The driver is at Cyrus’s door a heartbeat later. Cyrus slides out, offering a hand for me to follow. Stepping onto the curve, I’m in awe of the home in front of me. The two-story house is made of white limestone and boasts bright blue shutters. From the street, the nondescript front door is nothing more than heavy wood, hewn most likely from a nearby tree.
The balcony that covers is a work of art. Large pillars line the front of the home, encasing a railing that matches the color of the shutters. Plants of every shape and size are scattered throughout the outdoor space, making it resemble a garden more than a balcony.
“You really do like plants,” I say with a smile.
“I told you that was my favorite book. I will never lie to you, Violet.” He offers his arm, leading me toward the wooden entrance.
We enter what I assume to be the bottom floor, only to discover we’re in a vast garden instead of his home. Flowers of every shade provide a rainbow of color. Everything is in bloom, and the greenery that surrounds us is, in lack of a better word, beautiful. The energy filling the space is peaceful, and for the first time in a while, I take a deep breath.
“This is nice,” I announce.
“Yes, it is. New Orleans is livable, but this is home.” He leads me through the garden into the main house.We enter the living space, which is surprisingly small. Through a narrow door is a dining room with an attached kitchen. His space is decorated with furniture from all time periods. A mixture of antique wood, Victorian, and everything in between is the perfect mix to make his house a home.
“I love it,” I say with a smile.
“I’ll take your bags upstairs,” the driver interrupts.
“Thank you, Simon.” Cyrus offers me his arm. “I’ll show you to your room.” We climb the narrow stairs with barely enough room to move side by side. Upstairs, we pass two doors before stopping at the third. He opens the door wide. “This should be to your liking.”
The room is small but lavishly decorated. A large four-poster bed takes up most of the space, sitting opposite a wardrobe nearly as large. “This is perfect. Thank you.”
“I had the quilt made for you,” he says, moving toward the door.
Turning my attention toward the fabric, I run a hand over the smooth stitches of the light purple cover. “I imagine I’ll get a lot of deciphering done on this quilt.”
Cyrus smiles at my sarcasm. “We don’t sleep, but we do rest. I’m glad you like it. I wanted it to match your name.”
“It is beautiful,” I answer truthfully.
“When you’re ready, I’d like to begin our lessons.”
My stomach knots, thinking about lessons. “Today?” I ask.
“If that suits you. I’d like to change clothes, as I’d imagine you would too.” He dramatically pulls a watch from his pocket. “How about thirty minutes?”
I shrug, not knowing what time it is. “That sounds perfect.”
He disappears through the door next to mine, leaving me alone for the first time since yesterday. The last time he left me alone, I nearly killed someone. I open the suitcase that magically made its way on top of the handmade quilt, and unload the dresses I brought. Opening the wardrobe, I’m surprised to find more of the same quality couture hanging on the racks. Like the dresses in New Orleans, these are of the finest fabrics and design. I slide the ones I brought alongside the ones already in place. Gathering a pair of soft cotton pants and a knit sweater, I move to the bathroom on the other side of the room.
Just like his apartment, this bathroom is stocked with every product known to society, along with a few I’ve never seen. Twenty minutes later, I’m showered, dressed, and prepped for whatever he has in mind. I slip on a pair of red flats before heading downstairs.
Cyrus is sitting in a leather chair with one of the many books opened on his lap. “You look nice,” he comments as I enter the room.
“This old thing? I found it in my wardrobe,” I tease. Cyrus laughs at my weak attempt at humor.
“I’m glad you like them.” He closes his book and stands in front of his chair. For the first time since meeting him, I take in his size. He’s nearly a foot taller than me, making the top of my head barely reach his shoulders. He’s changed into a pair of tweed pants and a loose-fitting button-down shirt. “Are you ready?”
“Depends on what I’m ready for.”
“Training,” he answers with a wicked smile.
“Training for what, exactly?”
He sighs. “First, we will turn you into a vampire.”
I scoff. “I’m already a vampire…aren’t I?” I wrinkle my forehead in confusion. Truthfully, I don’t know anything about being whatever I am. For all I know, he may be right. Maybe there’s a ritual?
Cyrus laughs deeply. “I can almost see the wheels turning in your head.”
