Saved By Blood (The By Blood Vampire Series Book 3) by Samantha Snow Page B
Authors: Samantha Snow
Ads: Link
comparison). This house was a behemoth of a home, a real live mansion with room upon room upon room into eternity.
She had no idea how many rooms there really were, but she knew it was enough to get lost in, which was exactly what she went and did. She made it through the ballroom alright, knowing it was a ballroom without ever having been told and getting a whole new case of the creeps when she fancied that she could see a ball from the past going on around her as she moved. She could smell very, very old lilac and the faintest smell of manure and then it was gone.
“Stop it” hissing at herself yet again, “you didn’t smell anything. You’re being stupid now. SO stupid. There aren’t ghosts, no such thing, and even if there were you can’t smell a thing far from the past.”
She told herself that almost sure that it would make her feel better, but it didn’t. It didn’t at all. Her awareness of what Philip really was operated like a floodgate and a floodgate was never so easy to shut off again as say, your run of the mill faucet. Whether she wanted to or not, she knew that vampires were real and that knowledge seemed to be a gateway. It made it so that she could see other things, other parts of the world that most people couldn’t see. Like ghosts. God, if she could see that now, what else would be out there?
A world that may have sucked in a big way but had nevertheless been largely predictable to her now loomed high over her head, completely full with the potential for and the fear of the unknown. And that was assuming that she ever got out of the house, which was starting to feel less and less likely.
Because while she was starting to realize that ghosts were every bit as real as vampires, she had stopped paying attention to where she was going and what she was doing and when she finally came back to her senses, she had no idea where she was at all. Or, to be more specific, how she had gotten there.
Looking around her she could see that she was in a portrait room. It was a long, narrow room with very high ceilings and walls painted a dark but fading blue. The chair rail and crown molding were white and were the only things that broke up the masses of portraits hung at all manner of different heights and angles. She was fascinated, almost fascinated enough to forget that she was trying to run away. Some of these portraits were so old ! So old that she felt like they should have belonged to a museum or something.
She wondered briefly if maybe Philip had stolen them, and then she realized that probably wasn’t it at all. How old was he? Just how old was Philip, how many decades had he actually lived through? These portraits, if she was right about everything, which she thought she almost definitely was, must have belonged to him and his family.
She walked down the room so narrow it could have been a hallway and not a room at all, gazing at each and every picture. She might have gotten so lost that she was still there when Philip came looking for her if it hadn’t of been for one portrait in particular that gave her chills. It was an old one, one of the older ones in the room, and it contained two figures.
The first was unmistakable to her, the final nail in the coffin of her new delicate beliefs. It was Philip Smith (a last name she realized now was probably completely made up; she imagined it took some work to remain anonymous when you were going to live forever), wearing clothing that looked like it had to belong the early 1900s, maybe even earlier than that. His clothing was different, his hair styled in what had been fashionable in those days, but it was unmistakably him.
Same beautiful eyes and chiseled bone structure, same haughty expression and way of holding himself. There was no way of missing the fact that the man in the very old portrait was the same man she had slept with last night,
She had no idea how many rooms there really were, but she knew it was enough to get lost in, which was exactly what she went and did. She made it through the ballroom alright, knowing it was a ballroom without ever having been told and getting a whole new case of the creeps when she fancied that she could see a ball from the past going on around her as she moved. She could smell very, very old lilac and the faintest smell of manure and then it was gone.
“Stop it” hissing at herself yet again, “you didn’t smell anything. You’re being stupid now. SO stupid. There aren’t ghosts, no such thing, and even if there were you can’t smell a thing far from the past.”
She told herself that almost sure that it would make her feel better, but it didn’t. It didn’t at all. Her awareness of what Philip really was operated like a floodgate and a floodgate was never so easy to shut off again as say, your run of the mill faucet. Whether she wanted to or not, she knew that vampires were real and that knowledge seemed to be a gateway. It made it so that she could see other things, other parts of the world that most people couldn’t see. Like ghosts. God, if she could see that now, what else would be out there?
A world that may have sucked in a big way but had nevertheless been largely predictable to her now loomed high over her head, completely full with the potential for and the fear of the unknown. And that was assuming that she ever got out of the house, which was starting to feel less and less likely.
Because while she was starting to realize that ghosts were every bit as real as vampires, she had stopped paying attention to where she was going and what she was doing and when she finally came back to her senses, she had no idea where she was at all. Or, to be more specific, how she had gotten there.
Looking around her she could see that she was in a portrait room. It was a long, narrow room with very high ceilings and walls painted a dark but fading blue. The chair rail and crown molding were white and were the only things that broke up the masses of portraits hung at all manner of different heights and angles. She was fascinated, almost fascinated enough to forget that she was trying to run away. Some of these portraits were so old ! So old that she felt like they should have belonged to a museum or something.
She wondered briefly if maybe Philip had stolen them, and then she realized that probably wasn’t it at all. How old was he? Just how old was Philip, how many decades had he actually lived through? These portraits, if she was right about everything, which she thought she almost definitely was, must have belonged to him and his family.
She walked down the room so narrow it could have been a hallway and not a room at all, gazing at each and every picture. She might have gotten so lost that she was still there when Philip came looking for her if it hadn’t of been for one portrait in particular that gave her chills. It was an old one, one of the older ones in the room, and it contained two figures.
The first was unmistakable to her, the final nail in the coffin of her new delicate beliefs. It was Philip Smith (a last name she realized now was probably completely made up; she imagined it took some work to remain anonymous when you were going to live forever), wearing clothing that looked like it had to belong the early 1900s, maybe even earlier than that. His clothing was different, his hair styled in what had been fashionable in those days, but it was unmistakably him.
Same beautiful eyes and chiseled bone structure, same haughty expression and way of holding himself. There was no way of missing the fact that the man in the very old portrait was the same man she had slept with last night,
Similar Books
