He Is Not In His Grave

The woman said in a tremulous voice, "We found this tomb and did not know what to make of it because we have seen Count Ivar before." He is still moving through Castle Dravenstone's hallways, not in his grave.

Rosamund's cheeks became pale. "Then who is in his grave?"

"Nobody is. As if someone had fought their way out of the coffin and through the dirt to the surface, the ground was ripped up when we first found it.

Rosamund laughed uneasily, her doubt a thin wall. This was just an old wives' story, a superstition twisted to make the Valtara gossips laugh, surely. "That is ridiculous. "Count Ivar came back from the grave?" she sneered, but her voice trailed off.

The woman's eyes were ferocious and determined, wide and unblinking. She rasped, "Let me tell you something," in a warningly shrill voice. Not until our animals started mysteriously dying once a month, with all the blood drained from our cows, pigs, and a goat or two, did we believe it either. Then it occurred to us that it might be our next child. Castle Dravenstone, Rosamund, is home to a demon. Avoid it. Make sure your house is secure to keep him out. You never know when he might steal one of our lovely ladies for himself. Take caution.

Despite its seeming superstitious nature, the warning's seriousness struck through Rosamund's barriers and sent a shiver down her spine. In the distance, she looked back at Castle Dravenstone, where ravens wheeled overhead, their dark forms circling like a foreboding portent.

Rosamund woke up four days later, her eyelids still closed, hesitant to get out of bed and do the tasks of the day. She had been plagued in the middle of the night by a weird nightmare—hazy visions of fear, sharp pain, and the uncanny feeling of being carried away, cold air rushing past her face as darkness obscured her vision. There had been clouds covering the moon.

However, she assured herself that she was secure and sound now that she was awake. She would be at her uncle's place when she opened her eyes. Her senses intensified, and she slid over, pulling the heavy cover closer, only to pause. Her threadbare blankets and scratchy mattress weren't these. Her eyes snapped awake, and she bounded to her feet.

She didn't belong in this room.

She was lying in a luxurious four-poster bed with embroidered gold eiderdown and thick burgundy drapes. An elaborately carved wardrobe, a vanity enclosed in scrolled gilt, and a shimmering gold brush and mirror set made the room a picture of aristocratic luxury. She looked about in confusion, her thoughts struggling to find an answer.

Her eyes then shifted to her left hand. A ring she had never seen before, an intricate gold band set with a blood-red ruby, glittered on the third finger. Every time she tried to get it off, it tightened and held fast.

If I were you, I wouldn't act in that manner. The ring is magical and will not come off.

She was startled by the voice—a rich, resonant tone, melodic but with a chilly quality that suggested dusk. She turned to see a figure in the doorway, his quiet presence like that of a phantom, his silhouette set against the dim light.

The man said, entering the room with a spooky elegance, "I wondered when you would awaken, madam." "I must apologize for the impolite greeting I received at Castle Dravenstone. I would have given you a proper tour if you had been conscious.

His features came into view as he entered the candlelight, his cheeks and the hollows behind his eyes tinged with gray, his complexion a stark white against a billowing black cape. His angular jaw, hefty brow, and pointed nose made his face a study in sharp angles. Even though he looked gaunt, as though he hadn't slept for weeks, he carried himself with the dignity and charisma of a king or queen.

"Count Ivar," she murmured, the name coming forth confidently.

His silence was an implicit consent, neither affirming nor disputing it.

"Why am I in this place?" She said in a brittle whisper.

He sat quietly on the edge of her bed, his face still unreadable. "You have been selected to be my bride."

Rosamund's eyes widened in fear as her stomach lurched. As far away from him as the bed would allow, she clambered backward and pressed herself against the headboard.

He grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her off the bed, saying, "Come, let me show you something." She flinched at his touch as he brought her to a mirror, her thoughts racing with shock, terror, and contempt.

He whispered, "Look at yourself, Rosamund," in a quiet but firm voice.

A wave of terror surged through her as she gazed into the glass. Her cheeks no longer had the rosy glow; instead, they were pale and pale, with a subtle sheen reminiscent of moonlight. Her eyes were dark, her luscious brown hair was darker than ever, and her lips were burning a bright crimson.

Even though he was standing directly behind her, Count Ivar did not reflect.

"How did you harm me?" Her voice broke as she wept.

With a matter-of-fact tone, he responded, "I've made you like me."

She gasped when she saw the sharpened fangs after biting her lip. Suppressing a whimper of disgust, she covered her lips with her palm.

"Why?" She gave a barely audible squeak.

There was a silence between them. She continued to stare in the mirror, but she heard his low, quiet voice. "Because I felt alone."

She pushed her fingers more firmly on her mouth to stop the tears from streaming down her face. "Why me?" she gasped.

"I felt positive about you. You simply seemed correct.

"So, was this a whim or what?" On the verge of panic, her voice raised.

"No, it wasn't," he snarled, his voice growing icy and acerbic. She turned to face him in surprise, immediately regretting it as his eyes sharpened into a menacing scowl. He spat, his words laced with hatred, "The fiend who created me acted on whims, but I do not."

For a while, he watched her shake, paralyzed with terror. A tight silence followed, and then his features softened somewhat.

He let out a sigh. "Pardon me. "You are not the object of my resentment," he declared. "Rosamund, you were my choice for a companion. I don't aim to hurt you.

Fear prevented her from saying that the damage of draining her blood and transforming her into a night creature was sufficient. Rather, she said, "How do you know my name?"

Count Ivar wandered over to the window and stared at Valtara in the distance. "I am aware of almost everything that occurs in Valtara," he muttered. "I was told you were coming."

With a new chill running through her, she understood he had spied on her.

He gave her another unreadable look before suddenly changing the subject.

He declared, "You can go anywhere you want because Castle Dravenstone is now your home." You own everything that belongs to me.

Rosamund took in what he had said, her mind whirling.

He cautioned, "I don't think it's wise, but you can try to get away if you want." You have only been a vampire for a few hours, therefore you lack experience, which makes you extremely unstable. Trying to live alone would be incredibly stupid.

The name "vampire" made her cringe, the truth of it hitting her again.

"My servants will attend to you if you need anything. You must be quite thirsty by now, so I'll take you out to feed when the sun sets tonight.

Slowly but surely, the whole weight of his words fell upon her, crushing her. Eat people? The concept was intolerable—massacre, murder. She refused to do it. No, she would not give up the last vestige of her humanity, even if it meant starving herself to death. A sliver of hope flickered inside her as she remembered the crosses affixed to her neighbors' doors. Were those inside really protected?

He silently observed her, her internal conflict visible on her face. He showed no indication that he felt her disobedience. She didn't see him reach out until his bony finger touched her naked shoulder because there was no reflection to indicate his actions. Squeezing her eyes shut, she shivered and forced herself not to scream.

His voice was so quiet that she almost missed it as he whispered, "You are mine now," on her skin.

Then he was gone, the drapes swaying behind him as he vanished like a passing breeze. Sobbing uncontrollably, Rosamund collapsed onto the bed and buried her face in her arms.