Crimson Wine {Rewriting ~ Melancholic Miscreation}

Chapter Two

Fallen

Fang

The sun was shining beautifully through my window as I arose from my slumber. Glancing over to the white grandfather clock with silver trimming the time read 10:07.

Outstretching my tired limbs, I sat up and swiveled my body around and allowed my legs to dangle from the king-sized bed and slowly slid off of it.

There was a sudden knock at my door; it was Camille---I could smell his cologne.

"Yes?"

"Madame Samira, you have some guests at the door and a man, by the name of Alaric, on the phone." My eyes widened at the name.

"Tell these guests to leave. Do not open that door. Do you hear me, Camille?"

"Yes, Madame Samira . . . and what of the monsieur on the telephone?" he asked, though I sensed a hint of worry in his tone, undoubtedly he was probably curious as to why I hadn't wished for him to speak with these "guests" of ours.

"Hang the phone up and Cami . . . call the airport and inform my pilot that I shall be leaving to the Americas---preferably the United States today."

He hadn't reply, instead he had done as told and hung the phone up. Camille's heels had clanked against the marble as he'd descended the stairs and made his way to the front door. He'd ordered the guests to leave, but they insisted for my presence downstairs. He'd eventually convinced them to vacate the premises by threatening to phone security (which I do not have), then politely made his way up the stairs and picked up the phone on the wall, dialing up the airport; he spoke in his suave, French voice:

"Madame Samira se rendra au Etats-Unis aujourd'hui à trois ans, avoir son avion et le pilote prêt avant cette date." If you're unfamiliar with French, he had informed the female on the other line that I would be traveling to the United States today at three.

I opened my closet doors and quickly grabbed my black trench coat and large, dark luggage bag, then hefted it onto the unmade bed. I rushed back to the closet and snatched up my brown leather trench coat and other outfits; speeding back to the open suitcase, I neatly folded them and placed them in.

Peering around the room, I had spotted my coat that I'd worn last night and dress lying there. I couldn't just leave without them . . .

Piling all of my necessities into the outer zipper, I closed it firmly and made my way to the shower.

Turning the water on, I undressed and stepped in. Not wishing to waste any time, I bathed swiftly.

That bastard . . . what could he want from me?I'd thought I'd dropped him back in Russia.

I rinsed off all of the soap from my porcelain flesh and stepped out of the walk-in shower, grabbed the grey towel from the rack and swiftly wrapped it around my petite form.

"Camille!" I shouted.

His footsteps sounded from down the hall and ceased smoothly as he halted at the master bedroom's door. "Madame?"

"Be a dear and transfer my money to the airport." instructed I, to which he replied with a simple, "yes".

Taking the towel off, I wrung it through my hair a couple of times, removing any excess water from the golden locks and strode back into the bedroom and grabbed a pair of undergarments, a loose-fitting hoodie and white leggings, then clothed myself.

"Madame, the airport informed me that your private jet's pilot died a couple of days ago . . . I questioned on how this event transpired and they told me it was a mysterious death . . . his body had been drained of all its blood."