Lady In Bloodied White

by aquilaofarkham

Summary:

It’s hard to imagine a Belmont would envy anything. Their otherworldly strength unmatched, the conviction passed down through generation after generation unparalleled, and magic cultivated over centuries never diluted, instead growing in power with each wielder. Therein lies the issue. People only perceive supposed upstanding paragons of their community on the very surface. They see just what they’re meant to.

--

While on the hunt for a creature that's been targeting the children of Machecoul, Richter soon discovers that his relation to this monster is more personal and horrifying than he could have ever imagined.

No cemetery should have to house so many small graves within its iron gates. The consecrated grounds found just up the steep hill are not that large to begin with; larger than what’s found in Machecoul yet overflowing with the same weathered headstones, crooked crucifixes, and chipped stone angels. Despite the varying upkeep and artistry gracing each above ground memorial—obvious signs of wealth and privilege—once mingled in the loosened dirt, everyone is equal. Bodies grotesquely bloat all the same, skin rots away along with muscle, and bones are made into endless feasts for maggots and scavenging dogs alike. 

It must be the one thought floating in the back of every revolutionary’s mind when the guillotine’s blade is released, the head tumbles into the wicker basket, then the priest’s or lord’s or even the king’s brain slowly dies. A darkly comforting idea which drives their numbers ever forward but never spoken out loud for fear of judgement or unrest. We can write all the fervent proclamations we want, liberate prisons, shout, cry, sing, and march in the streets all we please. Yet only in death do we achieve our desire for equality.

“Should we get closer?”

Maria’s voice cuts through the muted quiet of the hilltop, covered in fresh snow which crunches every time she or Richter shift their weight from one foot to the other in order to keep their blood flowing. Further down they watch a crowd of dark figures joined together against the stark whiteness of the rural cemetery. Like a once pristine handkerchief ruined by black spots coughed up from festering lungs. He doesn’t answer right away, his admittedly one-track mind already occupied by the fact that there are many ways in which a child can die. 

“Isn’t it considered rude to attend something you weren’t invited to?”

“That hasn’t stopped us from barging in and being rude elsewhere.”

“Funerals are different, Maria. Even I know that.”

Death comes for all; the poor, the rich, the young and the old. The strong and the weak. The universe’s one true equaliser. Babes die during childbirth (bless Tera’s endless compassion for local mothers when they lose their newborns, a scene which he and Maria have witnessed countless times while peeking round corners in their home—similar to now), toddlers wander into lakes or off cliffs, and grown children are always prone to other accidents. All terrible yet common facts of living in and around Machecoul.

Murder, less so. At least Richter believes this is the work of a murderer, specifically one of unnatural origins same as most other vicious attacks against humans. Townsfolk, hunters, and farmers have been crying wolf, bear, and a whole manner of wild beasts for the past two weeks. Yet Richter believes there’s a pattern to these killings if one looks closely enough. Which he plans to, as soon as the mourners disperse and he can speak to someone without risking any offence from the weeping, childless mother.

He notices Maria rub her trembling fingers together, not quite colourless but pinker than normal as blood flowing through her own body at a quickened pace desperately tries to warm her hands. Of course she didn’t wear the mittens Tera knitted just for her. Once after Christmas Day seemed to have been enough for her. Richter sighs and grabs hold of both hands with a subtle “here, let me”. Covering them with his own, he huffs warm air onto her frigid digits and rubs them himself.

“I’m not ten anymore,” Maria protests before giving into his irritating displays of brotherly concern.

“I’m only trying to help. And I don’t want to explain to your mother why your fingers are suddenly different shades of blue. Not to mention if they fall off, those pets of yours will have nowhere to go.”

“They’re not my pets,” Maria pouts. “And I didn’t know it would be this cold up here. It would certainly help more if you could start a small fire with your magic.”

Richter slows his movements before he stops entirely, releasing Maria. She quickly realises her mistake and softens her expression. “Sorry. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking when I—”

“It’s alright. You’re fine. You actually make a good point.” Richter turns back to the cemetery and adjacent chapel as the funeral procession begins its slow, sombre march back out through the gates. While watching, waiting for the right moment to descend, he thinks to himself:

There’s so much more I could do if I still had my magic.

Richter’s gaze focuses on one particular figure who stays behind even as the others shuffle off one by one. If it’s who he thinks it is (their broad mass and steadfast demeanour is a good enough tip), then his next plan should go easier than expected. He nudges Maria, letting her know it’s finally time to move in, as the two of them cautiously stumble down the steep hill made all the more perilous thanks to layers of snow and ice. Richter huddles into the upturned collar of his coat while Maria seems to have better mastered her descent, gracefully sliding rather than trudging downwards. The last remaining Belmont thrives in the heat of summer but winter was always her favourite season; birthday and Christmas presents galore, the streets of Machecoul awash in candlelight, and any excuse for her to ambush Richter with snowballs when he’s most unaware and vulnerable.

The two of them should be atop their makeshift sled, held together by nothing but planks of wood, frayed string, and childhood dreams, tumbling down this very hill. Knowing they’ll most likely return home with fresh bruises and perhaps minor concussions which will send Tera into a panicked fit, yet neither one cares either way. The other five children should be joining them. They shouldn’t have to rest forever beneath the earth, long before their parents. Richter remembers a younger version of himself, not too long ago when he was ready to set off on his own with the family whip. He lamented to the church Abbott about the things he had to see and the lessons he had to learn.

The world isn’t fair, Richter Belmont. It made him wonder if that was the real purpose of his family. Not to make the world more fair, but to punish the forces which made it unfair.

He also remembers how that conversation inside the church wasn’t very helpful in the end. An opinion Maria can of course sympathise with and attest to.

Upon entering the cemetery, Richter weaves in and out between the headstones with Maria following close behind until they arrive at the freshest burial. The only attendee who remains by the gravesite keeps his sword close to his side, warm brown eyes in a contemplative gaze turned to the ground as a gentle breeze sways the winter cloak draped across both shoulders. The holy cross comes into view and Richter’s insides ease up, releasing their tension once his assumption atop the hill is proven to be correct. One of the few members of the Abbott’s coveted order with whom he can speak casually with.

“Evening, Mizrak.”

Against the backdrop of the old chapel (perhaps older than even the town church), the monk looks right at home. Standing guard like the stone angels which surround him. His expression remains stoic, but he greets the two young hunters with a warm acknowledgement (which is more than what the other knights would give them).

“You were smart to stay on that hill. I doubt a newly grieving mother would appreciate a Belmont poking around in regards to her deceased son.”

“Is that why you’re here keeping guard?” Maria asks, to which Mizrak’s answer is more blunt and cuts straight to the bone marrow than Richter would have preferred, yet still appreciated.

“Most likely.”

Ouch.

Wounded pride aside, he quickly sets about planting the first seeds of his investigation. Now it’s his turn to be blunt. “Then you can tell us something about the body.”

Mizrak doesn’t even blink let alone flinch. He’s familiar with Richter’s line of duty and knows how the boy thinks. There’s no other choice but to cooperate and match such energy in his own way. “I’m not a coroner, but I did catch a glimpse. I only hope the poor boy’s soul finds eternal rest.”

“Do you think it was a vampire that did it?”

“Not likely. The body was nearly clawed to pieces.”

“Vampires have claws.”

Richter receives a look from Mizrak that spells out the words, with biting sarcasm, ‘brilliant observation from the resident vampire hunter’. “This looked to have been committed by some sort of animal. And no blood was drained from him. However, plenty of it was found where his body lay.”

“It could have been a werewolf,” Maria interjects. “Just like what happened in Gévaudan.”

Both expressions looking towards her turn sceptical, though not so much as to offend the youngest hunter. She makes a fair observation; Machecoul is in every definition of the term a provincial town. Gossip spouted forth from the country-wide rumour mill arrives at their gates much later, particularly when said rumours occur past Paris and further south. People eventually became aware of the nightmare which gripped the inhabitants of Gévaudan in its claws—metaphorically and physically. While the killing has long ceased, theories and speculations still run abound, whispered amongst farmers, milkmaids, and hunters alike. “It could have been any of us,” they hush to each other. Richter sometimes wonders what his mother might have done if the circumstances were different. If she had never left for the colonies. Logic tells him the end result would have happened much faster and with considerably less innocent bloodshed. Yet in his mind, Julia would have also been rather disappointed in her prized catch.

Mizrak tries to dissuade Maria’s proclamation in gentle terms. “Werewolves don’t often appear this far west. And the south has always been known for its bizarre wolf attacks.”

Richter has his own approach, it being his other job to endlessly poke at the holes in Maria’s theories like a jester in his king’s court. “I also heard the Beast of Gévaudan actually turned out to be an escaped African lion from one of those travelling menageries rich folk love so much.” He hopes his closing jab directed at her favourite punching bag of people will soften the blow, but Maria immediately latches onto the majority of his statement in quick defence.

“That was just a rumour!”

“So a werewolf is more believable to you than a captured lion.” He can almost see the steam gradually rise from beneath her curled blonde hair. At least she’ll be much warmer this way.

“And a vampire is more believable to you than a werewolf despite contrary evidence.”

“All I’m saying is in my experience, every time something like this happens, there’s always a vampire at the centre of it.”

They hear Mizrak clear his throat but the two siblings don’t see the look of exasperation on his face until both turn back to him. “Whether vampire or werewolf or a different creature entirely, I hope you can put an end to this. For the sake of every family in Machecoul. The Order is always at the church should you need us.”

Those words, ‘The Order’. Mizrak is of course referring to the Knights Hospitaller, Richter knows that much. God’s most favoured soldiers who planted roots in Machecoul following their excursion from Malta, led by the same Abbot who gave him such unhelpful advice years before. Far different from Inquisitors and the town is better for it yet intimidating in their own right. Maria always refers to the handlers of nobility and lords as ‘bully-boys’ for good reason. What makes the Knights Hospitaller different from those louts? Is there really any difference? Richter has never seen them harm an individual himself, but he knows better than anyone that along with the very creatures of the night he hunts, the shadows can protect the most corrupt persons and their awful deeds. 

Thankfully, Maria says the very thing rattling around in his mind. “That’s fine. We’ve never needed help from the church.”

She leaves before him, giving Richter enough time to properly thank Mizrak and assure him that should they actually need help, he knows where to look. Yet before he can exit through the cemetery gates, the monk tells him one last thing.

“You have a good soul, Richter. Better than most.”

There’s reverence in his deep voice, yet melancholy outweighs any affection. Mizrak has always been rather contemplative, more so than other members in the Order, but Richter feels there’s something different with him now. However, he likens it to the shroud of communal tragedy currently blanketing the town and surrounding countryside. Once he finds the culprit (his confidence is still hanging on it being a vampire), things should return to their normal mundanity. Mothers can breathe easy, fathers can shutter their muskets, and children can play without fear. Catching up with Maria, the two make their slow pace towards a cottage nestled amongst rivers and forests as if it were its own little world.

“You know, if you think about it, they said the tracks found in Gévaudan looked rounder than a wolf’s, which means they must have been close to a large cat—”

Richter stops when Maria calmly leans down and notices her shaping a very, very large snowball in her hands.

 

---

 

It’s hard to imagine a Belmont would envy anything. Their otherworldly strength unmatched, the conviction passed down through generation after generation unparalleled, and magic cultivated over centuries never diluted, instead growing in power with each wielder. 

Therein lies the issue. People only perceive supposed upstanding paragons of their community on the very surface, they see just what they’re meant to. Yet when Richter stares into the waning embers of Tera’s fireplace, belly full of the hearty meat stew and bread which came from that open-faced oven, he envies the fire that can burn as hot or as comforting as it pleases. Not only envy, but nostalgia. He misses how it felt in his palm, never once scorching the skin, as it rushed along each fingertip. Index and middle outstretched, the rest balled into a tight fist, then all he needed to do next was focus on his intent. Just like his mother did. Just like Sypha.

He leans against the conjoined kitchen and dining room window, his usual guardpost after finishing supper. While Richter prefers to clear his plate as quickly as possible without choking, Maria and Tera savour their meals along with the conversations that spring forth, normally started by the youngest hunter. Impassioned declarations regarding the revolutionaries or grievances directed towards nobility, topics which Tera is content to listen until Maria finally takes a breath, thus giving her an occasional opportunity to give her gentle opinions.

This evening is distinctly quieter and Richter knows why. He notices it in Tera’s gaze; not entirely present, instead a brief window into her worried thoughts especially when Maria brings up the details of their conversation with Mizrak in the cemetery. Her daughter is strong and carries a wholly unique power of her own, yet even that isn’t enough to dissuade a mother’s intuition. Richter catches a little bit of what she’s saying and seizes his chance to speak his mind. Something that’s been eating away at his conscience ever since they said their farewells to Mizrak but wasn’t sure of the right time to bring it up. If only for the sole reason that he knew Maria would fight him tooth and nail.

“I think you should sit this one out, Maria.”

The atmosphere in the room shifts as they both look up at him, Maria’s expression contorted into one of annoyed confusion.

“Why? I’m not scared of some werewolf.” She then mutters under her breath, “or some vampire as you like to presume”.

“I know. You’re not scared of anything and that’s the problem. Something about these killings feel different and I don’t want you to do anything reckless.”

“You’re reckless all the time!”

“Not nearly as much as you.” Richter glances at Tera and feels a small amount of immature pride in how her expression seems to suggest she’s already taken his side in this. He has a point because of course he does. “This monster… whatever it is, there has to be some kind of pattern it’s following.”

“What do you think that pattern is?” Tera asks, despite knowing in her maternal gut.

“The children. It looks obvious and I’d have to ask around to make sure. But based on what people have been saying, it must be going after kids the most.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know. But until I do, I want Maria to stay safe.”

Listen to me. I already sound exactly like you, mum.

A seed of doubt plants itself in the back of Richter’s mind. It’s been so long, close to nine years, since he heard her voice. Did Julia really talk like that to him? She was his mother, she must have. But those memories of Boston grow hazier with the cruel, uncaring passage of time.

Richter’s wandering thoughts are brought back to the present with the sound of cutlery clattering against a plate. There it is, the excuse Maria has been waiting to hear straight from his mouth.

“I’m sixteen! I’m not a child anymore!”

“Yeah, for a week. And it’s almost a new year, which means you’ve been fifteen for a good twelve months. Way longer than you’ve been sixteen.”

“And regardless, being sixteen doesn’t change anything.” Tera tries to make her daughter realise the same logic her beloved revolutionaries advocate for so much. “You’re still a child.”

Maria, in retaliation, appeals to her mother’s sympathy through a different, admittedly embarrassing method: whining.

“Mum, why did you have to give birth to me in December of all months?”

Tera stumbles with her response, flustered by the question. Not the reaction Maria was expecting but anything to assist her clause. Instead, she leaves the other side of the debate up to Richter.

“Why are you so obsessed with getting old?”

“Why are you? Everyday I have to wonder who’s actually the eldest between the two of us.”

“I’m not the one asking her own mother why she waited so long to give birth.”

“It’s a fair question!”

“Ever heard of a little something called the birds and the bees—”

“Alright, that’s enough.” Tera could have let their petty squabbling continue. There’s no harm in allowing them a healthy release for their frustrations and differences. Still, this is her household, her kitchen, the space she carved out herself with chipped nails and calloused palms. A space which she is now granting unto her offspring. She decides when an argument should carry on and when it should end gracefully.

“All this talk of growing up and acting like adults. I think you’re both acting like children, but you’re my children and everyday I thank the universe for that.”

Maria sits back in her chair and gives Tera an exaggerated pout while picking at the remnants of her dinner. She grumbles something about how she won this debate either way; a delusion which Richter decides to not pick at like a scab, not while under the watchful eye of a certain adult in the same room. Yet Tera’s proclamation softens him either way. Her words spin wheels of carefully crafted thread throughout his mind while his hands wrinkle in the thick, soapy water they use to wash their dishes. He didn’t even need to be asked this time, instead volunteering his services willingly. Those words are then carried with him into bed. While Maria retreats behind her closed door, candle in hand, whimpering about how cold the floor feels on her bare feet.

Richter doesn’t feel cold at all. Perhaps it’s his physical and metaphorical hot blood, a hereditary trait of the Belmonts along with other inherent attributes (at least he managed to maintain a hold on some, but not all). Until he realises that it’s not just his body which feels warm, but the room itself. Being the closest to the kitchen fireplace, sometimes the raw heat of fire and burning coal will seep through each irregularity in the wall, both seen and unseen. Yet now there is no fire, having been snuffed out by Tera while he and Maria prepared for bed. He should at least notice some sort of draft, particularly closer to the window. The glass is of course cool to the touch, but Richter doesn’t feel the need to wrap himself in more blankets. They might be living in the most well insulated house in all of the French countryside—when given the situation of their common ilk, they really shouldn’t be.

Tera’s magic can’t be doing this… even she has her limits.

To keep his mind from delving further down a rabbit hole which may or may not yield any importance, Richter slouches against his pillow, candlelight by his side and a leatherbound book clearly weathered by time and use in one hand. No ordinary proprietor of literature will ever be able to find this book, no library or bookstore carries it on their shelves. Richter has always wondered if his ancestor Simon ever bothered to print more copies after working tirelessly to update the information originally uncovered by one known as Trevor Belmont and they were simply scattered halfway across Europe, in the clutches of eccentric occult collectors or amateur hunters. 

For now though, this is the only copy he has to assist in his investigation. Once his mother’s, now his. Grotesquely detailed diagrams of various monsters litter the yellowed pages, ranging from the common vampire to the extinct cyclops. Alongside such drawings, tucked away against most of the margins, are in depth descriptions and categorizations listing weaknesses, strengths, territorial variations in body types, and even the most miniscule trivial facts regarding mating rituals. What Richter wouldn’t give to see the reactions of those enlightened salon attendees in Paris in their powdered wigs and carefully fluffed cravats, discussing politics, ethics, and the nature of humanity if they happened to flip through this unorthodox tome. Not out of maliciousness, but because Richter could use a good laugh in these times.

Sacred writings that began with the efforts of Trevor and Sypha Belnades (perhaps from a time long before even them), then passed down to other names such as Christopher, his wife Illyana and their son Soleil, before getting altered by Simon. The words which Julia used as her own gospel and morbid yet crucial storybook for her son. Maybe something within these flaps of worn leather will provide Richter with answers. It might only confirm his suspicions that whatever is killing these children is indeed a vampire (a revelation he will gladly take and present to Maria come morning). 

A sudden knock is heard at the door, causing Richter to close the book. His eyes glance towards the night sky, obscured by frost and snow accumulated along the window panes, before turning to his bedside candle; there’s more wax in both its dry and liquid forms than flame flickering the hours away. How long had his nose been between those pages?

“May I come in?” Tera asks as she opens the door a crack and peeks inside. She’s already seen each article of clothing strewn about the floorboards and the wanted posters of provincial vampires long slain (a hunter has to keep trophies of some kind) which hang haphazardly off the mortar walls. Richter doesn’t see any reason to keep her oblivious to the sheer mess which his bedchamber seems to forever be in a perpetual state of.

“You’re not a vampire. You don’t have to ask permission.”

“It never hurts to ask. I just wanted to make sure you were warm enough.”

“I take it you overheard Maria.”

Tera stifles a small giggle. “She likes to over exaggerate. It’s normal for her age, but the nights are only going to get colder.”

Richter assures that he’s fine, but he takes this as an opportunity to voice his inner observations, careful to not accuse or insinuate her of anything.

“Can I ask a question, aunt Tera?”

Before she can leave, she looks over her shoulder with a bittersweet smile. “So it’s just ‘aunt’ now, not ‘auntie’.”

“Yeah. I, uh, I guess despite what you said back there, I’m actually not that much of a child anymore—” He stops when Tera sits on the mattress edge.

“I’m only teasing, Richter. Of course you can.”

“Well… Maria always says you can’t pay taxes because they’ve been raised too much and we’re too poor. But we seem to be living better than most.”

Tera furrows her delicate brow. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“I mean, our clothes are well tailored. You can still afford flour to bake bread. Even this whole house is better insulated than most places in town.”

“... Alright.” She begins after a pause, though Richter didn’t expect her to yield so fast or so easily. “Don’t tell Maria, she’ll most likely think less of me, but I have a little bit of funds saved up. It’s true I haven’t been paying the recent taxes. We do have enough money, however. More than most. It’s just to keep our house standing, food on the table, and the clothes on your backs. Try not to be disappointed in me.”

“I’m not disappointed.” The only question Richter has is how Tera managed to come across that supposed amount of money, but whatever answer she has isn’t his priority. “I think Maria would prefer it if you didn’t give those rich pricks any sort of money you still have.”

“Now you’re starting to sound just like her.”

Richter slips the bestiary nestled among the bedsheets under his pillow before leaning back. “Don’t hold your breath. I never really listen to her speeches, I just tag along to keep her safe. And I don’t think anyone with sense has kind things to say about nobility these days.”

“You’d be surprised. We’re still a provincial town with a generous Marquis as the church’s most affluent patron.”

“Generous. Sure.” He can’t help but scoff at Tera’s well intentioned but still woefully naive comment. Avid listener of Maria’s revolutionary sermons or not, even he knows a noble’s definition of ‘generous’ vastly differs from that of the average countryman. Then there’s Tera’s ever-present adoration for that old church and its Abbott, which Richter understands but will likely never take part in. Still, she sighs out of love for this wonderfully stubborn young man, the best thing her beloved Julia ever let into this world, and wishes him a good night.

“Wait, Tera. One more question.” She waits for Richter to better formulate his thoughts so that what he says next doesn’t cause her any unintentional offense. “Did you mean it? When you said I was your child along with Maria? I know we’re not technically related… I mean, we are, it’s just there might be some separation or you’re just my aunt a couple times removed—”

In his efforts, Richter didn’t notice how easy it was to slip into over-explanation, rambling while Tera sighs and steps forward to tousle his already dishevelled bed hair. “You Belmonts, always concerning yourselves over bloodlines.”

“Well, you… can’t really blame us.” He gives her a short lived pout, his way of protesting her actions as if he were still ten-years-old, fresh off the boat and in desperate need of maternal comfort.

“Which I don’t. But of course I meant it when I called you my child. I’ve taken care of you long enough for that to remain true. And Julia would be so proud to see you as you are now.”

Richter’s eyes avert from hers. It feels less awkward—and less painful—to stare at the ground while memories of his mother trickle through his head as they so often do. Of course Tera didn’t mean for her comment to be hurtful, same as when he asked his previous long-winded query. Yet certain wounds take longer to heal than others, especially when they were inflicted upon someone of such a young age. Richter doesn’t need Tera to remind him of how frequently he asks himself the same question: what would Julia think of her son now?

It’s far too late in the night to occupy his mind in this manner. Richter chooses to smile and say a quick goodnight. Tera gives her own in return before quietly shutting the door behind her. The waxed-over candle is blown out, blanketing the rather cramped space in soft darkness save for the gentle moonlight which streams in through the window and neatly divides the room in two. Richter turns onto his side, still somewhat perturbed with how little coldness he feels, and waits for the day’s events to finally exhaust him. His eyes grow heavier, his head barely able to notice the book under his pillow. 

Eventually, all conscious thought begins to fade into that familiar peaceful limbo between wake and sleep. A liminal cocoon where dreams are often mistaken for reality. Where Richter swears he feels another weight atop his bed followed by the voice of his mother.

“Tera is such a good auntie.”

Faint, yet all the more distinctive. Nine years have evidently done nothing to dull his memory of how she spoke. It’s as if they’re both still in Boston; he never had to leave, she never had to die. Richter keeps his eyes shut and his body laid down, oddly consoled by the return of Julia Belmont. This is only a dream, after all. It couldn’t be real.

“Do you remember when I would help you get ready for bed? Washing your face, fixing you a cup of warmed milk, then tucking you under the blankets. You never minded the noises of the city, always bustling and intrusive. To you, they were like a lullaby. A reminder that the night itself never slept. Neither did its inhabitants.”

Richter does recall those nights. In his early life, he knew nothing outside Boston. Nothing but the continuous ebb and flow of the city, its cobblestone streets spilling over with revolutionary fever not unlike Paris as of recent. A hotbed for vampires looking to stake their claim on another fertile country and its warm-blooded children. To chase an old dream of  vampiric dominion over mortalkind—before there’s a chance to be staked themselves. It must be why Belmonts and their compatriots manage to thrive even in these modern times, evolving away from the ancient forests of Europe and into the densely populated cities which continue to grow by the second. Why Julia had to say her farewells to their homeland.

His eyes open, not enough to see clearly but enough to regain some of his other senses. Yet the lucidity of the dream remains. Richter doesn’t pay this anomaly any mind, not when he feels Julia’s fingertips run themselves through his hair, slower and gentler than when Tera did the same. Perhaps he can find some brief respite from cruller reality.

“But you never slept for very long. A single floorboard creak or rattling of our windows would send you flying into my bed. Mummy, mummy, they’re here. The vampires and monsters and ghouls are in our house. I could never tell if you were scared or excited. Then one night, I saw tears run down your reddened cheeks.”

Another truthful memory, yet an odd one to conjure forth. That was a different Richter, a much, much younger version of himself he buried with time and growth. Too young to understand the family business let alone hold the fabled whip. It was only until the ages of seven to nine did he finally feel the hereditary (and rather morbid) excitement that comes whenever a vampire is nearby. These moments were the ideal teaching tool for an adolescent hunter. Richter could see his mother perform such flawless work, her perfected skill with leather rope, blade, and magic, and learn all that he needed to.

Julia knew this as well. Why bring up a memory that no longer matters?

As if sensing his confusion, the grip on Richter’s head turns violent. Nails dig into his scalp, forcing his eyes open to their absolute limits, as Julia’s once soothing voice now carries an indescribable hatred laced throughout her tone. Words that plunge and twist daggers into Richter’s ears.

“You were always so spineless.”

He tries to fight her off, bolting upright in bed, ready to confront whatever’s overtaken the memory of his mother. Yet Richter finds himself alone, his head untouched. He is the only physical presence within this room. Until his widened frantic gaze gradually moves across the floor and settles on an uninvited spectre hovering in the shadows before the row of barrels, reminders that this space was never made to function as a bedchamber. The figure appears feminine, clad in a long white dress, the ends of which are caked in dried blood while a trail of fresh red follows her, seeping through the floorboards. Her back is turned to Richter, but he knows who she is. The long dark brown hair is the first indication, then her voice, despite how strangled with pure loathing it sounds.

“Useless. Every scrap of magic you possessed came from me but you never gave anything back. Always taking, taking, taking. My magic, my time, my patience, and then my life. You couldn’t even save the one person who mattered most to you. The one life you latched onto like a fucking parasite. ”

The disgust is palpable and Richter experiences every sharp jab of pain as if it were the first and most agonising. Part of him says he should reject this; it’s not really his mother. She would never say so many horrible things about her own child. The child she protected until the very end. The other part, a more tortuous revelation, tells Richter he should accept this betrayal as truth. Feel every twist of the knife in his gut, feel it long and completely. It’s been knocking at his doorstep for years now.

After Julia’s cold-blooded pause, there’s a loud wet squelching sound followed by a deluge of blood cascading down her legs. She begins to turn at a tormenting pace, not enough to face Richter in full, but for that he’s grateful. He sees what’s curled in her moist hands, he doesn’t need to witness the horror of her expression. His mind views a half-formed foetus, freshly torn from her abdomen yet against Richter’s better judgment, he looks closer, heart pounding wildly against the confines of his ribcage. Wrinkled, unnatural skin, long pointed ears, and curved wings along with a rattish tail. The bat-like creature squawks as Julia brings it close to her open mouth. For the first time, Richter catches a glimpse at her face, contorting into a gnarled vampiric appearance.

“I should have ripped you from my gut myself when I still had the chance.”

Any pretense of this midnight visitation being a hellish imitation leaves Richter as if it were part of his own soul. He tries to scream, anything to intimidate his personal ghoul. Before any desperate sound can form in his lungs, he sits upright once again, drenched and panting. Bloodshot gaze scrambles about the room as the visceral need to vomit leaves a fetid taste in his dry mouth. Yet he quickly realises that the only one within these four walls is himself. The floorboards, despite all the scattered clothing, are as clean as they can be while the chill in the room is but a minor inconvenience. No figure of his mother, nor any evidence of the bat-like abomination.

Richter’s guard remains uptight, rigid even as the initial shock begins to subside. He isn’t safe as evident from what managed to invade both his mental and physical space. All the more reason why he needs to begin his investigation regarding these deaths immediately. Vampire or not, something is stalking Machecoul. If a Belmont doesn’t put an end to its rampage, a secondary option had better make themselves known before it’s too late.

Sleep never visits Richter for the rest of the night. Whether due to this newly invigorated determination or the dream—if it truly was just a dream.

 

---

 

If either Maria or Tera said good morning, Richter admittedly doesn’t hear it in time. A slice of buttered bread (one of their many luxuries) and a sip of scalding coffee is enough for his empty, toiling stomach before he whisks himself out through the door into the bitingly cold landscape. His whip and sword are fastened tightly to either hip, practically extensions of his flesh and blood body. Though he doubts they’ll need to be used especially when it’s still daylight. Yet Julia was smart enough to remind him that more often than not, the real monsters are found in humans.

Mother. The memory of her now brings a different, more potent pain for Richter. Not sadness, but something akin to fear.

Instead of making a path into town, his first point of interest are the trappers who populate the surrounding forests. Not quite mountain men who purposely isolate themselves from society because the land provides them with everything and more, but certainly made from far sturdier constitutions when compared to the king’s men. Fancy muskets, well-bred dogs, and the finest equines are alright for the woods surrounding Versailles and Paris but wander further into the countryside and those tools quickly become obsolete. Richter is in good standing with these woodsmen and huntswomen. They provide him with information on wandering vampires, he keeps them along with their game safe from said predators. This mutually beneficial relationship has gone on long enough, even the common remark of “pretty boy” doesn’t offend him anymore.

Richter can tell something is different with the hunters. There are no smiles shared around the campfires, no gestures welcoming him into their smoky huts. Everyone, the most wizened and experienced of all, are beginning to fall victim to their own nerves. Outside they appear stoic, unaware that Richter can already see through them like the thinnest muslin. They tell him of each body and the sort of condition they were found in, confirming Mizrak’s own testimony: torn to near pieces, yet not a single drop of blood drained. At the slightest mention of an exact location where one of the children was discovered, Richter pulls from his pocket a weathered map of Machecoul and its surrounding communities before taking a discreet note. There are questions of whether anyone was able to see anything more unusual than the normal wolf or bear stalking the trees—questions which yield no answers. When the hunters can physically say no more (or show reluctance to), he thanks them and sets forth towards the more densely populated streets.

Richter’s methods of investigation differ while in the heart of Machecoul. He doesn’t immediately seek out the children’s families, a method in which many inspectors of more experienced years may raise their eyebrows at. But they deserve their peaceful mourning, however long they may need, without a wide-eyed hunter who is armed to the teeth barging into their sanctuaries, wielding the same questions they’ve no doubt heard more times than the Abbott’s sermons. Richter instead finds their friends, people who knew the children quite well despite not being of the same blood. Some are more interested in relaying tall tales rather than facts. Salacious rumours directed towards innocents by those with deep seated yet ultimately petty grudges to hold.

“That old hag out by the crossroads is a witch. She probably used those poor angels for her sacrifices.”

“There’s this gang of young ruffians who set off firecrackers right in broad daylight! If that’s what they think they can get away with when everyone is watching, God knows what they do to smaller, weaker children at night.”

“I don’t trust any of the hunters beyond the town. Not with children, at least.”

The last statement made the back of Richter’s chilled hand itch with the need to collide it against the man’s sharp-boned rouged cheek. How can one say such an untrue and revolting accusation without flinching? Thankfully, he uncovers more helpful testimonies than the usual town slander in the following days. Many claim the children were seen playing close to their homes just when daylight turned to quiet dusk. Their mothers called them for supper before darkness covered the lands, but they were never seen again until their bodies were. It wasn’t until the fifth victim went missing that a new sort of panic spread throughout rural family homes, as the boy was last seen by his mother and father, safe in his bed. Still he vanished. Not even the sanctity of the home was enough to protect these children.

Days of talking, asking, comforting, and travelling catch up to Richter. He retreats to one of the many well-regarded watering holes tucked away in the winding alleys, the weathered map still in hand yet causing him more grief than before. Staring at its contents—inked and clumsily scribbled—while nursing a mug of mulled wine, his mind elsewhere. Maria would tsk tsk at him for drinking on the job, but it’s the only thing that can warm Richter’s hands and bones.

He furrows his brow at the map laid out before him. There’s of course a better understanding of where the creature strikes and its murderous pattern by way of location. The site where a vast majority of the killings occurred isn’t that far from the cemetery and chapel but it’s deep in the woods, isolated from the children’s homes. Should another disappearance happen, Richter knows where to wait for his prey. The question now being: what exactly is this monster? It steals away children (another pattern he still hasn’t found a logical reasoning for), butchers them in the forest, yet none of their flesh was eaten nor their blood drained. More and more, Richter doubts his initial vampiric suspicions. Their wounds suggest it could be the work of a mere warg terrorizing the countryside—exactly, according to Maria, like Gévaudan.

Richter almost retreats into the warm comfort of his drink until he hears his name spoken in a meek tone just behind him. Turning away from the bar, he sees a young woman not much older than himself, her gloved hands clasped in front of her abdomen. Freckles dust across her pale cheeks, delicate spectacles resting atop her nose bridge, as she wears a dress of mahogany red, a matching coat and gloves with white fur trimmings, and long strawberry hair secured in a tight bun, similar to how most housemaids wear theirs. Yet the quality and style of her garb would most certainly betray her real social standing, especially in Machecoul.

“May I help you, madame?”

She smiles shyly. “I didn’t think you would recognize me, it’s been so long after all. But it’s me, Iris.”

Richter searches through his hazy memories before his eyes go wide, same as his mouth. “Iris! God, I’m sorry it really has been so long. I haven’t seen you since we were kids.”

“My father had business in Paris, so that’s where I’ve been living these past few years.”

That would explain the new clothes. Richter wisely refrains from disclosing any more of his personal assumptions, especially in regards to an old friend. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, yes. As alright as they can be, given…” Iris pauses, velvet-clad hands wringing together, until she forces them apart and composes herself. Richter waits patiently, doing what he can to ease the difficulty of speaking about such circumstances even in passing. Living through current events has been hard for everyone, those on the inside and those outside alike.

“I heard you’ve been investigating what happened to those children. Asking those who were close to the families if they know anything.”

“That’s right. I have.”

Iris tilts her head slightly, similar to how Maria will react whenever Richter’s own inner logic so often eludes even her understanding. “But you haven’t spoken to the actual families this entire time? That’s what I’ve been hearing, at least.”

“Ah, about that, I…” Richter feels his cheeks burning and not because of the drink. “Well, I didn’t want to upset them or reopen any wounds.”

They hear an obvious snickering off to the side as the mustached barkeep smugly cleans another emptied glass (though it’s his rag stiffened by past grime that needs a thorough wash). “You’re not very good at this, are you?”

Richter hopes his annoyed glare will be enough to intimidate him back into doing his own job while Iris clears her throat. “In any case, I wanted to help.”

“Yes! Yes, of course. Any information you have, tell me please.”

Iris takes a breath, once again a way to calm herself before speaking a truth not even Richter knew. Yet it’s the second one which quickens his heart and causes tremors to run down his limbs. 

“It’s not that I have any information. It’s my aunt who does. One of the children who… one of them was my little cousin. His brother was there with him, but he managed to survive and escape.”

A survivor. There was a survivor amidst all the chaos, all the fear, and not a single person bothered to tell Richter in his queries. It could have been a secret so carefully, not to mention effectively guarded by the family themselves, but hearing it now from someone close enough yet still disconnected suddenly reignites a spark within him. Perhaps one that Iris cannot handle or prepare for.

“There was a survivor? When did it happen? Where was he found? Why hasn’t he said anything to anyone?!”

Iris understandably backs away once he leaves his chair—without noticing it himself. “Richter, he’s only seven. And… he hasn’t spoken a single word since his brother went missing. If he did see something, he won’t say.”

Richter detects not only Iris’ tentative reaction to his outburst but most of the tavern’s as well. Such a small, intimate space meant for quiet conversation, gentlemanly exchanges, and good tidings shared amongst friends. A place where few things go unnoticed, even when tucked away in the corners. The last thing he needs is rumours spread about his carefully maintained reputation. After pulling his emotions together, the rest of the bar patrons thankfully go about their own whispers and grumbles.

“Sorry about that. And I’m sorry about your cousin. If it’s alright with the family, I can try talking to the surviving son. Even if he can’t… or won’t speak, I’m sure I can learn something and hopefully help him.”

Iris nods. She may not fully understand a hunter’s methods, but she trusts Richter more than anyone else. “My aunt already knows you’ve been asking around town, so I don’t think a visit will surprise her that much.”

Richter slides the map off the bar surface and asks Iris, to the best of her ability, if she can mark where her aunt’s family resides. She thanks him, encircling a blank patch of land situated just outside the deeper woods to the east of Machecoul. It will take Richter the better half of an hour to trek towards that uneven circle. Before leaving, he asks the bartender if he could have a brioche with meat and cheese, his dwindling coin purse crying and cursing him out with each innocent query spoken in succession.

 

---

 

The sandwich lasts Richter until Machecoul’s borders yet it provides him the energy to push further out until a quaint farmhouse surrounded by untouched snow comes into view. Behind the structure of stone and wood, a gentle stream of smoke wafting from the small roof chimney, looms a forest of skeleton trees like the bars of a prison. The children of this home might have viewed it as something else, something exciting that promised endless wonder and adventure. Their parents as well but that shared feeling always came with a healthy concern for each child’s safety whenever they ran off through the darkened trunks and branches.

Those woods will never again see another young face.

Richter raps his knuckles against the door while out in the neighbouring field a murder of crows caw in unison, having found the half-frozen leftovers from a wolf’s most recent meal. One more joins the group, then two, followed by a steady stream of newcomers. Loud bastards . Just as Richter starts to think how much this noise isn’t helping the family, the door opens to reveal a handsome woman with weathered features but clearly strengthened by years of farmwork. He sees a hint of trepidation in her eyes and introduces himself. A flash of recognition quickly replaces her suspicion.

“You’re the Belmont. Please, forgive me. We’ve only heard the stories but never saw you for ourselves. I didn’t think you would be so young.”

“I like to think I’m old enough.” Richter thinks of Maria’s obsession with acting older than she really is. “Your niece Iris sent me. She said one of your sons survived… everything that’s been happening. I’d like to speak with him, as much as I can.”

“Oh, yes I knew Iris would seek you out. She’s a sweet girl, even though her father and I haven’t spoken to each other in some time.”

Richter holds himself back from digging through more family dramatics as the woman ushers him inside the house. The interior is much smaller than Tera’s cottage, darker as well with every inch covered in a thin layer of smoke emitting from the fireplace. Out of the corner of his eye, Richter sees an older man huddled at a dining table, his bearded face illuminated by a single candle, alongside a woman seemingly older than Iris who picks and bites at her fingernails. Father and older sister, he assumes. No amount of warmth offered by the mother can hide the sharp edge which her entire family is careening off from.

“Does anyone else know that there was a survivor?”

“Only other family members. We didn’t want a circus revolving around our last son, especially when we knew that everyone would force him to speak.”

“Are you alright with me speaking to him?”

“... It isn’t as though we have any other choice. If someone can help us understand what happened the night Josef went missing, it could be you.”

The pressure to succeed and earn this family’s trust; Richter has worked under far more dire circumstances before. He’s eventually led into a sort of nursery room where a small figure sits atop the bed, back against the door as he stares out the frost covered window. Long hair, clothes that haven’t been mended in awhile, utterly still.

“What’s his name?” Richter whispers.

“Tomas.”

A decent starting point. Entering the room, Richter makes sure each step is softened until he kneels before the young boy. Only now do the violently reddened whites surrounding half-lidded irises, sallow skin, and emaciated limbs reveal themselves.

“He hasn’t been eating much,” his mother chokes out. Richter hides his shock as he forces a comforting smile.

“Hey, Tomas. My name’s Richter. I’m friends with your cousin, Iris.”

No movement of Tomas’ eyes or his frail body, except for his hands which absentmindedly tinker with something wooden.

“What’s that you got there? Can I see?”

Richter waits before his patience and gentleness is rewarded with Tomas opening his hands to show a painted box. Each side is covered with small rectangular shapes that can be slid in or out like a puzzle. Something clicks inside Richter’s mind.

“I had one of those when I was little. Could never figure it out, though. Can you show me how to open it?”

Richter glances over Tomas’ shoulder and sees his mother clearly holding herself back, desperate to help but knowing that she cannot overwhelm her son at this crucial moment. Finally, without shifting his gaze, the boy slides a few blocks and opens the box with ease.

“See, you’re much smarter than I am.”

Tomas quickly closes his toy and reverts to his original fugal state, fiddling with it not because he wants to but because he has to. The last piece of dwindling normality a child can cling to with dirtied, chewed down fingernails. Richter’s smile fades, realizing that now is the time to ask his questions while he still can.

“I know you miss your brother.” He catches a flinch from Tomas, barely noticeable but there nonetheless. “I have a little sister… Well, we’re not really related but I don’t know what I’d do if I lost her. If you can tell me what happened the last time you saw Josef, I can help you both and your family.”

Richter sees his lips twitch, as if they were sewn shut and his teeth are trying to rip through the coarse thread. The map and pen begin to burn a hole in his pocket, begging to be noticed. There are other ways of getting information that don’t involve the spoken word. Looking over Tomas’ shoulder, Richter asks his mother a question which may appear audacious on the surface, but his reasoning is common particularly  in the countryside.

“Can he read and write?”

“Y-yes, but he’s still young. We’ve only had time to teach him a few words.”

A few words is all Richter needs. Retrieving his map, he flips it over onto its blank side and carefully empties the boy’s trembling hands of the toy. He replaces it with his ink pen.

“Listen closely, Tomas. I need you to write or draw what you saw the day you went into the woods with your brother. Can you do that for me?”

Tomas’ bottom lip quivers, map in one hand, pen in the other. Unsure of how to use either until Richter encourages him some more. It helps to be an older brother.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect or exact. You can do it. Your mother and I believe in you.”

The inclusion of his mother’s faith in him manages to tentatively convince Tomas. Laying the parchment across his lap, he grips the pen and scrawls something onto the map with enough force to tear right through the material. Ink splatters everywhere and there’s no room to write anything else, but Tomas shoves it back into Richter’s hands and reaches for the toy.

“That’s good.” He softly exclaims, folding up the parchment. “You did good, Tomas. Thank you.”

Clutching the puzzle box close to his chest, the boy crawls under the bedsheets and tearfully hides his face from Richter. He knows it’s time to remove himself from this family’s homestead. Before he does so, he reaches to stroke Tomas’ head, drawing back when he realises it would most likely upset him further. A good hunter acknowledges the right time to arrive and the right time to leave. 

“Take care of him.”

“What do you think we’ve been doing all this time?”

There isn’t any maliciousness in her tone and her pained, tense expression suggests she didn’t mean for it to sound so callous. Richter nonetheless steps back to give her the right space she requires.

“I wish your family all the best. Be safe and be well.”

“He won’t stop screaming.”

Richter pauses before he can walk out through the door frame and listens to the mother’s sudden lamentation.

“At night, he doesn’t sleep… And when he does, all he does is scream and scream and scream. I don’t know what to do. None of us know what to do.”

The Belmont knows what it’s like to fear the very concept of sleep at a young age. What it feels like to scream the night away and beg for the memories to leave you alone, just leave me alone. The last remaining Belmont can only offer a hand on her shoulder and the promise that he will find whatever murdered her second son and put it in the ground. He receives no reply; not from the mother or her daughter as he wanders back through the house. More a cold, despairing mausoleum than a warm home. Until the husband abruptly rises from his chair, its legs scraping loudly against the floorboards. Richter tenses, preparing for some sort of confrontation born from guilt and grief, and watches in suspicion as the older man removes a rifle from above the fireplace.

“You use guns?” He asks gruffly.

“Sometimes.” Truthfully, Richter has never needed much else apart from his whip and blades. Pistols, muskets, and the like are noisy and require more maintenance. A single misfire can doom an entire hunt. Yet he allows the father to shove presumably his only effective weapon into the young hunter’s arms.

“When you find the thing that took my boy, you put a bullet right between its eyes.”

Richter tightens his grip and nods. It will take more than one bullet to bring down whatever creature is stalking the woods. He doesn’t tell the man that. While outside, those damn crows still picking at their carrion flesh, he sighs heavily and slings the gun over his shoulder before unfolding the map to see what Tomas scribbled. There’s only one word, four letters in uneven, frantic scrawl. A word that chills his bones and freezes his blood.

M A M A N

Richter wants to shove the parchment back into his pocket and never look at it again. Burn it, bury it, throw it to those fucking crows and hope they tear it to shreds. It could be a cry for help from a child irrevocably damaged by the worst trauma imaginable. He’s smarter than to believe in that naive possibility.

Merely a day following his encounter with Tomas, another child vanishes from their home, snatched away in the night. Richter knows where to catch this monster, no longer caring about what it is, be it vampire or werewolf or another beast entirely. His only care is that he stops it with the same violence it has repeatedly enacted upon his community.

 

---

 

It’s a starless night when Richter trudges past the old chapel and cemetery, charting a steady upwards path into the woods as he follows the altered map, drooping in his fingerless gloved hand. No two killings happened in the same precise location of course, but the areas in which each body was discovered are too close in proximity for anything to be considered a coincidence anymore. Despite the sun having set nearly an hour ago, a soft light emanating from the streetlights of Machecoul provides Richter with an eerie guidance until the forest darkness begins to creep around him. That along with the continuous hazy snowfall creating an inescapable obstruction to his normally alert senses. But it takes far more than a bit of nightfall and snow for a Belmont’s guard to crumble.

Finally, he arrives at a small clearing. Empty, the trees and bushes surrounding the area’s edges left undisturbed until Richter shows himself. He unties a small leather pouch from his belt and gets to work. The consecrated gunpowder (he promises he’ll owe Mizrak something at some point in the future) forms an uneven circle which gradually sinks into the fresh layer of snow but the exact form really doesn’t matter. It’s not to keep monsters out, rather to keep the physical form of whatever supernatural entity wanders across the threshold locked inside. Meanwhile, Richter finds a large stone to hide behind, hunting rifle at the ready. One shot, just as the father made him promise, then his whip will finish the job.

He hears a snap, echoing slightly. Nothing afterwards, as if whatever made that noise has realised their mistake and is now consciously making themselves as silent as possible. Richter loosens his grip on the gun as an irritated expression cuts through his previous immovable stoicism. He suspected something when the corner of his eye caught a figure spying into the window of Tomas’ bedchamber before vanishing, but didn’t think much of it. Now he’s certain a shadow has been following him for some time.

Richter searches around his feet for something to throw. His eyes settle on a pinecone with particularly sharp edges. Standing up while resting the rifle against his straightened legs, he checks which direction the wind is blowing. He doesn’t feel any pride or smugness in his next action—there’s instead the underlying worry that Tera is going to kill him. Reeling back, he tosses the pinecone as it curves midair and sails behind a nearby tree. A distinct thunk is heard, like a wooden spoon against a rather thick skull.

“OW!!”

The shout is then followed by a number of muttered expletives. “Wanker”, “bastard”, and a few more aggressively colourful words that Richter hasn’t heard since a crooked tooth had to be removed from his back molars. Grumbling himself, he marches over to the tree and looms over a hunched over Maria, rubbing the back of her head. She notices his presence but doesn’t even attempt to make excuses for herself.

“What the hell was that for?!”

“How long?”

“How long what?”

“How long have you been following me?”

Maria stands, dusting snow off her knees. “Since you started asking random people around town. Before Lucie met you at the tavern. By the way, you’re a terrible investigator.”

“Go home, Maria.”

“No.”

“I said go .”

“Who are you, my father?”

“I’m trying to keep you safe! What the bloody hell do I have to do in order to convince you of that?”

Maria snaps her head towards Richter with such quickness coupled with a sharp glare, it almost causes him to flinch. “And why should I be kept safe but not you? Why do you get to put yourself in danger and risk leaving us forever? Why is that always your decision to make?”

Richter doesn’t have the mental wherewithal or more importantly the time to defend his self-sacrificial nature, his constant need to fall upon the sword which may or may not be a hereditary trait, with someone who is clearly better prepared for such a debate. He huffs out a breath of defeated annoyance while his eyes cautiously dart from tree to tree, still on the lookout for whatever may wander into their clearing.

“Something about this monster is different, Maria. I thought I knew exactly what to expect, but I don’t. That’s why I want you to be safe. Please just go home.”

Maria’s hardened gaze softens just a touch though she remains firmly planted to where she stands, unfolding her arms and letting them hang by her sides. “I know you want to help. You always want to help everyone. But did it ever occur to you that you’re the one who might be needing help?”

Another battle of words lost. Richter, perhaps three or four victories over the course of nine years. Five if he’s in the mood to argue. Maria, an incalculable amount. Including this night. Yet what he wants to say next is interrupted by the feeling of unnatural stillness. The branches cease their creaking, the bushes their rustling. Where there was once a steady breeze ghosting over every exposed patch of vulnerable skin, there is nothing. Richter turns to Maria who mirrors his alerted expression. They both know what has just entered into their fray.

“Alright. Here’s how to help. Hide yourself on the other side of the circle, opposite from where I am. When I tell you, use one of your pets to ignite the gunpowder. It’s been consecrated, so hopefully the flames will last. Can you do that?”

“I told you, they’re not—!” Maria stops herself. Now is not the time. She’ll hold it over her wanker of a brother’s head once they make it out of here. “Should I look for a signal from you?”

“You’ll know.”

She doesn’t get any further explanation. Instead of demanding more from Richter, she sighs and gets into position without disturbing the circle of gunpowder. He returns to his original station behind the boulder. For the next prolonged moment as they wait, pure silence tightens its noose around both their necks. The entire world seems dead, making both believe somewhere in the farther crevices in their minds that they should be as well. Those thoughts are of little deterrent. Richter merely adjusts his kneeled position in the snow, rifle raised steady in his hands. The only time he sees Maria is when she peeks out from her hiding place to make sure he’s prepared.

The smell of copper fills the clearing. Dirty coins in Richter’s mouth, breathing it down into his lungs. A scent he’s all too familiar with but when he sees the source coming into view, the once steadfast focus and control his finger held over the trigger begins to waver. What visited him that night then vanished just as fast drifts closer towards the circle, her white dress sullied by blood, flowing auburn hair so dark it could be mistaken for black. She carries a limp figure in her arms, a little girl the same age as Tomas, as all the other children. Her head lolls to the side thus giving Richter a clear glimpse at her glass eyes, her colourless skin, and her open throat.

No. No, no, no, no, no. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

Another voice enters his conscience, mocking Richter in his own voice. You were too late, too late, you’re always too late. He banishes it and presses the rifle against his cheek, fueled by his own grief, guilt, and anger. Perhaps too much anger as his hands tremble, causing the barrel to swerve, diverging from its precise target ever so slightly.

It’s only when the monster, now inside the circle, begins to turn its head does Richter take his shot. It immediately drops the child as a spray of corporeal blood and flesh splatters along the snow. There’s a bit of sway to its form, clearly disoriented by this unexpected violence. If he were aiming for its cheek and jaw, it was a damn good blow.

Richter was aiming for the back of its head.

“MARIA NOW!”

A loud signal is better than no signal at all. She emerges from her hiding spot, a golden summoning circle already half-formed. A larger and different coloured bird shoots forth, its feathers a dark red as it follows the trail of gunpowder, a single wing igniting it in a ring of fire. Just before the circle closes, Richter leaps forward, forgoing the rifle for his whip. The scorching heat from the gunpowder and the pure frigid presence of the murderer fight to overtake the other, anyone else would pass out from such combating elements. But Richter holds his ground, even when faced with the mangled, smiling visage of Julia Belmont, her elongated fangs visible through her torn flesh.

“That’s not how I taught you to kill a vampire, darling.”

Richter pushes through his seized muscles, battling his own need to run. Never before has he been so horrified, yet so baffled by a vampire confronting him. Well, there was that one time. The memory of which flashes before his eyes with every crack of the whip and dodge of her claws. Green eyes, dead eyes. Fire, followed by blood. So much fire.

“My mother died in front of me.” He shouts, even now trying to make sense of this unnatural force as he fights for both his life and sanity. “She was never turned into a vampire!”

“You only remember what you saw.”

A swift backhand is enough to throw Richter off his feet. In retaliation, Maria finds a gap in the fire where she can jump through into the circle unscathed (not that she would care much about a little ashen fabric or singed skin). Using both extended index fingers, she conjures a barrage of golden spectres formed as sparrows. With a single impassioned “GO!”, they surround Julia, slicing at her legs, arms, face, and back. Whatever their razor beaks can reach. 

Regardless of initial agitation, she dispels the birds and lunges forth to grab hold of Maria’s neck. Yet this girl who fancies and props herself up as being older than actuality isn’t what she’s come into the woods for. While no doubt powerful, she’s an annoyance, not a threat. This harrowing awareness is clear on Julia’s pale bloodied face. Before Maria can feel offended, her body is thrown into a snowbank at an unprecedented speed. Her real prize is attempting to stagger back onto his feet and maintain his grip on a family heirloom. All while memories of blood, scales (or were they feathers?), and always fire assault every mental sense.

“But what you didn’t see is that every time I landed a blow against Olrox—” Richter never expected to hear that name spoken out loud again. He never wanted to. “—A drop of his blood landed upon my tongue. Again.”

Her claws narrowly miss his abdomen before grazing Richter’s back.

“And again.”

Two more wounds appear across his thigh, faster than the whip can strike back.

“And again. Only a few drops, yet it was the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Richter’s cheek hits the frigid ground before he rolls his aching and bleeding body to the side, avoiding another one of his mother’s blows. No, don’t call her that. It’s not his mother. It’s not Julia, only a monstrous it . 

“It was his blood that brought me back from death. And as my new self, I realised something; how did I ever stand being your mother?”

Lies upon lies. Richter knew the contents of that bestiary long before he knew the exact words to his favourite nursery rhymes. That’s not how fledgling vampires are created—isn’t it? He seems sure of this fact, yet past visions of damned Boston and Julia’s constant onslaught on his waning resolve tempt Richter into a mental descent strengthened only by years of grief and guilt. The thing wearing his mother’s face and figure senses this rising doubt in everything—himself, his certainty, and confidence in what he knows.

“What are you waiting for, dear? Kill me. If you can’t do anything else, then do the one thing our family is good for.”

Drops of scarlet sink into the snow. Richter’s assurance that he will leave this woods with new scars that may fade with time or stay with him into old age is next to wither and fade. Yet he can’t. He can no longer raise the whip against Julia. Not at this moment but that’s all she needs to rush forward and pin him against the forest floor.

“You can’t even kill me a second time,” she spits in his face. Her presence so hellishly cold, whatever tears escape from Richter’s eyes are already frozen before they can chart a course down his cheeks. “I now see you for what you really are and have always been since your birth: failure. A burden. Unworthy of our family name. Unworthy of the love you think you deserve. But you deserve nothing. ”

“RICHTER!!” Maria’s voice rises over the raging fire. Richter can’t see her but he hears a brief struggle to steady herself before there’s another shout that would tear the vocal cords of anyone else. “That’s not her! That’s not your mother! Your real mother loved you! Mum and I love you too! We always have, you stupid idiot! You have to remember!”

Remember what? How can Richter think of anything that doesn’t involve the mental vision of a near future where he gets the ending he does deserve: mutilated after failing to save an innocent and himself.

Yet, perhaps fate’s method of replaying a portion of his life before his death, Richter is shown a different Boston night that occurred shortly after he stopped running into Julia’s bedchamber whenever his childish fears gained the upper hand over his reason. Still very young at this time, though old enough to realise it should be the monsters afraid of him, not the other way. He was awoken by a floorboard creak near his door where Julia stood wearing a lengthy nightgown, her hair undone, messy and loose around her shoulders.

“What’s wrong, mum?”

“I had a nightmare. Can I sleep in your room for tonight?”

It was almost too much for Richter’s soft mind to comprehend. The calm and collected way in which his mother spoke along with her gentle smile did nothing but confuse him further.

“You get those too?”

“Almost every night. They frighten me terribly.”

“How come you never said anything?”

“Because I always try to handle those nights myself. And I don’t want to seem weak to you.”

Richter was about to stand atop his bedsheets in defiance. “You’re not weak! You’re so strong and brave and you beat all the monsters every time!”

Julia laughed. He remembers it sounding a little sadder than her usual displayed bouts of amusement. She made her way across the room and sat next to Richter.

“But there are times when I don’t think I’m strong, or brave. Like tonight.”

“You can sleep here, mum. The monsters won’t get us while I’m here. I’ll protect you.”

Another chuckle, lighter this time, before Julia snatched Richter up in her arms and held him tight as the two snuggled together. His attempts at escaping and excuses of “you’re tickling me!” soon dissipated until they vanished entirely.

“I’m proud of you for being brave. But don’t be in such a rush to grow up, my darling.”

“That memory isn’t real.”

Julia’s other voice, gnarled and spitting like venom, echoes in Richter’s mind before he hears it spoken aloud in the present. A bloodied hand worms up his chest and wraps around one of his throwing daggers. Without pride or a sense of victory, forcibly choking back at sob, he slides it from the small compartment and rams it into the creature’s throat.

“Neither are you.”

Desperate, frenzied movements blur his vision along with a downpour of cold blood. Over and over again the blade lays waste to Julia’s neck. Before her screams can come out as garbled yet piercing screeches, a large feline catches the top of her head in its jaws. Richter doesn’t cease his attack even when he sees Maria standing just behind Julia, controlling the beast. Through their combined efforts, her head is finally torn from the spine, dropping like a soured piece of fruit.

Maria compels the silver and blue tiger back through its golden portal before rushing to her brother’s side. Along with the blood, she helps clean his face of any residual frozen tears stinging his eyes and creating new blemishes as they’re stripped from his skin. Both arms embrace Richter, wrapped around his neck, terrified that if she lets go, she’ll lose him. His reaction is a stalled numbing silence until he slowly raises a hand to rub her back, almost out of uncertainty. 

“Maria… Did you see her?”

“See who?”

“A woman with long brown hair.”

“No. No, I didn’t see her. All I could see was this… horrible face. Its eyes were bulging and the mouth was open in a wide scream. It barely had any hair at all. Just a few mangled wisps. And its neck… it looked like it had been completely caved in. I don’t know what I really saw…”

They only part when the decapitated corpse of Julia begins to fade away, though in the most peculiar manner. It doesn’t turn to ash or fire, nor does its skin and muscle shrink into itself like a hollow cadaver. There’s instead a stream of ectoplasmic vapour which drifts up through the trees then vanishes.

Not a vampire or a werewolf, but something far more esoteric that was forced into a physical form through igniting the consecrated gunpowder. It would explain why there was so much blood then none at all.

“I don’t understand…” Maria whimpers once she’s on her feet. “White ladies are supposed to be passive spirits. They’re born from grief and personal pain but… they’re never this violent.”

They never turn your own thoughts against you.  

Richter doesn’t give his theories or ideas. He trudges towards the little girl, the last victim of this madness, and carries her in his arms as carefully as he can. Most bodies feel heavier than when they were alive, yet hers is so light and fragile.

“I don’t care what it was,” he mumbles. The fire is now gone, the rifle buried in snow. There’s no reason to stay in these woods. “Let’s get her to the chapel.”

He doesn’t know her name, neither does Maria. Someone will tell them, someone has to give her a proper burial. That very someone gingerly emerges from his cabin nestled in the heart of the old cemetery, wax-covered candlestick in hand, watching as two downtrodden forms make their way towards his morbid yet serene home. The more headstones they pass, the more his old eyes well up and his bottom lip trembles, hidden behind a thick layer of frayed grey whiskers.

“Oh no,” the gravekeeper greets them. “Not Lottie. I buried her grandfather barely a week ago. Her mother and father… they cannot bear another tragedy.”

Richter’s expression darkens as he expects the old man to chide him without end. How could he let her die? Aren’t Belmonts supposed to be the strongest of us all? Why do we bother placing our safety, our lives in your incapable hands? Yet the gravekeeper seems far more kind than that presumption. Perhaps it comes with his position amongst the dying and dead. He guides the two hunters into his cottage, assuring them he will prepare a decent burial and service for Lottie. Just as Richter crosses the threshold, he hears something troublesome from the old man.

“Is she truly dead? Did you put her soul to rest?”

“Who? Lottie?”

“No, no. La Dame Blanche.”

Perplexity turns into a slow, simmering anger as Richter puts together the last pieces. While Maria occupies her empathetic, disconcerted nature with the amount of smaller coffins, empty and waiting, right in the gravekeeper’s home, he hands Lottie off to him. He then asks his questions carefully yet with no less vexation in his low voice.

“How did you know? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I feared my knowledge, kept secret all this time… I feared if it were made public to this town it would only put more children in danger of her wrath. She would be angered by my continued existence.”

“Continued existence? So you did know her.”

“Not her personally. But I knew of her fate.” The gravekeeper warms himself by the one candle he wields before solemnly tending to Lottie. “It was decades ago. Machecoul was much smaller than it is now. I was but a boy when talk spread of a widow living in the woods with her two children. She wasn’t the most… agreeable person. Always scorned by the men in her life. But she provided for her son and daughter in both food, care, and love. That seemed to be good enough for her. But back in that land-grown town, across those rolling fields, a petty grudge can twist into something nastier. Rumours were passed around that the woman had been consorting with the Devil and her two children were the outcome of that affair.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Maria interjects. “Witch hunts and accusations are a thing of the past. Practically medieval. Most people are more rational than that, especially now.”

“My child.” Wrapping Lottie in a simple shroud, her body cleansed of all spilled blood and other impurities, the gravekeeper carries her into a coffin of her own. “Not all places are as forward thinking as Paris. Farmers, seamstresses, hunters, milk maids… my own family. Those you thought were good people, honest people who only wanted to work hard and live in God’s light, suddenly became something else. They took that little boy and little girl and tried to cleanse them of their devilish heritage in the nearest lake. They even convinced the local vicar to perform the rites. But instead of saving their souls, both were drowned.”

“Did those people ever regret what they did?” Richter asks, still bitter yet not as venom-poisoned as before.

“I like to think some did. I have to. But whether by accident or purposefully, it didn’t matter either way in the end. Those children were dead because of one town’s superstitions. And that woman went mad in her grief. With a rope around her neck, she found the tallest tree she could climb. I think it’s still standing not too far from this very chapel. Long before her body was found, some swore they heard her cry out into the night, cursing everyone. She swore that one day, she would return to take their own children. Just as they took hers.”

He closes the coffin lid, concealing Lottie’s still face, as though she were in the throes of a pleasant dream. “Although, something that escapes me…”

“What?” Richter quietly snaps. “What is it now?”

“Why did she wait so long to enact her revenge?”

Maria has no answer. Richter believes he does; strange things have always happened around Machecoul, but he and the whip have been busier as of late. More sightings of vampires, more people experiencing the unexplainable. Dormant spirits now emboldened by some unknown shift in the wider world. Encounters that go beyond the expected thinning of the veil which happens every winter solstice. It could mean nothing; a brief uptick in supernatural activity and not much else. It could mean everything.

There will be time to think about such possibilities. Unable to stand spending a second longer in the gravekeeper’s abode, Richter forces a polite farewell before convincing Maria to follow. Not a single word is exchanged between them on their way home, where Tera waits by the open door. 

Richter braces for an onslaught of panicked queries demanding where they’ve been and if they realise how much they worried her. Demands which never come as Tera draws them both into her embrace. All three hold each other tight until Maria suggests something they haven’t done since a more innocent, childlike time. Tera immediately agrees to a gentle fire along with a gathering of their softest blankets, quilts, and pillows.

Mother and daughter fall asleep as soon as their bodies hit the dining room-wide makeshift bedspread while Richter sits close to the fireplace. He watches the embers slowly die, knees kept against his chest. He knew from the start it couldn’t have been real. His mother hadn’t come back, not as that thing.

What will he do when at last confronted with someone else from that night in Boston. Someone who is real.

Notes:

last fic of 2024!! thank you all so much for being so patient with me as my writing got longer and LONGER to the point where one-shots became full length novellas lol

also watch Castlevania: Nocturne season 2 when it's released on January 16 pls