Spoiler: Chapter 38 - Death and Darkness - Part 1
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Flickering tendrils of fire cast eery rays upon the stone wall, light that danced in menacing sway across the pulsing fabric of the heavy drapes. The soft breeze drifted through the darkened chamber, in a warm touch that grazed cool and pale skin. Slowly, dry eyes crept open. Willow lay upon the cushioned mattress of her bed within her quarters of the Monteguard Manor, silk sheets and heavy rugs tucked in beneath her. Though she was awake, she felt the curious sensation that held her body. Her frame lay in perfect stillness. Her chest did not rise and fall, her heart did not beat. Even her limbs were far more comfortable in their resting state. As she remained where she was, she began to understand the feeling of death, or undeath as it were. When a frown pulled tight upon her brow, she instinctively drew a deep breath inward. It was a peculiar feeling, though her lungs inflated and deflated as she exhaled, the air simply withdrew from her chest much like a paper bag. She clenched her knuckles, simply to test their movement. She wriggled her toes in the same way. Though they moved much as they should, it was the same and yet so very different. Slowly, she pulled the blankets free and lifted herself into a seated position. Though the chamber was barley lit by a single torch, she could see as clearly as she would in daylight. She could hear the soft footsteps of someone walking the carpeted corridors beneath her on the lower floor. She could hear the drip of the water tap in her bathing chamber, as if it rang beside her ear. The overwhelming sensory experience had her close her eyes tightly, to try to sort through the mess of her head. When she calmed her mind and simply allowed it to drift, the curious lack of a heartbeat truly rattled her composure. With unsure hands she reached down by the side of her mattress, pulling free the thin blade that she always kept hidden close. With intense eyes watching the blades trail, she dragged it firmly across the palm of her hand. She felt the cold metal keenly as it sliced through the flesh, yet as the skin parted, it left a clean path. No blood poured from the deep wound, no red nor crimson swelled from beneath. Slowly, she watched the peculiar flanks of skin pull together, as it closed and sealed itself. As the seconds crawled by, she saw the layers of flesh knit together, before the cut became undetectable. Instinctively, she exhaled sharply. She dropped the dagger upon her nightstand, standing from the bed upon unsure legs. She had no mind to notice she was dressed in nothing but a silk nightgown, as she stumbled through towards the bathing chamber. She turned the faucet full pelt and splashed the water roughly upon her face. With shaking hands and droplets of water running down her neck and chest, Willow felt an uncontrollable need surge within. A blistering urgency exploded in her chest, as her fangs plunged down and began to throb and quiver. She felt the innards of her stomach clench and twist, churning in feral hunger. As the furious bloodlust overtook her mind, she paced the chamber in restless unease. Back and forth her feet took her, as her head flustered in turmoil. She had never experienced such an overwhelming desperation. She had never known it was truly possible to crave something so much. As the sound of footsteps sounded upon the upper hallway, Willow had no means of controlling her actions. She prowled upon light feet towards the doorway and swiftly passed through the private parlour. As the footsteps neared, she swung the door wide and recoiled from the blinding light of the well lit hallway.
“Master Pellius!” Atwood bellowed loudly, as his image came into view, “Niritta!”
He stood in the centre of the long hallway with confident staying hands held out in front of him. As she smelled the scent of living blood swarming in his veins, the bloodlust flared to a vast and burning height. She could not stop herself as her feet prowled towards him. Though she heard the distant sound of running and hurried footsteps, she could focus on nothing save the gushing blood that coursed through the firm muscle upon his throat.
“Control it Willow,” Atwood growled forcefully, “You need to control it!”
His words barely registered in her mind, as the ravenous need seethed in tortuous fury. She hissed viciously as she slowly stalked towards him. Suddenly, Pellius appeared at the head of the stairs, with a face of determination and fierce resolve. Willow stretched her mouth wide in a savage threatening hiss, the need for blood forcing her lash out at him in menace.
“Restrain her if you will, Master Pellius,” Atwood instructed firmly.
Willow heard the words, but could not make sense of them. She knew nothing save the dire need to devour. She was enraptured and possessed by the thirst. As Pellius’ stride brought him closer, she was captured by the scent of his thick and flowing blood. She launched herself towards him, sharp nails like claws sinking deeply into his flesh, snarling in barbaric hunger. He was brutal in his seizure, crushing hand latching on her arm tightly, lifting her effortlessly as he pulled her tightly against him, forcing her fangs away by her head with his other hand. Willow may have been easy to grab, but she had never been easy to keep hold of. She deftly slipped from his grip in frightening speed, leaping upon him apace, latching her claws into his shoulders as she plunged her fangs deep into his neck. She managed the barest of tastes before he ripped her from him and threw her into the wall, shattering the glass framed picture in a shower of shards and fragments. Willow snarled viciously as she ripped a long shard from deep in her torso, darting quickly up from the floor. Before she had time to recover, Pellius lunged towards her, grasping her by a fist full of hair, swiftly lifting her and slamming her into the ground. He sank his knees into her back, crushing her with his weight. Though she snarled and thrashed with predatory ferity, she was not strong enough to shift him. She hissed a furious rage, the frenzied bloodlust screaming its revolt against the denial of her prey.
“Niritta, quickly,” came Atwood’s voice from afar, “You know what to do. Master Pellius, please hold her still.”
The hazel haired woman appeared in Willow’s vision. When the scent of another drifted to her noise, she began to thrash anew. With a strong and unrelenting grip, Pellius wrapped his hand around her throat, with his other still clenched tightly in her hair. If Willow had needed to breathe, she would be a few moments from losing consciousness at the crushing force of his controlling hands. Even in the unbreakable grip, Willow could think of nothing save sating her undeniable hunger. Niritta lowered herself to her knees, pulling her long locks to the side to bare her throat to Willow. Slowly, Pellius guided her forward, allowing her access. When she felt her fangs pierce the woman’s delicate skin, she whimpered in ecstasy. She gulped the velvet scarlet as it flowed into her mouth, greedily devouring the sweet and soft flow of the warm liquid.
“Slowly, mistress,” Atwood’s calming voice crooned, “Slowly. We will not deny you. But you must take it slow.”
Somehow, whether by his soothing voice or by the blood that began to sate her hunger, she understood his words. Though she could not bring herself to release her mouth upon Niritta’s neck, she nodded her understanding.
“Good, mistress, very good,” Atwood said quietly, “Niritta?”
“I am fine, sir,” the woman said softly.
“You may let her go, Master Pellius,” Atwood instructed.
She felt Pellius look to the aged man, and she saw Atwood’s gentle nod. Slowly, he released his frightful grip on her throat, leaving sickly white marks where his hand had been. He gently lifted his weight from her, standing ever ready to commence his control were it needed. Without breaking contact on her throat, Willow crawled towards Niritta, dragging the slender woman further into her grasp.
“Slowly, mistress,” Atwood soothed.
Willow gently traced her hands over the bare flesh of the young servant’s neck, in something akin to a caress, as she fed and sated the simmering thirst within her. Slowly, the hunger dissipated. Willow dropped Niritta from her grip, languidly falling into a heaped stupor beside her. The young woman carefully rose to her feet, pressing a flank of linen to her neck as she bowed respectfully and retreated from the hallway. Gentle and firm arms scooped her up from the floor, as Pellius held her tightly to his chest. Willow’s limbs felt weak and fragile, as they dangled from his embrace with a leisurely sway. As he turned for the bedchamber, she finally awoke enough to realise what had happened. She strained against the lethargy and lifted her head to look towards the butler.
“H-how?” was all she managed to stammer.
He simply smiled knowingly, inclining his head, “You are not the first Monteguard to be taken by the vampiric curse… Sleep well, mistress.”


When the confusion and sated haze finally wore off, the evening had grown far passed midnight. As Willow’s eyelids flickered open, she felt the incredible weight of shame shroud her mind. She had never before acted in such an uncontrolled show of savagery. She had launched herself towards those she called friends, with the clear intent of draining them dry. What would she have done, if Atwood had not been so prepared?
“Ah, you awaken,” his tired voice said, as if summoned by her thoughts, “Are you well, mistress?”
Sitting in a chair pulled by the side of the bed, Atwood wiped his fatigued and reddened eyes, standing to attention once more. It was clear, he had remained by her side the entire time she had been asleep.
“Do you require more to drink?” he questioned.
“No,” she said quietly, dragging her weary body into a seated position, “I am fine, Atwood. But I must apologise, i-”
“Please, mistress,” he silenced softly, “There is no need.”
Willow looked to the frail aged man, frowning deeply as the shame lingered.
“Do not be sorry. For you have nothing to be sorry for. It is my fault, for not being as swift as I could have been. I knew you would rise tonight, but I naively assumed I had more time.”
“You knew?” Willow frowned.
“Yes, mistress,” he smiled gently, “I have guided a few through the transition in my time. I recognised the signs upon your return. Paler skin, fading appetite, longer teeth.”
Willow grinned at his words, yet frowned as she realised her fangs still hung from her mouth. Upon seeing her worry, he simply continued to smile.
“They will retract in time, mistress.”
“And the girl?” Willow asked, “She is alright?”
“Niritta was once a vampire’s thrall, though she has long been cured of the curse. She was more than willing to subject herself to it again in your time of need. Strangely, it seems the bite has had little effect, save leaving her a little light headed.”
“And Pellius?” Willow asked warily, surprised to see him not by her side, “I do not remember him leaving…”
Atwood looked upon her with wise and understanding eyes, though he did not comment on her worry.
“Master Pellius has retired for the evening. He was looking quite unwell, it seems the curse shall take him in quick succession to you, mistress.”
“Where is he?”
“He has taken rest in the guests quarters, to allow you time to yourself to recover, while he passes through the transition.”
“Oh,” Willow frowned, sounding far more disappointed than she had intended to reveal, “Very well, Atwood. Thank you. And I do apologise for trying to… eat you…”
The aged butler grinned, a rare show of sharpened teeth, “I do not believe the ancient and decrepit blood in my veins would have tasted very fresh, mistress…”


Settling in to the state of undead, took far longer than Willow had expected. She felt awkward and inelegant, as though her bones could not keep up with her movements. She was faster than before, more agile and quicker on her feet. Her senses were sharper, her smell, sight and hearing keener, her reactions swifter. And yet, as she sprinted through the grassed lands of the Monteguard estate, she found herself stumbling and struggling for balance. She had remained in her deceased state for three days and nights, leaving her limbs stiff and sore after so long unmoving and static. While both Pellius and Garvana moved through their deathly transition, and Bor took time to rest and unwind, Willow was determined to master her new form.
The grounds of the manor were vast rolling hills of lush emerald grass, adorned with draping willow trees and high reaching oaks. The garden stretched in stunning expanse, row of pruned bushes and blossoming flowers, small sanctuaries embellished with fountains and weather-worn stone benches. By the cover of darkness, as the crescent moon lingered overhead; it was the perfect setting for Willow to stretch her legs. She ran through the winding trails, leaping over the trimmed garth, ducking and darting under the low falling branches of the largest trees. As her stride grew more confident, she quickened her pace. She swept along the verdant terrain, as silent as a whisper yet as fast as a howling wind. She grinned as she leapt high into the air to clear the peak of the topiary, sailing above it as the breeze tore through her long rippling ebony locks. When she had exited the manor, she had planned only to lightly run for half a mile before returning. So she had dressed in simple loose fitting slacks and a blouse, leaving her armour and weapons behind. But as she delved deeper into the shadowed caress of the Monteguard’s land, she found her mind eagerly hunger for more. She ran through the shrubs, lightweight and unhindered by jewellery and finery. She let her hair fly free from its usual tight and practical braid, the wind lashing it into unruly disarray. The lax clothing she wore, slick to her front as it billowed behind her and fluttered softly against the skin of her back. When she reached the edge of the grounds, arriving at the steep cliff side of River Danyth, she slowed her sprint to a stop as she toed along the crest. It was curious, that she had ran for the better part of an hour, never needing to stop or catch her breath. For there was nothing to catch. Even as she paused along the fringe of the tall descent, she did not heave or pant with exertion. A laugh came bubbling from her chest as the peculiar situation floated through her mind. For a time, she simply stared out over the coursing river, eyes trailing over the glorious view of Kingsill and the old palace. Though tomorrow she had much to do, wound tightly in steel and leather, or layered and draped in fabrics and jewels; for tonight, for a moment, she could simply be free.

The moon had begun its descent as Willow strolled her way back through the gardens towards the manor. Following the twisting paths that she had spent so much of her younger years exploring, her mind was far away with thoughts of her birth and beginnings. As she rounded the bend that led into the topiary labyrinth, a shadowed figure suddenly appeared, stopping her in her tracks.
“How strange to find you so… bare…” Switch’s devious voice rasped.
Willow could feel his eyes trailing over her figure. Suddenly, she was completely aware of how unarmed she was. Although she had begun to believe he meant her no harm, the malicious glee in his voice sparked a fierce and instinctive warning.
“You really have nothing better to do?” she asked disdainfully, hiding her trepidation behind confident words, “Do you pine for each moment you can steal with me?”
Even in the blackness of the shade that cast from the tailored bushes, she saw the feral grin that lifted his lips.
“Each and everyone,” he replied, prowling towards her in stalking unhurried steps, “Though I had never dreamed to find you so unguarded, so unprepared. No blades, no armour… no breath…”
Willow arched a slow brow, keeping a strong face as he approached, her mind churning in any possible escape. As he slowly drew his blades from their sheathes, she felt herself holding her breath in preparation to run.
“I have never liked the smell of undead,” he rasped, stepping closer, “Yet strangely, on you, it is almost… inviting.”
“Consider the invitation withdrawn,” Willow scoffed, piercing gaze locked with his.
Slowly, he stepped closer again, chuckling as it brought him mere inches from her face. As he looked deep into her eyes, consuming her with simply his sight, she waited patiently for his attack. She knew running now would be folly, for he was too quick to allow her to pass. She could not hope to overwhelm him with brute strength, for he far outweighed her ability. She would have to wait and bide her time until the perfect moment arose. He slowly lifted his blade, pressing the point lightly into the centre of her chest. He spoke, as he slowly dragged the dagger downward and split open the front of her blouse.
“It is deceiving,” he whispered, “How innocent you look without all the effects. You look much like you did when we first met.”
“I was a child,” she laughed coldly, “And you were a predator.”
At that, he leisurely pushed the blade forward, far enough to pierce through the skin. As a whimper of delighted pain escaped her mouth, his eyes lit up in amorous glee. He opened his mouth to speak, but Willow gave him no time. With fast and ferocious movements, she reached out and gripped the blade by the handle, twisting it from his grasp as she dropped low and pulled to the right. Using her weight, she thrust the blade from his hand and leapt up to meet him. He gave her not a moment of celebration before he lunged towards her, faster than even her vampiric eyes could track, one hand gripping her wrist and the other around her throat. With a terrible force, he pushed her backwards, slamming her back into the topiary behind her. She felt the sliced branches and twigs pierce through the flimsy material, stabbing deep into her cold flesh. With the blade still firmly in her hand, he simply held her there, staring deep into her eyes.
“I am still the predator,” he whispered, a dark and possessive promise to his words, “And you will always be my prey.”
With wide eyes that revealed the terror in his statement, Willow’s mouth parted slowly. She had never truly understood Switch’s part in her story, and though she had little clue now, a spark of realisation surfaced.
“What do you want of me?” she rasped, “What will you do, if I ever stop fighting and simply allow you to have me?”
A strange mix of emotions swarmed through his black and feasting eyes. There were things she recognised; hunger, carnal craving, feral possessiveness. Yet if she was not mistaken, there was a touch of sadness. It was there for only a moment, before his depraved and sinful grin returned.
“You will never,” he whispered, “And that is why it is so much fun.”
A slight lessening to his fierce grip, he leant forward slowly, pressing a deceiving and delicate kiss upon her lips. For a moment, she felt herself sigh into his embrace. A languid contentment came upon her, a calm comfort within his tender caress. But as she returned his affections with the trace of her tongue, she felt the curious sensation of arcana brushing against her flesh. As her mind fought the enchantment, she felt his grasp on her loosen as he sunk further into the kiss. She saw her opportunity, suddenly ripping herself free, veering to the left of him to spin and slip up behind him. Her movements were faster than they had ever been, too fast for him to see or predict as she launched her weight forward and shoved him into the topiary with the blade pressed firmly to the back of his neck. As she grinned, quite pleased with herself, he proved once again that she knew little of the extent of his tricks. He vanished. Simply disappearing from her grasp, without a spoken word or subtle movement.
“You will never stop fighting,” came his rasping voice from behind her.
She swiftly span on her heel, frowning deeply to see him standing behind her, leaning casually upon the stone archway to the labyrinth.
“What are you?” she growled in frustration.
His dastardly grin appeared in clear delight. Though she stared piercing and shrewd eyes towards him, she knew there was no chance of an answer.
“Come along,” he smirked, ignoring her question, “It has been four days since you accepted the contract. The client grows restless…”

With only a few hours before the break of dawn, Willow and Switch ran through the streets of Cathsill. Under the cover of darkness, the pair slinked through the back alleys of the winding region, making their way to the largest building upon the immense hill. It was known that the High Cardinal lived in towering three story estate, a palace only rivalled by the Adarium itself. It was not surprising, as Matharyn was truly a city that honoured their church as much as they did their royal family. Though Willow had passed the grounds many times while she had lived in the city, the grand mansion’s size could not truly be appreciated until it was seen up close. As they perched upon the tall stone brick wall that surrounded the estate, Willow surveyed the scene with calculating eyes bordered by a pulling frown. She did not have the time to search each and every room, as she had heard many times that there was rumoured to be close to one hundred chambers with the palace. For a moment, she simply watched the slow patrol of the guarding soldiers. When they saw a small statured chambermaid exit the grand chateau via the kitchen doors, Willow saw her chance. With the leisurely patrol rounding the far corner, she dropped from the great wall with Switch in close pursuit. Knowing well that the power of invisibility hid her approach, she was swift in her silent run, quickly wrapping her hand around the chambermaid’s mouth and dragging her back into the bushes along the edge of the gated wall. With great disdain, Switch retrieved the chamber pot the girl had been emptying, stashing it into the shrubbery beside the entrance. With quiet words and malicious eyes, Willow warned the maid to silence.
“Where is the Cardinal’s chamber?” Willow whispered.
The frightened maid stammered as she fought to hold back her frightened tears. When Willow pushed her dagger tighter into her throat, the woman began to tremble in her hands.
“I cannot not tell you,” the woman breathed, “I will not tell you!”
Eyes flashing crimson with feral warning of a soaring temper.
“I will not give you another chance,” she rasped viciously, “Tell me where his chamber is or I will slit your throat.”
As the war of indecision plagued the frail woman, true terror widened her eyes. Willow waited for her answer, blade held tight in preparation to silence any scream. Suddenly, as Switch strolled to their side, the woman’s eyes darted to his. As he reached out a tender hand, tracing it along her cheek, a calm look of enrapture overcame her face.
“Tell me dear,” he whispered sweetly, “Where are the High Cardinal’s chambers? And how do I get there?”
As if she was unaware she was held within the grasp of a blade, she replied as if to a lover, the woman blushed as she answered.
“The top floor,” she hushed, “In the very centre, follow the main corridor through the great hall, he sleeps in the bedchamber in the third door to the right.”
“And may we enter?” he breathed.
“Yes, of course,” she blushed.
Willow frowned, unsure exactly what he had done or how he had done it. Though her flushed complexion and fluttering eyes were peculiar, her next action was utterly baffling. With a slight nod as if she was agreeing to an unspoken command, she grabbed hold of Willow’s hand that held the blade and thrust it through her own throat. In shock, Willow released her hold on the woman, dropping the limp and bleeding form to the ground. She looked to Switch with wide eyes of fear and repulsion. She had known him to be sadistic and callous, she had known him to be a cruel and depraved creature. But as the cunning man simply smirked and scoffed at her unsettled composure, she realised just how little she knew of him. Willow had never heard of magic so strong that it could compel an innocent to simply take their own life. It was with renewed worriment that she looked upon him. She had become comfortable around him; over time she had grown contented knowing that her skill had begun to match his own. But as she watched the life bleed from the frail woman’s throat, she felt she had grossly underestimated his strength.
“Lets go,” he said coldly, “You have little time and I will not aid you again.”
As she slowly inclined her head, turning from the body, she shook her head to clear it. No matter how callous, she still had a contract to complete.
After scaling up along the cast iron pipes, the pair reached the top floor window that housed the grand staircase. Deftly unlocking the glass aperture, they climbed through and swiftly prowled their way through the long and winding hallways, until they reached the grand arch that opened into a high vaulted chamber. Though it was late into the night, edging ever closer to morning, the large hall was not unoccupied. A small rank of pious knights stood in unwavering vigilance around the various entrances to the chamber. They wore large and embellished sets of glistening silver armour, marked with the livery of the grand High Cardinal Vitallian of Estyllis. These were the elite order of Knights Templar, tasked with the protection and safety of one of Mitra’s own. Even shielded by the shroud of invisibility, Willow still did not wish to test her steps by walking through the hall. With a silent signal to Switch, she retrieved a vial from her belt pouch and drank its contents. The potion contained the same curious magic that allowed her climb and scale the walls with spider-like efficiency. She pressed her hands against the passage wall, feeling the strange hairlike fibres along her fingers cling to the stone. In utter silence, she climbed high, passing through the ornate hall, over and out of sight of the unaware guardians.
When she entered the third door to the right, she saw it opened out into a large and luxurious sitting room, lit by only a few candles. To the far end of the chamber was another archway, one that revealed an elderly man deep within the grasp of slumber. Though eager to simply walk forward and take his life as he slept, caution kept her still by the entrance. Quietly, she peered through the doorway, eyes wide and thankful that she had listened to her instincts. At the eastern side of the chamber, hidden from view of the door, was an arrangement of fine tailored chairs and a small silver rimmed table. Sitting upon the armchair closest to the wall, was a glorious being of light. At first glance, Willow thought the rumours were true. The High Cardinal was guarded by an angel of Mitra, wings of pure white light that hung from his shining armour, eyes that glowed a radiant sapphire. For a moment, Willow’s resolve faltered. As she saw the mighty flail clasped to his belt, battle-worn and sturdy, she considered her dissolving options. As she watched the being for a time, she frowned. He was relaxed in the armchair, reading from a tome at an unhurried pace by the light from a single candle. As he reached forward to sip from his ceramic cup, cursing under his breath as he burnt his lips on the hot brew, Willow quirked her head. Upon further inspection, she realised he was not an angel of light, but simply a human with celestial blood. An aasimar, a man born with partial heavenly ancestor. Though his strength and power were not to be underestimated, he was not the tremendous threat that Willow had assumed. She considered eliminating him first, but swiftly dismissed the idea. If she was correct in her assumption, the glowing of his eyes granted him the ability to see through her shroud and disguise. She could not risk revealing her cards before she had played them. And so she moved with eery grace, unheard steps as she prowled through the shadowed chamber, using the decorative furniture as cover. As she entered the bedchamber, she had not noticed that Switch had vanished from sight, no longer trailing behind her. Her attention was focused solely on her approach of the sleeping man. As her steps brought her to the side of his opulent four poster bed, she looked over his face. For a man so worshiped, for a man so revered; he was simply only a man. As Willow drew her ruby blade from its sheath, her eyes narrowed upon her target. Calmly, she lifted the blade to the running vein of his jugular. By habit, she exhaled slowly. As she thrust the blade deep into his neck, her head suddenly whipped to the archway.
“NO!” screamed the aaismar, “What have you done, serpent?!”
As his blazing eyes glared with vile hatred, Willow knew he truly saw her. He did not see the face she wore by the work of the arcane circlet; he saw her for who she truly was. With profane might seething through her limbs, she tore the blade in savage wrath across his neck, severing his head from his shoulders.
“HEINOUS FIEND!” he bellowed, “YOU WILL PAY FOR WHAT YOU HAVE DONE!”
As the sound of thundering footsteps trembled the tiled floor as the knights ran toward the room, the aaismar charged at her with vengeance contorting his face. Willow ripped the scroll from her belt, hastening the arcane incantation. As the vortex of lurid light flashed before her eyes, she could not stop the grin that lifted her lips. The magic gripped hold of her frame, echoing his final vicious words as it tore her through the portal.
“I WILL FIND YOU, SERPENT!”