To her dismay, it was only a house – a large house, with a bright, wide open door. Unfortunately, the house’s door beckoned from twenty feet up the wall.

Camellia’s pace lagged only a little, and then, she ran faster. With her dhampir hands, she sought challenging handholds and climbed slick stone, with preternatural speed. The green silk slipped from her shoulders and fell onto reaching hands below. Camellia pulled herself inside and looked down.

The entire woodland party looked up at her and waited. They couldn’t follow because none of them were dressed for the indoor party.

Camellia laughed silently and looked at her own costume. Thankfully, she’d had the foresight to change. She wore an extravagant ballgown of white and gold. She turned into the party’s light.

Soft, gloomy music permeated the room. Women in ball gowns and men in dress coats ate and talked. A few wore masquerade masks, and some wore loose skin over their faces that stretched with their expressions.

Camellia studied the faces and recognized a few colleagues as well as her father’s friends. Before she could take another step, a masked man raced to her side and offered his hand. Camellia accepted it.

He led her into the room, and then, he simply let her go.

Again abandoned, Camellia strolled through the party. All around, conversations rolled towards her ears, but she could determine none of the words. It all sounded like gibberish. The room lacked decorations, and the sombre music didn’t fill the party.

Have I stayed long enough? Probably not yet. A few more minutes, and it will be time to go back to Presereme.

Camellia didn’t want to be rude, but she felt the party was more funeral than celebration. As if on cue, the crowd parted and revealed an upright coffin, propped in an alcove. Camellia approached and saw that it held a shriveled body, in neat navy clothes. Shoulder length black hair fell in dusty clumps around the sunken face.

Who has died?

Before she reached the body, two young women approached it. They stood on tiptoe and took turns pouring a liquid into the body’s mouth.

Not a body. A vampire.

The women left, and Camellia took their place. To her right, she spotted a small table. A full punch bowl and small cups sat next to a sign: Reserved for our gracious host.

She wanted some, but none of the other tables offered the same drink.

Camellia looked at the vampire’s eyes. They were closed. She scooped up a cup, glanced behind her, and found a man waiting to pay his respects. Camellia turned back, annoyed by the man’s sudden appearance. With a silent sigh, she lifted the ladle and filled the cup. Then, she hopped atop a stepstool, braced herself against the coffin’s edge, and served the vampire.

His lips parted slightly. Of course, he didn’t breathe. Camellia put the glass to his cold, still mouth. She titled the drink and watched as it disappeared. No swallowing motion followed. The lazy man just took it down by gravity. Camellia wouldn’t be surprised if half of it went down the other pipe.

But, that shouldn’t bother him much.

She stood there and waited for the cup to drain. The last drops of liquid entered his mouth, and she hopped off the stool.

She was about to put the cup in the discard pile but found the other guest suddenly gone. He probably decided to pay his respects later, when there was no line. Camellia looked around and filled the cup again. This batch she didn’t give to the vampire host, but instead took with her, out into a dark hallway.

When Camellia entered the hall, the music immediately stopped. She could still see the band but heard nothing beyond the doorway.

With a shake of her head, she left the light behind and strolled through a stone hall. She carried her stolen cup and planned to drink it further on, out of the host’s reach.

Plain and grey, nothing lined the halls, not tapestries or the odd piece of furniture. The only thing to break the monotony of the long walk were periodic gems and other attractive rocks, placed into the walls. Every so often Camellia would see a glittery brick instead of the same old stone: amethyst, dark-hued opals, and even a brick of ruby and one of emerald. She sighed and tried to ignore them.

Ahead, the hall stretched on and on, and Camellia plodded. There were no rooms and no doors, and the path led into darkness.

She stopped and glanced around: darkness ahead, darkness behind. Time for a drink.

She lifted the cup to her lips and closed her eyes. She gulped it down and found it the best she’d had tonight. Warm and metallic, it sent her abstract images of color and light. When she finished, Camellia dropped the cup. Slowly, she stroked a hand down her neck, from her jaw to her collar, remembering the fine taste.

Long moments passed before Camellia opened her eyes. She started.

A chair stood before her. A big, hooded behemoth that rose clear to the ceiling. It rested against a wall, and the long passage that Camellia thought should be before her had gone.

Camellia looked back. The dark hallway still stretched in that direction.

I need to get home. I need to head back to Presereme. Camellia didn’t know why, but she felt up was the right direction. She grew tired of being in the valley.

Yet, there had been no other way for Camellia to go. When she exited the party, she found one hall, leading in one direction. There were no windows, and no doors, and no stairs.

Camellia closed her eyes and knotted her hands through her hair. She hated these stuffy parties and how they always seemed to be planned at the end of her leave, when she needed to get back to work.

Camellia opened her eyes and, again, faced the chair. On the back of the chair were inscribed golden words: Please sit.

How did I miss that?

Camellia didn’t sit. She put her hands on her hips and spun around. Now, she swore the hall led back into oblivion, and the party had never been.

When she turned back to the chair, she read a new inscription, in place of the old: Wishing chair will grant one wish to occupant.

Camellia shook her head and did not sit. She took a few steps back the way she came. She planned to search the hall one more time, but she couldn’t force her feet to go forward. She sighed and paused. Curious, she turned to see what the chair would say now.

She jumped. The shriveled vampire sat inside and above him the inscription read: Our gracious host. An arrow pointed down at the man.

Camellia put both hands around her neck and approached. She examined the chair and the vampire.

He sat perfectly still, too drained to move. The blood she and the other guests had given him seemed to do no good.

Camellia read the chair’s inscription, emblazoned high on its hood: Reserved for our gracious host.

Camellia cocked her head. Above the chair, she glimpsed not stonework but darkness, as if there was a passage behind. Camellia took her hands from her neck and stood to one side of the chair. She frowned at the host, grasped the arm, and pushed the chair.

In his seat, the vampire rattled. His head fell to his chest and then he slumped against one side, but Camellia kept going. She pushed the chair and revealed a spiral stairway.

Just what I need!

Camellia postponed her merriment and straightened. She watched the gracious host. He remained motionless, so Camellia slipped into the passage. She held up her skirt and took the stairs with celebratory speed.

As she ran, a familiar buzz hummed through her head, and Camellia caught a whispered set of directions

First landing, right hall, last room on the right.

She came to the first landing but didn’t stop. She continued up.

Second landing, left hall, last door on the left.

Camellia approached the second landing. She blocked out the words and continued up. Before she received another message, she passed the third landing.

Fourth landing, right, then left, door at the end of the hall.

No, thank you, Camellia asserted.

Are you leaving so early?

Camellia understood that the voice belonged to her gracious host. She even recognized it, but she couldn’t place it.

You’ve been very generous, but yes, I must be going now. Camellia hurried up.

Silence followed.

She found the end of the stairs and another hall. This one possessed windows – many large windows, without glass. Camellia grinned. She dropped her skirt and walked inside.

Again, the hall had no doors or furniture, just the string of windows. Camellia found the place uninteresting, except what was through the windows.

Hills rolled, waving with grass in a windy night. Each time the wind blew, the grasses bent, raised their arms, and squealed. Camellia was glad she wouldn’t have to sleep with that sound. Beyond the hills, Camellia saw a stormy sea. Lightning struck the water and lit up a world below. Hundreds of women grew out of the sea floor and raised their seaweed hands for the boats above. Some of their hands brushed the body of a giant mermaid. Her white scales and dark hair curled beneath the unsuspecting vessel. Further still, beyond the sea, Camellia saw a desert, and resting high on the dunes, she saw a great stone doorway and slab door. The door wore the face of a screamer, and the mouth opened wide.

That is where Sorin would be right now. Camellia frowned. Would...is...Sorin is dead, isn’t he?

Camellia questioned that notion. Wasn’t he downstairs?

Torn dress, bloody neck, shorn hair, fetal position.

Camellia froze and turned. Far down the hall, she saw her gracious host, and she knew it was Sorin. He stood in the doorway and watched her, his body no longer shriveled. He was downright virile.

She faced the other way and ran. At the end of the hall, she saw the only door. It wasn’t far ahead, but Camellia would never make it. She couldn’t hear his footsteps behind her and had no idea of his whereabouts, so she climbed onto the nearest sill and slipped through a window.

Camellia landed on a shingled roof. She glanced around and found the window gone. Now, she stood on an open rooftop, alone except for some large chimneys and Sorin. He watched her from one side of the roof. Camellia searched for escape. Farmland stretched in all directions, and there was no easy way down.

I shouldn’t be going down anyway, but how can I get any higher?

Camellia looked at the night sky and saw galaxies. They were the only thing above her.

Camellia’s attention snapped back to the roof. First, she had to defend herself. She knew she would need her wind sword, and she held the pommel. She glanced at the saber and felt some guilt. She knew it had been stolen from her most recent digsite, courtesy of Sorin. But, she needed it now. It was the only weapon she had.

Sorin strode forward, and Camellia glanced at the blade. She performed the first flourish, and a gust of wind staggered his stride. He caught himself, crouched, and placed a single hand on the damp shingles.

Camellia performed the second flourish, and this time, Sorin held on through a small whirlwind. He made no progress, but still, he kept his place.

Camellia growled and performed the third flourish. In a waving motion, wind gusted up and down. Sorin lifted into the air and unwillingly rode the wind a stride back before he found solid roof beneath his feet.

Red satin, full bathtub, four knives.

Camellia’s heart beat faster, and she lost the pleasant numbness that characterized her night. Again, she checked the saber blade, and Camellia performed the fourth flourish. A great whirlwind rocked the roof, snatching up loose shingles. It pushed Sorin back several steps and battered him with the roof tiles. Then, it released him and traveled on its way. The whirlwind dropped off the roof to the ground below, where it circled and scooped up items.

Sorin rose and cleared the distance to Camellia. He stood against her, and she stabbed him in the flank, missing anything vital. She held the sword there, and he smiled.

Broken glass, a simple black baton, and a camera. You can pick the pose.

Camellia glared. Before he could grab her, she withdrew her sword.

As she retreated, she performed the fifth flourish. A wind, centered on her, created a makeshift shield. It pulled Sorin away and behind her, following the path of the circle. She had to hide behind the wind and wait for it to dissipate but turned to watch Sorin gain a handhold and a foothold on a section of broken shingles.

To make matters better, the fourth whirlwind, surviving longer than it ever should, returned. It leapt back atop the roof, disturbing Sorin’s progress and dropping items picked up from the farm below.

I need to get up and out of here. Camellia’s eyes traced a path through the sky. Maybe, I can ride my wind?

The fourth whirlwind danced around the rooftop as if offering the same suggestion.

But, first, I need something to ride.

She searched the items retrieved by the wind. Hunks of tall grass littered the roof. She could weave them into a rug, but she would need time. A scarecrow clutched its stomach and writhed in pain, dropped much too close to Sorin. Camellia shook her head. In the wind, an old carpet rolled across the rooftop, and nearby, tumbled a bloody sheet.

As soon as Camellia’s wind shield disappeared, she raced across the roof. She ignored the carpet and snatched up the sheet, feeling dissatisfied once it met her hands. Too late to change her mind. The carpet rolled away.

Camellia ran back to the center of the roof and found the chimneys. She shimmed up the small one and then leapt to the tall one. Sorin reached for her dress, and she let him have a piece as well as a shoe she kicked down onto his head. She reached the top of the chimney and, with her saber, sent a flurry of wind down. Camellia held the sheet out and realized it could never fly. It was just a sheet.

I should have grabbed something sturdier.

Below Sorin laughed.

Oh, shut up. Camellia performed the fifth flourish again and created another windy shield. Somewhere on the roof, the fourth whirlwind still raged.

I will make this work. Camellia stowed her saber and, from the folds of her dress, pulled a knife. While her predator waited below, she cut the bloody sheet and worked it into a new shape. She carved the last threads free just as her shield of wind faded.

The fourth whirlwind came by, and Camellia jumped onto it. She rode her sheet, now a great white and red bird. With an angry and disappointed glance at Sorin, she flew away.

Camellia sat up and tried to catch her breath. She searched her room and spotted the Obsidian Mirror. Flashes of images and whispers surrounded her, and Camellia looked away.

With quivering hands, she found the velvet bag. She opened it and blindly tucked the mirror back inside, never looking at it. She pulled the strings and hid it from her gaze.

Still, Camellia struggled to catch her breath. She looked around her room and saw it bathed in early morning light, just before dawn. When she focused on the window or the desk or even a wall, trees danced in her peripheral vision and feathers fluttered just above and below her view.

Hands shaking, Camellia crawled to her desk. She searched through the drawers but couldn’t find any paper. She found plenty of charcoal and some oil pastels, used for rubbings and sketches. She grabbed them and pushed her desk away from the wall. Behind her, feathers skittered out of the drawers. They sounded like fluttering pages.

Camellia drew. She began with a mountain and a forest. She worked her way around the room, using shades of black, brown, and a little red. Her drawing ended with a bloody bird, and finally, Camellia could think of nothing else to draw.

She’d recreated the whole thing.

She tossed the half-finished charcoal aside and sat back against the only clear space left. It was just enough wall space for her. Camellia sighed.

Judging from the greetings outside, it was morning, maybe the start of most Groazans’ day.

She couldn’t remember if she had work today. Already, she felt tired. She looked around her room. Camellia didn’t admire her work. Instead, she thought about what she’d seen.

It was all different. Her dream had been a forest. His had been a desert. She thought of her struggle to think clearly. So, that’s why he never acknowledged me. She remembered Sorin’s panicked ignorance of her presence. He lost.

Briefly, Camellia wondered if she had lost the game. Did she still look into the mirror and not know?

That was an anxiety she could put to rest. Many of the Vetouin vampires looked in the mirrors often enough, and they didn’t end up trapped. Besides, Camellia knew trapped. She knew the subtle influences exerted on one’s mind from telepathic sources. She felt tired but free.

Camellia crawled across the floor and picked up Sorin’s things. She would get rid of the rocks and ring. The rose necklace and the Obsidian Mirror, she would keep. As for the pictures, she had yet to decide.

Camellia pulled the envelope from the box and opened it.

Just as Sorin had said, everything was there: the negatives and the prints, from every time, from every photo shoot.

Slowly, she paged through the photos and returned them to the envelope, one by one.

She tore Sorin’s letter free, ripped it to pieces, and dropped the shreds on the floor. Then, she rose and found her desk, still sitting in the middle of the room. Atop the desk, Camellia opened her large box of writing implements. She placed the envelope of pictures inside. She tucked them in the back, in a secret place.

I will keep these, and every time I want to remember this feeling, I will look at them. Camellia closed the box.