Chapter Four: Red As Black

"Something graceful," Ungolim said, staring at the goblet of wine he had yet to touch. "Something feminine, elegant, easily concealed, and deadly. I trust you know something of these qualities, Lachance."

Lucien folded his hands beneath his chin and let a smirk play at the corner of his mouth. "Qualities that every Dark Sister should strive to have, dear Listener."

"Indeed," Ungolim said, his eyes narrowing a fraction at the Speaker across from him. "The Night Mother requires you to gift such a weapon."

"And the candidate? What of her kill?"

Ungolim uttered a sound from the back of his throat and leaned back in his seat. "An... interesting kill. Not out of cold blood like most of them." He paused and looked Lucien in the eye, as if searching for something. "I find it amusing that the newest member of your sanctuary would lack such desires."

"Is that supposed to mean something, Ungolim?" Lucien asked, his voice dipping to an octave that was bordering on threatening.

"That is 'Listener' to you, Lachance. And think what you want of it." He let out a breath and glanced around, as if finally noticing his surroundings. He gave the room a sorry look. "I do hate traveling to Fort Farragut." Picking up his goblet, he tipped it over so that wine trickled down its side and stained the table. "The dust, the smell, the bonemeal peeling off of the Dark Guardians."

He placed his goblet on the table once he'd poured out all of the wine, and he did not need to look at the Speaker to know that he hadn't taken his eyes off of him for a moment. "And then I remember that I am above such dwellings."

"Indeed," Lucien said, a spark flashing in his eyes for a moment when Ungolim's face turned sour. "The mosquitoes and swamp fumes in Bravil must be to your standards." He tapped an index finger against the back of his hand, giving Ungolim a grin that showed no teeth.

"Watch that tongue, Speaker," Ungolim warned, his brows furrowing together. "The Night Mother knows treachery when she sees it, Brother, and she is always watching."

"What are you alluding to, Listener?" Lucien's brow arched, and if it was anyone other than the Listener before him, he would have instilled a sense of fear in whoever dared to accuse him of betrayal.

"Nothing at all, dear Brother," Ungolim said, rising from his seat. "You have your orders, Lachance. See to it that they are carried out immediately. The Night Mother stressed that time is of the essence."

"As our Unholy Matron wishes. Listener." Lucien inclined his head and watched Ungolim make his way toward the rope-ladder.

The Bosmer paused to run a finger over the Speaker's alchemy table, sniffing at the dust he had collected. "You should find yourself a new Silencer, Lachance. The place is getting awfully drab." He uttered a chuckle, not needing to look at the Speaker to know that he wore a murderous expression. Without another word, he climbed up through the trapdoor.

Lucien was the last one smirking when he heard Shadowmere neigh an ungodly roar at the Wood Elf.

Grace, Lucien thought as he surveyed the body of the dead Bosmer, is something to be desired. He moved the victim's head to have a better look at the gash in his neck. A sloppy kill. Not feminine or elegant in the least. He sniffed and let the body fall limply back onto the bed. The sheets were stained red, blood was splattered on the floor, and the tables and chairs were toppled over. Whoever the killer was, she was in a rush to vacate the premises.

He searched the body, finding a sizable purse that was left behind. She did not want his money, then. Still, Lucien pocketed the purse and gave the room another examination. On the nightstand was a letter, sealed and by the looks of it, ready to be delivered. Careful not to trail any blood, he approached the nightstand and pried the seal away, confident that the Brotherhood could forge a new letter if need be.

Mother,

I am doing well, as I always am. I hope you are, too. If I find time, I'll schedule a trip to the Imperial City. Maybe I'll make a delivery of wine there one day and visit you.

Please, Mother, I am not interested in marrying or having children at the moment. Please do not go hunting down suitors for me.

I hope the City continues to treat you well.

Love,

Ismene

P.S. Why do you sign your letters 'Coretta Benirus'? Just sign them as 'Mother.'

He shook his head, a satisfied smile creeping on his lips, and tucked the letter away into his robes; it'd be a shame if the woman's mother didn't receive her letter. His hand brushed against the blade safely hidden away, and his smile faltered. The last woman he gave this blade to had proven herself a great asset to the Brotherhood, climbing her way through the ranks all the way to Silencer. Silencing, she did well, and he had always found something admirable in the way she sent souls to the Void. But alas, the recent string of murders had added her to the chain, leaving not even a body behind.

All that was left was the blade he'd given her, and now he was to pass it on to another whelp, an 'Ismene' that could not even cover her own tracks. It was almost laughable—almost. Even if he thought Ungolim a cowardly little rat, he still had faith in The Night Mother's judgment. Nay, She was what he poured all of his faith in.

Shaking his head, he readjusted the body, making it appear to be sleeping in bed. It wouldn't do for the guards to track this 'Ismene' down so easily; he needed her alive, after all. Best to give them something to think about, something to deviate their minds from foolish 'Ismene.'

Satisfied with his work, he crept out of the room, his footfalls silent and step sure. Only his robes made sound as they brushed against the wooden floor. Finding the woman wouldn't be difficult. He had an inkling as to where she was headed, and evidence of his hunch was stashed safely in his robes. No; he knew just where to find her.

She had wanted to cleanse herself of this nightmare, this horrible, horrible dream, the blood on her hands—the blood on her hands. She wanted it gone. No matter how many times she blinked, no matter how hard she pinched her hand, she still felt awake. She could still feel her body, could still see those eyes staring at her, lifeless and still crazed even in death. This would not do.

She had wanted to cleanse herself. If the rain pouring down on her with the wrath of the Aedra—for surely she had displeased them with murdering someone—could not purify her, then nothing could. No. It was done. Purification was not an option available, but what was she to do? Justice would be turning herself in, but she would be damned if she landed herself in prison. She knew what the guards did to the female prisoners; she had heard all about those terrors from Fagus and Nigidius when they served their time. Her pride—another folly she had inherited from her late father—prevented her from choosing that path. That was not an option.

It was him or Bernadette, it was him or Bernadette. She swallowed, idly wiping the rain from her face as she lost herself in a daze. It was him or me. I chose me. The thought was a terrifying one—how close had she come to death! How easy it would have been to let him behead her. There would be no guilty thoughts, no horror toward her actions. She was a killer, a murderer.

It was self defense! It was, it was, IT WAS! She repeated this to herself, a wordless mantra that she prayed would earn her forgiveness. Not just from the Nine Divines, but from herself, as well.

She could not help but to feel that something somewhere was... pleased with what she had done. She could not wrap her mind around this. No Aedra would praise a murderer, and no Daedra would waste their time on such a petty killing. She could still feel his body trapping hers, could still smell his breath, could still hear his cackles.

Do. Not. Think. She readjusted her grip on her pack, her fingers digging into the leather straps as if they would anchor her to sanity, or what was left of it. More than she could count, she had tripped over a jutting cobble and had fallen forward. The scrapes did nothing to ease her mind; she was numb to them. There was so much blood. On him, on her, on the sheets, on the cobbles—

She sobbed, choking on some rain that had found its way into her mouth. She spat and flung her hair out of her face. She would find solace somehow. She would go to the City, tell her mother everything. Coretta, though she tried her hardest to regain her noble bearing, was an understanding, kind woman. She would help. All Ismene had to do was tell her the truth—

No. She closed her eyes, her lips trembling as her feet still guided her. All roads led to the City, but she knew hers would not. If she told her mother, her only family left besides her idiot cousin Velwyn, if she lost her...

No. She could not forsake that, not the last person she had. Never. She would stray from the City, maybe take up residence in Chorrol. She had made deliveries there before and knew that the city was beautiful. It was close enough to the City so that her mother would still receive correspondence from her, but she could never see her again.

Ismene was not a subtle person. The sobs tearing through her lungs were testimony to that, and her pack filled with silverware clanking about was even more so. If she could not see her mother, she could never write to her. The temptation, the pain, would be too great. She couldn't, she couldn't, she couldn't—

Her feet led her off of The Gold Road and into the forest. She fell to her knees, her pack landing with a loud thud beside her, and gripped her arms. She felt as if her fingers would tear through her clothes and skin, but she could not uncurl them from herself. She tucked her chin into her chest, letting the tears and rain stream down her face. It was not just. She had not asked for this; Glarthir had assaulted her, and she had no choice but to save herself.

But the world was not black and white, a harsh truth that was slowly worming its way into her brain. She was beginning to understand cruelty. White was too good to be true, too pure to behold, too innocent to have. Innocence had no place in this world. Black, black was...

Under the cover of complete darkness, she could lose herself to her wails, could let her nails rake into her upper arms and claw at the marks Glarthir had left on her neck. She could grieve over what injustice had been wrought upon her.

Under the cover of complete darkness, unspeakable monsters could lurk and prowl as they pleased, finding prey to feast upon, or flesh to sink their fangs into. She never heard them, never heard the telltale twinkle of magicka. She felt its full effects as the spell hit her with little restraint, and she toppled over, her body weightless and unmoving. Something dug into her side—a boot—and rolled her over onto her back. She stared up, her vision swimming, trying to open her mouth to scream. Whatever spell they had used on her—something that drained her of all energy—was potent. She could only blink, her mouth going dry when two pairs of red eyes stared down at her.

"But I'm full. Are you telling me you found us dinner when we already fed for tonight?"

"We can use her for tomorrow night. We've skipped meals long enough now, haven't we? We deserve to dine as the Count does!"

"But I'm full already—"

"Quiet! She's awaken."

Ismene turned her head to the side. Her neck felt like tree bark, and every muscle in her body was like limp jelly as she tried to move her limbs. She managed to wiggle her fingers and toes, but that was all. Groaning, she blinked once, twice, thrice, before her vision cleared.

If she had been in a nightmare before, then she must have been in Oblivion, now. Burning bodies strung to the ceiling, rotting corpses strewn about, pools of blood deep enough to splash through. She screamed, the sound cut short when a hand clamped over her mouth.

"Oh, she's a live one. I like that."

"We tend to enjoy anything that is alive." Red eyes stared into her green ones. Lips parted, revealing fangs tinged with red from a recent feeding. "Hello, there, dearie," the man cackled. Her pupils were the size of quill tips, and her body shook as if someone had cast a spell on her. He dipped his head down, his nose brushing against her ear and then neck. She froze when he inhaled, holding the scent in his nostrils for a moment, and then exhaled with a shudder.

She wished that whatever Aedra she had insulted would kill her already, for she remembered the blood on her neck and knew that the vampire could smell it.

"What a lovely smell," the vampire whispered, nuzzling her neck again. It was too perverse, too warped of what a man would do to his lover, and she could not fight the sob that coughed its way up. He chuckled, his breath feeling like ants crawling on her. "And what lovely skin. A pity it will be mangled by tomorrow night. Don't worry, my little doe," he said when he met her terrified gaze. She felt like a doe, a doe staring down its hunter ready to release an arrow with deadly accuracy. "You won't feel a thing. It'll be quiet, soft, fading. You won't even realize you're dead."

He opened his mouth, showing his fangs again, and threw his head back in a cackle when she closed her eyes. Glarthir's death had not been quiet, soft, or fading. It was bloody, messy, mangled. Her neck would soon be like his: a great maw from which blood would spill. "N-no," she murmured, her voice barely audible.

"No? Ohohoho! How cute, my little doe." He clenched her jaw in one hand, tilting her chin up. "How pink those lips are, how full of life. I cannot wait until they're grey and dead," he growled, smelling her exposed throat.

"Excuse me," someone else said from the side. From the tone of voice, it was a woman. "I thought you said we'd feed on her tomorrow?"

"That is correct," the man said. He smelled Ismene's neck again, his entire body quivering with excitement. "It does not hurt to have a little sample though, no?"

"Oh no," the woman huffed, marching over to him. She jabbed him in the chest with a finger. "If I have to wait, so do you. Do you hear her heart beating? My goodness, it's running a marathon!"

"Of course I can hear it. It's driving me mad! Surely a small lick wouldn't hurt? Just a taste?"

"You bloody hypocrite! You move from there right now, and let me smell!" The female vampire pushed her partner aside, taking his place beside the slab they'd so crudely bound Ismene to. She leaned over the human, taking in gulp after gulp of air.

"That's enough out of you," the man hissed, grabbing his friend and shoving her aside. "I was the one who spelled her! I deserve the first bite!"

"I'm the one who told you to spell her, you dolt! If those fangs touch her skin, I'll roast your hide!" She shoved him right back, igniting the inevitable fight between them. They hissed at one another, clutching clothing and hair, yanking this way and that. Their squabble made them drift away from the altar, away from Ismene, and their captive was soon forgotten as they threw punches and clawed at each other.

The Divines could pummel sinners with their wrath, she knew, but this was a chance not even a Divine could keep her from taking. It was a slim chance, but she would not waste it. Mustering whatever courage she had, she concentrated on the bindings wrapped around her wrists and ankles. She had dabbled into magicka before, knew some basic spells. Fire was easy to conjure—she had often lit the candles in her room with her mind—but right then, when her magicka would not trickle to her fingertips, she could have screamed in frustration.

She must have made a sound, for the vampires stopped their struggle for a moment to glance her way, but after finding nothing worth looking into, they continued with their struggle, flinging words and spells at the other. She could feel the magicka in the air from their casting, could smell the familiar scent of sugar and metal that only magic possessed. She closed her eyes, the veins in her forehead and temples bulging as she focused her power into her fingers.

The fire was small and uncontrolled; it licked at her skin, forming welts on her palms and wrists, but it ate through the bindings enough for her to pull out of them. She scrambled to untie her ankles, her fingers fumbling as she kept her eyes on the vampires. They hadn't noticed her sitting up on the altar, and they hadn't noticed when her fingers gave the final tug to the ropes. She hurried to her feet, her legs wobbly and feeling like bricks.

She did her best to keep quiet, not wanting to alert the vampires as she tiptoed through the blood, not wanting to cause even the smallest of ripples. With a few torches placed here and there about the room, the lighting was dim and shadows were abundant. She kept to them, willing the darkness to cloak her and keep her from these predators.

From the back of her mind, she swore that the darkness nearly felt tangible.

She moved slowly, hands groping along the walls to find a door, a corridor, anything that might lead to the way out of this hellhole. The vampires' shrieks were fading, and the silence that dawned upon her gave her hope that she would soon escape. The ruin was small and cramped; narrow passageways snaked into one another, and soon, she found herself back at the altar. She had gone in a circle.

Sweat beaded on her brow when she peeked into the room and didn't find the vampires there. The room was empty, save for the dead bodies and blood. The sight made her knees buckle, and if she wasn't holding onto the craggy wall, she would have met the ground face first. Her heart was beating as if for two people, and her breath began coming out in pants.

She almost didn't feel the breath tickling the back of her neck.