Page 127 of Her Vampire, His Ruin

“You’re certain he’s here?” I ask, searching her face.

“I feel him. He’s close,” she replies before striding toward the shore, her pace quick and determined. I follow behind, wincing as the wind gnaws at my skin until my teeth chatter. The wooden jetty makes way for the crunch of shingles underfoot, and Sybil immediately heads for a narrow path cut into the cliff.

Briefly, she turns to face me. “It’s a steep climb. Watch your step.”

I nod, looking upwards. There are no guardrails to stop me from falling should I miss a step, and the drop at its highest is well over two hundred meters. I’m not a fan of heights, and especially not unprotected drops that could kill me if I make an error and slip. Sybil has no reason to be afraid, even if she did fall. Nothing can kill her but the sun or her head being removed from her body. It’s a sobering thought, but regardless of my anxiety, I follow her.

By the time we reach the top of the cliff, my breath rasps in my throat. Sybil, unfazed by the climb, moves effortlessly, and for a fleeting moment, I envy her strength. That thought only sharpens my awareness of my own fragility. We have travelled for hours, but dawn is still an hour or so away, and I am painfully aware I’m defenceless should Sybil decide to turn on me.

“Do you need a moment?” Sybil asks.

“No. Let’s keep moving,” I say, pushing my weary legs forward as I peer past Sybil at the shadowy silhouette of a massive house looming in the dark. The building towers over the landscape, its windows empty and hollow, swallowing the darkness. Only the full moon’s silvery glow reveals its shape. Without it, the house would vanish into the night.

Trailing Sybil, I push through an overgrown path where tall grasses whisper against our legs and bramble thorns catch at my jumper. The place is wild and untamed, steeped in melancholy, but when Sybil slips through a rusted iron gate, I gasp in surprise. Before me, a breathtaking garden unfurls, the air heavy with the sweet scent of wildflowers, and the churn of the ocean below.

“I thought this place was abandoned,” I say, my gaze roaming over the neat flowerbeds.

“Dorian must have paid someone to keep it maintained,” Sybil says, pushing on and cutting through a flowerbed, crushing the plants beneath her feet.

I circle around the flowerbed and find a gravel path that brings me to Sybil’s side. She moves ahead, and soon we stand before Dorian’s home, its massive wooden door framed by a stone archway.

“When we enter, you should stay close. I don’t know if Dorian will be able to resist the lure of your blood.”

“Okay,” I nod, then Sybil pushes open the door and we step inside.

Chapter 29

Dorian

With the cuff of my jumper, I scrub at the grime clinging to Basilia’s painting, desperate to reveal what lies beneath, hoping to find a clue, something that will help me to break this wretched curse. The first swipe reveals two sunken, rheumy eyes beneath hairless brows. The second reveals wrinkled skin hanging loosely over bone, as though my skin is melting off my face. The third swipe reveals a balding head mottled with age spots, the curse erasing every trace of youth. It’s a face so unfamiliar I gasp, just as the painting seems to do. Between my wrinkled lips, my fangs are stained black beneath rotting gums.

When I left Grayhaven years ago, I carried that painted memory of my youthful face forever imprisoned in its colours. Now, the painting has warped into something monstrous, haunted by death and decay. The decrepit, ancient man staring back at me is twisted by selfishness and cruelty, his features warped by every sin I ever committed.

Guilt coils in my chest, tightening with every breath. This is how Basilia must have seen me, my beauty spoiled by betrayal. If only I could beg her for forgiveness, but all that remains is this painting, her curse painted into every fibre.

Perhaps if I destroy it, I can break the curse and finally end this torment.

My hands tremble as I lift the painting from its easel, fingers digging into the wooden frame. With a sharp crack, I snap the wood, then rip the canvas in two with a single, desperate pull.

I’m not sure what I was expecting to happen, but when nothing changes, I keep ripping until shreds of canvas drift silently to the floor, scattering like the petals that once rained over Basilia and me as we left the church on our wedding day.

She had been radiant that day, overflowing with love and laughter. For a while, I was content. But within months, my attention wandered to another woman. When Basilia discovered my betrayal, she was shattered. Yet somehow, she forgave me. I swore I would never stray again. But I did. I was cruel. I became the very monster I have just torn apart with my own hands.

“I’m sorry, Basilia,” I whisper, a cool breeze lifting the shreds of canvas and scattering them across the room.

A sliver of moonlight spills through the window, drawing my gaze to the dark stain of Basilia’s blood. Even after all these years, it lingers, and for a moment, grief and regret choke me. I should never have treated her so cruelly. She gave me her love, and I repaid her with nothing but betrayal.

Caught in my despair, I don’t immediately sense the door behind me opening. It’s only when I hear the sharp intake of breath that I turn on my feet and am faced with the ghost of my past.

“Basilia?” I whisper, my knees buckling beneath me. I fall to my knees, floored by the sight of the woman who slit her wrists and died in this very room. “Are you a ghost?”

She smiles then, and I’m rocked to my very core as two sharp fangs descend from her gums. “Oh no, I’m not a ghost, I’m your worst nightmare,” she says, her eyes once a sky blue, now a deep black, so void of humanity I can barely fucking breathe.

“How?” I choke out.

“Perhaps you should ask Sybil? She’s already arrived with your newest conquest.”

“Sybil is here with Edie?” I shake my head. “No. She wouldn’t.”