Page 3 of My Big Fat Vampire Wedding

T he Von Ashmore estate loomed like a shadow against the sky, casting a threatening gloom across the grounds. Spired turrets clawed at the heavens, their ornate wrought-iron accents tangling with the thick green ivy that coursed along the stones like veins.

The mansion’s facade was weathered by centuries of wind and rain, bearing the scars of time, little cracks that bloomed across the grey stone surface.

There was something truly beautiful about its imperfections. Dignified and timeless, it wore its age like a cloak.

Though, to humans, it had all of the spooky and none of the charm. There was some sort of glamour on it that kept people from getting too close. Just a glance at it would send a shiver down their spines, would nudge their fight-or-flight instincts until they felt the need to flee.

The cobblestone path snaked up toward the heavy oak front door. The stone surfaces were slick with the recent rain and the moss that crept across them, making Pandora slide a bit as she walked.

Tall, skeletal trees loomed overhead, their limbs twisted and gnarled as if they were writhing in pain. The last few orange leaves still clinging to them rustled with quiet promise as the wind swept across them.

Pandora made her way to the entrance, the door groaning under its own weight as she pushed open the brass doorknob.

The inside was cast in shadows, like a secret that didn’t want to be revealed.

The foyer stretched upward toward the vaulted ceiling, and heavy velvet burgundy drapes cascaded from the windows, blocking out even a hint of daylight. Only the flicker of candlelight illuminated the space, dancing behind glass sconces lining the walls, casting trembling shadows across the space.

The floor beneath Pandora’s feet was gleaming black-and-white marble that led toward the grand staircase, its balustrade carved from dark mahogany, the spindles shaped into figures of coiled snakes, their teeth sharp and gleaming, ready to strike.

Pandora could swear that sometimes you could practically see the venom glinting from those fangs.

She had lived through nightmares about those snakes suddenly coming alive, slithering up into her room, then wrapping around her limbs, coiling tighter and tighter until the pressure made her implode.

The air in the space always seemed oppressive, like the house itself was holding its breath.

Above her head, the chandelier hung lazily from the ceiling. Whenever someone walked across the floor above, the chandelier would sway, its crystal pendants clanking lightly. It was a sound that made Pandora think of bones knocking together.

To the right of the staircase, an arched doorway opened into the sitting room. Everything was upholstered in black velvet, the furniture all stiff and angular, the kind of seating meant to be looked at, not necessarily sat upon.

A massive fireplace yawned at the far end of the room, the grate in front of it a pattern of vines and thorns. When a fire was lit, the shadows of those vines crept across the walls like some spooky children’s story.

Above the mantel was a timeless painting of a woman, her skin ashen and framed in deep auburn hair, her distinguished grey-blue eyes on display.

That was Ambrosia Von Ashmore, Pandora’s great-great-grandmother. A woman so revered in their household that they spoke her name with awe. Despite the fact that no one had ever even met her.

Pandora hated that painting. And the way Ambrosia’s eyes seemed to follow her around the room. She swore that if she could just look over quickly enough, she could catch the painting blinking.

Dark wooden bookshelves lined the walls, their shelves bowing under the weight of ancient leather-bound tomes.

These were not the kinds of books that Pandora enjoyed. These were her mother’s books. Grimoires, alchemical texts, and records of family bloodlines long forgotten to anyone but their current caretaker.

Near one of the windows was her father’s chess set, the pieces carved from bone. The white king was lying on its side in forfeit.

Not her father’s.

He never conceded.

The game was never done until he’d won.

Dante, Pandora assumed, had given up. Her younger brother hadn’t inherited their father’s competitive spirit.

Down the hallway, the dining room was a cavernous space dominated by a table nearly as long as the room itself, its wooden surface polished to a mirror shine.

Pandora walked through the doorway into the kitchen. If it could even be called that. The space was fully functional, but devoid of the clutter of domesticity. Long, empty stone worktops sat unblemished by bowls of fruit, coffee makers, or microwaves.

The walls were lined with open shelving featuring glass jars full of herbs and powders.

Hanging over the island, a threatening display of knives hung like a butcher’s chandelier, their edges menacingly sharp, their surfaces catching even the faintest slivers of light.

Pandora walked over to the fridge, reaching behind the bottles of wine until her fingers closed around the small plastic container of pig’s blood.

She pulled it out, giving it a little shake, then removed the lid before taking a long swig.

She cringed as she sipped. At the taste. At the texture. But there was no easy way for her to heat up the blood, so she was just going to have to choke it down.

She could feel the vigor coming back as it absorbed into her system. She felt sharper and more alert as she walked over to the sink to rinse the plastic container, then drop it into her purse, so she could bring it with her to the butcher’s shop where she bought her blood.

Sure, she could sometimes find some donated human blood to drink. But it was hard to come by and far too expensive for her budget. These days, she saved that for special occasions.

And learning she was about to lose her rightful fortune was certainly not a cause for celebration.

Pandora let out another long-suffering sigh before making her way up the servants’ stairs at the back.

There was no use staying awake now. Her parents had likely been in their coffins for the past hour. Better she drag herself to her bed and get some sleep herself before confronting them again.

The second-floor hallways were narrow and labyrinthine, and the air was colder there, the silence thicker. The only sound to be heard was the creak of the floorboards as Pandora walked.

Everyone, even the house itself, seemed to be asleep.

Pandora passed endless doors. More bedrooms than they could ever use. Not even when the extended family came to visit.

But all of them felt cold and lifeless to her.

By contrast, she swore she could feel the pulse of her own room from several feet away. A small hint of life within the mausoleum they called a home.

She eagerly moved into her room, taking a figurative breath of fresh air.

There was brightness there.

She’d invested some of her salary after she’d started at the coffee shop on a specially-made film to cover her windows, so she could walk safely around her room in the daylight without concerns of getting burned or outright combusting from the unyielding sun.

There were no heavy drapes in here. Just thin sheers that allowed her collection of plants to get the light they needed to thrive, taking over nearly an entire wall of the room. More life. More things her parents didn’t understand.

Her room actually had a bed, instead of a coffin.

And what a bed it was. A colossal king-sized bed was centered in the space, with a golden four-poster frame featuring a canopy with drapery.

But not in the somber shades of black, grey, and red that her family adored.

Instead, it was all light, happy yellows and pinks, purples and blues.

“Oh, hello, Vlad,” Pandora said when she heard the flutter of wings, making her turn to see her family’s undead raven perched on the bed’s canopy. “What are you doing in here?” She moved over to offer him her hand, waiting for him to step up before bringing him down.

He was a gorgeous bird, his feathers so black they seemed to drink up the surrounding light. As she shifted him around, he shimmered with hidden depths – iridescent swirls of purple and blue rippled across the surface of his feathers like oil spreading across water.

But the effect was fleeting, disappearing as soon as it appeared, leaving only shadow behind.

“How was your night?” she asked, reaching up to rub his head, loving the way he always leaned into the touch and let out little gurgling sounds.

“Got called emo by a bunch of stupid pigeons,” Vlad said, making a snort escape Pandora.

“They’re just moody because everyone calls them flying rats.

” She set him on the ornate brass perch her uncle claimed had once belonged to a king.

But seeing as that same uncle also claimed to be in possession of several tomes from the actual Library of Alexandria before it had burned, she was dubious.

“Then I sat on a headstone and stared ominously at the groundskeeper for an hour or so. When he was good and spooked, I cawed at him. He dropped his rake and ran. It was a real highlight.”

“You’ve been busy,” Pandora said as she stepped inside her ensuite bathroom, closing the door so she could strip out of her work uniform and slip into a pair of pyjamas featuring festive jack-o’-lanterns.

“Saw a magpie stealing a ring off of a table,” Vlad continued chatting as she made her way back out of the bathroom. “Considered starting a side hustle.”

“What do you need a side hustle for?” Pandora asked as she climbed into her bed, sighing as the mattress curved around her frame. Who would choose a coffin over this luxury? “Mum spoils you rotten.”

“For you,” Vlad said, picking at the nuts in the food bowl at the end of his perch. “Since you’re going to be disinherited.”

“Gee, thanks for the reminder, Vlad,” Pandora grumbled before breaking off into a big yawn.

“Someone has to help you pay for all those hideous pyjamas.” Vlad started to preen his feathers.

Pandora pulled the covers up over her body, then rolled onto her side to hug her squishy pillow in the shape of a capybara.

It was right then that she heard the creak of the door across the hall.

Listening, she heard the distinct sound of footsteps making their way along the hall, then down the grand staircase.

Then, finally, the front door groaned.

Curious, Pandora climbed out of bed and crept into the hallway, pulling the curtain slightly to the side to see out into the grounds at the front of the house.

There, decked out in heavy layers and carrying an umbrella, despite the lack of rain, was her younger brother, Dante.

Where was he sneaking out to in the middle of the day?

Was that why he was always looking so exhausted recently?

The flap of wings had Pandora pulling away from the window. Turning, she saw Vlad making his way down the hallway, then around the bend, likely to perch outside of her parents’ room, where he would sleep the day away and wait for them to emerge at dusk.

Pandora made her way back into her room, got back into bed, and started to drift off to sleep.

As she did, her mind was consumed with thoughts of Caramel Macchiato Cutie.

Inevitably, those same thoughts invaded her dreams as well. But those were scandalous, private little dreams that had her tossing and turning in her sleep.