Illusion: Bound Blood

Prologue: The Painter and the Witch (Jamie’s POV)

​

I arrived on the island in late October, when the fog clung to the cliffs like a burial shroud and the sun barely managed to break through the perpetual gray. ​

Perfect.

I had come looking for real, gothic beauty. The kind that you can't find in London's fancy salons or neat gardens. My collection was full of pale, noble figures posed before velvet curtains, their faces stiff and overly serious. I wanted darkness. I wanted truth. I wanted to paint something that made people feel the cold grip of mortality. ​

The island promised all of that.

The locals at the port warned me not to go inland after dark, not to trust anyone at the manor, and to leave before a fortnight had passed. Their warnings hinted at danger, but I dismissed them as superstitions meant to frighten outsiders. The gothic atmosphere was already seeping into my bones. I could feel a painting taking shape before I had even mixed my first color.

The manor sat on a hill overlooking the sea, all crumbling stone and iron gates twisted with centuries of rust. It looked like something pulled straight from a ghost story, which meant it was exactly what I needed. ​

I was arranging my easel in the garden the next morning when I saw her.

She stood at the edge of the overgrown hedge maze, wrapped in a red cloak that seemed too vivid against the colorless landscape. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, with dark hair and pale skin. Her features were striking, but it was her eyes that caught my attention. They were ancient, carrying a weight that made my stomach tighten, filling me with a strange mix of wonder and unease.

Not in the way an older woman's eyes carry years of experience, but in a way that felt wrong—as though I were looking at something that had seen empires rise and fall, that had watched the world turn again and again until time itself had lost all meaning.

"You shouldn't be here," she said, her voice low and urgent.

I blinked, snapping out of my trance. "I beg your pardon?"

"Leave." She stepped closer, her red cloak billowing despite the still air. "Today. Now. Don't unpack. Don't ask questions. Just go."​

I should have listened.

Instead, I laughed—a nervous, dismissive sound that felt hollow even as it left my lips. "You're the second person to tell me that. Is this some island tradition? Scare the outsider before he's even settled in?"

Her expression did not change. "I'm not trying to scare you. I'm trying to save your life."

"Well," I said, gesturing toward my easel, "I appreciate the concern, but I've traveled a long way to paint this landscape. I'm not leaving until I've captured it."

Something flickered in her eyes—frustration, perhaps, or pity. "Then you're a fool."

She turned to leave, her red cloak swirling around her like blood in water.

"Wait—" I called after her. "What's your name?"

She paused, glancing back over her shoulder. For a moment, I thought she wouldn't answer.

"Emily," she said finally. ​

And then she was gone, disappearing into the fog as if she had never been there at all.

***

Kale found me an hour later.

He appeared without warning—one moment I was alone, the next he was standing beside my easel, studying my rough sketch with theatrical interest. ​

"A painter," he said, his voice smooth and delighted. "How marvelous. We so rarely receive artists on the island anymore."

I startled, nearly knocking over my palette. "Christ—where did you come from?"

He smiled. He had the kind of face that belonged in a Renaissance portrait—sharp cheekbones, an aristocratic nose, eyes that gleamed with intelligence and something darker I couldn't quite name. Dressed in Victorian fashion, complete with a brocade waistcoat and polished boots, he seemed to have stepped out of a different century entirely, adding to his enigmatic presence.

"I live here," he said. "Master of the manor, as it were. Kale." He extended a gloved hand.

I shook it, uneasy. "Jamie."

"Jamie." He repeated my name as if tasting it. "A pleasure. Tell me—how long are you planning to stay?"

"A month, perhaps two. Until I've completed a series."

"Wonderful." His smile widened. "Then you must stay here, at the manor. I insist. The guest quarters are more than adequate, and I would be honored to offer patronage to a fellow lover of beauty."

I hesitated. The locals had warned me about the manor. Emily had warned me about—well, everything.

But Kale's offer was generous, and the manor's gothic architecture was exactly what I needed for my work. ​

"That's very kind," I said slowly.

"Excellent." He clapped his hands together. "I'll have Maxworth bring your things inside. You'll dine with me tonight, of course. I'm hosting a small gathering—nothing formal, just a few friends. You'll find the company... stimulating."

He left before I could respond, moving with a strange, fluid grace that seemed to ripple through the air, making my artist's eye itch to capture it on canvas and leaving me with a sense of wonder and unease.

Every instinct in me screamed to run.

I did not.

***

The gathering that night was unlike anything I had ever experienced.

Hundreds of candles lit the manor's ballroom, their flames casting dancing shadows across the walls. The guests, dressed in clothing from a dozen different eras—powdered wigs, medieval tunics, modern evening wear—moved with eerie synchronicity. Their laughter was too bright, their smiles too wide, creating a tense, unsettling atmosphere that kept me constantly on edge.

And they were all staring at me.

"Don't be nervous," Kale said, appearing at my elbow with a glass of wine. "They're simply curious. We don't often have fresh blood at these gatherings."

The way he said fresh blood made my skin crawl.

I drank the wine too quickly, trying to steady my nerves. The room tilted slightly, the candlelight blurring at the edges.

"Easy," Kale murmured. "You'll want to pace yourself."

But I couldn't stop drinking. The wine tasted strange—metallic, almost—but it dulled the unease gnawing at my chest.

At some point, I noticed a man across the room moving too fast. One moment, he was by the fireplace, the next he was at the far window, as if he had skipped the space in between. ​

I blinked hard. The wine. It had to be the wine.

Then I saw the woman with fangs.

She smiled at me from across the room, and her teeth were too long, too sharp, glinting in the candlelight like knives.

I set down my glass. "I need air."

Kale's hand closed around my wrist. "Stay. The night is just beginning."

I pulled away and stumbled toward the door, my heart pounding. The guests watched me go, their eyes following my every movement like predators tracking prey.

***

I made it back to my room and locked the door.

My hands were shaking as I lit a candle. The room felt wrong—too cold, too quiet, the shadows too deep.

There was a knock at the door.

I froze.

"Jamie." Emily's voice, urgent and low. "Let me in. Please."

I unlocked the door, and she slipped inside, her red cloak damp with fog. She was carrying a leather satchel that clinked with glass vials and dried herbs. ​

"You did not leave," she said, and there was genuine anguish in her voice.

"I tried to warn you—"

"What's happening?" I demanded. "Those people downstairs—what are they?"

She did not answer. Instead, she began pulling items from her satchel: salt, bundles of dried angelica root, small mirrors that she placed face-down on every surface. ​

"Emily—"

"Be quiet and listen." She grabbed my shoulders, forcing me to meet her eyes. "You're in danger. Real danger. Kale isn't what he seems. This manor isn't safe. You need to stay in this room tonight—no matter what you hear, no matter who calls your name, do not open this door."​

"You're not making sense—"

"Promise me." Her fingers dug into my arms. "Promise me you'll stay here."

I nodded, too frightened to argue.

She began chanting in a language I did not recognize, her hands moving in complex patterns over the salt and mirrors. The air in the room seemed to thicken, charged with something electric and ancient. ​

"This will protect you," she whispered. "For tonight, at least."

"Emily—" I caught her hand as she turned to leave. "What are you?"

She looked at me, and for the first time, I saw fear in those ancient eyes.

"Someone who failed once before," she said. "And I won't fail again."

She left, closing the door softly behind her.

***

I tried to stay awake.

I sat on the bed, watching the candle burn down, listening to the sounds of the gathering below—music, laughter, the occasional scream that might have been joy or terror; I couldn't tell.

But at some point, despite my best efforts, I drifted off.

I woke to the sound of scratching at my door.

Slow. Deliberate. Like claws dragging across wood.

My heart stopped.

"Jamie..." A voice, low and inhuman, crooning my name. "Open the door, Jamie. Let me in."

I pressed myself against the headboard, too terrified to move.

The scratching grew louder, more frantic. The door handle rattled violently.

And then—silence.

I waited, barely breathing.

The window exploded inward.

Glass shattered across the floor as a figure lunged through, moving with impossible speed. I caught a glimpse of red eyes, elongated fangs, hands twisted into claws—​

It slammed into me, driving me back against the bed. Pain detonated in my neck as fangs sank deep into my throat, tearing through muscle and vein. ​

I tried to scream, but my voice was gone, drowned in blood and terror.

The creature drank, and with every pull I felt my life draining away—my heartbeat slowing, my vision darkening, my body turning cold.

The door burst open.

"NO!" Emily's voice, raw with desperation. ​

There was a flash of light, the sharp smell of burning sage, and the creature released me with a hiss.

I collapsed, choking on my own blood.

Through blurred vision, I saw Emily standing in the doorway, her hands glowing with arcane energy. She was chanting—words of power that made the air vibrate, that made my bones ache. ​

The creature—Kale, I realized with horror, it was Kale—laughed.

"Too late, little witch," he said, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "He's already mine."

Emily screamed and unleashed everything she had—salt exploding like shrapnel, mirrors shattering, light flooding the room in blinding waves. ​

But Kale was faster.

He grabbed me by the throat, forced my mouth open, and bit into his own wrist. Blood—thick, cold, ancient—poured into my mouth. I tried to spit it out, but he held me firm, forcing me to swallow, completing the transformation. ​

"Welcome to eternity," he whispered. ​

Emily's magic failed. ​

I felt it the moment it happened—her spells collapsing like sandcastles in a tide, her power breaking against Kale's centuries of strength.

She fell to her knees, blood streaming from her nose, her hands still glowing faintly as she tried one last, desperate incantation. ​

It wasn't enough.

***

I woke in darkness.

My body felt wrong—too strong, too cold, every sensation amplified to the point of agony. I could hear heartbeats from somewhere above me, dozens of them, pounding like war drums. I could smell copper in the air, thick and overwhelming. ​

I was in the wine cellar, I realized. Lying on cold stone, covered in blood that wasn't mine. ​

And Emily—

She lay collapsed a few feet away, her red cloak soaked black with blood. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, labored breaths. Barely alive. Barely breathing. ​

I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn't cooperate. Everything was too much—the sounds, the smells, the unbearable hunger gnawing at my insides like a living thing.

I looked at Emily, and all I could think about was the sound of her heartbeat.

The smell of her blood.

"No," I whispered, my voice cracked and inhuman. "No, no, no—"

But I was already crawling toward her, my body moving on instinct, driven by a thirst I couldn't control.

"Jamie."

I froze.

Kale stood in the doorway, calm and theatrical as ever, watching me with something like pride. ​

"What did you do to me?" I screamed—or tried to. My throat burned too much to force the words out properly.

He smiled. "I made you mine. Forever."​

I lunged at him, but he was gone before I could reach him, moving with that same impossible speed.

Emily stirred weakly. She opened her eyes—those ancient, knowing eyes—and whispered something in that same arcane language. ​

A spell. A final, desperate spell.

Light flooded the cellar, and I felt something shift inside me—a door slamming shut, a chain wrapping tight around my newborn soul.

And then I was screaming, truly screaming, as my humanity was torn away forever. ​

The last thing I saw was Emily covered in blood—whether hers or someone else's, I did not know—as my scream echoed through the centuries, a sound that would haunt me for the rest of my endless, cursed existence.

 

Chapter 1: Ferry to Nowhere (Violet’s POV)

​

I was halfway to my dream when a strange man threw me into a river.

Or that's what it felt like, standing on a rust‑flaked ferry in the middle of gray water, watching the island crawl closer through the fog. The lighthouse was just a thin white bone on the horizon, the cliffs a dark smear beneath a low, sulking sky. Wind clawed at my ponytail and shoved cold fingers down the back of my thrift‑store coat, a final reminder that I had traded comfort for this on purpose.

The ferryman had puffy eyes and a gray beard spilling from beneath his beanie. He had clapped dust from his gloves, sipped from a bottle hidden inside his coat, then sighed like a man who had earned it.

"How am I supposed to get to shore?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Don't have all day."

"You should get on with your journey," he called. "A young girl like you doesn't want to be on the road at night around here."

"What do you mean?"

He looked past me toward the shadowed trees along the bank—like he was saying goodbye to something only he could see. Then he stood, the ferry rocking beneath his weight, his hands suddenly clamping around my arms.

I barely had time to scream before he shoved me over the side.

The river swallowed me whole. Cold water burned my nose, my mouth, my lungs. My white dress turned heavy, dragging me under. I surfaced gasping as the engine rumbled to life. My luggage hit the water beside me—then he pulled away without a backward glance.

"You're kidding me?" I sputtered, knee-deep in the shallows.

He raised his bottle one last time. "Get to where you're going before dark."

The ferry vanished downriver.

Silence crashed in—heavy, pressing against my ears. Water lapped at my legs. Diesel fumes and rot hung thick in the air. My skin prickled, burned, then slowly went numb.

Hands shaking, I dragged myself onto the muddy shore. I wrung out the hem of my dress, peeled off my soaked shoes and socks. My heart wouldn't slow. I kept glancing back, waiting for the ferry to return.

It did not.

Hours earlier, on the other side of the river, this had all felt simple. I was the girl who burned the midnight candle and turned herself into a full‑time book rat just to get into Esperanza Medical University. I had spent the entire ferry ride imagining lecture halls, new friends, and the moment I would finally call myself a doctor‑in‑training—not an impromptu swim in a filthy river while wearing a too‑white dress.

I followed a narrow road until it met a wider one. According to the forums I had studied obsessively, this was where I would catch the next ride. A weathered sign stood nearby:

THIS WAY TO ESPERANZA MEDICAL UNIVERSITY

I stood there in my damp white dress, now streaked with brown, staring down the road and then back the way I had come. I told myself this was just another unknown—like ripping open a mystery box and pretending I wasn't afraid of what was inside.

Still, the ferryman's words lingered.

I folded my arms and waited.

A car approached. I stepped forward and waved, relief surging through me. Headlights crested the hill long before I heard the engine. I stepped back from the edge of the road, hugging my suitcase.

The black car did not slow down.

It ploughed through the nearest puddle, and a sheet of brown water slapped across my dress, my face, my open mouth.

I stumbled, blinking mud from my eyelashes as red brake lights flared for half a second—then vanished into the fog again.

I clenched my fists, teeth grinding as I wiped my eyes with a napkin. Something about this place made people desperate to leave. In a hurry. As if nightfall carried weight here.

I told myself I hadn't researched the island because I hadn't needed to. The university was all that mattered. I had planned my first day of class a hundred times. I would study harder than anyone. I would earn my place.

Another engine sounded in the distance.

This time, I stepped closer—but cautiously.

The car slowed.

It was a vintage convertible. It rolled to a stop directly in front of me.

I caught my reflection in the side mirror: blonde curls matted to my neck, blue eyes too wide, mud smeared across my collarbone. The white dress I had ironed three times that morning now clung to me like wet gauze. I looked less like a future doctor and more like a drowned extra from a period drama.

The driver stepped out—a man in his fifties, calm and composed. He gave a polite nod. "Do you need a ride, miss?"

"Yes," I said, relief flooding my voice.

He helped with my luggage and placed it in the trunk before I settled into the back seat. As we pulled onto the road, excitement stirred again—fragile, but present.

"I'm Maxworth," he said.

"Violet."

He glanced at me through the mirror. "Looks like you've had a rough day."

I laughed softly. "A ferryman threw me into a river. And another driver splashed mud all over me. What else am I going to attract?"

"I'm sorry," he said. After a pause, he added, "Campus?"

"No." My phone was drenched, so I couldn't casually look up the address. "It's a manor."

He smiled before I even finished. "I know the place. It's on the outskirts. I'll take you straight there."

I relaxed slightly. He spoke of the island, of restaurants, and places he used to visit with his family. I listened, imagining how my life would fit into the map he painted with words.

Then, as we drove past the forest, I saw movement.

Something ran between the trees.

At first, I thought it was human—a tall, pale shape slipping between the trunks—until it moved again.

Too fast.

Faster than any animal I had ever seen.

It appeared and vanished, circling, impossible to follow.

Maxworth kept talking.

I said nothing. I watched the forest, heart pounding, hoping it would reappear—hoping it wouldn't.

I told myself it was my imagination.

The forest stayed still. 

The ferryman's warning did not.

"You don't want to be on the road at night around here."

​

Chapter 2: Master of the Manor (Violet’s POV)

​

The convertible coughed twice, then died. The silence hit so suddenly it felt violent. Maxworth turned the key in the ignition, but it still wouldn't start. He tried again, pumping the gas pedal, but the engine only clicked, like someone tapping their fingernails on glass.

He sat there a moment too long, his hands frozen on the wheel.

"Well," he said finally, but did not look at me.

I waited for more, but he did not say anything else.

Maxworth got out of the car and popped the hood. He stood there staring at the engine the way you would look at an animal you found dead in your yard—with respect, but also unsure what to do next.

I climbed out, too. My dress was sticking to my thighs, still damp from the ferry disaster.

"How far?" I asked.

Maxworth closed the hood gently. "A mile. Perhaps less."

"You're joking."

He picked up my ruined suitcase from the trunk and handed it to me. "I'm afraid the manor won't come to us, miss."

So we began to walk.

The road wasn't really a road. It was more like two tire tracks with grass growing between them. Trees pressed in from both sides—old and thick enough that three people couldn't wrap their arms around the trunks. The branches met overhead, blocking most of the sky.

I kept my eyes on Maxworth's back. He walked more slowly than I expected, as if his knees bothered him, but he would never admit it.

It was a lonely walk. There were no birds and no wind—just our footsteps and the scrape of my suitcase over gravel.

I tried to remember what the glossy brochure had promised.

"Prestigious university. Historic estate. Unparalleled medical program. Dr. Simon Hargrove himself would be teaching."

This was supposed to be the opportunity of a lifetime.

"Maxworth."

"Yes, miss?"

"What's the manor like?"

He was quiet for a few steps. "Old."

"That's it?"

"It has… character."

I almost laughed. "That's what people say when a place is falling apart."

"I did not say it was falling apart."

But he did not say it wasn't, either.

My feet hurt. The dress chafed where it was still wet. All I wanted was a shower hot enough to burn away the salt, the mud, and whatever else the ferry had left on me. A bed that, hopefully, did not creak. And—God, please—just one normal thing.

***

The trees thinned as we came out into a valley that stopped me in my tracks.

It was beautiful. I hadn't expected it to be, but it was.

The grass rolled in waves, deep green even in the strange light. Scattered across the valley were trees I had never seen before—twisted, ancient things with black bark and branches that reached sideways instead of up. Moss hung from them. In the distance, a stone wall curved along the hillside, disappearing into mist. Iron gates stood open at the center.

And past the gates, on a rise that looked down on everything—

The manor.

The manor rose against the gray sky like a judge waiting for a verdict: three stories of stone, too many windows, and towers that looked more like watchtowers than decoration.

The gates were taller than I expected. Ten feet at least, wrought iron shaped into patterns I couldn't quite make out. The metal was cold when I brushed against it, and rust flaked off on my fingers.

My chest tightened. I did not know why.

The driveway seemed longer than it looked, and my arm ached from dragging the suitcase. The handle dug grooves into my palm. I switched hands again, probably for the hundredth time since we started walking.

The manor pulled my eyes upward even when I tried to watch my footing. The windows reflected the gray sky.

Or maybe they were just dark.

I couldn't tell.

Something about the symmetry bothered me. It was too perfect. Almost deliberate.

My foot snagged on loose gravel, and I stumbled, but I steadied myself before I hit the ground.

Maxworth did not turn around.

The air felt heavier here. Thicker. Like it was pressing down on my shoulders. I wanted to ask how much longer, but I did not.

I dragged my suitcase faster. The wheel caught again, and this time I left it behind. Maxworth did not slow down, and he did not offer to help.

That's when I saw the car.

The car that had sprayed me with mud. I was certain it was the same black car. So certain I could have identified it in my sleep. The driver had barely slowed down, just gunned it past me while I was still dripping from the ferry.

I stopped walking.

Maxworth noticed and turned back. "Miss?"

"That's his car."

"Master Kale's, yes."

My hands curled into fists. "He's the one who…"

The manor doors opened before I could finish, and he stepped out.

I don't know what I expected. Someone normal, maybe. Someone apologetic.

Not this.

He wore a long coat—Victorian, I think. The kind with tails and too many buttons—and a top hat perched on his head as though he had stepped out of a painting. His movements were just as smooth.

He came down the steps without making a sound.

The afternoon light caught him fully as he crossed the driveway, and something about it was subtly wrong. Not that he burned or flinched—nothing so obvious. But the skin beneath his eyes looked faintly shadowed, as though the light were a weight he was carrying rather than something he moved through freely. His jaw was set a fraction too tight. His posture was precise in the way that costs something—controlled, deliberate, like a man in mild, constant pain who had long since decided not to acknowledge it.

Maxworth bowed.

"Master Kale," he said.

Why was Maxworth bowing? Who bows to anyone in 2026? And why did he call Kale "Master" as if we had stepped into a period drama?

But Kale ignored Maxworth and walked straight to me, his eyes locked on mine the whole time.

Up close, his face was sharp. Pale. Perfect in a way that did not feel right.

He stopped close. Closer than strangers should stand.

Then he knelt.

I stepped back.

He took my hand before I could pull away. Brought it to his lips and kissed my knuckles.

His skin was cold. And when he smiled, his canines were just a little too long.

"Violet," he said. My name sounded wrong in his mouth, like he had been practicing it. "Welcome. Welcome, welcome, a thousand times..."

I yanked my hand back. "You sprayed me with mud."

He blinked. Smiled. "Did I?"

"You know you did."

"Ah." He stood, brushing off his knees like he had been kneeling in dirt instead of gravel. "A misunderstanding. The roads here are treacherous. Narrow. Unforgiving. Like a lover scorned. Like Juliet's dagger. Like…" He paused and pressed his hand to his chest. "Like the very soul of…"

"You've butchered Shakespeare," I said. "And I don't do 'Master.' It's a bit outdated, don't you think? Let's just settle with 'landlord.'"

He stopped mid-gesture and stared at me. His eyes were dark, but I couldn't look away.

Then he laughed.

It wasn't a normal laugh. It was loud, sharp, and the kind that made you flinch. He threw his head back, his hat somehow staying on, and when he looked at me again, his smile was wider than before.

"Oh," he said. "Oh, you're delightful. They told me you were sharp, but this…" He clapped his hands once. "Maxworth, did you hear? She has teeth."

Maxworth said nothing.

Kale circled me twice. His boots clicked on the gravel. I turned with him, refusing to let him get behind me. His shadow stretched long across the gravel—but it lagged half a second behind him, like it was deciding about whether to follow.

"Most people bow," he said. "Grovel. Call me 'Master' within the first five minutes."

"I'm not most people."

"No." He stopped. Tilted his head. "No, you're not, are you?"

He grabbed my wrist. Not hard, but firm enough that pulling away would've meant making a scene.

"Come," he said. "Let me show you your new home."

I let him drag me up the steps because I did not have a choice.

The doors were heavy, dark wood carved with faces—or what used to be faces. Kale pushed them open without effort.

***

The entry hall stretched upward. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, crystals catching light from somewhere unseen. The walls were lined with old portraits of people in clothes from centuries ago staring down.

The floor was marble. Checkered black and white.

"What kind of bizarre…?" The words died in my throat.

My footsteps echoed.

And in the center of the hall, facing the door, stood a mirror.

It had a gold frame. It was tarnished and taller than me. The glass was old. Warped.

Kale pulled me toward it. "Look," he said. "Look how lovely you are. Drowned rat and all."

I looked.

But my reflection flickered.

I stepped closer, and it flickered again. My reflection appeared, then disappeared for half a second. It came back, and I saw myself: wet hair, dress clinging, pale face.

"What kind of bizarre…?"

I blinked, unable to finish my sentence.

The space in the mirror where Kale stood beside me was empty.

My hand was still in his. I could feel his fingers on my wrist. Cold and pressing into the bone.

But the mirror showed me alone.

I looked down at our hands. His fingers wrapped around my wrist. Then back at the glass.

Just me.

I looked at Kale. He was watching me. Smiling.

I looked back at the mirror.

Still nothing where he should be.

My heart started hammering. I could hear it in my ears.

"What…"

Something moved in the reflection behind me. I looked again, and it was gone.

I spun around, but there was nothing there. Just the empty hall and the portraits staring down.

Kale leaned closer to the glass. His breath should've fogged it, but it did not.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said. "This mirror's been in my family for centuries. They say it shows the truth."

"It's not showing you."

His smile did not change. "Isn't it?"

My hands were shaking. And I couldn't stop them.

"The truth," he said, softer now. "What we are. What we…"

Behind me, the mirror cracked—a sound like ice splitting. I spun. The fracture spread from the center in a spiderweb, faster than physics should have allowed.

Then it shattered.

Glass flew everywhere. The sound crashed through my skull.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

The sound stopped.

When I opened them again, the frame stood empty. Glass littered the floor, catching the light in fractured glints.

Kale stood beside me.

"Seven years bad luck," Kale said lightly, amused. "I did not even get to ask who's the fairest of them all." He laughed as if he had waited a long time to deliver that joke.

"Don't you just love cliches?" His smile sharpened. "I am thoroughly smitten."

I wasn't sure if he had touched the mirror, but the way he stood, completely unfazed, suggested he had broken it.

The question was how.

He leaned closer and did not blink.

I noticed he wasn't breathing, either.

This place was creepy. And why was he holding his breath? Double creep.

"Welcome home, Violet," he whispered.

My mind scrambled for an explanation. I looked at him again, and this time I wondered what I really saw—or did not.

Either it was a trick mirror, or my exhaustion had finally taken full control and was making me hallucinate.

Kale smiled like he was glad I was at the manor, not like he had an ancient secret to hide.

A shard must have grazed me; pain flared across my cheek—hot and sharp. I touched my face, and my fingers came away red.

Kale's eyes locked on the blood.

His pupils dilated. His nostrils flared.

For half a second, he looked hungry.

Then he stepped back, and the mask of amusement slid back into place again.

"Maxworth will show you to your room," he said. "Dinner's at eight. Don't be late."

He turned and walked away. Up the stairs, his footsteps made no sound.

I stood there, blood dripping, glass crunching under my shoes.

Maxworth appeared beside me. I hadn't heard him come in.

"This way, miss," he said.

I followed him up the stairs, away from the shattered mirror and the absurdity of the past few hours.

And I realized, too late, that I had never asked Maxworth why he had bowed to Kale.

​

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