Chapter 06: The Monster(2/2)
"YOU FUCKING MONSTER, DIE!" Elara screamed through tears that carved glistening trails down her dirt-smudged cheeks.
The refined lady was gone, replaced by raw, primal rage that transformed her features into something almost feral.
Her entire body vibrated with fury, magic and emotion intertwining to create an aura of blue flame that seemed to flicker around her silhouette.
Her whole body surged forward in a fluid movement that began at her heels and traveled upward like a wave, culminating in the precise motion of her arm as she hurled a vial of holy water toward the towering vampire, now visibly exhausted from his attack on Bastian.
The crystal vial rotated end over end as it sailed through the air, its contents catching the moonlight like liquid diamond, leaving a trail of blessed droplets in its wake that sizzled where they touched the floor.
SPLASH!
The vial shattered against the vampire's chest, releasing its sanctified contents in an explosion of light and steam.
The holy water seemed to come alive upon contact with unholy flesh, seeking out wounds and seeping into them with malicious purpose, glowing with an inner light as it worked its divine punishment.
"GRWAAAH!" The vampire howled in agony, a sound that seemed to originate from somewhere beyond the mortal plane—part animal, part something far older and more terrible.
His skin seared and bubbled where the holy water made contact, the edges of his wounds turning black and then crumbling away like burning paper.
The flesh that had just begun to knit itself back together dissolved under the blessed assault, leaving expanding cavities that exposed glimpses of bone and organ beneath.
Wracked with pain, the towering figure staggered backward, his massive frame colliding with the ornate banister of the staircase, splintering the wood with the impact.
His claws dug furrows into the marble floor as he fought to remain upright, each movement sending fresh waves of agony through his desecrated form.
But then—when it seemed he might finally fall—
"You MONSTER!" One of the maids, her face tear-streaked but set with determination, stepped forward from the shadows where the servants had gathered.
Her hands, trembling but purposeful, reached into the pockets of her apron and emerged with gleaming silver objects.
One after another, silver weapons rained down upon the vampire—thrown by the maids gathered near Elara.
Silver letter openers, decorative daggers, antique cutlery—the accumulated treasures of the mansion turned to weapons of war—arced through the air with deadly precision, embedding themselves in the vampire's flesh with wet, meaty sounds.
"DIE… die!" Another maid, her cap askew and her uniform splashed with blood not her own, hurled a set of silver forks with surprising accuracy.
The improvised weapons struck the vampire's shoulder and neck, sinking deep into unnatural muscle.
The vampire roared again in agony, the sound shaking dust from the ceiling and causing several of the stained glass panels to vibrate in their frames.
His massive frame twisted in pain, yet still he remained standing.
"Everyone…" Elara gazed at the maids, her expression conflicted, gratitude and fear warring across her features as she realized these women—these ordinary humans—were standing against a nightmare creature without hesitation.
Since the fall of the d'Armande family, not every servant or maid had been willing to stay at their side.
Unlike the two maids who had fled in panic, only these few remained—loyal to the end, including Bastian.
But Elara understood: not everyone was willing to risk their life in such dangerous circumstances.
She couldn't blame those who had run; terror was a rational response to the nightmare unfolding in their once-safe home.
Her gaze swept across the remaining servants—some trembling visibly, others standing with unnatural stillness born of shock, all unified by the same haunted determination in their eyes.
Even so...
"Ah…" Elara's eyes froze in shock, widening until the whites were visible all around her irises, the sad smile on her lips fading like frost under sudden heat.
Before she could even finish blinking, the maids who had just thrown their silver weapons—now standing together in grief—began to wrinkle and wither right before her eyes.
Their skin crinkled like paper in fire, age spots blooming across their hands in accelerated time, backs curving as though decades of burden were being placed upon their shoulders in mere seconds.
Only then did she realize what had happened in the split second her attention had wavered: the towering vampire was now some distance away, having moved with such preternatural speed that not even the dust motes in the air had time to disturb.
His massive frame loomed over another maid—his fangs embedded deep in the soft flesh where her neck met shoulder, draining her life as the maid's body twitched weakly like a marionette with tangled strings.
Blood stained the vampire's entire mouth, overflowing to cascade down his chin and soak into the collar of his shredded clothing.
The crimson liquid seemed unnaturally bright in the moonlight, almost luminous against his pale skin.
The sound of his greedy swallowing echoed through the cavernous hall, a grotesque counterpoint to the weakening heartbeat of his victim.
Elara's chest tightened so much she could barely breathe, her ribs feeling as though iron bands were constricting around them.
Her emotions flared like wildfire, her skin flushing red from neck to hairline as tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision with prisms of grief.
How?! HOW?! her mind screamed in disbelief, the words reverberating in her skull with such force she feared they might burst forth audibly.
Her hands trembled around the hilt of her saber, sweat making the ornate grip slippery in her palms.
The blue mana that had flowed so readily before now flickered erratically around her fingertips, responding to her emotional turmoil.
Yet now she noticed—the vampire's heart, still visible through a gaping, ragged wound in his chest, was twitching with unnatural vitality.
As she watched, a silver fork—once embedded deeply in the beating organ—slowly worked its way out millimeter by millimeter, like a splinter being rejected by the body.
The metal utensil vibrated slightly as it was pushed from the flesh, the silver blackening as if the vampire's very essence was corrupting the blessed metal.
What kind of MONSTER ARE YOU?! Elara screamed inwardly, the words caught in her throat as she steadied herself and gripped her saber with both hands.
The blade felt suddenly inadequate—a child's toy against a force of nature. Her knuckles whitened around the hilt, her stance widening as she fought to center herself.
"Huff…" she exhaled, taking a deep breath.Stay sharp, Elara. Don't falter now… she willed herself.
Then—when hope seemed most distant—
"Regalia Lucis, descend and strike with justice." The soft voice of her elder sister, Lyra, rang out, each syllable perfectly enunciated with the precision of years of devotional practice.
Unlike the chaotic rage of battle, her tone carried the serene certainty of absolute faith.
Holy, blinding light materialized with a gentle radiance that belied its power, starting as a pinpoint above the vampire's head before expanding into a column of pure, divine energy.
The air seemed to part around the light, creating a perfect cylinder that isolated the creature from the mortal realm.
The spell pierced straight into the vampire's chest—lancing through the wound where his heart lay exposed—freezing him mid-feast, paralyzed in the act of draining blood.
His body went rigid, a statue of horror caught in its most primitive moment.
The maid slipped from his grasp, her half-drained body collapsing to the floor like a discarded doll.
The vampire's eyes—still burning red—widened in what might have been the first genuine fear he had experienced since awakening.
His mouth opened in a silent scream as the light filled him from within, illuminating his veins and arteries like a macabre network of glowing rivers beneath his skin.
"It's finally over…" Lyra whispered, her voice barely audible above the gentle hum of the divine power she had summoned.
She had been chanting the spell all along, gathering power while positioning herself at the perfect confluence of moonlight from the stained glass above.
All while witnessing her younger sister's despair and the deaths of their loyal people, her concentration had never wavered despite the tears that had silently tracked down her cheeks throughout the ordeal.
As the spell took full effect, encasing the vampire in a prison of holy light that rendered him immobile, Lyra dropped to her knees.
The silk of her clothes billowed around her like a pale flower, her ash-blonde hair coming loose from its careful arrangement to cascade around her shoulders in a silver-gold curtain.
Her strength, maintained through sheer will and faith, finally abandoned her.
Tears streamed down her face unchecked, falling to the marble floor where they mingled with the blood of their servants.
"W-why… w-why… why does it have to be like this…" Lyra sobbed, her voice trembling with exhaustion and grief. Each word caught in her throat like broken glass, her breath coming in uneven hitches that shook her slender frame.
But Elara, standing frozen in the aftermath, fought through a swirl of mixed emotions—grief, rage, desperation, and beneath it all, a stubborn refusal to surrender.
Her jaw clenched tight enough to ache, teeth grinding audibly as she forced rational thought through the fog of horror.
"Sister! Don't—don't cry! Compose yourself! Sir Bastian still needs us—now!" Elara shouted, her voice cracking with the strain of forced authority.
She shook herself like a fighter clearing her head after a stunning blow, urging herself back into action with the desperate energy of one who knows hesitation means death.
Swiftly, she leapt up to the massive chandelier, using the decorative scrollwork of a nearby wall as improvised handholds.
There, suspended fifteen feet above the ground, she saw Bastian's body impaled from every side—through his skull where a brass rod had entered beneath his jaw and exited through the crown, through his chest where decorative spikes had punctured both lungs, through his limbs now arranged in a grotesque parody of a marionette's pose—so gruesome that she clapped a hand over her mouth, the taste of bile rising in her throat.
"No… no, no, no…" Tears flowed anew down her face, cutting clean tracks through the dust and blood spattered across her cheeks.
Bastian's eyes—those that had watched over her since childhood, that had crinkled at the corners when he allowed himself a rare smile—stared sightlessly upward, fixed forever in that final moment of surprise.
The monocle that had been his constant companion hung by a thread from his ear, swaying gently with each subtle movement of the chandelier. His silver hair was now stained dark with blood, the once-immaculate mustache matted and twisted.
Healing him was impossible; she could only retrieve his body, this final dignity all she could offer the man who had protected their family through generations of service.
Her hands trembled as she worked to free him from the metal that had claimed his life, each wet, sucking sound as flesh separated from brass sending fresh waves of nausea through her.
Slowly, she descended, carrying the remains with as much dignity as she could muster, her knees nearly buckling under the deadweight.
She glanced at her elder sister who, hopeful and ready to heal, rose shakily to her feet at Elara's approach, only to freeze in shock—just as Elara had moments before.
Lyra's hand flew to her throat, her already pale complexion turning ashen as the reality of Bastian's condition registered.
But then Lyra—her eyes still wet with tears that caught the spelllight like diamonds—suddenly widened, pupils dilating in alarm.
Her gaze fixed on something behind Elara, something that made her breath catch and her lips part in a silent gasp.
She stepped forward with unexpected grace, moving past Elara and Bastian's remains with deliberate care.
"Run… sister," she whispered with a soft, reassuring smile that didn't reach her eyes.
With gentle but firm hands, she pushed Elara aside, the pressure of her fingers leaving momentary impressions on Elara's shoulders.
Elara, caught in confusion, pain, and anger, was about to shout at Lyra for stepping over Bastian's body and pushing her away—her mouth opening in righteous indignation, words of reproach forming on her tongue.
Only to realize, as her perspective shifted—the towering vampire now stood directly behind her elder sister, his massive frame emerging from the dissipating remains of the holy light that should have contained him.
The spell had failed, or perhaps had never been strong enough to begin with. The vampire's skin still smoked slightly where the divine energy had touched him, but the wounds were already closing, knitting themselves together with unnatural speed.
His eyes—no longer entirely red but still inhuman—fixed on Elara with predatory focus, a terrible intelligence replacing the mindless hunger of before.
"NO!" Elara screamed, the word torn from her throat with such force that it felt like something physical had been ripped from her body.
She scrambled for the holy water in her pocket, fingers clumsy with panic as they sought the last vial she carried.
Lyra didn't turn, didn't flinch—her back straight as a blade as she faced the creature, a final barrier between the monster and her beloved sister.
But unlike before, the vampire moved with terrifying speed and cunning—not the blind rush of animal hunger but the calculated strike of an apex predator.
One massive hand shot out to catch Lyra by the throat, lifting her from the ground with contemptuous ease.
Her feet kicked helplessly, inches above the marble, her hands clawing ineffectually at the iron grip around her neck.
With his other hand, the vampire casually batted aside Elara's desperate attack, sending her flying backward into a decorative column with enough force to crack the stone and drive the air from her lungs.
In the next instant, while Elara was still struggling to rise, gasping for breath that wouldn't come, she felt her own strength ebbing away as a sharp, piercing pain lanced through her neck.
…
It was intoxicating—hazy, at times painful, yet finally fulfilling, like he'd eaten steak and fried chicken, washed down with coke, after a day of starvation.
The bliss spread through Lucien's body like warm honey, each pulse of blood from the girl's neck sending fresh waves of pleasure and strength coursing through his veins. His senses sharpened with each swallow—colors becoming more vibrant, sounds more distinct, scents more complex.
A blissful feeling that shattered the darkness clinging to Lucien's consciousness like dawn breaking through storm clouds.
The red haze that had dominated his perception since awakening receded, rational thought reasserting itself with increasing clarity.
Images flashed through his mind—the coffin, the mansion, the frightened servants, the battle—fragmented scenes stitching themselves together into a horrific tapestry of realization.
Only to realize… "Huh?" His mouth was latched onto someone's neck, a body dangling from his grasp like a broken doll.
He could feel the weakening pulse beneath his lips, the slowing rhythm of a heart preparing for its final beats.
Warm blood filled his mouth, the copper taste both revolting and irresistibly delicious.
The faint, flowery scent of jasmine filled his nose—delicate, feminine, and incongruously gentle amid the charnel house the mansion had become.