Eternal Reservations – Chapter 2
Anabelle
Dust motes danced in the lamplight, suspended like tiny stars in the library’s hushed air. Anabelle Hart squinted at the column of figures before her, the numbers swimming after hours of bookkeeping. The ancient oak desk, probably late 18th century with its delicate inlay work, creaked as she shifted her weight, stretching arms overhead until her spine popped in satisfying succession.
“That’s quite enough arithmetic for one night,” she murmured, closing the leather-bound ledger.
The Crimson Rose’s first autumn season proved more successful than she’d dared hope. Every room booked through Halloween, glowing reviews accumulating online, and Harper Quinn, actual bestselling romance novelist Harper Quinn, had extended her stay another week to “soak up the delicious atmosphere.” Anabelle allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. Not bad for a woman who’d never run so much as a lemonade stand before inheriting a crumbling Carpathian castle.
She gathered her teacup, bergamot gone cold hours ago, and moved to bank the library fire for the night. The hearth was massive, carved with sinuous dragons that seemed to writhe in the dying firelight. Like everything else in the castle, it was beautiful, ancient, and slightly menacing.
From the courtyard below came the last echoes of the evening’s impromptu wine tasting. Harper’s infectious laugh rose above the others, followed by the soft strum of Mihai’s guitar. The local musician had proven worth every lei she paid him, especially when the storm forecast had driven the gathering indoors.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, confirming the weather prediction. Anabelle shivered, drawing her cardigan tighter. The castle’s stone walls, while picturesque, held the October chill with remarkable efficiency.
A soft thud from the corridor outside froze her mid-motion.
She cocked her head, listening. The sound came again, not quite footsteps, more like someone brushing against the wall. Probably just a guest returning late from the village. The Crimson Rose operated on the honor system after 10 p.m., with keys available at the front desk and a friendly note requesting quiet in the corridors.
Still, something about the quality of the sound, too careful, too measured, prickled the fine hairs at her nape.
“Hello?” she called, moving toward the library’s arched doorway. “The front desk is closed, but I can help if you need.”
Only silence answered.
Anabelle hesitated, one hand on the heavy brass doorknob. The rational part of her brain suggested returning to her quarters in the east wing. The castle was old; it creaked and groaned with every shift in temperature. Nothing to investigate, certainly nothing to fear.
But curiosity and a sense of responsibility pushed her forward. This was her castle, well, her B&B, and she wouldn’t be spooked by a few odd noises.
She grabbed the three-armed candelabrum from the desk, its weight reassuring in her hand. The electric sconces in the corridor often flickered during storms, and she wasn’t about to stumble around in the dark. Besides, solid brass made an excellent impromptu weapon if needed.
The library door swung open with a theatrical creak. The corridor beyond stretched in both directions, dim light filtering through stained-glass transoms to cast jewel-toned patterns across the stone floor. To her left lay the grand staircase and main hall; to her right, the portrait gallery and the passage to the east wing.
Nothing moved in either direction.
“Just the wind,” she muttered, feeling slightly foolish with her raised candelabrum. “Or centuries of questionable foundation work.”
She turned toward the east wing, ready to blame her unease on fatigue and an overactive imagination, when something caught her eye. A shadow where no shadow should be, moving with deliberate purpose toward the small door that led to her private office.
Anabelle’s heart stuttered. That door should be locked. Was locked. She’d secured it herself after filing the day’s receipts.
“Hey!” she called, voice sharper than intended. “That area’s not open to guests!”
The shadow paused, then continued, disappearing through the door with impossible silence.
Anger flared, burning away fear. Someone was in her office, probably rifling through the cash box or the guests’ credit card information. After all her work to establish the Crimson Rose as a reputable destination, she wasn’t about to let some thief ruin everything.
She strode forward, candles guttering with her quick movements. The office door stood slightly ajar, a sliver of lamplight spilling into the corridor. Anabelle took a steadying breath, raised her makeshift weapon higher, and pushed the door open.
The intruder stood at her desk, bent over the open registration book, his back to the door. Tall, impossibly tall, and motionless as carved marble. He wore black from head to toe. Tailored trousers, a waistcoat that hugged broad shoulders, and what appeared to be a cloak or long coat draped over one arm. His hair, raven-dark and tied at the nape with a leather cord, gleamed in the lamplight.
Not the opportunistic village thief she’d expected.
“You know,” Anabelle said, surprised by the steadiness of her own voice, “most tourists book online these days.”
The man turned without hurry or alarm. Silver eyes, not gray, but true silver, like polished coins, met hers with such intensity that her breath caught.
His face—with high cheekbones, strong jaw, and aristocratic nose—belonged on currency or carved into marble. Handsome wasn’t the right word. Handsome was Chris Hemsworth or Idris Elba. This was something else entirely, beauty cut with danger, like a perfectly preserved predator.
“I am not a tourist,” he replied, his voice a low, cultured rumble that carried the faintest accent, Romanian, but with archaic inflections she’d only heard in historical documentaries. “And I have no interest in your…online.”
He pronounced the word as if it tasted unpleasant.
Anabelle’s grip tightened on the candelabrum. “That doesn’t explain why you’re in my private office, going through my registration book.”
“Your office?” One dark eyebrow arched with elegant skepticism. “Interesting assertion.”
“Yes, my office. In my B&B. Which you entered without permission.” She stepped forward, extending her free hand for the ledger. “I’ll take that, please.”
He made no move to relinquish the book. Instead, he turned a page with long, pale fingers. “The eastern parapet requires immediate attention. The mortar has deteriorated to dangerous levels, particularly near the third merlon.”
Anabelle blinked, thrown off balance. “What?”
“And the grand staircase.” He continued as if discussing the weather. “The seventh tread has rotted beneath the carpet runner. It will collapse under significant weight.”
“How would you…,” She shook her head, refocusing. “Look, I don’t know who you are or how you got in here, but you need to leave. Now. Before I call the police.”
At this, he finally looked up from the ledger, those silver eyes narrowing slightly. “The police. Of course.” His mouth curved in what might have been amusement. “By all means, summon them. I’m certain they’ll be fascinated by the structural deficiencies I’ve observed. The fire marshal, particularly, might take interest in the outdated wiring behind the north wall.”
Anabelle’s stomach dropped. The inspection. She’d passed, but barely, with promises to address several issues before winter. Issues she’d been postponing due to budget constraints.
“Who are you?” she demanded, lowering the candelabrum slightly.
“Vladislaus Dracul.” He offered the name without embellishment, as if it should mean something to her.
It did, vaguely. Dracul. The castle had belonged to the Dracul family centuries ago, before passing through various hands and eventually falling into disrepair. Her own connection came through her mother’s side, a distant relation to the last known owner, who had died without direct heirs.
“Are you claiming to be related to the original owners?” She couldn’t keep the skepticism from her voice. “Because I have the deed, and all legal inheritance was verified before I took possession.”
“I claim nothing.” He closed the ledger with a soft thud. “I merely state fact. This castle has been in my family’s care for generations.”
“Had been,” she corrected. “Past tense. Very past tense. Like, three centuries past.”
Thunder rolled closer, rattling the windowpanes. The candles flickered, throwing his sharp features into stark relief. For an instant, he looked inhuman, a creature of shadow and silver, ancient and hungry.
Anabelle swallowed hard. “I’m going to reach for my phone now. You have exactly thirty seconds to explain yourself before I call the village police.”
“The electrical system requires replacement,” he said, ignoring her threat. “The current wiring, installed in the 1950s, runs dangerously close to the original timber supports in the north wing. A significant fire hazard.”
She froze, hand halfway to her pocket. “How could you possibly know when the wiring was installed?”
“The same way I know about the hidden passage behind the library’s eastern bookcase. Or the well beneath the kitchen that connects to the underground river. Or the fact that the seventh stone in the courtyard wall conceals a compartment where the original castle keys are stored.” His voice remained level, matter-of-fact. “Knowledge passes down.”
A chill that had nothing to do with the October air crept up Anabelle’s spine. Either this man was the world’s most dedicated historical researcher, or…
No. She refused to entertain supernatural explanations. Ghosts didn’t exist. Neither did vampires, werewolves, or any other creatures from the local legends that tourists found so delightfully shivery.
But he knew things. Things that weren’t in any historical record she’d found. Things that would be immensely valuable to her restoration efforts.
She studied him more carefully, noting the perfectly tailored clothes that seemed both modern and oddly timeless. His stance suggested aristocratic bearing, yet he moved with the easy grace of someone physically powerful. Most striking was how he seemed to belong here, as if the castle itself recognized him.
An idea formed, reckless but potentially brilliant.
“I need a night caretaker,” she said.
Vladislaus tilted his head slightly, the gesture reminiscent of a raven assessing something shiny. “I beg your pardon?”
“A night caretaker. For the B&B.” Anabelle set the candelabrum on the corner of the desk, projecting more confidence than she felt. “The position includes room and board in exchange for maintenance work and overnight security. I was planning to post the listing tomorrow, but since you’re here, claiming expertise…”
“You would offer employment to a stranger you discovered trespassing in your private quarters?” His tone suggested she might be touched in the head.
“I’m offering employment to someone who apparently knows more about this castle’s infrastructure than I do.” She crossed her arms. “Unless you’d prefer I call the police after all?”
For the first time, genuine emotion flickered across his aristocratic features, surprise perhaps, or reluctant admiration.
“You are either remarkably brave or remarkably foolish, Miss…?”
“Hart. Anabelle Hart.” She pulled a small notebook from her desk drawer and began writing. “And I’m a pragmatist. You have knowledge I need. I have legal access to the castle you seem so interested in.” She looked up, meeting his gaze directly. “Do we have a deal, Mr. Dracul?”
“Count,” he corrected.
“Excuse me?”
“The title is Count Dracul.” His silver gaze never left her face. “A formality, nothing more.”
Anabelle paused in her writing. Of course he claimed to be a count. With those cheekbones and that accent, he could probably convince half the village he was the reincarnation of the original Dracul himself.
“Well, Count, do you accept the position or not?”
Thunder crashed directly overhead. In the momentary darkness that followed, his eyes seemed to glow with inner light.
“I accept,” he said finally. “With one condition.”
“Which is?”
“I work only nights. From twilight to dawn, the castle’s care falls to me. During daylight hours, I am unavailable.”
A night owl. That suited her fine, she had enough to manage during the day without tripping over a maintenance man.
“Agreed.” She tore the page from her notebook and pushed it across the desk with a pen. “Sign here. We can draw up a proper contract tomorrow.”
He accepted the pen, his fingers brushing hers. Cold, his skin was cold as marble. Anabelle suppressed a shiver as he signed with an elegant, flowing script that looked more suited to parchment than notebook paper.
“The servants’ quarters in the west wing should suffice,” he said, returning the pen. “I require minimal accommodations.”
“How did you know about,” She stopped herself. Of course he knew about the servants’ quarters. He seemed to know everything about the castle. “Right. Follow me, I’ll show you the way.”
As they passed through the portrait gallery, Anabelle slowed. The life-sized painting of the original Count Dracul, painted in 1692, hung in pride of place at the end of the hall. Lightning flashed, illuminating both the portrait and her companion.
The resemblance was uncanny, the same proud bearing, the same silver eyes. Even the way he carried himself was identical to the aristocrat in the painting.
A coincidence. Had to be. Or perhaps he was a descendant who cultivated the similarity for effect.
Anabelle glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “You look remarkably like your ancestor.”
“Family resemblance is often strong across generations,” he replied, his gaze fixed on the portrait.
“Across centuries, you mean.”
“Time is relative, Miss Hart.”
As they approached the servants’ stairwell, the temperature plummeted. The electric sconces flickered, then stabilized with a diminished glow. Beside her, Vladislaus Dracul moved with liquid grace, each step perfectly silent.
“The quarters have been modernized,” she said, filling the unnerving silence. “Basic amenities, private bath. Nothing fancy.”
“I require little comfort, Miss Hart.” His voice carried an odd note, almost melancholy. “Merely a place to belong.”
Something in his phrasing sent another shiver through her. Not fear, exactly. More like recognition, as if some part of her had been waiting for him to walk these halls.
As they descended the narrow staircase, Anabelle noticed a small garnet ring on his right hand. The stone caught the light, glowing blood-red against his pale skin.
“That’s an unusual ring,” she commented.
His fingers closed into a fist, concealing the jewelry. “A family heirloom. Nothing more.”
They reached the servants’ wing, a section of the castle she’d renovated into a comfortable apartment. Originally intended for a live-in manager she couldn’t yet afford to hire.
“This will be your space,” she said, unlocking the door. “Kitchen, bedroom, bath. Furniture is basic but functional.”
Vladislaus stepped inside, his tall frame making the space seem smaller. He surveyed the room with an inscrutable expression.
“It will serve,” he said finally.
“I’ll need a more thorough evaluation of those repair issues you mentioned,” Anabelle said, staying in the doorway. “Particularly the staircase and the parapet.”
“You shall have a complete assessment by tomorrow night.”
“Good. I’ll draft a proper contract by then.”
She should leave now. Go back to her own quarters, lock the door, and question her sanity for hiring a stranger who broke into her office. A stranger who looked eerily like a 300-year-old portrait and moved like a shadow.
Instead, she lingered. “Why did you come here tonight, Count Dracul?”
His silver eyes met hers, ancient and knowing. “Perhaps the castle called me home.”
Anabelle felt a strange pull toward him, not attraction, exactly, though he was certainly attractive in his cold, perfect way. More like the pull of history, of stories untold.
“I should warn you,” she said, “I’ve been researching the castle’s history for months. If you’re planning to spin tales about secret treasures or hidden chambers, I’ll know you’re lying.”
“I never lie, Miss Hart.” A smile touched his lips, revealing teeth that seemed just slightly too sharp. “Though I may not always reveal the entire truth.”
Thunder rolled overhead, and rain began to batter the windows.
“I’ll leave you to settle in,” she said, stepping back into the corridor. “Goodnight, Count.”
“Until tomorrow evening, Miss Hart.” He inclined his head slightly, a courtly gesture from another age.
As she climbed the stairs back to the main floor, Anabelle tried to make sense of what had just happened. She’d hired a mysterious stranger who claimed to be a count, who knew impossibly specific details about her castle, who looked exactly like a centuries-old portrait.
Either she’d made a terrible mistake, or she’d just found exactly what the Crimson Rose needed.
Tomorrow, she would verify his claims. Check local records, ask villagers about the Dracul family, search online for information about this man who called himself Vladislaus.
You have been reading Eternal Reservations...
Anabelle inherited a crumbling castle. She didn’t expect it to come with a devastatingly handsome vampire who thinks she’s his dead fiancée.
Vladislaus Dracul appeared in her office like he owned the place—which he had for three centuries. Impossibly beautiful, infuriatingly knowledgeable about every flaw in her building, and insisting he work only at night.
Red flags everywhere.
But when he saved a guest with superhuman speed, when she felt fangs during a kiss that left her breathless, denial became impossible. Her night caretaker was the original Count Dracul, and she wore the face of the woman whose death had driven him to centuries of guilt-ridden slumber.
Every touch awakened memories that weren’t hers. Every glance carried the weight of a love story that ended in flames.
But was he seeing Anabelle, or mourning Elenora’s ghost?
She should run. Should call the police, or a priest, or an exorcist.
Instead, she was falling for a man who whispered her name like a prayer and kissed her like he’d been starving for centuries.
Then his ancient enemy arrived to finish what he’d started. Lucian wanted her blood for a ritual that would grant him unimaginable power, and he was willing to burn down her castle—again—to get it.
With her heart torn between a vampire who might love a ghost more than her, Anabelle faced an impossible choice: trust the man who’d awakened something she thought she’d buried, or lose everything to an enemy who’d waited three centuries for revenge.
