Seven Years Bad Luck...Or Maybe Just a Moment

Father was going to be furious.

Adrian's brain ran through all the potential scenarios; at first it was the sound of his father's raised voice, and at last it was the feeling of the dirt outside the castle—thrown out, on the grounds that breaking a mirror was more than bad luck. Sure, it might be a small chance, but a child's imagination hasn't been domesticated yet.

"Are you alright, sweetie?" his mother asked the quintessential mother's question at the dinner table, putting a hand on his shoulder, "You've barely touched your food."

Adrian didn't say anything. He wanted to speak, to defend himself, to lie, but words were fickle and cruel; they rose to surface, but when he tried to net them, they dove back down his throat.

Emotions, however, weren't particular about how and when they appeared, and bit even those who didn't at all want to catch them.

"I...I'm sorry." Tears began to fill his eyes.

"Sorry?" Lisa half laughed. "Sorry for what?"

The boy's golden eyes flickered to his father, who paused, and cocked his head to the side. Only confusion. No anger there...yet.

But surely there would be. His mind offered a seven-course meal on just how angry the vampire king might get in the next few minutes.

Lies, excuses dove down his throat. But the truth wouldn't stay choked down.

"I...I broke your mirror!" he blurted out, too loudly, "I didn't mean to, I swear! I—It just fell to pieces! I wasn't playing with it or anything!"

He heard how loud, how tiny, his voice sounded, and the excuses sputtered and died.

He was ready for Dracula to stand tall, to demand how and why, for his eyes to flash red and...okay, maybe not ready, but expecting it, at the very least.

Instead the Tepes parents looked each other quizzically.

"Which mirror?" His father asked calmly—mirrors weren't exactly the most common occurrence in a vampire's house, after all.

Adrian sank down in his chair, his eyes darting away, the words a low burbling murmur, "The-The one in your study."

His parents' faces broke, not in anger, but into forgiving—almost amused—smiles, like he had done something funny and didn't know it.

"Come with me, Son." Dracula stood up from the table—but less as the commanding presence, more in a sweeping, flowing motion that could take him away with him—holding out a hand.

Adrian's eyes ran to the safety of his mother—the nod that she gave said go with him.

He got up from the table, taking his father's hand—(not as cold as you might think)—still apprehensive, but now more than a little curious. His little footsteps pattered along behind the calculated tolls in the halls.

They came to the scene of the crime: the study. What was once once a smooth, shining mirror, now a pile of glittering glass on the ground. Adrian looked away, swallowing, at the sight of it.

Dracula let go of his son's fingers, taking a step forward. He looked over his shoulder smirking a little, and raising his hand.

With one motion his sin was undone; the puddle of a mirror rose, like a dog called by its owner, the jagged droplets coalescing back into the rippling surface.

Adrian's eyes widened as he stepped closer, seeing himself reflected in it silver waves, as if he was the only one in the room. Dracula put a hand on his shoulder.