The Dark Heroine: Dinner with a Vampire. Abigail Gibbs

on that, the voice in my head said. Focus on your own survival.

      It had a point and I wrenched my gaze away from the mirror, walking back into the wardrobe. A full change of clothing had been laid out for me and I flung it on, glad to take off the soaking and torn dress. The jeans were a little tight around the hips, digging into my skin and it took some effort to pull the T-shirt down over my breasts. But they were dry, so they would do.

      When I went back out, a tray had been left on the bedside cabinet. On it was a plate of sandwiches cut into minute triangles, a rectangle of paper and a glass of water, which I drained in one swig. Picking up the paper, I left the sandwiches untouched. I unfolded it, revealing a note written in a sprawling and almost illegible script.

       Violet,

      You are free to roam the house whenever you please, but do not go into the grounds. If you come across my father, curtsey and address him as ‘Your Majesty’. I will do what I can if you need anything – just ask the servants to call me.

       H.R.H Lyla

       P.S. Murderers kill for pleasure. Vampires kill to survive.

      I read it through twice more before crushing it into a ball and throwing it into the corner of the room. ‘Screw you,’ I muttered, walking over to the French doors. I tried the handle, fiddling about for a minute. It was locked. I guess they’re not taking any chances. Not that I would come out too healthy dropping from the first floor anyway.

      I leaned my head against the cool window, smashing my palms against the glass, frustrated, feeling the huge barricades I had thrown up around myself beginning to crumble. I knew I could not be strong much longer and my eyes stung as tears started to prick them.

      The hope I had maintained dissolved, replaced with an increasing sense of frustration as I realized I had no control of the situation.

      I walked back and pulled the huge silken blanket from the bed, wrapping it around my shoulders as I curled up on the ledge of one of the windows, listening to the gentle tapping on the window as rain started to fall. It lulled me in my exhausted state. After a while, the drizzle became great sheets that battered the grounds, which in the sunlight had looked lavish, but just looked bleak and hostile now; or maybe that was because I now knew what stalked those grounds.

      How cliché, I thought as the first claps of thunder sounded, shaking the window. A storm. I closed my eyes, holding the tears in as somewhere deep within the mansion a clock struck nine times.

       I will not cry over a bunch of messed-up murderers. Never.

      SIX

       Violet

      The rain still pummelled the glass when I woke up. It was dark outside and the blanket that I had pulled from the bed had slipped off my shoulders, piling in a heap on the floor. A few drops of water slid down my cheek as I prised it away from the window-pane, which I had steamed up with my breath. I slipped off the ledge and reached down to pick the blanket up. As my fingers closed around the silken sheet, there was a sharp jab in the underside of my wrist, like someone had thrust a needle into my arm. I dropped the blanket, hissing, and squeezed my wrist between my thumb and forefinger until the pain began to ease. My fingers twitched, leaving behind a dull ache, as though I had just had an injection. Clutching one arm to my chest, I inched over to the bed, patting the bedside table until I found the switch on the lamp. Flicking it on, I placed my wrist under the light.

      Large welts coated my arms where Kaspar’s nails had dug in and a network of cuts and grazes extended all the way down both. My hand wandered to my neck. Vampires. It was surreal to think I was sat in a house full of them; it was all completely crazy.

      Yet you can’t deny it, the voice said and I shook my head, trying to mask it with other thoughts.

      A few drops of rain plummeted from the top of the window outside. I blinked. Drip, drip, drip. Behind my closed eyelids, I could see a stained body lying on the pavement.

      No, I can’t deny it. I don’t want to deny it. If I do, that would mean a human had done that to another human. Vampires are monsters. Monsters do horrible things. Humans don’t.

      The clock beside me read 5 o’clock in the morning. I rubbed my eyes, realizing this was the earliest I had been up in years and that it must be the next day, August 1st. One day. One day would be long enough for the police to find witnesses, set up a search party and start to find me. There was so much evidence. The friends I was with. My heels. The man who worked for my father had even seen me. Yet he had done nothing.

      An uneasy feeling crept through my chest. What if he had known about vampires? Had he kept away because he knew he would put his own life at risk? It wasn’t too far a stretch to assume that people within the government would know about vampires – someone must know about them. If he knew and he didn’t do anything, does that mean they won’t come after me? I didn’t want to think about it. My father would come find me. My father wouldn’t abandon me, not even to vampires.

      Or would he? said the voice in my head.

      I glimpsed Lyla’s note, on the carpet. Picking it up, I read it through once more. She had mentioned being free to roam the house and I was desperate for a wash to get rid of the grime on my feet.

      I dropped the note and darted towards the door, stuffing one of the sandwiches – dry and stale now – into my mouth. Pressing my ear flat to the door, I listened. It seemed to be silent outside, but the door was wooden and probably thick so that didn’t mean much. I took a deep breath and opened it, to find the corridor empty. A little way down on the opposite wall there was a door, which must lead to the bathroom that Lyla had mentioned. Opposite that, on the same wall as ‘my’ room, there was a set of double doors. They were panelled and would have blended in with the wall if they were not set back a little into an alcove. Two gas lamps hung on brackets, one either side, although they were not on, leaving the corridor to be lit by the natural light that was beginning to stream in from the window at the other end of the corridor. I edged down, tensed and ready to spring back into my room if I needed to.

      Nobody came and I began to relax, allowing my hand to wrap around the knob of one of the doors. It was smooth and warmed at the touch like glass, although it had the same appearance as the marble downstairs. I placed my other hand on its twin and turned. The one on the left glided around and clicked with no effort, but the one on the right was stiff and would not turn. The left door swung open a fraction. I stared at it. Should I? The temptation was strong but curiosity really would get the cat killed this time.

      Just as I started to shut the door again I heard footsteps coming from the stairs. My heart hammered and I jerked forward, bursting through the doors. Shutting it with as little noise as possible, I kept hold of the handle to stop it from turning and clicking shut.

      I waited, petrified, and only when everything went silent again did I allow myself to take in the room. It was huge – much bigger than the one I had slept in. All the walls were wood-panelled, and an all-black, wrought-iron four-poster dominated the one side and a fireplace the other. Above the mantle, which was strewn with magazines, there hung a painting of a man and a woman. The man resembled Kaspar, although he looked older. I took a guess that it was his father in his younger days. The woman beside him must be his wife, Kaspar’s mother, judging by the hand of the man placed on her bare shoulder. She sat upon a stool, her emerald dress hugging a curvaceous figure, dark chestnut curls tumbling down to her waist, which was so tiny it must have been encased in a corset. Her eyes were wide and bright, full of the same colour and sheen as her dress. But what really caught my gaze was her skin: whilst her husband’s was pale and papery, her skin had a tinge of olive in it, although the sunken sockets of her eyes were encircled by deep purple rings – she was without doubt a vampire.

      I trod as softly as I could around the bed, almost tripping over a guitar that poked out from under the bedstead. A breeze stirred my ankles and, as I neared the fireplace, the black