Eternal Reservations – Chapter 3
Anabelle
Coffee. The rich aroma of freshly ground beans mingled with the chill October air as Anabelle hurried across the silent foyer, arms laden with pressed linens. The castle seemed to hold its breath in these quiet hours before the breakfast rush, before checkout chaos, before the day’s inevitable parade of small disasters.
She paused at the foot of the grand staircase, mentally adding it to her ever-growing repair list. The carpet runner was fraying at the edges, and according to her new night caretaker, the seventh tread was compromised. Count Dracul. The memory of those silver eyes sent an unexpected tingle through her body.
She’d inspect the step herself after breakfast. If the man was half as knowledgeable as he claimed, she’d need to rope off the area until proper repairs could be made.
The first breakfast guests would arrive in twenty minutes. Five tables to set, coffee to finish brewing, pastries to arrange, the mental checklist unfurled with practiced efficiency as she hurried toward the dining room.
“Morning, boss lady!” Marta, the village girl she’d hired for morning service, appeared from the kitchen doorway, already tying her apron. “I’ve got the oven preheating for the pastries. Did you want the fancy china or the everyday for this morning?”
“Everyday is fine.” Anabelle deposited the linens on the antique sideboard. “But use the silver teapot. Ms. Quinn mentioned she’s writing a scene with one.”
Harper Quinn had proven both a blessing and a mild curse. The romance novelist’s social media posts had drawn welcome attention to the B&B, but her constant questions about the castle’s “tragic love stories” and “spectral residents” left Anabelle scrambling for entertaining fabrications. The truth, crumbling infrastructure and tax headaches, hardly made for compelling fiction.
Anabelle smoothed crisp white tablecloths over ancient oak, arranged silverware with precision, and positioned crystal water goblets to catch the morning light. The dining room gleamed with understated elegance, ready to welcome the day’s first guests.
The Blakelys appeared first, honeymooners from Bristol, still flushed and giggling. Mrs. Blakely, Diane, wore a floral dress that seemed optimistic given the October chill, while her husband Tom sported the rumpled contentment of a man pleased with his life choices.
“Good morning!” Anabelle greeted them with practiced warmth. “Did you sleep well?”
“Magnificently,” Diane replied, exchanging a meaningful glance with her husband. “Though I swear I heard violin music around three in the morning. So haunting and beautiful.”
Anabelle’s smile remained steady, though her mind raced. Violin music? She made a mental note to ask her new night caretaker if he’d been serenading the castle in the small hours.
The Marinescus arrived next, an elderly Romanian couple who’d booked a week to explore local folklore sites. Mr. Marinescu immediately launched into a debate with his wife about whether the castle’s original owner had been a vampire or merely a bloodthirsty nobleman, a conversation Anabelle had overheard in three languages since opening.
Harper Quinn appeared last, notebook in hand, dark circles beneath her eyes suggesting another late night of writing. She offered Anabelle a sleepy wave before settling at her usual table by the window.
“Coffee,” she mumbled. “Industrial strength, please.”
Anabelle was pouring Harper’s second cup when the first guests began descending the grand staircase for breakfast. The Blakelys returned from upstairs, Diane’s forgotten sweater now draped around her shoulders. Tom’s arm wrapped protectively around Diane’s waist as they navigated the worn steps.
She watched while discussing the day’s weather forecast with Harper. The novelist was mid-sentence about “atmospheric conditions perfect for ghostly manifestations” when a sharp crack split the morning quiet.
Anabelle’s head snapped up. Time slowed, crystallizing into a series of horrifying snapshots: Diane Blakely’s foot disappearing through splintering wood, Tom’s outstretched hand grasping empty air, Diane’s mouth forming a perfect O of surprise as she pitched forward, arms windmilling.
“Look out!” Anabelle’s coffee pot clattered to the table, liquid sloshing over the rim as she lunged toward the staircase.
Too late. Too far. She’d never reach the woman in time.
A blur of movement from the shadowed archway to her right moved so fast her eyes couldn’t track it. Then Count Dracul materialized at the foot of the stairs, arms extended. Diane Blakely fell into them with a small “oof,” her descent halted two steps from the marble floor. The crystal pendants of the overhead chandelier trembled, though no draft stirred the air.
Silence gripped the foyer. Then gasps, scraping chairs, and phone cameras clicking. Anabelle’s chest constricted with dread, then flooded with relief as Vlad calmly set the shaken woman on her feet.
“My deepest apologies, madam,” he said, his accented voice carrying in the stunned quiet. “The castle’s restoration remains, regrettably, incomplete.”
Tom Blakely rushed down the remaining steps, carefully avoiding the splintered seventh tread. “Diane! Are you all right?” He gathered his wife into his arms, then turned to Vlad with naked gratitude. “Thank you, my God, if you hadn’t been there,”
“A fortunate coincidence,” Vlad replied, stepping back from the couple with a slight bow.
Anabelle snapped into crisis management mode, years of customer service experience overriding her shock. “Mrs. Blakely, please, sit down. Are you hurt? Marta, bring water, and mimosas for everyone, on the house.”
She guided the shaken honeymooners to the nearest table, checking Diane for injuries while maintaining a stream of apologetic reassurances. The woman appeared unharmed, if understandably rattled. Around them, other guests clustered, offering sympathetic murmurs and recounting what they’d seen.
“—moved so fast—“
“—like he appeared out of nowhere—“
“—vampire-fast, I swear—“
That last comment, from a wide-eyed college student with a half-raised phone, sent a fresh spike of anxiety through Anabelle. The last thing she needed was supernatural rumors spreading online before she’d even served breakfast.
Through it all, she remained acutely aware of Vlad’s presence. He stood slightly apart from the gathered guests, silver eyes watchful, posture impeccable. No heaving breath, no flushed skin from his exertion. His black coat hung unwrinkled despite having just caught a full-grown woman mid-fall.
Medieval jousting knights, her history-obsessed brain supplied, would sometimes catch falling handkerchiefs to impress ladies. Catching falling ladies, however, required superhuman strength and reflexes that no modern man should possess.
The word “predator” flashed through her mind.
Once she’d settled the guests in the breakfast parlor with complimentary drinks and assurances that the staircase would be immediately cordoned off, Anabelle returned to the foyer. Vlad remained where she’d left him, examining the broken step with clinical detachment.
“A word, please.” She gestured toward a small service alcove off the main hall.
He followed, his movements silent across the stone floor. The alcove, once used for footmen awaiting instructions, was little more than a recessed arch with a small shelf. A single electric sconce, designed to mimic a torch, cast warm light over the confined space.
“Thank you,” she said once they were alone, her voice dropping to a whisper. “If you hadn’t been there,”
“The woman would have suffered significant injury,” he finished. “The marble floor is unforgiving.”
“How did you move so fast?” The question burst from her. “I didn’t even see you enter the foyer, and then suddenly you were just there.”
One dark eyebrow arched. “Adrenaline is a remarkable thing, Miss Hart. It can create the illusion of time slowing, of movements blurring.”
“That wasn’t an illusion.” She crossed her arms, studying his impassive face. “And you’re not even breathing hard.”
“I am in excellent physical condition.”
“Excellent enough to catch a falling woman without breaking a sweat? Without making a sound?” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “No one moves that fast. No one human, anyway.”
Something flickered in those silver eyes, amusement, perhaps, or approval. “You have an active imagination, Miss Hart. A useful quality in a business catering to tourists seeking gothic thrills.”
Before she could press further, he continued, “The seventh tread has completely failed, as I warned. The dry rot extends to the sixth and eighth as well. The entire staircase requires immediate attention. The supporting stringers show signs of beetle infestation dating back at least thirty years.”
Anabelle blinked at the abrupt change of subject. “How can you possibly know that without examining—“
“I examined it thoroughly last night, as per our agreement.” His gloved thumb reached out, sweeping across her cheek. “Dust,” he explained, withdrawing his hand.
The brief contact sent an electric current through her skin. His touch was cold, even through the leather glove, yet it left a burning trail along her cheekbone. Her pulse rocketed, a physiological response entirely disproportionate to the casual gesture.
Anabelle shook her head. “No, I mean how do you know about the beetle infestation from thirty years ago? Or the wiring from the 1950s? You speak as if you’ve been monitoring the castle for centuries.”
Something flickered in those silver eyes. “Old houses speak to those who know how to listen. My family has maintained a connection to this place through generations. We sense its wounds, its alterations.” His mouth curved slightly. “Though I confess, its transformation into tourist lodging came as a surprise. Stone whispers of structure, not purpose.”
“You expect me to believe you can communicate with the castle?” she asked skeptically.
“I expect you to believe I know how to save it,” he replied simply.
“The staircase cannot be used until repairs are complete,” he continued. “I recommend directing guests to the servants’ stairs in the east wing for now. They are narrower but structurally sound.”
Anabelle took a steadying breath. Her B&B teetered on the edge of disaster, a serious injury could sink the business before it truly launched. Yet here stood a solution, wrapped in black wool and mystery. A man with impossible reflexes and encyclopedic knowledge of her castle’s infrastructure.
Whatever Count Vladislaus Dracul might be, eccentric historian, delusional aristocrat, or something her rational mind refused to name, she needed him.
“All right,” she said. “You have full authority to handle the repairs and inspect the rest of the castle. Tonight. I want a complete assessment of any other potential hazards.”
“A wise decision.” He inclined his head slightly. “I shall require access to all areas.”
Anabelle hesitated only briefly before reaching into her pocket and withdrawing a heavy iron ring laden with antique keys. “Master set. Some of the older wings might be locked. Be careful, parts of the north tower haven’t been assessed for structural integrity.”
Their fingers brushed as she handed over the keys. The contact lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary, silver eyes holding her gaze with an intensity that made her throat go dry.
“I shall take the utmost care with your castle, Miss Hart,” he said. “And its inhabitants.”
She watched him stride away, disappearing into the shadowed corridor that led to the servants’ quarters. Only then did she notice what her subconscious had registered minutes earlier. Pale limestone dust on the shoulders of his black coat, not the dark oak particles from the splintered staircase, but the same fine grit she’d found in the sealed lower crypts during her initial exploration of the castle.
Anabelle’s heart skittered against her ribs, a single question pulsing with each beat. Where had Vladislaus Dracul truly come from in the moments before he’d appeared to save Diane Blakely?
And why did the impossible answer seem increasingly, terrifyingly plausible?
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.