AN: Warning! There are elements of dub/non-con in this chapter, though there isn't anything explicit. Keep this in mind as you're reading!
"You hang anchors over my neck. I liked it at first, but the more you laughed, the crazier I came."
Richter can typically tell when he's dreaming, is able to differentiate between the surreal atmosphere of his sleep and the waking world. He knows what he's seeing right now isn't real, but there's something undeniably strange about this dream, something more corporal about it than others.
For one, he is back in the village where Annette lives, which wouldn't be strange if not for the shockingly perfect amount of attention to detail. Even his dreams often leave snippets out, his mind unable to conjure a few things from memory alone. However, this one is pieced together with immaculate attention, and that's ultimately what sets his suspicions off.
He's standing before Annette's home, a common sight when he's not out hunting, but the streets around him are unnervingly empty and dead silent, with not even the croak of a crow or otherwise sounding in the air. A mist seems to cling to the ground, as if it were early morning, and the night before had been host to torrential rain. It's cold as well, much colder than it should be for the current season, and even through his clothing, Richter can feel icy dew clinging to his skin.
Annette's house is the only lit one in the street, the only building that even seems like it's being lived in. The rest look like static props in the background, as if Richter were observing a play, and only Annette's home was center stage. He knows that whatever this dream is, it's beckoning him to go inside, to follow the crumbs carefully laid out for him. So Richter tries to do the opposite, to defy his own mind and see exactly what's going on. He turns to walk away, does a complete one-eighty, but when his eyes meet the opposite side of the street, Annette's home has suddenly shifted with him as well, and her front door once more stands in front of him, waiting to be opened. Richter, utterly confused, peers over his shoulder to see if he's hallucinating, but all he sees is an empty, abandoned home and more static imagery.
Okay… definitely different from his usual dreams.
He decides to play along, to see where this strange dream will take him. He reaches out for the handle to her door, twists it until the latch is coming free, and the door is creaking open. Richter doesn't even need to push it, as the door seems to have a mind of it's own, silently inviting him inside. He spares one last cautionary glance around him, before he's stepping through it, finding himself in the foyer of Annette's home. It's just as he remembers it, chandelier, stairs and all. Except it feels as though something has sucked all of the color out of it, leaving only dull greys and monochromes behind. It feels damn near lifeless.
He hears a slam behind him, and finds that the door has shut itself, and the windows that once allowed the lamplight to spill outside are now covered in curtains. The inside darkens somewhat, cut off from the light of day, and Richter feels the first actual beginnings of nervousness find him. The sound of a grandfather clock ticking away slowly is the only thing that keeps him company, but even that seems much louder than it should be. He notices that it ticks n time with the beating of his heart.
"Is… anyone home? Annette, are you here?" He calls out, reluctantly. His own voice sounds much too loud in his ears, deafening in the unnatural silence of the house.
"Richter…"
There's the sound of a soft voice coming from nearby, a lazy chord of his name that seems to match the hazy dreamscape he's in. Richter averts his eyes to where he heard it, and catches sight of… Annette. She's turning past the corner where the foyer leads into a sitting room, dressed in one of her best gowns, a long, white thing full of sheer lace and translucent material. Immediately, Richter is taken off guard, because this is not something Annette normally wears, especially not for the time of day it is. Even then, she often expresses mild embarrassment at donning such a revealing thing, and usually only does in the privacy of her bedroom.
Yet, here she is, standing there provocatively, one hand placed upon the bannister of the stairs, her lips curled into a coy smile. The expression seems vastly wrong on her face, unbecoming of the woman that Richter knows so well. One of her hands draws up to her chest, tugs at the lace that ties the gown together, and fingers at the bow there teasingly.
"Annette… what are you going? Where is everyone?" Richter tries for genuity, hoping that it will perhaps shatter the unreal illusion of the situation.
"What do you mean, Richter?" Her voice is quiet, a breathy whisper that sounds far from innocent.
"The village is completely empty. As are the houses! Have you not noticed?"
"I 'm here. Isn't that all that matters?"
Richter is taken aback by the response, and he flounders for the appropriate words. This is undeniably weird, too surreal for him to comprehend, and the inherent wrongness he feels at the situation is beginning to feel suffocating. "Why are dressed like that? It's midday."
"Don't you like it?" Annette allows her hand to slide off the post, and takes a few, slow steps forward, the gown trailing behind her quietly. There's something so very, very off about the way she moves, too lascivious and timed. It's not at how how Annette would carry herself, but it still draws Richter's eye deplorably. He can't stop the way his eyes trail from her face down to the soft swell of her chest, nor how the lace seems to be growing looser and looser the more her finger tugs at it.
One good pull would have the front of the gown coming apart.
"I do, but…" What can he say in this situation? Richter's mind is quickly dissolving into a mushy mess, his thoughts melting into something incomprehensible the longer he looks at Annette. It's as if this woman has put him under a spell, and he finds his mouth growing dryer and his stomach going into knots that aren't entirely innocent in nature.
"But what? Don't you find me pretty, Richter?" She is beautiful, he wants to reiterate it to her over and over. But deep in his heart, Richter recognizes how unnatural this dream is, knows that his mind wouldn't conjure this image of Annette. He is already in love with her enough to not warrant this kind of imagery, let alone paint her in such sultry, lustful tones.
"You are…" He breathes quietly, his heartbeat quickening ever so slightly. The ticking of the clock seems to fall in sync with the thumping of his chest, matching the tempo he's playing. Richter can feel the want in his hands, the desire to reach out and touch her, to lay his palms upon her skin and feel every inch of the body he's only had a few opportunities to truly appreciate.
Annette draws closer still, her head canting in a coquettish way, seemingly knowing of what his thoughts consisted of. Her hair is undone, falling over his shoulders in pale, blonde streaks, and one hand comes to push a wave over her shoulder, exposing the sharp outline of her collarbone. "Then prove that you love me. That you want me. I'm yours, Richter. I'm yours to do with anything your heart desires."
Annette is quick to close the distance between them, her hands coming to wrap about his neck, her chest pressing deftly against Richter's, and the swell of her breasts is easily tangible through the thin gown. Richter finds himself gasping at the touch, his hands balling into fists for but a moment, until Annette is fixing him with a half-lidded stare, and he finds himself returning the gesture, his arms coming to wrap about her narrow waist.
Despite the proximity, Richter finds that she is not warm, not at all. Instead, her skin seems almost room temperature, chilly against his own in a peculiar way. Even as Annette's hands snake through his hair and drag across his scalp, he can't help but shiver at the difference in temperature. Up close, he can better see the irises of her eyes, and there he notices that something is missing in them, something throwing him off in a way that has him freezing momentarily, even has her touches coax him to return the favor.
Her eyes hold no life in them, but instead look like the glassy ones of a porcelain doll. Richter finds himself narrowing his eyes at them, his lips parting momentarily as his mind sets to racing with speculation. Annette does not seem bothered by the change in his demeanor, still pets at him heavily and dreamily, her fingers nimble in the way that they stroke along his jawline and touch at his lips.
"Kiss me, Richter. It's been so long since we've been able to." She murmurs the command with a press of her weight on her toes, lifting herself briefly so that she can meet his lips. Richter does not move, allows Annette to press her mouth against his, and it's cold, cold, cold, not at all like her lips at all. Her fingers curl into his face, demanding the act to be reciprocated, and he can feel the edge of too-sharp nails denting his skin.
He's shoving her away immediately, stumbling back himself at the abrupt motion, and his teeth are baring in a grimace that has his face turning dark with accusation. "You aren't Annette. You're nothing like her. Who the hell are you, and what have you done to me? What is this place?"
Annette - or the thing parading as her - is crouched low, their footing having been sent off kilter by the shove. She peers at him from beneath the curtain of her blonde hair, her eyes suddenly hard as stone and piercing in the way they gaze at him. Richter can feel it going right through him. "I am Annette. Richter, have you lost your mind? Do you not recognize your own fiancée?"
"You wear her face, but you impersonate her poorly. Do you put this act on for all of your stolen identities?" Out of habit, his hand goes to reach for his whip, but Richter only feels air and the flat padding of his belt. He glances down briefly, and notes that all of his weapons seem to be missing, having vanished magically in this strange dreamscape.
"Oh? Am I not convincing enough for you?" The thing posing as Annette stands to its full height, and the way they hold their body now exudes an air of regality and pointed contempt for him. Their eyes bore into his own, as if observing a wild animal and disapproving of its actions. They take a step forward, their sinuous gait abandoned now in favor of waltzing along with an air of grace. Though, there still exists the over exaggerated sway of their hips. "Is Annette not good enough for you?"
"Shut your mouth, and shed that form. I tire of you wearing Annette's face like a crude mask." Despite having no weapons, Richter stands ready to fight, his stance shifting defensively.
"So you don't like this look? Should I change it? Hm?" Though the change is slight, he can hear a slight downwards pitch to its voice, turning into more of a deep, feminine drawl than Annette's own soft timbre. There's a vibrating quality to it, a slight echo within itself that Richter knows is inhuman. "Would you… like this better?"
There's a slight shimmering to Annette's form, a warping of light and shadow and the illusion of white smoke engulfing her body. Richter takes a cautionary step back, bracing for a sudden spell or lunge, but neither end up coming. Instead, the smoke and shimmering fades to reveal a new illusion, and at a glance, this one is as equally pieced together as the last. But that's not what has Richter going stock still, his eyes widening ever so slightly at this new visage.
Blonde hair has faded to a much longer, almost pale white shade. Annette's gown is gone now, replaced by a heavy black cloak and form-fitting noble's clothing, and the fairness of of the skin that covered the last form is now somehow paler. Green eyes are gone in favor of glinting, golden ones, and the difference in color is like comparing copper to diamonds.
Richter is once again rendered speechless, and there's not even a tangible train of thoughts to place to this unexpected change. He does allow his eyes to trail downwards, to look for the outline or glinting metal of the sword that was once placed at his throat. He's relieved to see that this creature has not replicated the weapon. But still… why this particular identity?
The creature grabs hold of the cloak and holds its arm out, studying with apparent delight the new form it's taken on. Pale lips spread into a smile that seems off on its borrowed face, its eyes deceptively soft and half-lidded. "I've always enjoyed this particular form. Oh, the things I love to do with it." The voice is perfectly mimicked, a deep and smooth baritone that has Richter's mind conjuring up images of the pink-laden garden. "A shame that I've never quite been able to wrangle this one. He's a stubborn prince."
"You're trying to taunt me with him of all people?" Richter retorts disbelievingly. "This must be a bad joke."
"And why is that?" It regards him with its borrowed eyes, and even though they lack the proper amount of emotion in them to make them appear real, they are still somehow just as beautiful as Richter remembers them. "Come now, hunter. It doesn't take a fool to see how attractive this form is. It's utterly desirable, and no woman - or man , for that matter - would glance upon it and decide otherwise. I know the thoughts that lurk in the back of your mind, Richter. Why don't you indulge me with them? This could be your only chance. It could be our dirty little secret." One gloved hand reaches forward and curls its finger inwards, invitingly.
It's a motion saturated with corrupt promises, and Richter finds himself shaking his head at the imposter, his face drawn into an expression of incredulity. "If you think I'd lay with that monster, then you're as dense as your damn illusions. I'd rather rot in hell than submit myself to that ."
"Would you, really?" Its smile never wavers, seems to curl into something even more sinister.
It's like déjà vu. One moment, Richter is staring down the beckoning form of Alucard, and the next, his arm is being twisted behind his back, and a cold, solid form is being aligned against him, with a voice and equally frigid breath tickling at the back of his ear. Richter huffs out a frustrated cry, and moves to yank his arm away, but it's pressed firmly against his spine, the angle straining his joints painfully. His body jerks forward, tries to throw the creature off balance, but not even that is allowed. So he grits his teeth and hisses out a colorful string of curses, slinging every filthy word he can at the monster that holds him at bay.
"My, what a mouth on you. Filthy, filthy, filthy. Hard to believe that God would imbue a man such as yourself with holy powers. You hardly seem a fitting choice." The words sounds so strange coming out of its mouth, sickly sweet and ill fitting for the princely man he met in the gardens earlier. "I know of a couple good uses for it, though. A filthy mouth for a filthy task. What say you, Richter? Shall I put you on your knees?"
"Put a dagger through me first, and I'll think about it."
"You tempt me with a good deal, boy. Don't forget that this man appreciates blood as much as he does violence."
"I've known him for all of five minutes, and even I can tell that you do a horrible impression of him." Richter hopes to stall the conversation for as long as possible, so he can at least formulate a plan to get out of this.
"You don't really know him, though, do you? That leaves a lot to the imagination, hunter. Let your mind roam wild. I won't hold it against you. Or," There's the press of hips against his own, and Richter damn near jumps at the invasive touch. "I will, actually."
"I will take your head off the moment the opportunity presents itself!"
"With what? Your bare hands? Please, spare me the theatrics. You're in my realm, dearest." There's a sharp twist to his wrist, and Richter has to bite back the cry that threatens to leave his throat. "Perhaps I'll string you up instead, let you hang helplessly while I show you a thing or two. That way, you can just sit back and enjoy the show."
"Are you trying to make me sick?"
He receives no response, and that only serves to make Richter's skin crawl with apprehension. Instead, he feels a hand roaming, gloved fingers trailing up his back and tickling at his neck, spindly over his skin and fleeting with their grazing. It raises goosebumps on Richter's flesh, makes his hair stand on end. Fingers tug at the knot that ties the white kerchief around it, and it falls away, leaving his flesh exposed. They cup against the side of his neck, force his head to cant enough to bare the full length of it, and the cold set of lips that he feels upon his skin has him squirming desperately against his captor.
Richter's voice is naught but a growl in his throat, his expression absolutely livid, "I promise you won't live past me. I swear on my life, I'll see you dead before you ever touch another soul again!"
"Of course," It's mouthed against his pulse point, and the slightly damp breath he feels against his skin nearly wrings a shudder out of him. "Posture if you must. I know it must soothe that fragile ego of yours." Richter can feel a tongue lapping up a wet line, calling a chill to his flesh as it leave a damp trail behind. The lips meet his neck once more, and there's a soft suction to the kisses that travel across his skin, and they gradually grow harder with each pass of the creature's mouth.
A harrowing noise escapes him, a sound full of repulsion and objection. Richter tries to arch a shoulder, tries to pull away or force the mouth off of his neck, but he finds that it chases him with every movement, with every jerk that tries to throw them off. When his struggling begins to become troublesome, he feels another sharp twist of his wrist, this one threatening to snap his bones with how rough it is.
The only mercy he gets is when they draw away once more, no doubt to taunt him even further, "Shall I make this more authentic for you? I never meant for your immersion to be shattered, but you lot are becoming so damned attentive these days."
"If you're looking for realism, then hand me my whip, and I'll show you exactly what would happen in this situation."
"Oh, how lewd. Please, don't give me any more ideas, Richter. I'm already brimming with them." There's the soft vibration of laughter against his neck. "But where was I? Ah, yes… That ."
Richter doesn't know what that is, but he has the sneaking suspicion that if he doesn't wiggle out of this situation, he may not live to regret it. He tries to think of something, anything that will spring him free from this monster's grasp. He could try tossing them over his shoulder, but the way his arm is twisted behind his back is forcing him to arch along with it, throwing his own balance off. He doubts he could hit a low blow, though he's not sure how much damage it would do to this creature, nor if its anatomy would even allow it.
It becomes much, much harder to formulate a coherent thought once he feels the too long press of teeth against his neck. Richter feels his blood run momentarily cold, a strong chill icing his spine as his eyes go wide, and strain to peer at the creature from their corners. This… can't possibly be happening. It was one thing to impersonate someone, but this was taking it too far. Richter can feel his heart thudding heavily against his chest, a violent rhythm against his ribs as it seemingly tries to sink into his stomach.
They press harder, almost teasingly, dent his skin with the beginnings of pain, and a broken, short noise rips from his mouth at the pressure. His muscles have gone tight, seemingly paralyzed with the realization of what was about to happen. There are words spilling from his mouth, short, rigid pleas, "Don't… don't you dare…!"
All he receives is an amused hum - in that damned, replicated deep voice! - and the continuing press of perfectly mirrored fangs into his skin. Richter can feel them slipping in, slowly, almost sadistically so, drawing the first small wells of blood. His voice strains in his throat, a rough drag of protest that has his vocal chords going sore.
He has never suffered a vampire's bite before, but it is much of what he thought it would be. Sharp, stinging, unforgiving pain. An invasive, skin-crawling feeling at the knowledge of having teeth digging into his neck. It stirs the beginnings of nausea in his stomach, and there's a suffering groan escaping him, a noise full of fatigue and exasperation. Richter swears that the room seems to spin momentarily, his eyes blinking through bleary vision, trying to refocus to the best of their ability. He almost doesn't register the greedy sucking at his neck, nor how their lips and tongue seem to be guiding his blood right along. Alongside the pain, it's an awful, sensual feeling, one that lends to the unease building in his stomach, though doesn't fail to make his hair stand on end and his breath come in quick, haggard gasps.
It seems to end shocking fast, because the sharp points are being yanked out, and there's the sound of lips smacking against each other, and an inquisitive noise sounding by his ear. "I can't say that I share the same appreciation for human blood. Not quite to my tastes, you see. You'll have to forgive me for not being able to replicate it perfectly. I could never figure out how to nail the… more sensual aspects of it. Ironic, isn't it?"
Richter's breath is unsteady, quickened by the adrenaline that sings in his veins. The pain at his neck is sobering somewhat, and the rush of anger only seems to fuel his desire to escape. He hears laughter once more, and the sound draws back, away from the side of his neck and more towards the nape. Richter recognizes the chance for what it is.
He's slamming his head back then, catching the creature off guard and smashing its borrowed nose hard. There's the brief sound of something cracking, and though the pain radiates throughout Richter's skull, he knows that it isn't his own bones. The hand holding his wrist falls away, and Richter yanks it back to himself and swings his arm hard, smashing his elbow into the side of their face.
It stumbles back, and gloved hands come to cover that pale face, where small slithers of darkened blood begin to peek through the fingers. Richter can feel clarity rushing back to him, his thoughts slowing before reorganizing themselves, his mind picking through his options quickly.
This is a dream. The creature mentioned him being in their realm, which suggests that the dream isn't his own, but rather something they created themselves. Family bestiary... Think, think, think . What manner of creature is capable of doing this? Borrowed identities, overly sensual, provocative displays...
He wants to smack himself for his stupidity. A Succubus, of course! How foolish of him to have not recognized the signs before!
And if this is a dream… then there must be some manner of it being reflected in the waking world. The Succubus must have gotten into his room somehow, despite his warding. He curses at himself inwardly, regretting not checking the room more thoroughly. He should have knocked at the walls, should have tested them for illusions. The Succubus is probably curled up next to him in bed, and Richter has to suppress a violent shudder at the imagery in his head.
However, if that's the truth… then wouldn't his weapons still be on his person? Unless she thought to remove them beforehand, Richter's gear should be right where he left it. She couldn't touch his whip if she wanted to, anyway. The consecration on it would chase her away immediately.
He doesn't have much more time to think. The Succubus, despite still wearing Alucard's form, growls at him in her deep, feminine voice, "Curse you, Belmont! I was going to play nice with you, but now I think I'll just flay you alive! I hope you aren't too attached to your skin!"
"Try me," He offers threateningly, and his hand strays down to where he knows a belt is strapped to his thigh, though it appears to not be there. Richter pays the illusion no mind, knows that in the waking world, that is where a series of throwing knives rests on his person.
The Succubus screeches, an awful, grating noise compared to her typical liquid drawl. Richter's hand grips at thin air, wraps around nothing, but still something all the same. He can feel something solid between his fingers, smooth and sharp on its edges. He knows better than to expect a careless lunge, is already turning with the incorporeal knife drawn from its slot, and turns just in time to impale it deep into the Succubus's chest, shoving with both hands at the handle so that it sinks past the organ he'd been aiming for.
Alucard's borrowed face goes lax, gold eyes blown wide, bloodied mouth opened in a silent cry. There's a broken breath whizzing past the pale lips, before the illusion is melting away, the smoke sizzling from the body in wispy curls. The Succubus's real form bleeds through, giving way to gratuitous skin and thin, sparse clothing. Richter's eyes are drawn to the large swell of her chest, where the knife pierces through one breast and straight into her heart. Blood trails quickly down her stomach, dripping onto the wooden floorboards in generous amounts.
"H-How…" She croaks weakly, one hand raising to try and pull the knife from her body. But it never meets the weapon, instead lingering by while trembling violently.
Richter's vision goes black for a moment, the world seeming to dim around him as if night were falling. But he's opening his eyes after a moment, and the familiar sight of the bedroom is greeting his eyes. He's turned on his side, facing the Succubus who lies next to him, one arm draped over his hip while the other falls to her side, limp. Her eyes - a terrible, glowing violet - seem to grow dim, before she's choking out a last, sudden breath.
Richter yanks the knife out of her chest, and tosses it aside, all the while gathering himself on the far edge of the bed. His hand draws to his neck, where he can still feel phantom pain biting at his skin, but upon meeting it, he feels no blood or puncture wounds there. He breathes out a grateful sigh, the tension seeming to rush out of his body with the sound.
"Conniving bitch!" He shoves at her body, sends it tumbling off the opposite side of the bed with a dull thump. Richter eyes the spot where she'd been lying with open contempt, his skin still crawling from her corrupting touch.
He knows not of how long he slept, but Richter can't seem to feel tired, not after that entire ordeal. In fact, sleep is probably at the bottom of the list of things he wants to do right now. He pushes away from the bed, grabbing his whip from its discarded spot by his pillow, and tucks it back into his belt as he quickly leaves the room with not even a glance to spare behind himself.
That'll be the last time he decides to shack up inside the castle's various quarters. He'll take his chances with the other monsters lurking its corridors.
"I fear that if I don't act quickly, the other monsters of this castle will claim you as their own toy. You're quite the magnet for trouble, Belmont."
The voice that echoes off the damp walls is immediately recognizable, its sly, brittle tone belonging to the robed man that had attempted to perform some sort of twisted ritual on Maria. Richter can seemingly hear it from all directions, the sound reverberating inside his head in an invasive manner.
He momentarily covers his ears with his hands, his eyes narrowing in annoyance as he glances around himself warily, "Have you come to chat or fight? I've never been a fan of cowards, you see, and I owe you for disappearing on me earlier."
He hears naught but the deep croaking of laughter around him, the echoes travelling far in the rotted hallways, "Be patient, dear boy. I've not had any luck finding the girl, but you… you like to draw attention to yourself. That's rather convenient for me."
"We'll see how convenient it is once we finally meet again. I have a feeling you'll be getting the short end of the deal."
"Such unbridled confidence!" The voice laughs again, thoroughly tickled. "I wonder, does it come from naivety, or are you simply so convinced of your strength?"
"My family has constantly succeeded in sending both this castle and your master straight back to hell. How about you answer that yourself?"
"Your ancestors, yes." The voice seems to move about him, dancing along the walls and shifting in his ears. It throws off Richter's sense of equilibrium. "But what makes you think you're any better? Does your family's strength magically manifest itself inside of you, or do you honestly believe that you're anything like them at all?"
That grates annoying at Richter's nerves. His mouth twists into a grimace, his teeth snapping together for a moment before he's turning about, following the voice that dances around him. "I grow tired of your blathering! Come out and fight me already!"
"You refuse to answer me. How interesting. Then, perhaps there is some truth to my accusations."
"That's all you know how to do, huh? Spew shit from your disgusting mouth!" Richter can't keep down the wavering of his tone, of how it shakes with barely restrained anger. Who is this man, this creature, to assume anything about his family!? He has proven time and time again that he is plenty worthy of his family's name, has done nothing but hunt the night to preserve their legacy. Richter can't even conjure an accurate number of the lives he's saved in his pitifully young life. To have this thing - this unduly servant of the cretin himself - try to slander his naming is absolutely maddening!
"Then prove me wrong, Belmont. Silence me with the 'truth'. The women of the village still remain within the castle. If it had been any other member of your family, I'm certain they would have been rescued by now." The tone of the voice grows coy, purposely injecting his words with acid, so that they may better eat at Richter.
It works to a great degree. Richter feels himself burn with indignation at those words, feels a sharp line of shame course through him at the truth of it all. He tries to tell himself that it wasn't his fault that he'd not yet found his way to Annette or the other women, that Maria had taken the duty upon herself to find them. But to leave that task to a child… it was a bit irresponsible of him… He really should have forced Maria out, should have been looking for clues to the other womens' whereabouts himself instead of wandering aimlessly, entertaining conversations with strange vampires and landing himself in awful dreams with a Succubus.
He never recalls anything like this happening in the past excursions by his ancestors, had never read of such embarrassing hiccups in their journals, and the comparison has a heavy stone settling in his stomach, and him swallowing past a suddenly thick throat. His anger sizzles out in favor of allowing chagrin to take its place. Richter cannot find the words to rebuke the other man's own, and instead dwells on painful silence.
"Ah, what is the matter, Belmont? Has the truth suddenly found you? Naive, little hunter," Another peal of laughter. Richter wants to close his eyes and cover his ears. It feels as though the volume of it is rising steadily, piercing past his ear drums like a knife. "You're but a desperate man living in the shadow of his family's legacy. Trying to fill his forefathers shoes, but finding that they're much, much too big. Rest assured, Belmont, that you may be but a shell of a man now, but my master and I will make something great of you. We'll find use for that ridiculous bravado yet."
"You've said your piece," Richter grinds out on a desperate whisper. "Now take your leave already."
"And why should I allow you the time to grieve? It's about time that someone pointed out your obvious lack of conviction. Why, I'm absolutely thrilled that it could be me. It'll make rebuilding you be all the much better!"
"Enough of your words! Leave me be, already!" Richter finally allows his hands to thread into his hair, his fingers tugging desperately at his own strands. It's a nervous quirk he's never been able to rid himself of.
"No," The voice grows colder, crueler. "I never lied when I said I would have you, Belmont. And you, as the worthless waste of flesh you are, should quickly come to realize your place at my feet. Grovel in your newfound despair, hunter. I'll gladly drink your tears."
Richter feels as though he could collapse to his knees, the voice once more beginning to permeate his mind. It's so loud, louder than it ever has been before, and the cruelty laced within its tone eats away at his will like an awful disease. He can hear behind it the whispers of a dozen jabbing insults, of half-truths and cleverly constructed criticisms of his recent failures. There's one of Annette, a stinging warning that tells of her gruesome demise, and it seems to latch onto the wave of grief that sends his heart thumping away painfully.
Richter only hears of the most awful, repugnant tortures then, of Annette being made an unwilling bride to the castle's Count, and of the ways his cold hands would roam over her body, claiming the spots that Richter had once thought for himself, and chasing away any of her ties to the man in question. He feels the first dregs of heartbreak finding him, and his eyes burn with a fresh spring of unshed tears. He swears he can almost hear Annette's voice in his head, a desperate string of fearful cries and choked sobs that echo weakly with the taunting voice. His name is a broken record, uttered over and over again, a torturous cacophony that he desperately wishes he could block out. Her voice is shrill, like the grating of nails on steel, an awful cry that goes for too long before completely shattering.
Annette… Annette… Dear God , what if he does find her dead, or maimed, or raped? Richter couldn't possibly live with himself, can't see a future where he could walk away from this castle without losing a piece of himself. The possibility alone is enough to make him grow suddenly weary, seemingly drained of energy to the point of feeling his muscles giving away.
The cold stone of the floor meets his knees then, and a noise full of sorrow is sounded against his will. Richter is just about to plea once more for the voice to leave, to let his mind rest after all the chaos that seemed to have taken place inside of it recently. He never quite gets the words out.
Someone else is beating him to it.
"I'm growing tired of hearing your voice as well, Shaft. Why don't you scamper off back to my father's side? It's much better when one doesn't have to hear your prattling."
Richter glances up from beneath the fringe of his bangs, his eyes still damp and quickly becoming red ringed. The voice in front of him is easily recognizable, if not from their first meeting, then certainly that terrible dream. Of course, the man that stands before him is hard to forget as well, sporting those pale and ghastly beautiful features that no human could pull off.
"Alucard…" He murmurs the other's given name, his voice quiet in the chaos of the whispers still plaguing his mind.
"I should be asking that of you," The ancient voice - Shaft, if Richter heard correctly - retorts. "What sort of child refuses to serve their parent? A bratty, rebellious one, of course. I'm disappointed in you, young master, and so is your father."
"You speak as if you're family. You haven't the right to criticize my choices. If you value your secrecy, you'll leave the Belmont alone. Else, I may just take it upon myself to pay you a visit instead." Richter can see Alucard's boots approaching in his vision, his eyesight swimming momentarily with a sudden onset of dizziness. The ringing in his ears still remains.
"Naughty child! Urgh!" Shaft growls the words bitterly, his voice a layered echo along with the steadily quietening ones inside Richter's head. "Fine. Have your fun with the Belmont for now. I'll be back for him shortly regardless."
"Your tenacity has always been bothersome." Alucard remarks dryly, and Richter can hear his mind growing quieter, the taunting and screams slowly dying away until they're nothing but a soft echo in the distance. Richter releases a breath he didn't know he was holding, his shoulders sagging with the exodus as he pushes himself up into a sitting position. A hand come to push back into his hair, the strands made briefly damp by the sweat that beaded at his hairline. Alucard still approaches, his footsteps a clacking echo inside the rotted corridor. "I'm afraid to say that you've earned the ire of a madman."
"Tell me about it…" Richter finds himself muttering, seemingly out of breath. His eyes drag up from Alucard's boots, trailing over gold accents and silver clasps before finding the vampire's face. As usual, it's frustratingly indifferent, impossible to read any sort of emotion on it. The question is suddenly nagging him, a sudden realization striking Richter as he finds himself fumbling for words, his features morphing into an expression of shock, "Wait… that man, Shaft… he said something about you! The son of his master… No, that can't possibly be right. My family would have heard of you by now!"
At that, Alucard allows the ghost of a smirk to grace his lips, "I am a well kept secret, Belmont."
"But… how?" Richter shakes his head in disbelief. "My family has raided this castle for centuries. Centuries . And none of them have ever spoken about Dracula having a damned son ."
"I like to keep my privacy, hunter. What sort of fool would I be to spoil my existence to the Belmonts? I value my survival, and you humans have proven to me time and time again that you cannot be trusted." Alucard peers at him down the bridge of his narrow nose, his eyes a molten gold in the dimly lit corridor.
There's a thoughtful pause from Richter at that, and then, reluctantly, "So why now? Why show yourself to me in those gardens and spoil your secret, if you're so intent on keeping it? You realize that there's nothing stopping me from exposing you now?"
"Oh, there is," It's at about that time that Richter regrets not pulling himself to his feet. Alucard towers over him, his gloved hand settling on the beautiful, engraved silver of his sword, hidden inside the billowing gold of his cape. "You put yourself in exceedingly vulnerable positions. I'm beginning to wonder if you have a penchant for death, or if you're simply an unaware fool."
Richter spares him a cautious glance, "Have you been following me?"
"Perhaps. I do like to see what you're doing, from time to time. Which, by the way," It's here that his small smirk becomes almost mocking. "Very interesting show with the Succubus. I do owe you for killing her. I was beginning to grow tired of her constant advances."
Immediately, there is heat rushing to Richter's face, and he suddenly wants nothing more than to bury his head in his hands and hide his shame. He has absolutely no idea how Alucard could have seen him inside that room, not with all the holy symbols and wards, but then again, that didn't stop a fucking Succubus from getting inside.
Instead, he tugs at the kerchief around his neck, feeling suddenly strangled under it and unable to meet Alucard's gaze. "You should learn to give others privacy. For someone who preaches about valuing his own, you sure are invasive of everyone else's."
"Only you, Belmont. I care not for the other creatures of this castle." The hand settled upon the silver sword is leaving then, and extending downwards, offering itself to Richter. He eyes it with distrust, his own hands balled into fists where they rest at his sides. "Don't be afraid. I won't bite." There's a momentary pause. "Not yet, at least."
"That's reassuring." Despite himself and his worries, Richter allows Alucard to grasp his hand, and he's being pulled up in one, easy yank, his weight seemingly nothing to the vampire. Richter notices that even through his gloves, the vampire offers no heat, but instead a grave chill that permeates his skin like a fog. He's pulling away his hand quickly, the other coming to rub at it protectively. Alucard allows his own to fall slowly back to his side. "You didn't answer my question. Why show yourself to me of all people?"
Alucard chooses to take his time with his response, annoyingly aloof in the way that he rolls the question around silently. "I grew bored."
Richter levels him with a critical stare at that, a brow raising in question, "You were… bored? So you just…" He finds himself rolling his eyes and offering a sigh at that, his shoulders shrugging briefly, "Sure, of course. I shouldn't have expected some grand reason anyway." Alucard seems aware of the painfully inadequate answer, and only offers Richter a brief upturn of his lips. "So what are your plans now, vampire? Is this all just an elaborate plan to kill me in the end, or are you really not taking any sides here? For all I know, you and Shaft could be in league with each other."
"Please. Have a bit more faith in me than that. If I were to align myself with anyone, it would certainly not be him."
"Answer the question."
"No."
There's a tense silence passing between them then, with Richter offering a heated glare in Alucard's direction. Alucard's face slips back into its typical mask, his face offering no clues to any underlying allegiances. Richter can't help but feel suspicion at his unwillingness to answer. His hand, perhaps out of instinct, strays to his whip and settles over the handle. Alucard's eyes follow the movement.
"Do you wish to fight me, Belmont? Are you so unwilling to leave me be?"
"You won't choose a side, so I'm choosing the safe option and assuming the worst. Until you prove me otherwise, you and I are enemies, and even then, you're a vampire at that. Nothing good will ever come from you." Richter catches a slight hardening of Alucard's eyes, a brief flicker of anger passing through them.
It doesn't seem to affect Alucard's next words, "What if I were to give you a hint?"
Richter is hesitating at that. "A hint?"
Alucard nods slowly, a brief dip of his head. "You've been wandering aimlessly in my father's castle for hours now. If you had any inclination of where to go, then surely you wouldn't be here."
"I've been looking for clues."
"You're looking in the wrong place."
Richter is huffing out an irritated breath at that. "Fine. Then tell me, oh great son of Dracula, where I should be going. If I'm lucky, you won't be sending me to a trap."
"No, but an astute accusation on your part. I suppose your unwillingness to trust anyone does serve you some good now and then. It's been painfully annoying, thus far, however." Alucard turns briefly, his eyes flitting up to the molded roof and seeing far past it to glance at something else. Richter can't follow where. "There is a clock tower, high up in the castle. I hear they're keeping a girl there. Blonde hair, green eyes. Do you recognize her?"
"Annette." Richter finds himself murmuring her name.
Alucard's back is turned to him, only the long curtain of gently waving, pale hair offering a contrast to his cape. "I've heard screams coming from there, and the scent of fresh blood is thick. If I were you, I would hurry, Belmont." He promises he can almost hear an air of mild amusement in Alucard's tone.
Richter doesn't find it humorous at all, instead being spurred on by sudden anger. His hand shoots out, clasp Alucard by his shoulder and forces him to turn and face him. Alucard eyes Richter's hand with slight distaste, his own coming up to gently remove it from his shoulder by wrapping around his wrist. Richter is undeterred, his blood running hot with a mixture of apprehension and fury. "You know where she's at, and you know what they're doing to her! You will take me to Annette, or I swear upon my ancestors, your head will be on the ground in a matter of seconds!"
"I give you pertinent information, and you threaten me." Alucard has yet to release Richter's wrist, his cool fingers still wrapped about the fragile circumference of it. Richter finds himself being yanked forward, his footing going flimsy, and he all but crashes into Alucard's chest, his nose catching the brunt of it. Alucard abandons his wrist in favor of snagging Richter's chin and yanking his face up, and he can feel the edge of hidden, sharp nails biting into his flesh. The action stuns him so hard that he can't find it in himself to react accordingly, instead gawking at the attractive, snow pale face lingering uncomfortably close to his own. Alucard's own expression is irritated, his luminescent gold eyes narrowed at him accusingly. "If you continue taking advantage of my amiaty, perhaps I'll stop offering you words and begin offering you my sword instead. Or would that not be enough for you, Belmont? Shall I show you my teeth and give you a death fitting for your family?"
"Release me." Richter finds himself gritting out bravely, his fists shoving into Alucard's chest, his knuckles digging into his clothing. When it's apparent that the other has no intentions of doing so, Richter's hand is finding his whip, preparing to unleash hell upon the vampire touching him.
He's never quite able to do anything with it. Alucard's other hand follows his own, and snags it by the wrist, where he then pins it to Richter's side. There's no real pressure in the move, but he's strong enough to prevent Richter from slipping his wrist free, and the displeasure Richter feels eats away at him slowly. He tries to turn his head, to avert his eyes, but Alucard's fingers dig into his skin, and he can feel the first pinpricks of pain spreading over it. "Answer me . Which will it be, Belmont?"
"I'd rather be cut into a thousand pieces before letting a vampire make a meal of me."
"Would you?" Alucard murmurs quietly, his voice dipping a bit. "You'd rather subject yourself to the worst pain imaginable, then take an easy path out? Your logic baffles me."
"You haven't a clue what dignity or honor means, so I'm not surprised that you don't understand. Quit posturing and playing around, and do something if you're going to!" Richter yanks at his arm, and succeeds in moving it briefly from his side before Alucard is shoving it back to where it once was.
It's here that Alucard lingers closer, and Richter feels a sudden wave of ice flow through his veins, stunning him momentarily as the vampire all but allows himself to draw past the hunter's face, his lips lingering by his ear instead. The close approximation of both teeth and pulse point has Richter's mouth going dry, and nervousness forming a lump in the back of his throat. His eyes flit around himself wildly, unable to see what is happening, but he can feel the soft press of breath against his neck, and it's too familiar, too reminiscent of his nightmare. He wonders if Alucard realizes this, can hear how his heart picks up from a steady rhythm and beats away wildly in his chest now.
Richter tries to focus on something, anything to detract from the uncomfortable situation he's landed himself into. There is nothing that catches his eye in the decaying hall, no thought that can help him momentarily escape from this terrible joke on his behalf. He's certain he's only a few minutes away from being a tasty meal for the son of Dracula, and the realization has him mentally berating himself for once again squandering the chance to fight Alucard.
Why, oh why, does he always allow these creatures to speak? It's only proven to work against him, time and time again.
"Does it ring a bell, Belmont?" Alucard offers him a derisive whisper, and his breath is cold, cold, cold. Almost as cold as the grave. It raises goosebumps on Richter's skin, has him wanting to cover his neck with his hand, the one that still remains firmly held against his side. "I promise you that I'm not an illusion this time around, and my teeth won't hurt as much as hers."
"Is there not a mad fucking monster around here?" Richter grits out, his voice rigid and curt.
"You equate madness with a gift. Are you certain that it isn't you who is mad?" It's nearly torturous the way that Alucard seems to dawdle, instilling a sense of urgency in Richter that has his fingers curling in with anticipation. He's not sure what the other is waiting for, but a part of him wishes that he'd just get it over with. "I've said it once before, but I'm certain I could change your mind on the matter, if allowed the chance."
"As if permission means anything to your kind at all."
"It doesn't. It really doesn't." Alucard reaffirms, and if not for how his nerves stood on end, Richter would have rolled his eyes. "But it makes the moment a little sweeter."
Richter is almost eating his words then, because he feels the icy press of lips against his skin, and regret floods through him immediately. He nearly squirms against Alucard, his teeth snapping together in an attempt to stay an embarrassing noise of shock. "If you do this," He finds himself struggling against his own voice, "Then you damn well better make sure I'm dead by the end."
"I know. You value your retribution so highly." It's a soft murmur against his neck, a momentary reprieve.
It doesn't offer much in the way of comfort. Richter finds that Alucard's own advances are much more tender and slower than the Succubus that impersonated him, and he seems to take his sweet time with the way that he allows his lips to travel past his jugular and leave a ghosting trail by his jawline. Richter can feel the knots forming in his stomach, drawing his muscles tight and making him squeeze his eyes shut despite the uneasiness he feels.
The nails that one dug into his skin seem to draw away. He's certain that if not for the gloves, the skin around his chin would be sporting small, red crescents right now. Richter is just grateful that there hasn't been any blood spilt yet, though he wonders how much longer he has before that changes. The sudden freedom allows him to cant his head whichever way he likes, and he tries to shove Alucard away from his skin, but only ends up earning the return of his hand, this time at the opposite side of his throat.
It presses him closer, and Richter can feel Alucard's mouth against his neck again, a twisted parody of a kiss that has a shudder running through him, one that he isn't able to suppress. For a frightening, strained moment, he swears he can feel the tips of his fangs, terribly long and sharp, beginning to press into his skin, threatening to pierce through it once more, just as they had in his dreams. Richter braces himself for dizziness, for a sharp, burning sting, and perhaps the end of his pathetically insufficient life.
Only this time around, Alucard draws away from him in a sudden step back, and Richter finds himself nearly toppling over, his legs seemingly having lost most of their ability to support him. His hand flies to his neck, where the still-damp press of breath and lips can be felt, and the phantom feeling of fangs still remain. It feels as if his heart is trying to leap from his chest, thumping loudly in his own ears.
His other hand crawls over his sternum, the vibrations he feels there mirroring the sudden panic that seems to have set in. Richter regards Alucard with widened, blue eyes, his gaze both full of confusion and astonishment. Alucard seems to look at him with something akin to disappointment, though it's muted and hard to pick apart on his otherwise indifferent face.
"You stopped… why?" The question is leaving Richter before he can stop it.
Alucard gives him a slow shake of his head, choosing to turn away from the hunter as he begins walking away. His voice grows quieter with his long, graceful strides. "Find your lover, Richter, and then leave this place."
"W… Wait! Alucard!" Richter calls out to him, but the request to stay seems to hasten the vampire's exit all the more. Richter sees him close an insurmountable distance in a blur of red and black shadows, before he's disappearing altogether.
He is left alone in the damp, sodden corridor, with only the beating of his own heart to keep him company. Richter stares at where Alucard once stood, his mind a jumbled mess of thoughts that he can't seem to sort out. There's too much chaos inside his head, too much to try and process, given how much had just happened in such a short amount of time. The only thing he's certain of is that he's grateful to be alive right now, and nonetheless baffled at his seemingly good luck.
That, and the hint that Alucard gave him… A clock tower. The same one that seemed to constantly change, its layout documented by his ancestors and varying wildly depending on which account he read of. It was hard to tell how much it'd change given the amount of time that's passed. But Richter knew enough of it and what to look for. He need only find the first hint of whirring gears and brass metal.
It was the only sense of direction he had, and if it does turn out to be a trap, then he'll just need to survive it so he can repay Alucard tenfold for his deceit.