, search for a way to reverse whatNathanielhas done to me. Or if not that, at least find a way to live on my own terms, not as his prisoner.

Thehungerinside me growls, reminding me of what I've become. But Ipushit down, refusing to let it control me. I am more than myhunger, more than a cook and a cleaner, more than a prisoner, more than whatNathanielhas tried to make me. I am stillViolet, still an artist, stillhumanwhere it counts.

Ireachout, my fingers trembling as they close around the ornate doorhandle. I can almost taste the fresh air, feel the winter air on my skin…

"Interesting."

The murmured voice behind me freezes me in place, my hand still on the doorhandleas my heart sinks to my feet, my chance atescapedashed.