I had not gone near or in that room since that night. It was only two weeks, yet I was curious – I felt as though something must have changed inside, as though the room could not remain the same without its master.
A stupid thought, but I was having them with increasing vigour.
In contrast, at the forefront of my mind was a thought of a totally different nature. Try hard as I might, I could not stop thinking about Kaspar’s naked body pressed to mine, or his firm grasp of me or his demanding, controlling nature that secretly, I sort of liked – although I would never admit it to his face. I could still reignite the perverted thrill that had shocked my system when he had thrown the key from the open doors, leaving me trapped.
My hand was already pushing the door to his room open when my mind caught up. Somehow I thought that not touching Kaspar included not going in his room. Which it probably did, but I had to look; I had to know.
The door shut quietly behind me and I took a deep breath before raising my eyes. The room was unusually light, winter sunlight flooding through the French doors. The dark drapes were thrown back and tethered, the sheets tucked beneath the mattress and the pillows straightened. Gone was the scent of cologne and the air was not tainted by the smell of blood either. Dustsheets covered most of the furniture, blanketing the room in white. The sheets were soft as my bare feet trod on them, cold too, like cotton snow.
Deep in the pit of my stomach, something ached.
I felt tears welling in my ears and back-pedalled, wanting the comfort and safety of my own room. But I stopped as something glistened in the corner of my eye. My steps slowed and I wiped my eyes. There on the mantelpiece, below the picture of Kaspar’s parents, was a necklace.
I glanced towards the door, afraid someone might come bursting through. But all was silent and the shouting voices had faded. So cautiously I took a step forward, and then another, and another. I refused to look at the painting; the intensity of the eyes of the oiled figures was unnerving on a good day, and today was not good.
My feet ventured onto the cold flag of the foot of the fireplace and I stood on my tiptoes so I was level with the mantel. The necklace was coated in a fine layer of dust, tiny flakes clinging to the fine chain on which the pendant hung. It was placed on a piece of thick, heavy paper, which I ignored.
Gently lifting it, I stared in amazement as it caught the light – tiny, tiny lines of emerald engraved into the silver. It was a rose dripping with blood, a small V beneath: the royal coat of arms. In the centre was a minute emerald stone. I let it fall into the palm of my hand, gazing at its beauty. I was no expert, but something so extraordinary and delicate must be worth thousands.
Lifting it again, I gasped. It had fallen open and inside it there were eight miniatures, each enclosed by an equally small frame. A locket.
I instantly recognized the figures inside. It was the King and Queen and each of their children, eldest to youngest, sandwiched in-between. I flicked through the tiny frames, each suspended and strung together by hinges like spiderwebs.
I lifted it up to the light again, mesmerized as it spun on the chain. Behind it I could see the large painting that unnerved me so much, the scarily lifelike figures of Kaspar’s mother and father, the King and Queen, staring down at me. But something caught my eye. Around the Queen’s neck was an identical silver pendant, a jewel set in the centre.
I looked back at the locket in my hand, realizing that what I held belonged to the late Queen.
Lowering it I snatched the paper it had been placed upon, unfolding it and taking a moment to examine the broken royal seal. It was a letter, written in an elegant, curled hand. I quickly scanned the first few lines.
‘Dear sweet Beryl,
First, I must ask how you and Joseph are? It truly has been far too long since we last met …’
I did not need to read any more to know what the rest contained. It was the same letter from the King’s study. Yet here it was, the Queen’s final letter, weighed down by her locket in Kaspar’s room. I admired it; still open, spinning and spinning …
The dream began differently that night. Usually it started almost peacefully, as though joining the mysterious cloaked man was an escape. It probably was – his thoughts seemed to revolve around liberty and being free of whatever restraints he hated so much.
Yet this night, I had to first endure tortured images. Kaspar and the locket I had left in his room swirled in my mind, more faces and voices and sound than actual images. Above it all, I could hear a clock striking twelve, and then nine, and then six, like it worked in reverse. But soon – not soon enough – the scene switched and was replaced with the thoughts of the King’s rogue informant and the familiar forest.
Even thought was an effort and the cloaked figure yearned to enter the trance-like state that was as near to sleep as a vampire could get, but he would not allow himself. He had to return in time for the Ad Infinitum ball. He would not miss it.
His cloak billowed in his wake, the hem trailing in the moist ground. November and its damp air had descended quickly and he knew the humans felt the sudden drop in temperature. Winter is approaching.
Suddenly, he caught the unmistakable smell of a slayer through the dampness and in the blink of an eye they had taken to the trees. Creeping forward, he moved from branch to branch, inching towards the hideous smell, and as they got closer, voices.
‘We want no more excuses, slayer. You can tell your precious Lee that unless he chooses to attack soon, we will have no more to do with him. We’ve waited long enough.’
Now this was an interesting meeting.
‘Lee needs a reason to attack to ensure the Prime Minister’s backing. So far he hasn’t had one.’
‘Perhaps you will change your mind when you have heard us out, slayer.’
The slayer, high-ranking judging by his dress and the array of weapons that hung from his belt, leaned forward into the light from the moon. ‘I very much doubt that.’
The rogues, six of them in total shuffled. One sat further forward than the rest and seemed to be the spokesmen. He continued.
‘Have you heard of the Prophecy of the Heroines?’
The slayer leaned back again. ‘Of course.’
‘And are you familiar with the first verse?’
The slayer simply nodded this time. The cloaked figure, high up in the canopy, sat rigid.
‘And do you believe it?’
The slayer grunted, half-groaning his reply. ‘It’s a load of destiny crap made up by Athenea. Not worth your time or mine.’
The vampire smiled. ‘Then perhaps you should reconsider that too.’