Breaking Dawn

Chapter 3

Dawn had come and gone, and still Amber was reeling. Because apparently Bromham was filled to the rafters with real vampires.

Any lingering doubt had evaporated when she'd seen the brothers vanish and reappear as they'd gone about repairing parts of the house.

And this wasn't even the most astonishing development of the night. When Harry had said, "Female... beautiful," had he possibly been talking about her?

Now she could only wait impatiently for him to regain consciousness so she could find out.

He remained as the brothers had left him last night - lying on the new mattress they'd brought in for him, with his wrists chained together behind him, his muddy boots and the ankle restraints removed. His ripped clothing had dried, the material stiff with dirt. The angry red gashes on his chest had healed within mere hours.

She floated in a sitting position at the foot of the bed wondering how much longer he would be out. She'd thought all vampires would be comatose during the day, but his brothers were in and out downstairs, busily teleporting goods into the manor.

This waiting was unbearable. Because he possibly... saw me. Yes, no one ever had before, and, yes, this development was based solely on the idea that he'd deemed her beautiful. Maybe if he wasn't one to quibble about pink cheeks and the appearance of blooming health...?

Amber didn't necessarily seek an acknowledgment of her presence. She could float a sheet spray-painted with "Bonjour! from le spectre!" if she wanted bad attention or a possible exorcism. No, she wanted to be seen. She yearned to converse.

The possibility of this meant that all her grand plans to evict them had evaporated, her rancor over the damage to Bromham temporarily soothed. Now she wanted to keep them close - especially Harry.

Curiosity ruled her. Why after eighty years of sporadic tenants had the blood-spitting vampire been able to see her? Why not his brothers? When they'd been chaining up Harry for the day, she'd waved her hands, yelling as loud as she could. She'd even thrown herself through their torsos, to no effect.

Was Harry able to see her because he alone had red eyes?

She stood to float from one peeling blue wall to the other. The brothers had unerringly chosen for Harry the Blue Room, the most masculine of all the guest rooms. The heavy curtains were a deep navy, and the spare pieces of furniture - the bedstead, the nightstand, and a high-backed chair by the fireplace - were dark and stout.

Though she'd expected them to sleep in coffins, they'd put Harry in the made-up bed. She'd also believed that even indirect sun would burn them, but the room was aglow with enough pallid sunlight to illuminate the dust motes. And when the curtains wavered from a draft in the house, the light would encroach all the way up to his feet.

He turned over on his back then, reminding her how massive he was, his broad shoulders seeming to span the bed, his feet hanging over the end. He must be over six foot tall.

She floated above him, tilting her head as she peered down. He looked to be in his early twenties, but it was difficult to tell with the mud and blood covering his face. He had a beautiful face structure and curly hair down to his shoulders. With a nervous swallow, she concentrated and used telekinesis to draw back his upper lip, jabbing his nose before she got it right.

She saw a slash of white teeth gleaming against his dirty face and... unmistakable fangs. Just like in the novels she'd read long ago. Just like in the vampire movies the last young couple had loved to watch.

How had these men become vampires? Were they turned? Or born that way?

At that moment a loud bang sounded from downstairs. Though she dearly wanted to investigate what they were doing to her house, she feared Harry would wake in her absence.