Grant knew the rest of his team wouldn't consider him a monster, not really. And, by all normal standards, they'd be right. He'd been born into a perfectly normal Wallachian life, within a perfectly normal family. True, maybe there was something less than normal about how the name "Danasty" had rung heavy with power and wealth in his homeland once upon a time, but by Grant's generation, there was nothing left but the title and its faintly gilded echoes of nobler days, and, honestly, he preferred it that way. Nobility or not, the Danastys were human, then, when the rest of them had lived, and none could doubt he was human now.
And if his old raiding party could see him again, they'd also swear nothing had changed since the night they stormed Dracula's castle so long ago: with his tattered vest still on his shoulders, his scabbard still at his belt—even a strip of cloth still wrapped hastily around the wound on his leg, from when some skeleton with a sword got a little too close. He could still aim daggers with pinpoint accuracy, could dodge and jump and climb to put all of Europe's acrobats to shame. One couldn't lead a rebel force by being pacifistic or slow.
But if they looked for too long, if they thought too hard, Grant had to admit they'd notice something was off. That slash on his leg was still too fresh for an injury he'd suffered months before, and when he clung to walls and ceilings after another perfect leap, he could hang on for a little too long.
Grant could empathize more with Sypha than he'd ever had the chance or will to admit. He, too, had spent the last few months trapped, courtesy of Dracula, as a silent spectator outside of time: not within a prison of stone, but within a demon's flesh and blood and mind, to the point where he was never sure where his soul ended and the monster's began. Or if there even was a difference at all.
Because whenever Grant tried to recall, in those fleeting silences between battles, the story of another night when another band of rebels had joined forces to attack the castle and free their homeland for good, it was as though the pages had been torn, jagged, from the chapter in his mind. It was the monster and not the man he remembered.
He'd had a mission even then, as he, the monstrous guardian of the clock tower, awaited any intruders who dared venture further into his dark master's domain. And yet, his scattered memories of those months alone were nearly peaceful: the quiet moments that glittered like treasures stolen from within the castle walls.
There were the hours he'd spent honing his acrobatic skills, climbing and leaping from ledge to wall to ceiling with strength and endurance outclassing any mortal man. There were the windows that stretched as high as he could scale, looking down on the war-torn lands below and up to the star-swirled skies above. By night, he was visited by what he supposed were the closest thing he had to friends—the Medusa heads that floated in taunting patterns and hissed out lilting melodies, and the bat that would hesitantly flutter in, only to end up perching upon his shoulder for hours at a time. And by day, he was lulled to sleep by the soothing rhythm of the tower's clockwork gears, steady and unending, like a heartbeat.
And yet, something in the furthest corner of his mind cried out to him even then, a Pandora's box he knew better than to open. Something that told him this hulking frame was not his body, that the narrow confines of this clock tower were not his home, that this singular purpose was not the mission toward which he'd devoted his life—not after all that had come before.
But acknowledging this would lead only to insanity. He lacked the means to free himself, even if he wanted to—and that distant part of him desperately wanted to. But he could not remember what had brought him to this demonic state, in this accursed place, and without a beginning, there could be no ending.
He could not remember even now.
Something had gone very wrong in that clock tower. Something locked away deep in his memory—by magic or by choice, he could never be sure. That last battle he'd faced on that last night as Grant Danasty, his old comrades beside him all the way, could only be discerned, now, as brief flashes of images, vague impressions of color and light against a field of black: like trying to see through squinted eyes.
—now crimson and ivory, now darkness and light—
—then nothing.
He'd lost, he knew, lost badly—lost the battle, lost his chance at Dracula, lost his comrades, lost himself. The last of these was the least important. He'd led the fiercest Wallachian warriors he could find up into that clock tower, and none but him ever got the chance to descend. And with no mighty rebel force defending the ravaged country, Dracula's bloody reign had continued unopposed.
It was Trevor, a valiant son of the despised Belmont clan, who'd finally freed him, restoring Grant to the life he remembered through a more simple method than he'd expected: by beating him to hell and back. Even the dark magic that had transmogrified him was powerless against the Vampire Killer's holy light. Grant had been grateful, of course, but knew better than to tell his rescuer and newest hunting partner the whole reason why.
If Trevor's skill had been any lesser, Grant knew the monster in the tower would surely have killed him—and the part of his mind that was him but wasn't wouldn't have minded at all.
And so, although he may have spent the vast majority of his life as a human, though he was one even now, he couldn't deny the time, however briefly, that he'd lived as a monster too. Though Trevor and the others seemed to tacitly assume Grant had forgotten the events of those months in the clock tower entirely—he couldn't imagine Sypha so readily tolerating him if it were otherwise—he remembered things more clearly than he was willing to express. He'd only met Trevor yesterday, after all, and rare was it for a problem to vanish overnight.
Grant could still almost feel the strange emotions, at once alien and yet familiar, that he supposed came with being a subject of Dracula's demonic court: the undying loyalty to a figure he sensed at the edges of his consciousness but could not see, the bloodlust he knew he'd act on to eliminate any challengers in his master's path. Sometimes he suspected he could remember them so easily because they were not dissimilar to the will to defend his country and dispose of those who threatened it that had brought him and the other rebels to Castle Dracula in the first place—the same passion turned inside out.
Dracula himself was a scourge on the land, and, ever since Trevor had broken the shackles on Grant's mind and restored him to himself, he'd never once doubted that the vampire deserved death, for humanity's sake. But what of his followers? How many were like he had been, willing to fight and die for their master because that was the entire life they knew?
Grant had no qualms about quickly dispatching any monster that posed a threat to his life or those of his teammates. It was only the aftermath, the corpses and blood on the demon castle's floor, that caught him off guard at the worst of times: the chilling reminders of how easily it could have been him on the receiving end of a whip or mystic staff. The most frightening thing about being a monster was how he had barely felt any different.
"Grant?" The sound of Trevor's voice was unexpectedly clear from his position on what must have been the floor above. "What the hell are you doing down there? Everyone's waiting."
Sypha called out too: "Are you still alive?"
"Right behind ya!" Grant yelled back. He sprinted up the staircase, dodging the missing steps all the while, but was surprised to find, at the top, not his comrades but an empty landing that appeared to look out over darkness. The flickering candlelight in the room illuminated only a second flight of stairs leading upward. He shrugged, then cleared the second staircase in practically a single leap.
He'd definitely wasted too much time lost in thought. After spending damn near every minute since sundown slaying hellspawn and narrowly avoiding deathtraps, though, it was only too easy to take advantage of the closest thing to a break. He dismissed the notion of expressing his recent concerns to his teammates as soon as the idea formed.
Grant barely understood these feelings himself. There was no way that Trevor and Sypha, humans and monster hunters both, would see any hint of sympathy for their enemies as anything but a deathwish.
His thoughts were cut short as he collided with something at the top of the staircase and jolted to a stop. Smooth move, he groaned internally. Losing track of his surroundings was not only unusual for him, but pure stupidity for a would-be vampire hunter. He turned his gaze upward, and fought back the urge to groan aloud.
Alucard's golden eyes met his. His face held the same mix of sympathy and impassive calm he'd had when he'd taken hold of Sypha's weapon. He had been so silent for the last few minutes that Grant had forgotten entirely that he was even there.
"Yeah, sorry," Grant muttered, taking a few steps to the side so that they were no longer touching. "Didn't see ya there."
Alucard said nothing, only adjusted his cloak (Grant couldn't see any difference when he was done with it) and turned to regard Trevor and Sypha.
"What's the matter?" Grant went on. "Bat got your tongue?"
Alucard remained silent, though Grant thought he saw a flicker of annoyance cross his face for the briefest of moments.
Good.
If anyone on the team could understand what Grant was feeling, it was Alucard. He was a monster, too—and one that couldn't be changed back to normal, no matter how hard you hit him. As Dracula's son, being a vampire was his "normal."
Or at least, Grant was pretty certain Alucard was a vampire. Sure, he said he didn't burn to ashes in the sunlight, but it was the fifteenth century; maybe they'd figured out some type of workaround by now. And okay, he'd looked kind of annoyed that time earlier this evening when they'd nearly cut off some flying demon's head and Trevor asked too casually if he was going to drink its blood, but for all Grant knew, he'd already filled up on the stuff before they'd even met. In any case, someone with fangs who could transform into a bat was definitely not human by any stretch of the imagination, and, as far as the others were concerned, that's all that mattered.
It must have been hard, though, being a monster among monster hunters, the clear outcast on the team. Sypha apparently viewed Alucard's association with them as nothing more than the setup to an impending betrayal, and always kept at least a staff's length apart from him at all times. Trevor may have been accepting of anyone willing to fight for the same cause, but sometimes seemed to regard Alucard and his knowledge of the castle as a secret weapon above all else.
Grant had no reason to judge someone for his demonic heritage, but it was simple fact that Alucard hadn't exactly made it easy to get to know him. Grant had fought alongside Trevor from nearly the beginning of his journey, and they'd discovered Sypha's statue in the woods shortly thereafter. Alucard's hideout, though, an abandoned tomb at the end of a maze of catacombs, was something they'd stumbled upon by chance after hours of fighting their way across Wallachia, at a time when, tired and battle-scarred, they'd already felt like breaking for the night. He may have been willing to guide them along the quickest route through the castle, but any personal information he'd offered was next to nonexistent.
But Alucard wasn't a bad guy—actually, he seemed pretty decent. He was no less willing to strike down attacking demons than anyone else on the team, even considering the hellbeasts were most likely his former roommates, and the map he'd helped Trevor construct hadn't led them wrong yet. If he were at all bothered by the other hunters' suspicions of him, then he did an impressive job of not showing it, the same stoic expression held in place like a mask. His clash with Sypha was even proof that Grant wasn't crazy for wondering about the monsters' lives that they were so casually ending, or at least that he wasn't alone.
Still, having a heart-to-heart with a vampire was the last thing Grant wanted to do right now. It would only make things more awkward than they already were. They had too many literal demons lusting for their blood for anyone to benefit from him throwing his personal ones into the mix. And it was his duty, just like the others', to stay strong and support his team, not spill his guts before they'd even pried the lid off Dracula's coffin. Besides, he barely knew the guy anyway, and everything about Alucard's demeanor said he'd prefer to keep it that way.
Grant moved away from the staircase and followed Alucard a few paces away to where Trevor and Sypha stood before a low barrier, joining them in looking out on what appeared to be a straight shot to freedom. As the map had indicated, a long hallway stretched before them, in a direct line to the room that supposedly led outside. Though the room was at a slightly lower elevation than the level on which they currently stood, hiding its floor and other features from view, Grant could just make out the top of an ornately carved doorframe on its farthest wall. The marble columns that lined the brick passageway ahead and the frayed red curtains that decorated the room beyond made the waiting path appear strangely welcoming.
But there was something disconcerting in just how closely this section of the castle resembled Trevor's hastily drawn layout. While the other rooms they'd visited had been as different from their simplistic representations on the map as a human heart was from a valentine, everything before them looked strangely... empty. There were no monsters of any kind to be seen, and no instruments of death and torture lying in wait. The castle itself seemed to be holding its breath.
"So, we all agree this is a trap, right?" Trevor asked.
"Of course," Sypha said.
"Damn straight," Grant added.
Alucard inclined his head in a nod.
"Any ideas what it might be?" Trevor went on.
The hunters fell silent in thought. The list of cruel possibilities unfolded endlessly into the darkness. Invisible demons? Molten metal poured from above? Was there even really a passage there at all, or could it all be some type of illusion?
He couldn't discount the possibility of Dracula falling back on one of his old favorites, either. Any second now, the hallway could get flooded with water, or the ceiling could come crashing down, or the stones beneath them could crumble away—
Bullseye.
The pieces of a mystery he hadn't realized he'd been solving joined together at once in his mind. Only minutes ago, he'd been sure that Trevor and the others had been on the floor just above where he'd stood at the time: they'd sounded that close when they'd called to him, after all. And he'd certainly expected to see more on that floor than a lone staircase beside an empty stretch of black.
The brick floor that stood before them now must barely be a floor at all, thin enough to collapse under a human's weight and send any intruders plunging into the terrors of whatever waited in that dark trench beneath.
"...it's a pit trap," Grant breathed. "Half the floor below us has no ceiling. I thought something was dodgy when I could still hear your voices two floors up."
"Smart move," Trevor said with an approving nod. "So that's what you were up to."
Grant nodded before Trevor could change his mind. It made for a better explanation for his recent distraction than any he could offer, anyway. "Those bricks will fall away just like the ones at the aqueduct last night." He took out a dagger and pointed at one of the pairs of columns. "And past that point or so, I'd bet anything there's nothing underneath but a straight drop."
Sypha leapt to the top of the barrier, using the Belnades staff as a balance to come to a smooth landing. "Should we run for it, then?"
"Wait," Alucard spoke up. The other hunters turned to face him. "I noticed something unusual when we passed by the lower floor, and, well... there may indeed be… something underneath."
"Go on…" Sypha said dubiously, chin resting atop the carved end of the staff.
Alucard still looked hesitant. "I believe there may yet be... other hunters within the pit. Those that failed to make it across."
That was news to Grant. He hadn't noticed anything but darkness past the point where the landing ended. "What, you mean like 'trapped?' There's people alive down there? Did you hear them, or...?"
"No, I... didn't hear them," Alucard said. Grant wasn't sure if it was his imagination, or if the vampire, or whatever he was, looked a shade or so paler. "And I very much doubt they're still alive."
Alucard paused to straighten the sword at his waist for several long seconds. As the three human hunters' eyes remained locked on him, the silence only grew louder.
"...I suspect they all bled out minutes after falling," he concluded. "...Onto the spikes. F—Dracula favors it as a method of execution."
"But how can you tell they're there?" Trevor asked, sounding more curious than anything.
"And why didn't you tell us sooner?" Sypha just sounded suspicious.
Alucard looked once again like he'd rather do anything but answer. Then he sighed and got it over with. "The... scent of human blood was quite noticeable on the lower floor, even considering it's long dried by now. Several dozen victims, from across several months at least. I hadn't wanted to disturb you, but—"
"Well, you tried your best, anyway," Grant said.
He glanced behind him and caught a glimpse of Sypha's lip curled in disgust. Some part of him hoped Alucard didn't notice.
"Thanks for filling us in, Grant, Alucard," Trevor said. The fact that he managed such an upbeat tone after their morbid little talk was nearly as jarring as Alucard's information in itself. He then clapped his hands decisively and turned back to the barrier. "We'll all just have to tread carefully. Remember, everyone: this is nothing we haven't faced before."
Trevor was right. They'd already dodged countless spikes from above and below them, outrun walls and floors collapsing in all directions. None of them could have made it this far if they weren't damn good at escaping a seemingly certain death. Even the thought of a vault of corpses beneath their feet was really nothing new: Dracula and his minions took a sick pleasure in decorating their home in all the most creative arrangements of their victims' remains.
Still, the combination of all these things only meters from an exit was definitely a pain in the ass.
Trevor nodded in the direction of Sypha, still perched atop the barrier. "Well, what do you say? La—"
"Belmonts first," Sypha said, gripping the Vampire Killer and tugging to pull Trevor to the top as well.
"You really shouldn't be touching th—"
"Right now, that floor's as strong as it's ever going to be, and you're carrying more equipment than any of us. You should get across while it's still standing," Sypha went on. "I'm lighter…" —Grant ducked as the Belnades staff swung dangerously close to his head— "...and Grant can get out of anything. The two of us can go behind you."
The two of us.
"What about Alucard?"
If Alucard had somehow managed to miss that last slight, there was no ignoring it now. Grant resisted the temptation to turn around and check if that indifferent expression had faltered at all.
Sypha only shrugged. "He's a vampire. He can fly."
Trevor waited until Grant and Alucard had stepped up beside him, then moved closest to the passageway ahead. He turned to give his comrades one final glance. "All right, then. Is everyone ready?" He didn't seem to expect a response. The fact they were all still alive was answer enough. "Just remember: stay close behind me. Don't look back. And run like hell."
He extended one arm in Sypha's direction, nearly touching the shoulder of the robes, but apparently thought better of it and dropped his hand back to his side. Steeling his features, he faced the narrow path and jumped. Then he broke into a dead sprint.
Sypha followed a few tense seconds later, sandals clicking with each hurried step. The two hunters made sure to remain at least a brick tile or two apart from one another at all times.
It was a delicate maneuver. Apply too much weight at once, and the path would crumble instantly. Take too long to get across, and risk your companions getting stranded on the other side.
Grant gritted his teeth and leapt too.
