《Beastblood Bearer》


 1 - The Count of Innsworm

    Prospero bounded across the mud. He leapt between sunken puddles and imagined himself falling into a great abyss if he splashed in. Luthor trailed closed behind him, two umbrellas in either hand, making sure the young master didn¡¯t suffer a fall. It was raining on that day, as it did most weeks around Innsworm.


    The three of them: the father, the son, and the butler, were on their way towards the hamlet, descending from the manor onto the rainy hillside plateaus where chimney smoke plumed and chickens roamed. The peasants - though Prospero had been taught graciously and strictly never to refer to them as such - had sniffed the rain out an hour ago and were now huddled indoors. Imprints of their passing in the mud were now filled with water.


    Glimpsing a shadow, Prospero hopped over to the stables and lifted himself up by the peeling fence, where Cuileni speared lumps of hay on his pitchfork for the steeds A fresh trickling of rainwater rolled down from the roof and felt frozen against Prospero¡¯s neck. One horse raised its head, still chewing, and stared side-eyed at the child when he shouted, ¡°Mister Cuileni!¡±


    ¡°Oh! How do you do, young master?¡± the old man¡¯s face bunched up like an accordion as he straightened his back. ¡°You¡¯ll catch your death if you stand out in the rain like that!¡±


    ¡°I like the rain!¡± Prospero grinned. ¡°Has Missus Cuileni made any scones today?¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯ve no doubt she¡¯ll be baking something or other now that she¡¯s cooped up inside,¡± his eyes went behind Prospero, towards the owner of the silhouette which was now stretching into the stable. Cuileni lowered his head. ¡°Milord.¡±


    ¡°Good afternoon, Cuileni.¡±


    Gaspar was a great behemoth of a man, and his height and build were made all the more impressive by the coat which trailed in his wake, somehow never quite low enough to dirty itself in the mud. A resting scowl emboldened by snowy, aristocratic skin likened him, as was only natural, to a Vampire. This comparison was not made nearly as often as one would assume, and, indeed, the villagers seldom commented on his appearance, especially in regards to what he may or may not have looked like, and had learned themselves the habit of remaining unflinching in his presence.


    His looming shadow didn¡¯t seem to bother Cuileni in the least. ¡°Don¡¯t you ever tire of the rain, milord?¡± he asked. ¡°It¡¯s always a shame seeing you and the young master getting yourselves soaked in all them nice clothes. Oh - and mister Luthor too, of course,¡± he nodded in the butler¡¯s direction, who returned the gesture with perfectly reserved enthusiasm.


    ¡°The sun has never done well for my complexion.¡± Gaspar replied. ¡°This is no weather to be working in, my friend. Why not relax inside for a while?¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯d like to. I really would, milord.¡± Cuileni balanced both hands on the end of his pitchfork. ¡°But I must keep an eye on the horses today. Something¡¯s had them spooked since this morning.¡±


    ¡°Wolves?¡± Luthor interjected, poking his gaunt face over Gaspar¡¯s shoulder.


    ¡°No, no. Nothing like that, I don¡¯t think.¡± he shook his head. ¡°That¡¯s just how they are sometimes; animals, I mean. You understand, milord.¡±


    ¡°I do.¡± Gaspar nodded. ¡°But be certain not to overwork yourself today. And give my thanks to your wife. Prospero couldn¡¯t keep his hands off her scones the last time she dropped some off.¡±


    The young lad flashed a rosy smile as Cuileni adjusted his cap. ¡°Heh. I¡¯ll send your kind words along,¡± he replied. ¡°Enjoy your walk, milord.¡±


    Like that, they made their rounds of the homes skirting the old Baptista manor. Every face Prospero met was dusted with dirt and wrinkles. Innsworm was not a prosperous or lively region, and it was only by the grace of his father¡¯s wealth that the peasants were able to survive the poor harvests which had scoured the hamlet those past five years. But it was quiet, and enjoyed a peace not particularly common in those days.


    Prospero took a tumble as his shoe slipped in the mud. He caught himself on his hands and knees, but a loose, out-of-place stone grazed his palm. Luthor marched over and helped the boy to his feet, within the eyes of whom reluctant tears were already beginning to swell.


    ¡°Oh dear.¡± Luthor¡¯s long face remained analytical. ¡°Did you hurt yourself, young master?¡±


    While he whimpered and grasped his wounded hand, afeared of the pain beneath, Gaspar went over and kneeled by Prospero¡¯s side, pallid fingers curling out. ¡°Let me see, son.¡±


    Prospero turned his hand. The cut didn¡¯t look half as bad as it felt, but to a young boy who had yet to experience pain in any worldly capacity, it was rather unbearable. Gaspar placed a hand over the break, and within a matter of seconds, the pain disappeared. Once revealed, Prospero¡¯s hand was as pristine as it was a moment ago.


    ¡°Be careful where you step, son.¡± his father said. ¡°-Or don¡¯t. Tumbling around as you please is a freedom enjoyed only by the young. You¡¯ll be grateful that you did once a bad fall could do you in like it could for me and Luthor.¡±


    The tears were now a distant memory to young Prospero, who was now more concerned with the sorcery he¡¯d just witnessed than anything else. ¡°I want to cast spells like you do, father!¡± he said. ¡°I promise I¡¯ll be good, so can we please get Mister Suere to baptise me at the abbey!?¡±


    Gaspar chuckled. ¡°That¡¯s the fifth time you¡¯ve asked this week! I wonder if Luthor should have reserved his lessons on the System until you were a little older¡­¡±


    The butler in question raised a hand to adjust his glasses. ¡°Irregardless of this realm¡¯s stance on baptisms, one cannot afford to skimp on a child¡¯s education. If the young master so desires, I could always unearth my old grimoires on the Runic Path to teach him some spells the old-fashioned way.¡±


    ¡°A child? Concocting spells with runes?¡± Gaspar¡¯s expression fell, only to be replaced with a joyous grin as he threw both arms out. ¡°What a fantastic idea! Yes - a boy¡¯s interest must be nourished! And who better to prevent him from burning the manor down than you, Luthor?¡±


    Suddenly cautious, the butler inhaled air through his teeth. ¡°Perhaps¡­ we should wrap up the young master¡¯s lessons on the history of the Incandescence before we-¡±


    ¡°I want to learn magic!¡± Prospero chimed.


    ¡°Haha! You heard the boy, Luthor!¡± Gaspar folded his arms. ¡°Come - let¡¯s return to the manor! I just know we have some notebooks from the Institution laying around somewhere!¡±


    Pulled along by the weight of his master¡¯s words, Luthor couldn¡¯t help but accompany the father and son on their way back to the looming manor atop Innsworm¡¯s central hill, his sigh equally exasperated as it was content.


    The foggy days of Innsworm were marked by Prospero¡¯s sudden liveliness. Whether hungry for knowledge or entertainment, Gaspar was all too happy to provide for the boy - often to Luthor¡¯s chagrin. But the three of them were fulfilled with their lot, and as the years trickled on, tragedies which once trapped the household in an air of melancholy gave way to fond remembrances and moments of welcome solitude.


    In time, young Prospero was no longer so young, and by his twentieth year, he had already devoured many of the texts archived within the manor¡¯s overstuffed library, only omitting those he could not comprehend or which his father had strictly forbidden him from reading - and sometimes not even that would stop him.


    ¡°I know your memory to be as good as mine, son,¡± on the day of one such overstep, Prospero found himself being chewed out in the foyer with a tome hidden under one arm. His father stood with arms crossed, as he always did, wearing an expression crossed between stern and amused. ¡°-So why is it that I find you sneaking out with a copy of that old tome? One that I¡¯ve forbidden you from touching?¡±


    The text: ¡®Of Vampyres, Terrible Phantoms, and The Seven Deadly Sins¡¯, was a loose collection of yellowed papers half-bound and ready to fall apart at the slightest knock. Prospero mulled several excuses over in his head until he decided that none would suffice. ¡°...Because, you wouldn¡¯t have let me read it otherwise?¡± he said.


    Gaspar paused, then laughed. It was a great howling that bounced off the walls, unreserved and unapologetic. ¡°You little scamp!¡± he grinned. ¡°How can I be expected to rebuke such sound logic!? But the fact remains that those pages are forbidden! Do you really expect me to let you leave now that I¡¯ve heard you thundering through the manor like a scorned ox!?¡±


    Prospero shrugged. ¡°Hide your secrets better if you don¡¯t want them stolen.¡±


    He stepped towards the front doors, but his father had already beaten him there by the time his head could turn. There was no secret held between them about Gaspar¡¯s supernatural agility. Prospero had known from a young age that his father was no common man, but quizzing him about it had only led to riddles and lectures, and so he had learned to never bother. He fancied a quiet day reading, and now there was no path towards that peace but straight through the loud soul of his father. With a flick of Gaspar¡¯s wrist, something delicate and metallic was tossed through the air. Prospero extended his free arm to slide his fingers into the rapier¡¯s elegant handguard, purpose-made for his grip, tightening his other arm around the tome.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    ¡°If you will not follow your father¡¯s orders, my boy, then at least have the guts to earn your reward fairly,¡± Gaspar threw aside his cloak with one arm, and with a flash of silver unsheathed another rapier from his waist. ¡°Luthor tells me your skills have been improving. Perhaps if I were to reach the same assessment, you will leave this manor with that book in tow.¡±


    ¡°My feet are still aching from yesterday¡¯s practice!¡± Prospero widened his stance, not at all confident that complaining would do him any good. ¡°This isn¡¯t fair at all!¡±


    ¡°War awaits the readiness of no man!¡± his father took a stance. ¡°Have at you!¡±


    With one arm curled at the hip, he flew towards Prospero with the vigour of a duelist half his age. Their rapiers slid and screeched, echoing the first clash of many in the sleuth-strife of fencing. Prospero was tempted to take a step back, but he¡¯d learned better from Luthor. Fencing was all about graceful defence; holding one¡¯s ground against baleful thrusts and turning an opponent¡¯s blows against them.


    Gaspar stepped in to lunge. Prospero tilted his wrist to catch the line of the thrust and deflected the blade to his side, stepping forward to capitalise on the opening while placing his father on the defensive. His own testing swing was caught by Gaspar¡¯s weapon, rising as if possessed of its own will, stalwart in form and resilience, and the two men entered their courteous exchange of attacks and parries. Torchlight from the chandelier above illuminated their weapons with brilliant glitters of silver. With his free hand, Prospero hugged the tome close to his heart.


    ¡°I see Luthor has lent you some passing expertise, lad,¡± Gaspar smirked, ¡°But has he taught you the mind of the sport, or merely the body?¡±


    Prospero shook his head and frowned. ¡°What does that even mean?¡±


    ¡°Take Carlo Pupesco¡¯s interpretation of the lunge: low and unyielding towards the lower line.¡± Gaspar stepped in with his posture lowered, rapier at the ready. ¡°-Forbidden in the rapier and thought invincible until-¡±


    ¡°-R.L. Roeburn¡¯s counter, sacrificing ground for a chance at the opponent¡¯s arm!¡± Prospero retreated, extending his arm to descend towards the oncoming attack. ¡°Pupesco was a demon on the attack, but a coward on the defence!¡±


    -But Gaspar¡¯s lunge never came. He remained statuesque in that beastly pose. The movement had triggered a false reaction from Prospero, who trusted his mental playbook to account for every possibility. It was only in that moment of defencelessness when Gaspar launched forward, blade circling downward to trap his opponent¡¯s line.


    He stabbed, and the tip stopped just inches from Prospero¡¯s face, who yanked himself back until he had fallen firmly onto his rear. ¡°Ah!¡±


    When he looked up, Gaspar was already sliding his rapier back into its scabbard. ¡°Pupesco was a coward until budding fencers like Roeburn challenged his mastery of the sport,¡± he said. ¡°The two of them would compensate and overcomplicate one-another¡¯s disciplines like a pair of lovers, and in doing so, they scaled heights as-of-then unheard of.¡±


    Prospero sighed and picked himself off the floor. ¡°Is there a lesson to be learned here?¡±


    ¡°There are a great many things you may learn from your adversaries, my boy,¡± he continued. ¡°Hatred, usually, but also love, for what is a nemesis if not a lover? It is remarkable how skin-deep our grudges are, Prospero, and how lonely we find ourselves in the absence of hate. If you learn to traverse this spectrum like water, any one man can seem so incredibly fickle and touched. Learn to move with him, and you¡¯ll find that it¡¯s as if a new world has been opened to you. A world of great peace and romance.¡±


    A passing second lingered heavy in the air. Prospero blinked. ¡°You¡¯ve lost me again, father.¡±


    ¡°Oh, if only your mother was still alive! She would have transformed my words into such wonderful poetry! Oh, Mercedes¡­!¡± Gaspar curled his fists. ¡°How am I meant to raise this boy who doesn¡¯t take a moment to understand the words of his ageing father!?¡±


    ¡°No¡­ I¡¯m not sure mother would have known what to make of that, either,¡± Prospero replied. ¡°And don¡¯t even joke about your age! You don¡¯t look a day older than you did when I was ten years old! I¡¯ll end up looking older than you in a decade or two!¡±


    ¡°Yes, well - when your beauty routine is as robust as mine, it¡¯s only natural that you would find yourself outmatched by these handsome features,¡± he folded his arms. ¡°Perhaps if you moisturised and bathed three times a day, you would still have those rosy cheeks that your mother loved to pull on so much.¡±


    He joked, but Gaspar¡¯s youth truly was remarkable. For lack of want to know or ask, Prospero had never quite been able to pin down his father¡¯s exact age, and it was only becoming more difficult to make an estimate now that the man had somehow remained free of wrinkles in spite of the oncoming decades.


    ¡°How slow I¡¯ve become. It¡¯s rather embarrassing,¡± Gaspar rolled his shoulders and yawned. ¡°I think I may wile away the hours this evening with some light reading.¡±


    He made for the staircase, only turning his head when Prospero shouted after him. ¡°What about the book!?¡±


    ¡°The what?¡± he paused. ¡°Oh, that old thing? Go ahead and read it; it¡¯s a classic! Just make sure not to tear any of the pages. I¡¯ve been meaning to return it for about¡­ uh - quite a long time now, and the owner would be a little cross if it was damaged.¡±


    He raised a hand in farewell and disappeared through the oaken doors on the landing. So much for being forbidden, Prospero thought. He placed his rapier down on an end table flanking the staircase so that Luthor would spot and retrieve it later on. The wild thumping of his heart settled when he pushed on the manor doors and stepped into the daylight. A gust of wind chilled the little beads of sweat on his forehead.


    Now he had no reason at all to read outside, but the rain had only stopped an hour before and the hamlet was rich with the scent of the earth. He enjoyed those moments of dour twilight between the showers, when the clouds lingered still and silence reigned. His boots sank into the mud on the way down the hill, stepping down the crude staircase of planks descending from the manor.


    Nearabouts where the hamlet levelled out, a bakery run by Innsworm¡¯s oldest couple was shaded by a low porch. Prospero was allowed to sit there whenever he pleased, whether to read or to remain out of the sunlight for a minute or two. He wandered up, settled down on the flimsy chair and pushed himself up to the antique table of glass and wrought iron which the owners had bought from a travelling merchant many decades ago.


    ¡°Of Vampyres, Terrible Phantoms, and The Seven Deadly Sins¡­¡±


    Prospero read the title again. He flicked past the dedications and foreword to the meat of the text, where faded words introduced him to the wicked heart of darkness lingering within the realms of men. Terms he had heard before; Vampyre, Dracule, Nosferatu; contained once to the imagination of his terrified, adolescent brain but which now took on a far darker, far more sinister nature. He could not distinguish truth from hearsay as the pages wrote on, which contained accounts equal parts horrific and unreal. Prospero knew of Vampires and their ilk, and especially of the lifetaker Dracula, who once captured the Incandescence in a storm of brutality many centuries ago, but had never known them to be anything more than monsters.


    ¡°Where darkness permits, the Vampyre dwells,¡± he read. ¡°And he dwells not in the woods and wealds where beasts wander, but in the hearths of mortal men, and he spreads plague and rodents among those he courts, and seeks the pure blood of maidens to sustain his terrible immortality.¡±


    ¡°Oh¡­ young master.¡±


    Prospero turned his head to spot the wizened face of Mrs. Calum poking out from a crack in the door. ¡°I was wondering who that voice belonged to,¡± she said.


    ¡°Hello, miss,¡± he greeted. ¡°I¡¯m sorry if I disturbed you.¡±


    ¡°Oh, not at all. You¡¯re welcome to sit where you please, young master,¡± with shaking hands, she pushed on the door and drew her shawl up to ward off the cold. ¡°Only, Anton down the road - you know Mister Anton, don¡¯t you?¡±


    He nodded. Prospero knew everyone in the hamlet, but Mrs. Calum was getting on in her old age, and often forgot that he was a young man and no longer a boy of ten.


    ¡°Well,¡± she began. ¡°Mister Calum told us there were wolves in the pig farm last night. They¡¯ve been getting fierce, you know? Those old wolves¡­¡±


    She made a great, ugly smile with her chapped lips. ¡°So all of us old and wrinkled fools are hiding inside. My husband thought he saw another one close by just a few hours ago. Won¡¯t you be careful, young master? For milord and milady¡¯s sake¡­¡±


    ¡°I will, miss. Don¡¯t worry about me,¡± Prospero replied. ¡°Go inside and warm up. It¡¯s cold today. I¡¯m sure Anton will deal with the wolves.¡±


    She nodded and slid back into the bakery, leaving Prospero to wonder if it was a sound idea to continue reading. I¡¯m only going to worry her if I stay out here, he thought. I¡¯ll head back to the manor and read the rest in my room. I already have permission from father.


    He came down from the porch and stopped just short of ascending the hill. The butcher¡¯s shop was just down the way, along the old fields where the northern road crept up to the woods. He hadn¡¯t eaten lunch that day, and the cold only seemed to be exaggerating his appetite. A few silver coins were still tumbling in his pocket from when he¡¯d helped out at the charcoal kilns a week ago.


    I wonder if Nicolas still has some of those spiced sausages in stock, he wondered.


    A quick detour to the bottom of the hill revealed that the hamlet was near empty. Mrs. Calum hadn¡¯t minced words with him; word of the wolves had scared everyone into their homes. With the contents of his book still digesting, Prospero couldn¡¯t help but wonder if the wind was a bad omen. He turned his head to see the silhouette of Baptista Manor looming over Innsworm, not quite so comforting as it normally was.


    But it was neither the wind nor the manor that unsettled him. It was the streak of crimson awaiting him further down the road, trailing up from the woods and along the path, which quickened his pulse. It was undoubtedly a trail of blood. Prospero inhaled, and the scent of iron stung his nostrils. Something terrible has happened, he thought.


    He bolted down the road, observed by dew-soaked leaves on high. The windchill singed his nose, now reluctant to breathe in the troubling scent. He followed in the silence of the oaks and felt suddenly as if he was alone; that the village would be emptied of life when he returned. He chased the darkness inviting him towards that sight nestled between the hill and the forest, pulse quickening all the while, where leaves detached, blew and were caught by the pooling blood beneath the canopy.


    A wolf was turned over there, on the ground, in the cold. Lifeless.

 2 - The Dream Ends This Day

    The fireplace crackled with tempered might. Luthor jabbed at the disintegrating logs with a poker, drawing embers out from the grate. Fireglow illuminated Prospero¡¯s view of the lounge¡¯s tall windows, across which the darkness of midnight was drawn like a curtain. He was surrounded by warmth on the second of the room¡¯s three armchairs, with only his head poking above a thick woollen blanket. He could still hear the wind blowing.


    Eight long hours had passed since he returned home. Luthor had gone out to examine the wolf¡¯s corpse, but said very little about it once he was back, then requested to speak to Prospero¡¯s father privately. When the three of them convened in the lounge as they did every night, the common back and forth was replaced with silence, and Prospero knew deep in his gut that something terrible was brewing in the dark.


    What sort of animal could be responsible for the state of that wolf? he wondered. Luthor tells me it must have been a bear, but bears have not wandered these parts in years, and no mere beast could have inflicted such terrible wounds¡­


    Pulverised. Lacerated. Disemboweled; there were many words to describe the state of that animal¡¯s corpse, but Prospero had trouble shaking off the detail of the sheer intelligence required to so thoroughly mutilate an animal. It was not the scrap of some predator¡¯s meal, but an exquisite and macabre work of art created to disturb those who happened upon it, and disturb Prospero it had.


    ¡°Father,¡± he spoke without turning his head. ¡°Does this have something to do with that book I borrowed from you today?¡±


    Gaspar was lost in thought, but the sound of his son¡¯s voice grabbed his attention right away. His expression morphed from concerned to fatherly in less than a fraction of a second. ¡°...What? No. No, son,¡± he said. ¡°Merely a terrible coincidence, is all.¡±


    ¡°A coincidence?¡± Prospero was worried by his choice of words. ¡°How so?¡±


    Gaspar opened his mouth, but lost his answer. When a reply did come, it was in place of something else. ¡°Everything is going to be alright,¡± he said.


    Prospero sighed. ¡°I wish those words would be enough. But I¡¯ve learned too well that you only say that when something horrible is about to happen.¡±


    His false enthusiasm discovered, Gaspar made no effort to hide the concern in his eyes. It was one thing to see him so affected, but another to glimpse fear in his disposition. Prospero had never known his father to be afraid of anything. Unsettled by the stagnant air, he threw aside his blanket and stood up. ¡°Something is terribly wrong,¡± he said. ¡°Won¡¯t either of you speak to me?¡±


    ¡°Young master¡­¡± Luthor¡¯s demeanour remained unchanged even with the colour drained from his face. ¡°It is not that the master is reluctant to speak. He is merely searching for the right words.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve never seen either of you like this before,¡± he continued. ¡°Have I done something wrong?¡±


    ¡°My son,¡± Gaspar began. ¡°I am the only one at fault here. For believing in the far-fetched dream of peace. Now my heart aches for the soon-to-be future, and I regret every decision that has led to this moment. Even now, I only wish the best for you; that somehow, your peaceful everyday will continue in spite of the disaster that awaits us.¡±


    ¡°Father, please,¡± Prospero placed his hands together. ¡°Speak plainly just this once. What is this ¡®disaster¡¯ you speak of? I haven¡¯t noticed a thing out of place these past few weeks, and now a dead wolf has you acting as if the world will soon end. It¡¯s not like you to be so worried. It frightens me.¡±


    With movements that matched his sluggish heart, Gaspar stood and wandered over. His arms reached out to embrace Prospero, who was now tall enough that he wasn¡¯t quite so easy to shield. Prospero moved his arms to return the gesture, somehow convinced that his father would simply disappear if he ever let go.


    ¡°Oh, Prospero¡­¡± Gaspar sighed. ¡°My son. Could you ever forgive this poor fool?¡±


    ¡°Forgive you for what?¡± he asked. ¡°I would never blame you for anything, father. Please, just tell me what¡¯s wrong!¡±


    ¡°I fear that this fell omen you discovered today will lead Innsworm to ruin,¡± Gaspar placed his hands on Prospero¡¯s shoulders. ¡°Where do I even begin¡­? Any explanation would seem to you like the ramblings of a man who had lost his mind. Perhaps it is best to start by admitting that your mother and I - and Luthor also - have kept many secrets from you these past two decades.¡±


    Prospero shook his head. ¡°What kinds of secrets? Is it to do with your fortune? The estate? I never did learn how you came to live in Innsworm.¡±


    ¡°All of that and more, son,¡± he nodded. ¡°Our circumstances are not so simple, though I¡¯ve never quite had the courage to reveal them to you. Now it is too late, and I have realised the cruelty of my cowardice. I do wish your mother was still with us. She would have put me on the right path, like she always did.¡±


    His next words were stolen, captured by some presence unknown to Prospero. He and Luthor raised their heads like wild bucks hearing a branch snap underfoot. Not quite so perceptive, Prospero nonetheless felt his blood quickening as he followed his father¡¯s gaze towards the door.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    ¡°...Gaspar,¡± Luthor said.


    It was the first time Prospero had heard the butler refer to his master with anything short of faultless decorum. The night which seethed at the windows now seemed malevolent, as if threatening to engulf the manor whole. Then came the thundering underfoot; one hundred rabid steps storming the halls. The fireplace protested with dying flickers.


    Prospero felt a chill down to his hands. ¡°Father?¡±


    ¡°We cannot go back,¡± Gaspar muttered. ¡°What a terrible coward I¡¯ve been.¡±


    The door burst open, hinges screeching as it slammed against the wall and bounced back, only to be caught in place by a palid, beastly hand sprouting elongated fingers. There was nothing beyond the perimeter; a void; a cloud of ink from which the twisted things of dreams and nightmares could emerge. Gaspar took Prospero by the wrist and led him clear of the doorway. Luthor ran to retrieve the poker from beside the fireplace.


    Their visitor stepped across his threshold of night, every wicked feature accentuated by the great buttoned coat wreathing his silhouette. From a distance - perhaps - he appeared to be a man, but one glance too eager revealed that he was anything but. His face, more suited to a wild animal, was ghost-pale and studded with two predatory dots seared into the whites of his eyes scanning the room with reserved eagerness, stark and alert as if freshly awakened from a nightmare.


    He moved with the rhythm of a corpse, stopping just shy of the doorway. His clawed fingers intertwined and seemed as if they would remain that way forever. His mouth, too small to accommodate the rows of mismatched fangs within, remained parted and half-gleeful all the while. When he spoke, it was with the voice of a dying man - or perhaps one who had passed long ago. ¡°Gaspar,¡± he began. ¡°You know why I am here.¡±


    ¡°-And you will not have it,¡± Gaspar replied without missing a beat. ¡°I know only that you have come here to kill me, and kill me you may, but that which you seek will remain hidden! How many hundreds of years has your anger endured? Have you not yet realised the evil of your ways?¡±


    ¡°Speak not of the past,¡± uncurling like the legs of a spider, the intruder¡¯s hand hovered as if expecting a gift. ¡°The Founder¡¯s Blood, Gaspar. Entrust it to me.¡±


    ¡°I will entrust you with nothing!¡± he shouted, ¡°This is not the pledge we made! What has happened to you, Cyprian!? You have been seduced by darkness! The power you seek is an illusion that will destroy you! You know this! You know better!¡±


    He spoke of things beyond Prospero¡¯s understanding, of dark histories and pledges and names never before uttered. But there was a reluctant familiarity in his outburst. The man-thing named Cyprian was unflinching, though there was an air of impatience surrounding his every twitch. ¡°Tragedy needn¡¯t befall your family this day,¡± he said. ¡°I seek only the Blood. I may have desired your life long ago, but no amount of hatred can weather the passage of centuries. I ask this of you because it is my wish to spare your life. Is that not gracious enough?¡±


    Gaspar shook his head. ¡°I cannot. Because you are my friend no longer, and I can sense none of the warmth we once shared. For the sake of all that is good, the Blood will remain with me, as was promised. Do not claim to be free of hatred when you stalk the night and threaten the lives of innocent people! Hatred cannot last, but it is those who cling to the dregs who are truly cursed, for they have forgotten all the grace of love!¡±


    ¡°You remain principled in your old, sullen age,¡± Cyprian took a step forward. ¡°-But it is for love¡¯s sake that I do this. If you have made your decision, then we will speak no further. Be at peace and know that I will mourn you in a distant age, Baptista.¡±


    They spoke formally and waited for one-another to finish, suspending a horrid and misplaced respect over the chaos that was now unfolding in the lounge. Prospero thought sadly, and hoped for the slightest of moments, that the two of them would continue on endlessly. But now they were silent, and the foulness between them ran thick like curdling blood. Gaspar tightened his grip on Prospero¡¯s wrist. ¡°This is not the way,¡± he said. ¡°Are there no words to convince you of that?¡±


    The nightmarish visitor shuffled towards them, both arms rigid at the waist like an unstrung puppet. ¡°Would that there were,¡± he answered simply. ¡°-But there are none.¡±


    ¡°...I see.¡± Gaspar sighed and straightened out his posture as if suddenly unburdened. He turned his head. ¡°Luthor-¡±


    ¡°I understand,¡± the manor¡¯s faithful butler lowered his head without the slightest inkling of hesitation. ¡°Leave everything to me, my old friend. I will not betray your expectations.¡±


    ¡°You had better not¡­¡± he stepped back, and Prospero followed in his paces. ¡°You had better not, Luthor - you old fool! Not once has death troubled me, but if something happens to Prospero-¡±


    ¡°Please,¡± Luthor interrupted. ¡°Have I ever disappointed you?¡±


    In the moment before the curtain was pulled, Gaspar glimpsed an old ray of light in Luthor¡¯s sunken face. He was reminded, if only for a spell, of better and simpler times in places unknown, and of the bond which ran thicker than blood between them. He smiled, and the fog in his mind cleared. ¡°It¡¯s been quite a journey, my friend,¡± he picked up speed on the retreat, his son in stumbling tow. ¡°Live long and prosper!¡±


    They crashed, embracing, through a wall of glass. Prospero watched the window shards reflecting motes of moonlight in the quiet serenity that followed and saw the starlit outline of Baptista manor vanishing as they flew down the steep western hill which overlooked a slice of Innsworm. He reserved his scream for the last moment, when it seemed certain that they were about to die, only for his father to land upon the mudslide as if from a gentle hop.


    They skidded down to a plateau not far above the first chimneys of the hamlet. Prospero stumbled, dizzied, when his father released him, and raised his head just in time to see the rest of the manor¡¯s windows shattering. Gaspar lurched forward and took him by the shoulder, reaching with his other hand to retrieve something from the pocket on his vest. ¡°Prospero,¡± he began.


    -But the young man was inconsolable with fear and adrenaline. ¡°Father, what¡¯s happening!? Who-¡±


    ¡°No, no; you really must listen to me. It is crucial that you do,¡± Gaspar spoke above his sobbing. ¡°You must drink this,¡± he said, flashing a vial of dirty iron emblazoned with fleurs and sigils which would have seemed beautiful were it not for the circumstances. ¡°Please.¡±


    The sight of something so strange steered Prospero towards lucidity. ¡°W-What is it?¡±


    ¡°It is¡­¡± Gaspar paused, reluctant to answer. ¡°It is a responsibility too great for any one man to bear. But it must be kept safe from those who would use it to achieve their twisted dreams. In your blood, it will be safe for the time being. But¡­¡±


    The damned howls of creatures in the night descended from on high, mingled with the freezing midnight air, drawing close to that tiny perch above the hamlet. Prospero clenched his eyes to distract from the tears which were now forming. He had never felt so much terror in his life.


    Gaspar¡¯s eyes glanced between his son and the vial as if weighing some terrible decision. ¡°I never wanted this to happen,¡± he said. ¡°I hoped that it would not, tempting as hope is. How wicked of a father I am for believing that lie all these years.¡±

 3 - Awake

    With a flick of his thumb, Gaspar displaced the cork on the vial and held his nose. Scarlet fumes escaped from the neck, and something immaterial stirred within Prospero¡¯s gut. The scent of iron was so powerful that it forced him to retch, to say nothing of his father, whose hands began to tremble. ¡°D-Drink it¡­¡± he spoke through clenched teeth. ¡°Drink it now, Prospero!¡±


    There were few things Prospero had ever been less eager to do, but the animosity in his father¡¯s tone enlightened him, however adolescent his understanding may have been, to the gravity of the situation. He took the vial and found it pleasantly warm to the touch, but refrained from peering down the neck to examine the hideous liquid bubbling up from within. Instead, he inhaled, closed his eyes, and brought the vial to his mouth. Acid sting flooded his gums and, near instantly, he wanted to spit the fluid out. He downed it like medicine, blocking his nose to eliminate the taste, and tried to recall better times. The viscous solution slid down his throat. He could feel it seething in the bowels of his stomach where it felt likely to tear a hole through him; but more than anything else, it was warm, and grew to a boiling head as if reacting to his flesh. Prospero felt nauseous, intoxicated, envenomed - worse than he had the words to describe, and yet he was also emboldened - strengthened - somehow, by the pain. When Gaspar took him by the hand, he could barely feel his father¡¯s touch over the numbness spreading across his skin.


    ¡°Are you well, Prospero?¡± he wondered, the fear now evident in his tired eyes. ¡°Speak to me, my son. Tell me you are alive.¡±


    ¡°I- urgh¡­¡± Prospero resisted the urge to vomit. ¡°...I am alive, father. Do not worry.¡±


    Gaspar tightened his lips, too proud to shed tears in front of his own child. ¡°The Triumph has blessed me,¡± he tightened his grip on Prospero¡¯s hand. ¡°I have been snapped in cold sweats from nightmares of this day, but none of the tragedies seen in my dreams have come to pass. You are still here - still my son. That is worth more to me than all the treasures of the realms.¡±


    With hurried movements, he unclasped his cloak and lowered it over Prospero¡¯s shoulders. The fur-lined mantle tickled his cheeks. ¡°I had plans for the day I would entrust you with this garment,¡± he said. ¡°A festival in the hamlet, a grand feast in the manor¡­ but plans so rarely turn out the way we want them to, my boy.¡±


    He took the vial back from Prospero.  ¡°What are you going to do, father?¡±


    ¡°I must face my past,¡± Gaspar led him by the hand down the slope, where the lights of Innsworm¡¯s homes were already beginning to flicker on. Prospero heard panicked voices from beyond the half-open windows. ¡°The past I sought to escape, but which I knew would always haunt me. It shall be the end of me, however ashamed I am to admit it. And you, Prospero - you must escape from this place.¡±


    He knew those words were coming, but refused to accept them. ¡°I won¡¯t,¡± he protested.


    Gaspar smiled. ¡°I so dearly wish you could stay,¡± he said. ¡°These years have been the very best of my life. Every second I have spent with you is one I would trade the realm to live again. I only wish it could have lasted forever¡­¡±


    A farewell? Prospero refused to accept it. He knew nothing of his father¡¯s past, nor of the wicked creature who had barged into their home and so quickly sundered the peace of their family. As they spoke, the shadows lingered still around Baptista manor. He wondered if it was the last he would ever see of the old building.


    ¡°Come here¡­¡± Gaspar threw his arms open, and Prospero rushed forward to embrace him. ¡°It is my fault this has happened,¡± he said, cradling the young man¡¯s head. ¡°I know not what the future holds in store, but we cannot go back to how things were. I have faith in you, my son. Know that I have always loved you, though not even a quarter as fiercely as your mother did.¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­ I love you too.¡± Prospero¡¯s voice wavered. ¡°I¡¯ve never said anything of the sort before, but-¡±


    Something plummeted into the soil, and they fell. A few screams rattled the air, some of which Prospero recognised. His father rose as if possessed, his back now turned, as a trail of shadows followed from the windows of the manor right down to where he stood. Four figures were formed from the darkness, one of whom had revealed himself that night already. ¡°Gaspar,¡± he began. ¡°Run no further. Accept your fate.¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­ my legs aren¡¯t quite what they used to be,¡± Gaspar managed a smirk, though it was more for show than anything else. ¡°You, on the other hand, Cyprian¡­ you haven¡¯t aged a day. Not that it¡¯s done anything for your complexion.¡±


    The monster¡¯s arm waved in his direction. ¡°End him. And be quick about it.¡±


    Three hooded individuals, one of whom with hair longer than the others, stepped forward to exact their supposed master¡¯s will. Prospero pulled himself up from the ground and convinced himself, reluctant to accept the reality unfolding before his eyes, that the speed with which his father moved was merely a trick of the moonlight. Gaspar stepped longer and farther than any man had the right to, closing the distance between himself and one of the assailants in a fraction of a second. Arm primed, he struck without grace or fancy, leveraging supreme momentum to send the hooded figure plummeting through the wall of a nearby home.


    The second foe, with similar speed, manoeuvred behind him, only to be caught by a reversed elbow and exacting roundhouse before there was time to react. Gaspar placed one foot upon the felled opponent¡¯s spine and turned his attention to the third, already halfway through a vicious haymaker aimed at the jaw. The scrapping mulch of bones breaking accompanied the clean hit, knocking the third onto their back. Gaspar lifted his foot and brought it down to shatter the vertebrae of the second, who was only just now recovering from the previous blow.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    ¡°Magnificent¡­¡± the one named Cyprian observed with bulging eyes. ¡°Tens of decades without blood, and yet your strength remains inhuman. The bloodline of the Apex is formidable indeed.¡±


    ¡°Fencing is more my speed these days,¡± Gaspar replied. ¡°There are so many exquisite things to experience in this world, Cyprian. It is never too late for a man to change his ways.¡±


    The distant screams dwindled in number. Those three followers were not the only ones who had descended upon the hamlet, Prospero realised. He was transfixed by the sight of his father¡¯s expertise, never once expecting that the man who had treated him with such love and care could be capable of such violence.


    ¡°Exquisite, perhaps. But where do the arts fit in this wasting world?¡± Cyprian took a step forward. ¡°Your solution to the vacuum left in the Founder¡¯s wake was to retreat into the wild realms like a coward. But our duty is not yet done, Gaspar. Chaotic dreams fester in this new dawn beyond the rule of darkness. A responsibility to unite the Incandescence has been thrust upon us, and only I have answered its call - not you, and not the others, so content with your well-earned lives to consider that more work is yet to be done.¡±


    ¡°We cannot oppose the darkness in men¡¯s hearts,¡± Gaspar shook his head. ¡°We can only create peace where we may, and even that may be fleeting. Coming here, attacking my home, threatening my life¡­ is this how you would enforce the way of peace? Through violence?¡±


    ¡°If you had only handed the Blood to me, this could have been avoided!¡± Cyprian¡¯s temper crumbled, and he snapped like a viper. ¡°But now¡­ now you would damn me with the duty of bloodying my own hands!? Have you no heart!?¡±


    ¡°I should ask you the same! You cannot see it, but the bloodthirst has consumed you!¡±


    ¡°I am only as powerful as my needs demand! You have abandoned the Incandescence to centuries of conflict!¡± Cyprian crossed his wrists and pounced. ¡°Die, and find your peace in the Great Dream, Gaspar Baptista!¡±


    They clashed - a moment imperceptible to Prospero, who could only glimpse the battle in mirages conjured after the fact. The air protested their rabid swings, every missed blow likely to topple a mountain. The acrid scent of smoke danced in the whistling winds, and Prospero could spot, rising between the studs of light against the night sky, plumes of smoke which were now rising above and around the manor.


    He needed to run. To escape from the cruel and fantastic world in front of him. But there was nowhere to turn; not while his father and the abomination named Cyprian were waltzing through the mud, tugging for control between wicked chains of sways and parries. The buffeting gales threatened to push him down.


    Then it happened; a flourish of claws caught Gaspar clean in the eyes, and in that short, exploitable instant, Cyprian lunged jaw-first to latch onto his neck, retreating only a second later with a ribbon of blood connecting his serpentine teeth to the man¡¯s neck. The claws upon Cyprian¡¯s hands lengthened and grew as he lapped the stains free from his lips. What little humanity could be glimpsed through his eyes seemed to vanish altogether. ¡°Die, Gaspar!¡±


    Striking with both hands, he gouged a lattice of wounds across Gaspar¡¯s chest. His claws parted skin and bone like water, sharp beyond the realm of imagination. Prospero saw very little of the fight beforehand, but that decisive blow he witnessed in all of its terrible glory. ¡°Father!¡± he screamed.


    Cyprian slipped a hand under his coat and tore the buttons free, exposing the pale and emaciated physique hidden beneath. From a pocket within, he retrieved a stake of carved wood. ¡°To think I would ever put this terrible weapon to use once again!¡± he yelled. ¡°You were my brother once! But I will not abide your cowardice in the face of the world¡¯s annihilation!¡±


    Just as Gaspar collapsed onto his back, Cyprian brought the stake down to pierce his heart. There was a sound, a kind of ear-popping explosion, as something burst in the cavity of Gaspar¡¯s chest, and in the next moment, he was still. Like fleeting dust, there was suddenly nothing of Prospero¡¯s father to remember; his body turned to ash in the next moment and vanished on the forceful winds, leaving behind only the garments he wore in life


    ¡°Father¡­,¡± Prospero fell to his knees. ¡°No¡­ No!¡±


    Cyprian paid the lad no mind. His attention was focused solely on the vial hidden beneath the pile of clothing, which he plucked from the remains and lifted towards the moon. ¡°Finally¡­¡± he muttered. ¡°The Founder¡¯s Blood¡­ with this, the tragedy of men will be-¡±


    He tilted the vial and noticed that the cork was missing. ¡°...What?¡±


    Lowering himself to a pitiable hunch, Cyprian stared down the length of the iron tube. ¡°No! Where is it!?¡± his eyes became fevered and desperate. ¡°What have you done!?¡±


    The pieces fell together in his head like snowdrops, and soon his gaze was directed towards Prospero. ¡°You!¡± he screamed. ¡°He couldn¡¯t have¡­ he wouldn¡¯t dare!¡±


    ¡°Stay away from me!¡± Prospero scrambled to his feet and retreated as quickly as his legs could carry him. ¡°You killed my father! How could you!? You¡¯re a monster in the guise of a man!¡±


    ¡°The- the Beastblood¡­¡± his words were now careful, almost pathetic. ¡°You know not of the curse you carry, lad! Your father has betrayed you - transformed you into a scapegoat to spite my long journey! You mustn¡¯t run¡­ you mustn¡¯t run from me! Only offer yourself willingly, and I will spare you the agony of death!¡±


    Blood regurgitated from his mouth - a reflex that predated some unwanted event, judging by his desperate pleas. ¡°D-Damn this Apex purity¡­ my body cannot¡­¡±


    And then he fell, face-first and comatose - or perhaps worse, into the mud. Prospero didn¡¯t waste a second of the opportunity before he was off and running, tears streaming from his face, down the layers of burning Innsworm and towards the old road leading towards the fores, past the wailing faces and silhouettes of his kinsmen being slaughtered in the dark. He sprinted with such surprising speed that the world appeared to be moving twice as fast, though he dared not stop and peer over his shoulder for fear of glimpsing another nightborne menace.


    His father dead, his home destroyed, his blood seething like acid, he vanished into the darkness of the woods where the slightest ray of hope promised him another moment of life.