Page 21 of Kept 3
“Pardon?”
“James,” she says, laughing, “I can just hand this to him tonight.”
“Wait,” I hold my breath, my eyes wide, “you know James?”
“Sure, he’s staying right in the village at the inn. He’s writing a book you know, on Ereston Village and the area. He’s a real favourite with all the single ladies,” she rolls her eyes and giggles, “in fact I’m pretty sure the inn has never had so much business since he started staying there.”
I stare at her. I know my face has gone white.
“Wait, I’m sorry,” she says hurriedly, seeing my expression, “if he’s someone special to you, I didn’t mean to offend.”
“Not at all,” I finally squeak, my heartbeat racing, “he’s a former colleague. I had no idea he was staying locally. Do you mind if I change my letter?”
She returns it to me, and I scurry back to the desk as she turns to complete her packing. I know I have only minutes until the butler will return, he has some kind of sixth sense about these things, either that, or I’m paranoid, but either way, I know I need to hurry.
I scribble quickly.
James,
I’m a prisoner of Lord Nicholas Montague (AKA Dracula) in his manor. Save me.
Josephine.
I quickly hand the new note to the hairdresser, and she pops it into her apron pocket just as I hear the key turn in the lock. I know, my brain racing, that I have to find a way to get a reply, and the words spiral out of my mouth before I’ve even thought them through.
“Can you come back, say every three days?” I ask her, as the butler steps into the room, “I’d like to have my hair regularly styled, it looks so much better than when I do it.”
“Absolutely,” she beams, “I’d love to.”
“Terrific.”
“See you then,” she says, turning for the door as the butler stands aside and waves her through. I can see he is going to follow her and lock me in again.
“Wait,” I scowl at him, “just what am I mean to do, locked up in my room for the next few days? I don’t even have a bloody television.”
Without answering, he turns for the door, tapping his hand on something he has left on the desk, something I didn’t even notice him putting there when he entered. Something very familiar.
On top of it is an envelope in heavy, cream paper, addressed to me in handwriting that is also as familiar to me as my own.
My Josephine,
I know you are finding it hard to believe that I find you incredibly attractive and that it is more than just your blood that draws me to you. I also know you still don’t believe I didn’t kill your Italian chef. The fact you have mostly served me Italian cuisine for the past many weeks (don’t think I haven’t noticed) is testament to that.
I have to go away for a few days.
While I am gone, I have left you proof of my feelings, and of the veracity of my claims, re: Sicily. I hope you will take the time to read this, you know I tell only the truth in my journals. I shall claim it back upon my return.
Yours, if you will but say the words,
Nicholas.
I place the letter down, slowly, and pick up the journal. It is his latest, the very one I returned to him all those months ago when Daniel and I were caught red-handed in his library – the journal that started this whole damn business when I found it in the park that night.
Flicking through it I see he continued writing in it once it was returned, and some earlier entries have been pasted in, obviously written on sheets of paper, with the intent of including them when his journal was found. My heart in my mouth, which is suddenly drier than the Sahara, I turn wordlessly and climb the steps to my bed, the journal held tight against my chest. I want to know the truth, but I also know there may be things in here that frighten the living shit out of me – but I can’t not read it.
With trembling fingers, I turn past the entry where he told me, in writing, he was going to kill me. The entry that had seen me bolt from the US to England; and begin reading.
New Entry,
