I can't help but notice the old chapel built into the corner of the overgrown garden as I walk through the estate's twisted gates. The irony of such a building, tucked away at the edge of this nest of shadow, is not lost on me. The plain windows are dark, coated in a thick layer of grime and dust. If any life yet stirs within, I cannot see it. Above the little stone tower's sealed wooden doors is a brass helix, the everlasting symbol of the Almighty. This sigil of divinity and protection is also caked in accumulated muck from many nights of rain, but the hazy moonlight still gleams along its curves like a spattering of silver mercury.
The chapel's tiny graveyard is home to a pathetic trio of beaten, misshapen ghouls, all ragged, once-fine attire and protruding blades of bone. Their rheumy eyes cannot see me at this distance, nor their less natural senses. Old ghouls reaching the end of their physical integrity. A first attempt by a fledgling creature of shadow. Those would be the master and mistress of the house, perhaps? And the third, the manor's head maid? I have no inclination to approach and confirm.
Climbing the leaf-laden path towards the manor itself, between bedraggled trees and neglected topiary, I am set upon by a much heartier cohort of ghouls. They lurch out of the tangled greenery like hunting spiders in the dirt. Their eyes reflect the moon as a brilliant, unnatural red, the shine of a polished ruby. The closest of the creatures have matching red stains on their teeth and under their nails, and they are marked with streaking, burgundy stains like painted sashes on their clothing. I spy a filthy apron on two of them, a pair of thick smithing gloves on another, and a shorter ghoul near the back of the formation has a frayed ribbon of white silk in her hair. Marks of a lost life, and their putrid scent is the mark of a long, long death. And on each of their necks, highlighted by the stubborn ruddiness of their reanimated flesh, the deep scratches of fangs. These will be the missing villagers of Peirch Parva.
This is all a plethora of evidence that the creature residing in Spyrling Manor is in fact a vampire. The same assertion was made in the report filed to the Capital Cathedral, but you never can be certain until you see for yourself. Vampires are not the only threats to compel the deceased into service, nor the only creatures that consume human blood. But the positioning of the wounds, the red light in the eyes, the clumsy gait and animalistic behaviour...
I have never faced a vampire before. I hear they are fearsome. But I have come prepared. My long, leather coat has been greased with an oily draught that repels the umbral spellcraft that the vampire curse brews in its victims, and my boots, breeches and gloves are all tightly tailored to enhance my mobility. I have memorised the fifth and seventh Scriptures of Cleansing Light, and I call the relevant verses to mind now as I pull my wand of polished, sanctified birch from its place on my belt. It is tipped in cold-forged iron to ground its arcane energies and gift it a bit of heft. I raise it high, the brass Almighty helix affixed to the weapon's head aimed at the ghastly entourage.
"Go in peace."
Before long, the path to the manor is littered with silent, peaceful corpses. One, a young man with the earliest hint of stubble on his chin, has tangled himself in a trimmed hedge as he fell, and now he hangs rather ridiculously from the bramble by his collar. I lower him to the earth before I forge ahead.
Spyrling Manor looms over me. Its great, mahogany doors engraved with the von Spyrling family crest, a bird in flight under a checkered sky. All the windows on both storeys of the mighty stone manor are covered by thick, navy curtains, of course. The vampire cannot abide the sun's rays. I touch the chill metal of the door's handle, then tug. Not locked, but the wood creaks out a foreboding timbre that carries deep into the manor. That is well. I didn't come here with the intention of slaying this beast from the shadows. I am a warden of the light, and I will face my enemy head-on. Raising my glowing wand high, I step inside.
And I am surprised to find the tall chamber beyond lit by candles. I lower my wand. The twin chandeliers attached to the ceiling are burning away the dark, all the way along the varnished wood of the floor and its long, narrow carpet of white and blue. The carpet is fitted all the way up the stairs, where it presumably loops around to cover the mezzanine platform above my head. Lovely columns of strong oak line this lower level, holding up the floor above and wreathing the one below in shadow. Doors on the western walls lead deeper into the manor, I assume, whereas those I can see up on the higher level belong to bedrooms or bathing chambers. And on the eastern wall, thick windows covered by silky curtains, nailed into the wood.
The candlelight flickers, and the shadow moves. There is a dark shape now standing half-way up the staircase. Slender and willowy, cloaked tight in black silk. Her dress parts shamelessly up one side to expose a leg up to her hip, and it hugs the top of her bust while keeping her shoulders bare. I spot the subtle slicing and mismatched thread of a tailoring job. This garment belonged to a larger woman, and the new owner has rent it into a more seductive shape.
Creamy skin like fresh milk. Hair so fair as to appear silver covering her shoulders in thick, luxurious ringlets like a winter's scarf. One of her eyes is cloaked secretively behind these magnificent locks. Her other is heavily shadowed by lady's paint, and her lips are red as rose petals. Her gorgeous irises are the swimming blood-red that marks her curse. She smiles.
"At long last, they send a hunter!" the vampire sings with glee. "I was beginning to think myself beneath the church's notice, and that would have hurt my feelings. A male, too? I am so glad."
The vampire grins, her lips full of sharp points. "I can have such fun with men."
Narrowing my eyes, I take in the shapely form of my opponent. My mind scours the memorised report from the Cathedral. This is not Lady von Spyrling, she is too young. And her family had no daughters.
In my hand, the incandescence of my wand spits and flickers. "Your name?" I demand.
"You may call me Carolina," the creature smiles.
Carolina... Not a familiar name. "A servant?"
"A queen." Her one visible eye twitches. I have touched a nerve. She
is
a servant, then. Or was, until she slew her masters. "A queen undeserving of base questions such as yours, Master Hunter. No, the only question out of your lovely lips should be..."
A flick of her fingers down by her waist, and the firelight overhead wafts dangerously towards extinction. And in the blink of dark, she has moved. A cold finger now presses up beneath my chin from where she stands, inches from my face.
"Dear Mistress Carolina," hisses the vampire with a victorious smile, "how best may I serve you?"
"Go in peace!" I swing upwards with my wand, and my words inspire new, white fire to burn from the symbol of the Almighty.
But Carolina merely laughs. She ducks back from my strike and, in the glare of my spell, she vanishes. I lift the glowing wand high and encourage greater illumination into the hall, and I see her curved form vanishing behind the stairs. Her cackle echoes from the stone and the wood. It fills our arena with mocking sound.
"How fun!" she giggles from hiding. "This hunter has no time for games, I see! He is all action! Come and slay me then, Master Hunter! If you can!"
I aim my wand at the stairs. "Light of Heaven, fill this place!" Twin bolts blast forth from the tip of my weapon and explode into little geysers of white flame on either side of the stairs. The holy light pours into the shadows.
