After many months of getting beta reads and advice from my group, I think I have achieved a final version of this book. It starts and ends much differently than the first draft I posted on here. It is the second book in a series so you might want to...
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Giselle
The high corners of bedchamber were dark, thrown into deeper darkness by a ring of candles on the floor, a cloud of light so bright that a Vampire could not step into it without disintegrating in its radiance.
Yet, in the middle of that light, her golden hair glistening down the back of her white dressing gown and setting off the ivory smoothness of her face, stood the young Vampire, Giselle. It was she who had brought the Count of Castle Drag back to life again, yet now she was sewing the last flower on a wedding gown that would never belong to her. Bright red the flower was, a false poppy, made of silk, therefore able to defy the withering effect of her long, white fingers as she jabbed the needle in. Black was the gown, made of silk and heavy lace, with long, tight sleeves of lace, the bodice and skirt dripping with these deathless, though bloody, flowers. Wrapped around a dressmaker's dummy, the gown stood in the middle of the room like a headless ballerina. That was, until the veil was placed on the mask she had erected as a head, a swathe of black gauze deep enough to render the wearer's face invisible, and making the ballerina the Bride of Death.
Though she sewed with such fury that the needle often pricked her fingers, no blood spouted from those wounds, and no tears fell from the pale blue eyes of Giselle. She wished they would, for without them, release from sorrow was impossible. Rather, it seemed, the tears dripped back into her heart, filling it, drop by drop, like perfume fills a crystal vial, turning it black.
Giselle scowled. Bitter anger that her place at the Count's side had been usurped by a married woman who already had plenty of riches, shattered the fragile vessel of the heart, releasing the tears to flow into the deeper well where her soul had been. That this woman was identical to the despised Lady Ilia did not help. Always Giselle was at the mercy of these raven-haired fiends with their radiant skin and violet eyes. Just like Lady Cira who had abused her and thrown her out into the snow. That was a century ago, but the humiliation still stung.
Giselle jammed the point of the needle into her thumb. Though no blood flowed, by instinct, she stuck it in her mouth and glared at the gown. It was beautiful, its lines cut to display a lush yet slender figure, revealing exquisite shoulders and a swan-like neck. Giselle hated it!
She picked up the mirror, the dragon mirror that had caused all the trouble in the first place, and sought her own reflection. This was the only glass on earth in which her face could echo back to her; the mirror's enchantment was so old and strong that it alone had the power to subdue the laws of nature and allow undead spirits to see themselves. Yes! In all the world, only this glass gave them life, and the mirror belonged to her.
What Giselle saw did not dismay her, for it seemed she grew lovelier by the day. Why did the Count not see this? In many ways, though fully sixteen years old when she stumbled into the ruins of Castle Drag, she was still a child. Perhaps he saw her as a child. But the soon-to-be-bride, Analise, was not much older. What had she to show except a more womanly appearance? But, of course, Analise was the daughter of a Baron. Analise was royalty. Giselle was born an orphan and a servant and, even in death, could not rise above her station.
"I could be royalty too, if he would marry me," Giselle said, stroking her blonde mane back from her face. She stopped, and flung her hair over her face instead. Her beauty and loyalty were futile. Analise reminded Vlad of the long lost Ilia. That was all that mattered to him.
A wafting of the curtains in the dark, a flicker in the mirror, startled Giselle. She set the dragon mirror back on her dressing table, and glanced around. Pray, oh dark Gods, that the Count had not heard her thoughts. His punishments were cruel: the whip and the rack, the iron maiden----the ultimate horror for an immortal.
Giselle could see in the dark, beyond the firelight, and though she dreaded what might be there, she went toward the curtain that had blown. The curtain was still now. A mere draft had wafted it about. She opened the curtain and looked out at the garden where the stone heads of angels rested on high drifts of snow, looking as if they'd been severed.
Just below the window, a line of shadows slipped silently past. The wolves were coming. What a chorus they would make for the wedding!
She dropped the curtain and returned to her chore.
Giselle hated cold. The castle was always so. That was why she built the fires so high and lit so many candles. Sometimes it seemed she was made of ice, for whatever passed for blood in her veins, seemed to have frozen solid. The Count, too, was cold like a lizard, yet he was a dragon whose breath was fire. Though his skin gleamed like marble, he was supple and quick. His inner fires warmed him.
And he warmed her as no one ever had.
Giselle picked the mirror up and breathed upon its surface. A cloud passed over the glass, dissolved, and then her face returned, glowing with candle fire. She was beautiful. Why couldn't the Count love her? It would be so much easier.
The wedding was to take place in three nights, on the dark moon. Then the castle would be lit from bottom to top. Emissaries would come from other worlds to celebrate. This was the Count's promise. The chorus of howling that broke the silence proved that many had already arrived. Giselle was very excited about the wedding party, and curious about these emissaries. Who or what could they be? Ghosts? Demons? Or other Vampires?
She was to wear blue, a death blue reminiscent of the lips and hollowed eyes of corpses. She was to carry the end of Analise's long, violet train, stepping into the bride's footprints as she followed her to the high altar. And----insult to injury----Analise was to wear the dragon comb, the great claw that had been the tool of Giselle's initiation when she woke Dracule from two hundred years of slumber.
Giselle laughed. Then she stopped. There was no way out for her. No matter what happened, all signs pointed to the Count marrying Analise.
What would happen to Giselle?
Hands steaming as if she were taking down a kill, she raked a long, pointed fingernail over the bodice of the gown, tearing the threads. The edges of the hole turned red, as if the fabric bled. Again, imagining the face and body of her rival, she clawed the gown. The sound of her laughter echoed through the house, mingled with the howling of the wolves.
