have slept all the way through the day and night and into the next day. No wonder I feel a million times better. Or at least my body does. My mind is another subject altogether.
There aren’t going to be enough therapists on earth to deal with me when I get back. When. Not if. I blow out a breath and walk to the door, pick up my boots and the pile of clothes at the end of my bed, and step out into the corridor. It’s empty, and the castle is silent, at least from what I can hear. Knowing the devil could be around any corner, I quickly open the door Cross said was the bathroom and head inside, thankful for the glass lamp lit on the counter and a tiny circle window for light in the dim room.
There is a modern enough bathtub, grey counters with mirrors above it and one toilet. The counters have three sinks, and piles of stuff line the wall, everything from deodorant sprays to perfumes to piles of hairbands. Hoping the girls don’t care, I pull my hair up into a messy bun, and then I just stare. There is still dried blood on my neck, the dark colour a vivid splash against my pale skin. Blood drops speckle against my cheek and nose, and my dress is crusty, the blood dried to make it rough and horrible now.
But that’s not what I stare at. It’s my eyes and the sheer difference in them from the last time I looked in a mirror the night of my birthday. That night, that pink dress, seems a lifetime ago. With shaky hands, I wash in the sink before drying off with a towel I find on the counter. I hang the towel over the bath when I’m done and quickly get changed into my new dress, a duplicate of the first sari I had, but this one is red in colour, a deep thick red that reminds me of blood, and it fits the same way the other did but tighter around my chest and heavier below the waist. I tug my boots on, wishing I had socks, and straighten up.
I can do this.
The monster in this castle isn’t going to break me. I’m going to break him.
Walking out the bathroom, I remember my steps to the main part of the upstairs and down the corridor Cross said the kitchen was in. As I get closer, I start to smell food and hear pots and pans clashing around, and male voices. The last door seems to be the one with the most noise behind it, and I knock before stepping through into a big kitchen. Cross is half sitting on a stool right in front of a massive, modern steel kitchen with at least three cookers that I spot right away. A large man, clearly a vampire, moves around the room in a chef’s white coat with many, many stains littered upon it. He pauses in whatever he was doing, turning to me and meeting me with his big blue, almost kind-looking eyes. He has a bushy white moustache that curls at the edges and gives me a French vibe right away, even before he speaks with a thick French accent that makes him hard to understand.
“Ah, oui, she is beautiful indeed,” the man comments.
“That’s the second time I’ve heard that on this island, and I have to say, it’s rather sexist for my beauty to be the only thing you find to comment on,” I reply, placing my hands on my hips. “I have a brain if you aren’t aware.”
The vampire barks out a laugh, a laugh that goes on and on, and my cheeks burn red a little. Cross chuckles and pats the empty stool next to him.
“I do apologize. I am more impressed by your quick tongue than your beauty,” the man tells me as I slide into the seat. “I am Hector Passereau, at your service, madame.”
“I’m Riona Dark,” I reply with a small smile. “And you aren’t as scary as most of the vamps I’ve met so far.”
“Not everything is black and white, Miss Dark,” Hector states with his warm eyes watching me closely. “Now, what is your favourite food for breakfast? Or perhaps brunch, as it is quite late in the morning.”
“I like to sleep in every now and then,” I say, feeling the need to clarify. “And I will eat anything. I’m not fussy.”
“Anything it is, madame,” Hector