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

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

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

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

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

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

  “A coincidence?” Prospero was worried by his choice of words. “How so?”

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

  Prospero sighed. “I wish those words would be enough. But I’ve learned too well that you only say that when something horrible is about to happen.”

  His false enthusiasm discovered, Gaspar made no effort to hide the concern in his eyes. It was one thing to see him so affected, but another to glimpse fear in his disposition. Prospero had never known his father to be afraid of anything. Unsettled by the stagnant air, he threw aside his blanket and stood up. “Something is terribly wrong,” he said. “Won’t either of you speak to me?”

  “Young master…” Luthor’s demeanour remained unchanged even with the colour drained from his face. “It is not that the master is reluctant to speak. He is merely searching for the right words.”

  “I’ve never seen either of you like this before,” he continued. “Have I done something wrong?”

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

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

  With movements that matched his sluggish heart, Gaspar stood and wandered over. His arms reached out to embrace Prospero, who was now tall enough that he wasn’t quite so easy to shield. Prospero moved his arms to return the gesture, somehow convinced that his father would simply disappear if he ever let go.

  “Oh, Prospero…” Gaspar sighed. “My son. Could you ever forgive this poor fool?”

  “Forgive you for what?” he asked. “I would never blame you for anything, father. Please, just tell me what’s wrong!”

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

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

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

  His next words were stolen, captured by some presence unknown to Prospero. He and Luthor raised their heads like wild bucks hearing a branch snap underfoot. Not quite so perceptive, Prospero nonetheless felt his blood quickening as he followed his father’s gaze towards the door.

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  “...Gaspar,” Luthor said.

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

  Prospero felt a chill down to his hands. “Father?”

  “We cannot go back,” Gaspar muttered. “What a terrible coward I’ve been.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “...I see.” Gaspar sighed and straightened out his posture as if suddenly unburdened. He turned his head. “Luthor-”

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

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

  “Please,” Luthor interrupted. “Have I ever disappointed you?”

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

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

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

  -But the young man was inconsolable with fear and adrenaline. “Father, what’s happening!? Who-”

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

  The sight of something so strange steered Prospero towards lucidity. “W-What is it?”

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

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

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