There are certain known facts about vampires. They revile change. They are obsessive-compulsive. They are illogical. They are cursed. They will burst into flames in sunlight.
They are dying.
With less than a hundred vampires left in the world, Yas...
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August woke in his bedroom. Not his childhood room in the Breeze estate, but his office from the Cage. It was a humble place, exactly as he'd last seen it—a small bed, a beaten dresser, a picture of his siblings atop it, a closet to neatly store his clothes, and his desk overflowing with work. The remaining space was occupied with printed stacks—research on vampires, including theses and scholarly journals. At the center of the whirlwind, like the calm eye of a storm, was a low-slung table. Black wood, inlaid with pearlescent chips rendered into a mosaic tree. Beside it, two cushions for kneeling, and upon it, a tea tray.
Against the wall, a framed watercolor lounged, facing his bed. It depicted a tree craning over a river. He'd looked at it, every day, when he'd woken up. Now he stared, disturbed and yet riveted by the emotions that it stirred from him. Of all the paintings Yasuko had made, this was the only abstract piece, a messy swirl of black and red and pink. It was also the only painting of hers that had struck August as beautiful. Maybe it was because it was disorganized, unlike her. Maybe because it was open for interpretation, unlike her more traditional pieces.
Or maybe because August, secretly, loved chaos.
"I'm still in love...with her."
Love. He stared at the painting now, thinking of that word. With the mindset of love, the colored strokes that had previously meant nothing took a different shape. A curve became a face, a blot a hand. A series of dots and dashes almost looked like a chain, winding around a pair of feet...
