Eternal Reservations – Chapter 1
Vladislaus
A single drop of water—frigid as the grave—splashed onto his eyelid.
Vladislaus Dracul did not breathe. Had not drawn breath in three centuries. Yet his body remembered the reflex, chest expanding in a silent gasp as consciousness flooded back through desiccated veins. His fingers twitched against stone. Limestone dust coated his tongue, the taste of his own tomb.
Laughter filtered through the ceiling stones.
Not the somber chanting of monks. Not the reverent whispers of pilgrims seeking his crypt. Laughter—bright, careless, alive—accompanied by the unmistakable pop of champagne corks and the lilting notes of a stringed instrument he could not name.
Intruders. In his castle.
Rage unfurled within him, a crimson flower blooming after centuries of dormancy. His fangs descended with a painful slide, the hunger rising swift and merciless. Muscles stiff from disuse tensed as he pressed upward against his sarcophagus lid. The stone, carved with his family crest, a dragon curled around a blooming rose, weighed several hundred pounds.
Vladislaus pushed it aside as if brushing away cobwebs.
He sat upright, silver eyes adjusting instantly to the darkness. His crypt remained largely untouched: stone walls glistening with moisture, floor strewn with the brittle remains of centuries-old roses, iron sconces empty of torches. But something thrummed through the ancient stones—a constant, alien vibration he had never felt before.
Electricity. The word surfaced from somewhere in his consciousness, though he had no memory of encountering such a thing in his time.
The sounds from above grew louder. Glasses clinking, a woman’s delighted shriek, music with a pulsing rhythm that bore no resemblance to the courtly waltzes of his era. Vladislaus swung his legs over the edge of the sarcophagus, boots connecting with the floor. His clothing—once the finest black brocade waistcoat, silk shirt, and tailored trousers—hung in tatters from his frame.
No matter. The darkness would conceal him until he assessed the nature of this invasion.
He moved toward the narrow staircase hidden behind a stone relief of weeping angels. His senses, dormant for so long, now flooded him with information. The scent of unfamiliar spices mingling with woodsmoke, the subtle vibration of many heartbeats above, and something else—a faint, acrid odor that made his nostrils flare in warning.
Garlic.
Vladislaus curled his lip. Whoever these trespassers were, they knew enough of the old legends to employ such protections, however ineffective against a vampire of his lineage and power. That made them either superstitious fools or dangerous enemies.
Either way, their hearts would cease beneath his hand before the night ended.
He ascended the worn steps, each movement fluid and predatory. The passage opened onto a corridor he recognized—the eastern wing that had once led to his private chambers. But the hallway before him now bore little resemblance to his memory.
The stone walls remained, scrubbed clean of centuries of smoke residue. Electric sconces shaped like candles cast a warm, unwavering glow where torchlight had once flickered. Framed placards hung at intervals, bearing incomprehensible strings of letters and numbers. One read “Wi-Fi Password: CrimsonRose1792” with smaller text beneath. “Instagram your stay with #CrimsonRoseBnB!”
Vladislaus ran a finger along the frame, lip curling at the strange material. Vulgar modern contraptions defiling his ancestral home.
The air carried not the familiar woodsmoke and beeswax of his era, but artificial scents, cinnamon, clove, and something cloying he could not identify. A placard on a nearby table labeled it “Pumpkin Spice Potpourri.”
He moved deeper into the corridor, past a door labeled “Moonlight Suite” in ornate gold lettering. From within came the unmistakable sounds of human coupling, a honeymoon pair, judging by their whispered endearments. Vladislaus paused, hunger stirring. How simple it would be to slip inside, to feast on their passion-warmed blood.
The door swung open suddenly. He flattened himself against the wall, becoming one with the shadows, a talent as natural to him as breathing had once been.
A young couple stumbled out, flushed and giggling. The woman wore a flimsy silk garment that would have scandalized the most hardened courtesans of his time. The man carried a silver tray laden with cheese, crackers, and sliced sausage.
And garlic. The entire platter reeked of it.
Vladislaus recoiled, a hiss building in his throat that he barely suppressed. The couple passed within inches of him, unaware of the predator in their midst, and continued down the hall.
He could kill them now. Should kill them. These mortals had no right to invade his ancestral seat. Their blood would be the first step in reclaiming what was his.
Yet something stayed his hand. The castle was full of guests. An outright slaughter would draw attention, perhaps bring the Council to his doorstep before he fully regained his strength. Better to continue his reconnaissance, to understand the full scope of the invasion before striking.
Strategy, after all, had kept him alive for three centuries before his long sleep.
Vladislaus moved through the winding corridors, each turn revealing fresh indignities. There were numbers on doors, small brass bells for service, and strange, framed pictures of strangers posing before his castle. The grand staircase, once adorned with the banners of his noble house, now featured carved pumpkins and artfully arranged autumn leaves.
Memory overlaid reality as he descended the steps. He could almost see Elenora there, her chestnut curls piled high, hazel eyes sparkling as she extended her hand to him for a dance. The ghost of her laughter seemed to echo from the stones themselves, though he knew it was merely the revelry of these modern intruders.
Elenora. His betrothed. Dead these three centuries, her blood on his hands as surely as if he had drained her himself.
Vladislaus pushed the memory away with the practiced discipline of the ancient. The past was a luxury he could not afford while his present remained in such disarray.
He reached the second-floor gallery that overlooked the inner courtyard. Here, at least, he found a vantage point to observe without being seen. He moved to the stone balustrade, keeping to the shadows as he gazed down at the scene below.
The courtyard had been transformed. Strings of tiny lights crisscrossed overhead like captive stars. Tables dotted the flagstones, each bearing bottles of wine and platters of food. A musician sat on a raised platform, coaxing unfamiliar melodies from an instrument that resembled both harp and guitar.
And there, in the center of it all—
Vladislaus froze, fingers digging into stone with enough force to leave claw marks.
A woman spun beneath the lights, directing staff with graceful gestures, pausing to laugh with guests. She wore a dress that mimicked his era’s fashion but with a shorter hemline, and a less restrictive bodice. Her boots were sturdy leather, clearly chosen for practicality rather than style. Chestnut curls tumbled past her shoulders, catching the light with every animated movement.
When she turned, revealing her profile, Vladislaus stilled completely.
That face. The high cheekbones, the determined chin, the slight dimple in her left cheek when she smiled. Even from this distance, he could see her eyes—hazel, flecked with gold, alive with intelligence and humor.
“Elenora?” The name escaped him, a whisper of disbelief.
But no. Elenora was dust, had been dust since the winter of 1692. This woman, whoever she was, merely bore an uncanny resemblance. A descendant, perhaps? Or some cruel trick of fate?
His chest ached with a phantom heartbeat. His fangs throbbed, not with hunger but with something far more dangerous. Curiosity.
He leaned forward, silver eyes tracking her every movement. She was not Elenora. Her gestures were too bold, her laughter too uninhibited. Elenora had been raised in the rigid propriety of 17th-century nobility. This woman moved with the confidence of someone who answered to no one but herself.
And yet the resemblance transfixed him, turning his rage to fascination.
Who was she? How had she come to his castle? And why did fate mock him with this living echo of his greatest loss?
As if sensing his scrutiny, she paused in her conversation, head tilting slightly. Vladislaus stepped deeper into shadow, but his movement dislodged a loose stone from the balustrade. It clattered down, bouncing off the courtyard wall.
The woman looked up.
For a moment, their eyes met. Silver to hazel. Predator to prey. Past to present.
Curiosity flickered across her features, a subtle narrowing of those familiar eyes. Then a guest called her attention away, and the moment vanished.
Vladislaus retreated, mind racing. He had awakened prepared to slaughter, to reclaim his domain through blood and terror.
Now he needed information. Needed to understand who this woman was, why she wore Elenora’s face, what strange purpose had brought her to his castle. Killing her without answers would be wasteful.
He slipped back into the darkened corridor, decision made. He would observe. Learn. The castle had stood for centuries. It could wait a few more nights for liberation.
And if this mysterious woman proved to be nothing but a cruel coincidence, a random echo of his lost love? Then he would reclaim his ancestral home as originally intended, with blood and shadow.
But if there was more to her resemblance, if fate or magic had somehow returned Elenora to him in this modern form…
“The Council will need to be informed of my awakening,” he murmured to himself, the first full sentence he had spoken in centuries. His voice, once accustomed to commanding armies, emerged as a rasp.
Their laws were clear. Any vampire who slumbered more than a century must report to the Council upon awakening. Failure to do so was punishable by final death. The politics of immortals were complex and unforgiving.
Vladislaus would need to tread carefully. He had been a respected Elder before his entombment, but three centuries had passed. Alliances would have shifted. New powers risen. Old enemies perhaps grown stronger.
He moved to a window. The moon hung high in the night sky. He had until first light to establish his position and determine his next move.
The woman with Elenora’s face would be key. Whether she knew it or not, her presence here was no coincidence. In his centuries of existence, Vladislaus had learned that true coincidences were rare. The universe seldom arranged such perfect symmetry without purpose.
He would watch her. Learn her routines, her weaknesses, her strengths. And when the moment was right, he would reveal himself, not as a monster from shadow, but as the rightful lord of this castle.
Vladislaus Dracul, three centuries dead yet eternally undying, felt something stir within his desiccated heart. Something he had thought buried with Elenora’s broken body.
Possibility.
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.
