Chapter One: The Nightmare

I walked through the busy gallery, avoiding the packed crowds as best as I could. All the pictures were blurry. All of them. All except one. A picture of a young man. He had purple hair which seemed odd to me. He was a stranger, but… for some reason I felt as if I knew him. He was sleeping on a bed of blue roses with a single red rose in his hands. I felt a pang of guilt for a reason I didn't know. I turned to walk away when I heard my name.

"Ib."

I turned around. There was no one behind me. I turned to walk away again, but this time the picture caught my eye. The sleeping man was awake and looked to be banging against the glass of the frame.

"IB!" He called. "Ib you must leave! Though Mary's gone you're still in danger! Leave!"

"Garry…" The name tumbled off my lips before I could stop or question it.

"Garry." I said again. The man's eyes filled with tears before widening with fear. "Ib, behind you!" He yelled as I felt a sharp pain to the back of my head. The man called my name over and over again as I blacked out.

"Ib! Ib, Ib, Ib wake up! Ib you need to wake up!

"Isabell Rosalind Marie! WAKE UP!" My mother yelled as she shook me awake. A bad dream it was just a bad dream…

I groaned and pressed my face into my pillow when my mom threw the curtains open.

"You need to get up now. It's noon and the party starts at two and I still need to do your make up and you need your dress and I have to do your hair…" My mom continued her never ending list of stuff we had to do before my eighteenth birthday party. Eighteen… I'm eighteen today. This would excite most people, but not me. My aristocratic parents have planned an over exuberated party with over a hundred guests, most of which I don't know. Worst of all its being held at an art gallery. I don't like art galleries. Haven't since I was about ten. I don't remember why I don't like them. I just know that I don't.

My mom dragged me out of bed to make me sit through hours of hair; make up and then forcing me into a dress that I believe needed to stay in the century it was made for, which definitely wasn't this century. This is going to be a long, grueling day.