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Matilda stares into the fire, as if it holds the answers to all the questions. The fire makes me think of Liam, of the warmth of his body, the way his muscles moved as he played his violin in an almost feverish trance.

When she speaks again, it is with a different voice. Matilda but not Matilda. A prophetic voice. A voice that gives me chills. A voice I know will haunt my dreams.

Her eyes are alight with the flames of the fires as she says, "Beneath the silence of the golden bell, the wolf will hunt the lamb and the stones will feed on the blood that freely flows."

Chapter 13: The Ex

like a black rose,her darkness was beautifully fatal.

~ e. corona

Matildaand I sit in silence, drinking our cider, for a long while. I think over her words but cannot put voice to the many questions running through me. I'm too tired. Too weary of the way everyone speaks in puzzles. I'm not even sure they realize they're doing it. To them, this is how one communicates. To me, it's utterly maddening.

When I return to my room, I intend to go straight to sleep, but the image of Liam playing the violin has me enthralled. Blood rises to my cheeks as I remember him as he looked, standing against the lights of the Dragon's Breath, his full body on display.

I can't get him out of my head, so I pull out my sketchbook and begin to draw.

I use shading and smudging to capture the contoured muscles of his chest and the movement of his body as he allows the music to consume him. I draw with intricate detail, with thought to motion and sound. His power, his rage, his fire and passion, all captured in the intensity of his expression and the way he holds his instrument, as if speaking through his music, pouring parts of himself into it.

I study it once it's complete, sucking in my breath. I can practically hear his music as I look at the drawing.

Once the image is out of my system, I crash into bed and sleep restlessly, haunted by dreams and visions and voices of doom. I rise several hours later with bags under my eyes and knots in my hair from tossing and turning.

There is a hot bath drawn for me when I rise, filled with the same scented oils I used before. Once again, I'm perplexed. I locked my door. No one could have gotten in.

This castle is starting to creep me out.

I'm not hungry, so instead of going to the kitchen after bathing, I head to the library and retrieve the letters we found in Mary's room. We never asked Dracula about them and going on a gut instinct and a bit of my flash, I decide it's best I talk to him alone.

His relationship with the brothers is too complicated. None of them are seeing each other clearly.

I remember the suite Matilda was preparing for Dracula's arrival, and I head there, my hands sweating from nerves.

I find the legendary vampire sitting before a grand piano, his long, tapered fingers gliding over the keys, playing a sad, melancholy song in a minor key. It's haunting, and I pause, not wanting to disturb him. When he finishes, his shoulders slump forward and he seems lost in his own grief. I knock gently, and he turns sharply, all signs of sadness gone. In its place is a cold curiosity as he studies me.

"Miss Oliver, do come in. I had hoped we would have a moment alone together at some point."

I pause, momentarily regretting my impulsiveness in coming here alone. But then I force myself to step forward. After Jerry, I vowed I'd never let another man intimidate me again.

That includes Dracula.

Smiling, I take a seat in a comfortable chair by the fire. He sits across from me and pours himself a goblet of blood. "I would offer you something to drink, but… "

"I'm good," I say, wrinkling my nose. "I just had a question for you, if you don't mind."

"By all means," he says, leaning back elegantly as he sips at his drink.

He has a regal stillness about him that sets my nerves on edge. I pull out the letters and place them before him. "Have you ever seen these?" I ask.

He takes them and studies them, frowning as he does. "No. Why? Where did you get them?"

I gulp, nervous about his response. "From Mary's room."

He sets the papers down and stares into the fire, saying nothing, offering nothing.

"Do you think Mary was cheating on you?" I ask outright.

His response surprises me. "I am not an easy man to love. I know this. Especially for one such as Mary."