“I’ll do my best. And thanks for the help.” Tossing her a wave, I follow the path behind the mansion, a lone tear trailing down my cheek.
As the gate latches behind me, my phone pings in my hand. Shaking off the melancholy, I glance at the screen. A notification from the photo-sharing app again. Opening it, I find another direct message from Alice.
How’s the search going?
I don’t have anything new to tell her, so I slide the phone into my bag. Guilt pricks at my conscience, but I tell myself I’ll reply later.
After looking over Rose’s Instagram this morning, I have some questions of my own.
Is Rose missing, like Alice claims?
Or is she avoiding her sister?
22
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I stand on a cobblestone street, staring at the shop. White stone, dirty and cracked, as if the building knows it’s been relocated to a back alley. But it’s not the location that surprises me most.
A carved wooden sign rests above the door. My French is amateur level, but one word is unmistakable.
Vampyre.
Scenes fromCarmillacreep into my head. A delicate young woman masquerading as a friend, as a lover. Slipping through night shadows in search of blood.
Vampires. Murder house. Monsters.My time in Paris is supposed to be a retreat, and the mansion a sanctuary.
Not a house of horrors.
Wind gusts down the alley, making the sign swing back and forth. The chain squeaks in the metal brackets, an ominous sound shivering through my veins.
I roll my shoulders and take a breath. What did I expect? I’m here because I need a costume, one suitable for a monster-themed ball.
But after last night’s reading and this morning’s nightmare, I prefer a different category. Why not witches, mummies, or Frankenstein?
At this point, I’d even take werewolves.
I push the handle, and the door opens with a sigh, as if the air is welcoming me. When the door closes again, it’s like I’ve stepped into a different world.
LED lanterns flicker on vintage wallpaper, a damask design of red and black. Shelves and tables fill every space, mostly dark wood with old-world carvings.
Each surface displays a collection of oddities—stuffed ravens, silver goblets, miniature skulls. Arranged in no apparent order.
I’m taking it all in, when a framed portrait on the wall piques my interest. I move to study the picture up close. A signed photo of Bram Stoker.
With a price tag to match.
Despite a few mass-produced items, the store holds an air of authenticity. And judging by the cost, many of the items are rare finds.
Stopping at a bookshelf, I tilt my head to read the titles.French, French, French.Words I can’t translate. But then English jumps out at me.
Essays on the Undead: A Survival Guide.
The dramatic title seems appropriate for the stiff yellow pages and faded blue binding. The book looks ancient, weathered and worn.
Sliding it gently from the shelf, I open the cover, spine cracking like a dry bone. Ghoulish headings fill the table of contents, but the vampire section takes up most of the book.
I flip the pages gently, careful with the old paper. Every so often, black sketches help illustrate the text. A man in a graveyard, plunging a stake into an open casket. In another, a child cowers in a corner, shrinking back from a dark shape.
The next drawing catches my eye, because the scene doesn’t make sense. A man in a cloak holds a vampire’s arms while another shoves an object in the creature’s mouth. Rectangle and thick. I can’t tell?—
