Page 1 of Vampires of Eden: Oliver
ChapterOne
Ican’t breathe.
My chest is tight and it feels as if my heart has stopped.
Why is he like this? Why doeseverythinghave to be so hard?
“A-are you joking?” I ask, panicked and frozen with my mobile phone clutched in my palm. “Right now?”
“Right now,” Camille parrots. Her eyes are filled with remorse and empathy, as if she hates being the bearer of bad news. The herald of Lord Blakeley’s ill will. “He’s asked that you go—”
I turn and run. Unthinking as anxiety fuels and propels my legs forward. The rose garden is a blur around me—a smeared palette of green brush dotted with pink and white. Five minutes ago, I was carelessly reveling in the colors and life pulsating around me. The warmth of the sun on my face and arms as I crouched and observed a honeybee collecting pollen through the artful eye of my phone.
All of that feels like a dream. Because the nightmare that is my existence has returned to the forefront. Like some cruel, antagonistic reminder that I can never truly be happy. Maybe I don’t deserve happiness?
I push through the heavy wooden door that leads back into the castle. The cold air clutches my arms and raises goosebumps across my skin. Sixteenth-century stone walls are impermeable to warmth—an unassailable foe to the late-summer sun in a cloudless sky.
The door echoes loudly as it slams shut. My eyes have barely adjusted to the drastic change in light before I’m running again, down a long hallway, then up a narrow flight of stairs until I hit a set of double doors. I burst through and am showered in light once more because of the arched windows on either side of the curtain wall. This open passage is the singular link between my tower and the rest of the castle.
The sunlight blinks as I pass amid bright rays and shadows cast from the arches, like a dizzying kaleidoscope of day and night. Another pair of doors at the end lead me back into cold and dank air. Into the familiar gray and colorless corridor that feels more like a prison than a home.
There’s nothing beautiful or inspiring here.
A discolored family coat of arms made from wood and metal hangs high above my head. At the bottom of the steps leading to my room, a portrait of an ancestor long deceased peers down at me—proud and disapproving. A true and undeniable predecessor of Lord Blakeley if ever there was one.
I pass the empty guest room across from the disturbing painting and take the spiral stairs two at a time. My heart beats wildly in my chest as I climb, hoping and praying that Camille has made a mistake. That this is all some kind of mean-spirited joke, even though I know she would never do something like that.
Any notion of hope is dispelled when I hear voices and commotion. I round the final corner and see Lana and Kelvin carrying large crates overflowing with recognizable items. The aluminum legs of my tripod, stacks of books and small boxes of film. Benjamin exits my room holding the backpack in which I keep my compact camera and laptop equipment for uploading.
“Wait—Just hold on a second!”
Lana and Kelvin nervously look away as they pass. Ben winces, clenching his teeth as he follows the other two down the stairs. I rush toward my room, but stop dead. Without warning, Hudson fills the entire frame, making me gasp in surprise and stumble backward.
Tall and imposing, Lord Blakeley’s primary manservant blocks the entrance like a brick wall in his clean, well-tailored uniform. He’s broad-shouldered and bulky with flawless dark skin.
“Lord Blakeley has ordered that all of your photography equipment be confiscated until further notice,” he announces with expressionless hazel eyes. “Including your mobile device.”
“Hudson,please—this is all I have. You know that I… I already apologized for—”
“The device, your grace.” His gaze lowers to my right hand, where I’m clutching my phone. He exhales an audible sigh. “The order has been given. Please don’t make me take it from you.”
We stand in silence, surrounded by stone. The cold atmosphere penetrates my skin, oppressing and weighted with misery. Without speaking, I lift my arm, palm up, and offer the phone.
Gently, he takes it from my hand. “Thank you, your grace.” He walks, bypassing me as I stand, unmoving. Gutted and small. Powerless, as always. Hudson disappears, but his heavy footfalls echo in staccato as he descends the steps behind me.
Hollowed, I walk into my room. The circular space is well lit because the curtains are drawn over the east- and west-facing windows. Dust motes float along an invisible air current and there isn’t a single sound.
My stomach drops.
All of the shelves are empty. The second-hand photography books I’ve scavenged over the years and treasured knickknacks—a porcelain elephant from Thailand gifted to me by my former tutor and my first classic instant camera—all vanished. My desk is wiped clean as well. No laptop, compact camera or chargers. No tripod standing in the corner or backpack hanging from the hook on the wall.
Disbelief sweeps through me as I slowly sit down on the ottoman at the end of my bed. Breathing, I lower and place my head in my palms, then close my eyes.
The silence engulfs me, as if someone has set my life and very being to mute.
“You’re okay,” I whisper. “It’s okay…”
Alone, isolated, I repeat this mantra over and over as I sit in the barren room. I don’t move. The sun shifts, sluggishly dipping below the horizon and casting the space into night and shadows.
