The duo took up positions in front of their current project-to-be. The double doors leading to the main hall had been spared the brunt of Ethan and Bela's brawl. Only the right side of the trim had taken damage from Bela's inhumanely strong punch. The impact site was splintered at head level – right where Ethan's head had been – and several cracks ran up and down the length of the trim, as well as along the sides.
Ethan spared Bela a side-eyed glare. "You would've taken my fucking head off with that punch."
Bela crossed her arms over her chest, scoffing, "It would have knocked you unconscious at worst."
He turned his half-hearted glower to Bela fully. Wordlessly, he gestured to the cracked wood for emphasis – which could have easily been his cracked skull.
"Well," Bela huffed once more, "I would have taken care of your concussion if you had gotten one."
Knowing Bela Dimitrescu, M.D., Ethan could believe it.
"Anyway," Ethan waved a hand, "We gotta score the side of the trim and the caulking. Hand me that cutter."
Bela retrieved two cutters from the dining table and passed one over. "How can I help?"
"You can take the upper half." Ethan fumbled for just a moment with his four-fingered hold on the tool. He crouched down and positioned the blade at the gap between the trim and the rest of the wall. He observed Bela mimicking him, tip of the blade to the caulking.
"I learned my lesson from the last time I did this," Ethan explained, running the blade down while Bela did the same. "I went straight to removing the broken trim."
"What happened?"
"I peeled part of the paint off along with the trim. Mia laughed her ass off." Ethan glanced up at Bela, who happened to look his way as well. Their eyes locked for a beat, and Bela offered a small, encouraging smile.
It was cathartic to talk about simpler days; it eased a small load, the first of many, off his chest.
"She wasn't laughing so much when she had to help me repaint the wall."
Bela giggled, drawing her cutter back from the trim. Ethan briefly checked her handiwork – finding a neat cut all along the top of the trim and down to where he'd began.
"Okay, now could you hand me a hammer and a chisel?"
Bela procured the requested tools and asked, "Would you like me to start?"
Knowing how strong Bela was, Ethan was a little worried for the wall. She may inadvertently chip more than just the doorframe.
"It's fine, I got it," Ethan watched as Bela tilted her head by a degree in silent question of if he was sure. When he persisted with hands extended to take the tools, Bela passed them over. Ethan then demonstrated that he definitely did not have it under control.
The mangled remains of his left hand were essentially his thumb, and two and a half fingers. It was exceedingly difficult holding the chisel and getting it into position.
"Here," Bela cut in before he could protest. She took the chisel from his hand and angled it into place. Amber eyes tightened ever so slightly at him, and she added, "You had better not miss and hit my hand."
"What? Like this?" Ethan mockingly pulled the hammer back in a wide arc.
All it earned was Bela's elbow knocking into his ribs, not enough to hurt, but just enough to make him wince.
Equal parts mischievous and in warning, Bela tsked at him. "Behave, little one."
"Okay, okay. No hand-hitting." Ethan patted his poor ribs. "Got it. Let's get to work."
Once Bela was certain he was serious now, she repositioned the chisel to ensure a smooth removal. Ethan adjusted his grip on the hammer and pressed it flat against the butt of the chisel in preparation.
This was an odd choice of a teambuilding exercise. At the IT company Ethan worked at long ago, beach volleyball and LAN tournaments of Counter-Strike were more up their alley.
Maybe when this was all over and Rose was safe and sound, Bela could join him in setting up a two-person carpentry business. It would make a good sideline when he wasn't freelancing remotely as a systems engineer.
The strange tangent Ethan's mind conjured couldn't be blamed on blood loss this time.
Ethan avoided Bela's hand as he struck the chisel. Several instructions of up and down, and they soon got the entire right side free of the door frame. Together, they set the damaged pieces down on the tarped floor.
"What's next?" Bela asked.
By this point, it was clear to Ethan that Bela wished to be involved in the process. She wasn't here to twiddle her thumbs and make him do all the work. He could appreciate her proactive behavior.
"Use that spackle knife," Ethan pointed to the wide, dull blade in question. "Scrape off the excess caulking."
Ethan busied himself hammering in the old nails. "This is another thing I learned from doing this with Mia."
The rough sound of the spackle knife scrubbing away was interrupted by Bela's hum, prompting him to go on. "Mhm?"
If Ethan closed his eyes and zoned out, he could probably still hear the lighthearted argument he and Mia had gotten into that day. "We couldn't get the new molding to lay flat on the frame because we forgot to hammer in the nails or get the caulking off."
"It sounds as though you were not a competent handyman," Bela remarked.
Ethan chuckled slightly, covering it up with a scoff. "Shut up."
Amid the pounding of his hammer, Ethan observed Bela's keen eye for detail, and quick, nimble hands. It didn't take her long to scrape off the larger bits of loose caulk. Shortly thereafter, she busied herself ridding the frame of the smaller, nearly unnoticeable bits of stray caulking.
With the frame meticulously cleaned and prepared, the new trim was ready for installation. The replacement was a perfect replica – already cut to size for a snug fit. Bela heeded Ethan's instructions, standing to his side, and holding the trim in place while he prepared to nail it down. There were enough grooves amid the intricate carving that Ethan could hide the nails well enough. They hopefully wouldn't be too noticeable after being covered with spackle.
It was one of life's small graces that nails were easy enough to hold with two fingers and a thumb. Ethan positioned the nail towards the top of the trim and got the hammer in place.
"Ethan?"
He paused before he could land the first swing of his hammer.
"Hm?" Ethan hummed.
Bela's golden eyes avoided his in an almost bashful manner as she spoke, "I wanted to ask about your… condition."
Ethan was only surprised that Bela hadn't pried sooner. He felt it was fair that he shared a little, especially after Bela had done the same. In the span of an hour, he learned of the composition of her diet, and an inkling of her origins – seemingly infected by a similar strand of super-mold.
Then again, maybe that was Bela's angle. Give a little information in the hope of taking a little as well.
Ethan's more paranoid side would even go so far as to imagine this was all planned. That the Moroaice were meant to attack them in the dungeons so Bela could prove that she had his back in a fight.
But maybe that was pushing it a little.
"Where did it come from?" Bela's tone was nearly innocent in its curiosity. "To what extent does it function?"
Bela had been somewhat vague in how the mold had infected her. Ethan could be equally vague. She wasn't the only one capable of being enigmatic.
"I had a run-in with some bad people." Ethan hammered the first nail into place with two clean swings. Bela handed him the second nail, which he eased into position. He paused, hammer swaying above the nail. "Well, they weren't really bad people."
Ethan, free my family – please.
Jack Baker's tired, sunken eyes were burned into Ethan's memory. His voice – the voice of a pleading, desperate father – could never be forgotten.
Ethan licked his now dry lips.
"They just weren't themselves."
As much shit as Ethan may give the Baker Incident, he'd long since let go of any personal resentment to the members of the Baker family. That went doubly so for Jack and Marguerite. Those two died long ago. What he'd faced in their home were twisted, bastardized versions of them – all thanks to Eveline and the damn mold.
That wasn't to say it made the trauma any more bearable.
Jack's taunting, murderous jeers – Ethan could recite them from memory if he wished. The same could be said for Marguerite's feral, livid curses and growls.
The creak of his shoes on the plantation's rotten floorboards were vivid in his mind. The fear that simple sound had instilled in Ethan was indescribable. Every step he took had been a potential death sentence – with that noise being deafeningly loud in the immensely silent house.
It was all the worse when Ethan heard the creaks, and they did not come from his own two feet.
Because then it meant death was just around the corner. It was in that decrepit, decaying ranch where Ethan learned Death didn't wear robes and carry a scythe.
Death wore reading glasses and a stained button-down. Death carried a shovel as sharp as any scalpel.
Death had spindly, long, arachnid-like arms and crept along walls and ceilings. Death had no need for tools – she relied on her inhuman agility, her animalistic instincts, and her swarms of bugs.
Death was an endless, vaguely human-shaped mass of jagged claws and gnashing teeth – an ever present and unrelenting mold that walked on two feet and knew only bloody murder.
Ethan could still hardly believe it had been three years since that shitfest. With how often it haunted his dreams, it always felt so fresh. The creaking in his ears, the smell of mold and decay, the taste of rot and blood, all the horrors – they were so damn –
"Were they… like you?" Bela's question stirred him from the graphic images and flashes of emotion.
Comparing himself to the Bakers wasn't something Ethan wanted to do.
But after all of BSAA's tests, and a dose of common sense – well, it really would be foolish to hide from the facts.
Ethan had not died and come back as a rabid, mindless mold monster with murder and blood on his mind like the Bakers. He was pretty sure he would know – or at least someone would have told him if he'd died.
But he was infected with the mold, just as the Bakers had been. It was a part of him now. The odds of it going away any time soon were unlikely. After everything it had saved him from, Ethan wasn't sure he would part with it if he could anyway.
"Kinda." Clearing his throat, Ethan hammered the second nail in. He prepared the third nail as he muttered, "You could say I caught whatever it was they had."
Bela adjusted her hold on the trim and waited for his hammering of the current nail to subside. "May I ask what is the worst injury that your condition has helped you recover from?"
That was easy, if not painful to remember. His stomach turned at the thought of it.
Wincing, Ethan recounted, "Those, uh – the people I mentioned," Ethan paused and had to consciously relax his tensed jaw, "One of them cut my leg off."
Bela's eyes widened in a mixture of surprise and disbelief. They shot down to his leg, and then back up to his face. Her lips parted, but no sound came forth.
"How did I get it back on?" Ethan took a guess at her question. Bela hummed in affirmation, head moving in a sharp nod.
You can use this to fix your leg. You can do it!
Ethan focused on pounding the next nail in – a little harder than necessary. It was the best he could do to compartmentalize. Otherwise, he'd contend with the familiar phantom sensation of steel shattering bones, rending flesh, and severing thousands of nerve endings.
"Disinfected the wound, stuck the leg back on," Ethan shrugged in an attempt at nonchalance. Even if there was nothing nonchalant at all to reattaching a severed limb. "That's all there was to it, really."
With his mangled left hand, Ethan thumbed the last screw he'd just hammered in. After finding it secure, he turned to Bela expectantly. In the rhythm they'd so far established, it was the first time she didn't immediately hand him the next nail for installation.
It was because she was apparently too busy looking at him with a concerned furrow in her brow. Ethan brushed it off as best as he could, not wanting to dwell on the trauma. Thinking or talking about it wouldn't unfuck his mind or rid him of the phantom pains when the memories flooded him harsher and more powerfully than ever. Ethan instead plucked the next nail from Bela's hand.
His dinky, fucked up left hand struggled for a moment to hold the nail properly with the few fingers it had left.
With a frustrated grunt, Ethan positioned the nail against the trim and got ready to swing. Bela's hand landed on his shoulder, prompting him to stop. Ethan found that the worried look on Bela's face had yet to ease off. Her lithe hand trailed down his arm, eventually coming to a stop on the remains of his left hand. Delicate fingers brushed against the roughly mended flesh where his pinky used to be. Then they went to the mess that was his ring finger, where the wedding band was miraculously intact, if not a little bloodstained.
Ethan could only imagine what was running through Bela's mind. Or what compelled her to run her empathetic digits over his ruined ones.
There was that part of Ethan telling him that he should be recoiling at her touch. That he shouldn't be allowing her to stand so close to him and run her hands all over his own. That she was dangerous, and he needed to run while he still had his wits about him. That he should take that hammer to her fly-filled skull and make a break for it.
She caged him up. She drank his blood. She manipulated him into lowering his guard.
That alarm bell within him grew more and more silent the longer he stuck around Bela.
Bela fed him. Bela tended to his injuries. Bela protected him from her unhinged sisters and the Moroaice alike.
It was complicated.
Mia would kick his ass for using the term it's complicated to refer to any sort of relationship.
"Humans are so fragile," Bela spoke softly and without malice, as though she were simply stating an unfortunate fact. Her eyes snapped to his once before returning to his mangled hand. "So easy to maim and disfigure. It is a wonder how some of your kind live to be so old."
Bela reached for Ethan's other hand, still wrapped around the hammer. Her fingers soon found the amputated stub of his right ring finger. Bela felt his scarred skin with a feather-light touch.
It boggled the mind how anybody who murdered and consumed humans could handle him like he was a delicate piece of ceramic pottery. It was as if Bela was afraid of hurting what remained of his fingers.
Bela parted her lips, appearing to mull her words over for a second. She gave him a humorless chuckle, fingertips caressing his damaged flesh. "Like a bag of meat, blood, and bones. I could tear you apart where you stand if I wanted to."
"You wouldn't," Ethan muttered back just as softly. He felt like it needed to be said. Not out of any deep belief in the goodness of Bela's heart, but more out of his growing understanding of Bela's nature. The curiosity, the rationality, and the – dare he say – kindness. Ripping him apart simply wasn't something she would do. It would be a waste of a sustainable blood source.
His utterance earned an easily missed crinkle at the corner of Bela's eye. It was gone before he could blink. She went on as though he hadn't said a thing. "You may be a frail human, but your body's capabilities are remarkable. You are hardier than you look."
Bela's observations led her to tap the stub of his ring finger. That sympathetic frown of hers returned. Ethan cursed himself for taking it as genuine without a second guess. "If Cassandra had not eaten your finger, would you have been able to reattach it?"
Ethan heaved a heavy sigh. He avoided Bela's gaze to spare her the frustration bubbling up in his chest. "Yeah. Probably."
If Bela's fine, blonde eyebrows pitched together any further, she might just tear a facial muscle.
"I'm sorry."
She had nothing to apologize for.
Well – she had some things to apologize for, Ethan might argue.
But Bela wasn't the one who tortured him, gave him sepsis, and sliced his finger off.
Ethan shook his head, slowly prying his hand free from hers. "Save it, Bela. Sorry isn't going to grow my fingers back."
With a small shrug, Bela suggested, "Maybe they will grow back, if your condition is as potent as it seems."
Ethan scoffed slightly – a little harsher than he'd intended. "If it does, you'll be the first to know."
They lapsed into a period of silence. Bela needed no special senses to tell Ethan was done talking about his poor, abused hands. He was grateful when Bela resumed handing him nails without fuss. He focused on the door trim. No use dwelling over lost fingers.
If they had some construction adhesive, they might have been able to cut down on both time and nails. Without it, Ethan took the time hammering down all along the length of the trim. Despite the rather average room temperature, Ethan found himself working up a sweat. He figured that the fireplace currently not being in use would've been enough to keep him cool. All the action from earlier, coupled with his probably still-diminished blood levels added up to make this mundane physical activity more strenuous than he expected.
Once the final nail was pounded into place, Ethan straightened up. Bela's golden eyes followed his movements, and Ethan felt the unspoken question of if they were done or not.
With a wipe of his brow, and his voice a little out of breath, Ethan explained, "We're gonna need to cover those nails next."
"Using…" Bela took a guess, picking up the tube of caulking on the dining table. "This?"
"This." Ethan traded in his hammer for the small tub of filler. A brief scan of the packaging revealed the color, and that it was fast drying. "Wow, The Duke really does have everything."
"What makes you say that?" Bela set the tube down and stepped closer to inspect the tub.
Popping the cover open, Ethan showed Bela the pink paste within. "This goes on as pink, but the label says it dries to brown. Looks like the same shade as the door trim."
Bela was nodding slowly, but appeared as though she didn't understand why he was impressed. To remedy this, Ethan added, "That means we don't need to paint over the spackle."
"Oh," Bela's features lit up in recognition. She wore a teasing smile. "Less work for you, Mr. Handyman."
"Pretty much," Ethan muttered in agreement and moved closer to the trim. With how small the holes were, there was no need to use the spackle knife. They were better off doing this by hand.
Taking a fingerful of pink spackle from the tub, Ethan demonstrated, "Just get a finger of the stuff."
Bela followed Ethan's lead, running a long finger across the surface of the paste.
"Then rub it in there."
Ethan rubbed the spackle over a hole towards the top corner of the trim. He smoothed it out to ensure full coverage and little excess.
"Like this?" Bela's smiled with a mischievous glint in her eye.
Ethan didn't like the look of it.
Bela wiped her finger over Ethan's nose, covering the tip in sticky filler. Ethan swatted her hand away with reflexes unbecoming of someone with military training. He had to consciously shut his jaw, which hung open in surprise.
"What the fuck, Bela?"
She was overcome by a fit of laughter, eyes twinkling at him with amusement. She bit down on her lip in a poor attempt to suppress the giggles.
An eye for an eye, then.
Ethan took a handful of spackle from the tub and stepped forward. "C'mere you little shit."
Bela's eyes widened in alarm. Voice still thick with laughter, she cried out, "No!"
Ethan smeared the thick spackle onto Bela's cheek. She backed up and out of his range, mouth agape in shock like his was only moments ago. A chunk of filler drooped down Bela's face, before finally landing on the tarp with a splat. She exhaled in a short, sharp laugh and yelled, "Ethan!"
In the epitome of maturity, Ethan retorted, "You started it."
The crinkle of Bela's smile sent more bits of spackle falling to the floor. "This is hardly a proportional response to what I put on your nose!"
"I'm sure Sun Tzu said a thing or two about never fighting fair."
A cross between a scoff and a chuckle, and Bela shook her head. "Touché."
Bela wiped the paste from her face. She swung her hand Ethan's way, sending bits of spackle in his direction. Ethan wiped a loose couple of chunks free from his clothes – or more aptly, wiped them all over his clothes.
Now he really looked like an authentic handyman on the job.
Ethan took a defensive step back when Bela began to approach him. His hand hovered over the tub of spackle – ready to dig in and start flinging if necessary. Bela raised her sticky hands in a gesture of peace. "Relax. I am going to get us something to wipe off with."
He remained suspicious of Bela the closer she got. When she entered within an arm's reach, she wiped her filthy hand on his sleeve. Ethan's sluggish reflexes had him shrugging the offending hand off far too late. All he could do was glare at Bela, who continued walking over to the kitchen. She craned her head back just as she reached the door. That devilish grin persisted.
"I will be back shortly. Behave."
With that, Bela disappeared behind the door to the kitchen.
Ethan was alone in the dining room, free to do as he wished.
Making a run for it now would be suicide. He still lacked any means of self-defense. Rose may be in the castle, but Ethan wasn't sure where. Even if Bela informed him of the exact room Rose was being held in, he would still have to figure out navigating to it. He needed Bela to take him on a couple more walks to get the lay of the land. Spackle-slinging aside, at least Bela made for good company. As far as Ethan was concerned, anyone that didn't actively want to murder him made for good company.
Regardless of when he may break out, Ethan took stock of the room after wiping the spackle from his nose. Upon trying the handle, Ethan found the door to the main hall was unlocked. To avoid pushing his luck, he resisted the urge to take a peek, and left it as is. Instead, he rounded the dining table in quick, quiet strides. A glance through the frosty window told Ethan there was a courtyard beyond this door. A jiggle of the knob revealed the door was also unlocked.
On the one hand, this shouldn't have come as a surprise. This was a dining room. Naturally, it would see a decent amount of foot traffic, whether from servants, Lady Dimitrescu, or her daughters. On an average day, the doors really should be unlocked.
On the other hand, Ethan was just a little (rightfully so) paranoid. In the Baker House, there were a dozen different doors he had to go about unlocking – doors which common sense would dictate didn't need to be locked on a regular day. So, it was worth checking the locks of each door he found. On the day of Ethan's jailbreak, he would need to know where to pass.
For now though, Ethan went back to the task at hand. Returning to his post by the door trim, he got to work. Going from top to bottom, Ethan rubbed the pink filler into the numerous small nail holes. Ethan went from his tiptoes for the top holes, to hunching over, and finally squatting down to reach the lower holes. By the time Ethan righted himself, he had to place a hand on the doorframe to steady himself.
To think, he'd fought that horde of lycans just a little over a day ago while hardly breaking a sweat. Today, he powerwalked while clinging to Bela's side, kicked and grappled a few Moroaice, and did some handyman work – and now he felt like a nap was in order.
Ethan probably just needed more food and proper sleep that wasn't induced by blood loss.
Maybe Bela could hook him up with seconds from the kitchen. It certainly didn't seem beneath her to do so.
A soft whirring caught Ethan's attention. The sound was unmistakably mechanical in nature – a sharp contrast to the very gothic furnishings of the castle. It wasn't something Ethan had really thought about; he hadn't heard the sound of any sort of machinery throughout his entire stay so far.
Ethan swiveled his head this way and that in search of the source of the odd sound. The chandelier provided plenty of light. This wasn't the dungeon, where the long, dark shadows could conceal untold horrors. There wasn't really anywhere to hide in the dining room.
Before Ethan could stare at the space around him any longer, the door leading to the kitchen opened. Bela carried a piece of cloth in hand. It looked like something the servants would use to wipe down the counters. As Ethan accepted the cloth, he found it was mostly clean, aside from bits of spackle. Meanwhile, Bela's face was pristine, save for a little smear of her makeup here or there – which was probably his fault.
Ethan wiped his nose and his hands clean of the pink filler, while Bela inspected his handiwork. Once she found that the holes were filled, she asked, "What's next?"
That weird sound came to mind, and Ethan considered bringing it up.
He didn't.
A strange gut instinct told Ethan it was worth keeping to himself. It was the same feeling that told him not to flee from Bela. That staying on her good side was the best way to survive in this castle and find Rose.
It was such dangerous ground. He was already so biased in Bela's favor – much faster than he ever expected. Yet that instinct continued to soothe his limbic system's baser, knee-jerk responses of intense violence and running for the hills. If he kept returning Bela's diplomacy and generosity in kind, then it would all work out.
It had to.
"New caulking." Ethan cleared his throat and picked up the tube and a cutter. "It's pretty straightforward. You wanna do the honors?"
"Sure."
Ethan sliced the tip of the tube at an angle. "This was another lesson I learned with Mia." He handed the caulking tube to Bela, who smiled softly as he recalled, "I cut this wrong, and it was a pain in the ass to use."
With a guiding hand over Bela's, Ethan positioned the tube towards the top of the new trim. He stepped back to instruct, "Just apply constant pressure to the tube and bring it all the way down."
Bela filled the tiny gap between the wall and the trim with the caulking, slowly bringing it down. She remained focused on the task at hand and, without turning away, asked, "Is this correct?"
"Yeah, keep going. Do the same for the inner side too."
All the activity had Ethan feeling far warmer than he liked. Shrugging his hoodie off and draping it over the closest chair was a quick fix.
He tried not to look at the stupid text written on his sweater.
Wiping the sweat beading at his forehead, Ethan was reminded of the frosty windows on either side of the courtyard door. The room was stuffy. A little ventilation would help. He didn't need to open the window all the way – just a crack would suffice.
Ethan stepped over to the window while Bela applied the caulking all along the length of the inner trim. His hand landed on the window's latch. With a turn, the lock came undone.
"Don't."
Bela's quiet voice stopped Ethan from pushing the unlocked window open. He turned to find Bela by the main hall door, facing him and still holding the caulking tube in both hands. Her eyes were wide and alert – wide enough to see her full amber irises. Apprehension creased the tattoo on her forehead ever so slightly. Her dark lips hung open with the smallest tremble – like searching for their words but ultimately failing.
Oh. Right.
The cold would hurt her.
Ethan took his hand off the window latch.
The cold would hurt her.
Ethan's hand remained where it was, hovering over the latch.
All he had to do was push the window open to flood the room with the late afternoon's winter chill. If that didn't kill her outright, then maybe it would at least weaken her. He'd already witnessed firsthand how fast and strong the Dimitrescu sisters were. Her first instinct would be to close the space between them – incapacitate him and shut the window. He had to stay one step ahead.
Push the window open. Hit the deck when she made to strike. Roll under and across the dining table to create space. Retrieve the hammer on top of the table.
Ethan was a goddamn survivor. He'd gone through much worse even without a hammer in hand. If the cold wasn't enough in and of itself, then he could sure as hell finish the job with some blunt force trauma.
His gaze traced his plan of attack from the window to the hammer, and finally landed back on Bela. She wore a mostly foolproof mask of indifference, save for her wide, alarmed eyes. The rest of her body gave away the nerves beneath the collected appearance she tried to project. Her throat bobbed with a gulp. Her chest rose and fell with increasingly shallow breaths. The fingers she wrapped around the caulking tube trembled.
Bela was afraid. She was afraid and he was thinking of caving her skull in with a goddamn hammer.
Ethan's insides squirmed in discomfort. He didn't want to hurt Bela. She was the only person in the castle that gave a shit about him. She was –
His captor.
She caged him up. She drank his blood. She manipulated him into lowering his guard.
Ethan gulped.
Bela played her role of the merciful jailor with flying colors, but it didn't change the facts. She stood in between him and Rose. He would hurt Bela if push came to shove. If that's what it would take to get Rose back.
His hand developed a nervous tremble as it floated above the window latch.
Fuck.
This was too fast and loose. He still had no concrete plan of action.
Fuck planning.
He'd recovered Mia from the Baker House through grit and willpower alone. The only plan he had at the time was to get Mia back or die trying. Who was to say he couldn't bring the Dimitrescu House down to their knees with that same fire and brimstone he took to the Bakers? This was his chance to get moving and find Rose. He'd put Bela down if she stood in his way, regardless of if he was prepared to or not.
And he was prepared.
"Ethan?" Bela's voice carried the tiniest quiver imaginable; it was enough to flip Ethan's stomach with guilt.
He wasn't prepared.
Ethan avoided looking into Bela's pleading eyes.
He did have a plan. It was the long game. Absorb information like a sponge. Prove himself to be obedient and trustworthy – enough to get Bela to drop her guard completely. Learn of Rose's exact whereabouts – something Ethan was confident Bela would tell him in due time. Escape with Rose like a thief in the night when Bela was lax enough around him.
Ethan had Bela in an exceptionally vulnerable position right now. What better way to prove his obedience and harmlessness than not pushing the window open?
The long game certainly held more water than attempting to kill Bela and then booking it. The noise from the ensuing fight would be enough to alert the sisters. He'd be found and killed within moments – or worse. Cassandra was going to torture him in the slowest, most excruciatingly painful way imaginable.
Ethan returned his hand to the latch.
Bela took in a breath and tensed her entire body like a coil, ready to spring across the room and destroy him before he could blink.
Ethan locked the window and brought his hand back to his side.
"It was getting kinda stuffy in here," Came Ethan's lame excuse.
Bela released the breath she'd been holding as a quiet laugh, both nervous and relieved. She gently chewed on her bottom lip for a beat before offering a tentative smile. "The next time The Duke is in, we can get you some clothes that are not so warm."
Shopping with Bela didn't sound like the worst thing imaginable.
"Just don't get me some dumb shit like this, please." Ethan motioned to the writing on his sweater.
Bela laughed once more, her form losing tension by the moment. She smiled in earnest. "No promises."
Not wishing to dwell on his calculated act of mercy, Ethan gestured to the door molding. The quick drying spackle was ready for sanding. Taking a scrap of fine-grit sandpaper each, Ethan and Bela toiled away on the filler. They worked in relative silence, with the shadow of the earlier nerve-wracking standoff still hanging over them. The quiet was only broken by the sandpaper's careful brushing against the spackle, or the occasional comment that one of them had missed a spot.
From there, it was a matter of cleaning up excess dirt and dust that had gotten onto the new door trim. With some elbow grease and a little polishing, the door trim looked good as new.
Well – maybe a little bit crooked in its installation.
Ethan was meticulous with computer work. When working with his hands, he was more of a measure once, cut twice kind of guy.
Regardless, it looked fine as long as you didn't scrutinize it too much. Judging by Bela's expression, she was equally satisfied with their work.
The tension had mostly subsided over the course of their handiwork. To chip away at it further, Ethan commented, "Doesn't look too shabby. Good job, tapeworm." He raised his fist up for Bela to bump.
Bela quirked a brow his way. "What are you doing?"
"It's a fist bump – y'know like…" Ethan blanked for a moment. If Bela was from the fifties and wasn't exposed to too much outside culture, it was no wonder this was a foreign gesture to her. "Kind of like a nonverbal congratulations, or a greeting."
"Oh," Some recognition flashed across Bela's features. She curled her hand into a fist, "Yes – like this?"
Bela jabbed his fist with more force than necessary, sending a brief jolt of pain up his hand.
"Ouch!" Ethan shook his hand to rid it of the tingling sensation. "Not that hard!"
Warm, amused giggling filled the dining room. All Ethan could do was send his annoyed glare Bela's way. She retorted, "I did not hit you that hard. Man up, Ethan."
"That's coming from you, the one who can fucking," Ethan gestured to the new door trim, "Break door molds with a single swing."
Bela chuckled, waving her hand once to dismiss the notion. "Enough of that. Come along now. Our servants can handle the clean up."
A small pit formed in Ethan's stomach. He'd just been getting used to the freedom from his cell. The ability to walk more than four steps without hitting a wall was liberating. The fading sunlight peering in from the windows and the bright, warm light from the grandiose chandelier were leagues above his flickering oil lantern. The smells – polished wood, fragrant flowers in a nearby vase, and a stew bubbling away in the adjacent kitchen – they were all breaths of fresh air; the bite of mold and rust was noticeably absent up here.
"Come on, little one," Bela urged, softer this time, and with a hand outstretched in invitation.
Ethan glanced at the double doors to the main hall.
He had hardly gotten the opportunity to explore the rest of the floor. His much-needed reconnaissance was hitting a snag yet again. It didn't help that his mind was still swimming in the effort to retain all the turns and bends they'd passed in the dungeons. The sooner he could get the map out of his mind and onto something, the better. Be it with a pen to his journal or using his nails to scratch it into the stone underneath his mattress – he had to draw it out.
Not to mention that being up here above ground was the closest he'd been to Rose since she was taken from him.
Ethan observed Bela bringing her hand back to her side when he didn't accept it. She watched him with a cautious, thoughtful expression.
It crossed Ethan's mind to ask Bela if he could see Rose. After not murdering her with the late afternoon frost, maybe she owed him one. But it was a hard maybe. They weren't quite at that level of rapport yet, Ethan felt. It was difficult to step into Bela's shoes to weigh the gravity of his decision to lock that window. For all he knew, Bela only saw it as on par with how she made it a point to never drain his blood to the point of lasting harm.
It was a no-brainer that Bela probably had specific orders not to let him see Rose. Asking her to break those orders was out of the question for now. It would take more time to build that growing connection he had with Bela. He had to nurture that relationship, bit by bit.
The peculiar part of it was how Bela fostered their budding connection as well, one act of kindness at a time. With every meal and soft mattress that wound up in his cell, Bela was making his life as un-awful as the blood-cattle life could be. It truly begged the question of why she did it – other than the logic he'd been parroting for a day now: that she did it to earn his trust and win him over.
The sincerity and frankness with which Bela treated him led him to think that maybe it wasn't all a sham. That there was a different angle and motivation Bela had.
Or, maybe he was out of his fucking mind and Stockholm Syndrome had sunken its tendrils into his pathetic man-brain.
Ethan wasn't certain of what grimace or forlorn look he'd been wearing. Bela fixed him with a sympathetic frown in response. She stepped closer – a distance that, a day ago, he would've said was too close – and put a hand on his arm.
"Judging by that cute pout of yours, I assume you are not keen on returning to your cell."
Ethan narrowed his eyes by a degree.
He was a grown-ass man. He did not pout.
"Can you blame me?" Ethan's voice carried a bitter tint. "It's barely been an hour and you're already gonna stuff me back in that cage."
Bela regarded him for some time, bright amber eyes running all along his face. Her thumb brushed idle strokes against the fabric of his sleeve. She gripped it gently and offered, "I shall take you out again tomorrow. How does that sound?"
Ethan kept his enthusiasm in check. Any chance to get out of the glum dungeons would be gladly accepted. Hell, he would even be willing to relax and trade his blood for the opportunity to get out. Anything to familiarize himself with the enemy territory he was trapped in. The more information he could soak up, the closer he would be to getting to Rose. The more he endeared himself to Bela, the more likely it was that she'd –
Well, it was hard to say the extent that Bela would go for him. At this point, Ethan felt that her turning a blind eye to him slipping out of his cell was his best bet. Only time would tell.
Ethan leaned into the role of the grateful prisoner. He stepped up to Bela, proactively looping their arms together just as she had done earlier. "I'd like that. Thanks, Bela."
"Wonderful," Bela smiled – bright and almost bashful in how she looked up at him from beneath her lashes. Like a shy puppy dog and not a man-eating mold monster.
How the woman could go from gripping his hair and draining his blood, to holding his arm and looking coy was beyond Ethan.
Maybe she was turning up the charm to earn his affection and obedience.
Maybe it was genuine.
Maybe he was losing his fucking mind.
"Let us not dally." Bela began escorting him out. Ethan grabbed his hoodie off the chair he'd left it on before they passed through the doors leading to the kitchen. "I fear Cassandra may get a whiff of you if we stay up here any longer."
Ethan winced. Phantom tingles danced along Ethan's scarred arm at the mere mention of Bela's batshit psychotic sister. After his first run-in with her, he'd been dreading the second. It sent a chill down his spine thinking of what Cassandra had in store for him if she got him alone and away from Bela's watchful gaze.
"I'm kinda surprised she hasn't busted into my cell for round two yet," Ethan voiced his concern.
They entered the kitchen, which was busier now than it had been earlier. A savory, nearly pungent aroma – lamb, Ethan assumed – filled the air, originating from the bubbling pot of stew. Adding to the three servants from earlier was a fourth. A veil covered her face, same as the rest; it was other characteristics that set her apart. She stood with a certain authority and appeared to have been in the midst of issuing orders to the other servants before they arrived at the kitchen.
And the most distinguishing characteristic of all was that she had the nerve to address Bela. The other servants stood in silence while the fourth bowed her head, and spoke courteously, yet curtly, "Madam Bela."
"Tatyana," Bela nodded in simple greeting.
The exchange was over as soon as it began, and they were already making their exit. Tatyana appeared to be the senior among the servants, judging by the influence she seemed to have over the rest. Coupled with how she didn't cower in fear at Bela's arrival – perhaps she'd been here a while.
It piqued Ethan's curiosity. After hearing of the Moroaice and their formation as a byproduct of the servants no longer having use, Ethan assumed the turnover was quite high, and that nobody lasted long. Maybe this Tatyana was a walking counterargument to his assumption. It bared future prodding and consideration.
Bela's oil lantern lit up the stairwell with its familiar, comforting warm glow. The door shut behind them, and Bela began leading them down the steps, taking the time to answer his earlier comment, "We had… a talk. I have made it abundantly clear to her."
Ethan knew what was coming. Here came the blood talk in three, two, one…
"Maiming you is counterproductive to keeping your blood pure as a long-term source. Cassandra's whims and tastes are…" Bela scrunched her face up in mild disgust, "Barbaric, to say the least. Until she learns to be civilized," Bela shrugged one shoulder in a dismissive manner, "Well, I believe my talk with her will keep her at bay for now."
They took the first turn back down into the twisting corridors of the dungeon. Ethan pointedly watched where he stepped, and kept his voice low. "What about your other sister? You mentioned she was gonna come to collect for helping pick out this stupid sweater."
In the lamplight, Ethan could make out that shit-eating grin Bela wore whenever the sweater came into question.
"I warned her off that you are still recovering from your last encounter. They aren't yet aware of your… condition."
That was suspiciously considerate, but Ethan once more chalked it up to Bela just wanting her premium keg of blood all to herself.
"Daniela was never the most patient one, though. You can expect to see her soon." Bela squeezed his arm, "Don't worry, she will play nice."
What counted as playing nice in this fucked up castle was a mystery Ethan wasn't keen on solving. Instead, he turned his attention to the more pressing matter – the Moroaice that were undoubtedly lurking and preparing to ambush them.
"Those… Moroaice," Ethan was probably butchering the pronunciation, "Aren't we gonna run into them again?"
On cue, Bela's pheromones of decay and death began to fill the stale dungeon air. Ethan grimaced and made the effort to breathe through his mouth.
"As long as you do not cause a racket and wake them up," Bela glanced sideways at him, eyes narrowing slightly. "We should be able to pass unhindered."
That last clusterfuck was his fault, Ethan wouldn't deny it. Still though, the risk persisted. Quietly, Ethan suggested, "Can't you just fly us back to my cell? Save us the time and the risk?"
"You are a grown man with two working legs, are you not?" Bela nudged him with her elbow. "Simply make no loud noise, and we will be fine."
"Is this what I get for asking to stretch my legs?" Ethan grumbled.
With a wink, Bela answered, "Yes."
The walk back to Ethan's cell was quieter and far more uneventful than their first trip. They refrained from talking this time around, especially since the Moroaice likely slumbered less deeply now. The sharp click of Bela's heels joined the dull thump of Ethan's steps as the sole sounds in the dungeon. The silence was fine by Ethan. It allowed him to focus on the route they took.
On their first trip traversing the passages, Ethan wasted time uneasily ogling the dungeon furnishings – the torture racks in the cells, the meat hooks hanging from the ceiling, and the copious amounts of dark, dried blood. Now, his undivided attention went to their turns and the accompanying landmarks.
Before long, the path gained familiarity, and Ethan recognized that they loomed closer to his cell. The pheromones Bela released dissipated just before they rounded the last corner to his cage. It was as they'd left it, with his new bed unmade in one corner, and his meal tray by the door.
Bela slipped her arm free from Ethan's to turn and face him. With a sickly-sweet smile, she asked, "Did you enjoy your walk, puppy?"
Ethan cringed and cussed out with less venom than he'd intended, "Shut the fuck up, Bela."
It only served to amuse the blonde further. She was laughing softly as she reached over and opened the cell door, setting the lantern down inside. She stood to the side to allow him entry, and then waited expectantly.
Ethan remained rooted to the floor. After spending however little time outside his cage, his skin crawled at the prospect of stepping back inside. There were few tricks he had left up his sleeve to prolong the time he spent outside the cell. Asking to see Rose was out of the question – for now. Bela had already declared that they would go for another walk tomorrow, so there was no point in bargaining with her for more time.
Bela wasn't rushing him back in, either. She stood with her weight shifted to one side and resting her shoulder against the door. It was prime time for her to ask him to relax for a feeding, but she made no move to do so. She watched him with patient, attentive amber eyes. Ethan could see the gears behind them spinning as they always were. Always thinking. Always analyzing.
To be looked at so intently should have been unnerving and unsettling – disturbing, even. When Bela peered at him with those intelligent eyes of hers, he just felt… seen. Like he wasn't just a piece of meat to be bled dry and eaten, despite Bela's words to the contrary.
He really was losing it. Maybe he could at least chronicle his dwindling sanity in his journal.
Ethan's neurons lit up and began firing at the inadvertent reminder he gave himself.
"Hey, could I have my journal back?" Ethan let the question slip before he could second guess himself – or before his short-term memory could delete all the mental mapping he'd done.
With barely a second of thought into the request, Bela responded, "Certainly."
Relief came over Ethan in a brief wave. He watched Bela circle around him and over to the chest of his confiscated belongings.
There was a plethora of reasons not to give writing materials to a prisoner. In a regular jail or penitentiary, it was acceptable for humanitarian reasons. For the type of prisoner that Ethan was, he felt it was against Prison Security 101. With that journal, he could draw all sorts of maps. He could slip written notes to the servants. He could plan his escape in earnest. Bela clearly thought these things didn't matter enough since she didn't bat an eye at his request.
The chest was locked once more with a heavy click. Bela stuffed the key back into one of her dress pockets and returned to Ethan. The journal's dark, leatherbound cover contrasted the pale complexion of Bela's smooth skin.
It felt nearly like a dream getting the book back. The hope blossomed in Ethan's chest, and this time, he refrained from stomping it down into the dirt. His journal would be the first of many steps in the right direction. He was going to get Rose, and he was going to get out of here. He wouldn't be able to do it without Bela, either.
For the first time in days, Ethan felt one of his first, truly genuine smiles ease up to his face, creasing his cheeks and spreading his lips.
"Thanks, Bela."
Ethan took hold of the journal, and the pen and pencil tucked between the pages. He found comfort in the familiar texture of the smooth cover. He pulled back, only to feel some resistance as Bela didn't let go of the book. His stomach performed the smallest flip when Bela settled her other hand atop his own. She gave him a brief squeeze.
Looking up, Ethan found that difficult to place frown marring Bela's features. A small, tentative smile joined the frown to complete the picture of serious and uncertain, yet contented and… relieved?
"Thank you." Bela said with another press of his hand.
It only took Ethan a moment to realize what he was being thanked for.
They were truly strange times which he lived in. Ethan thanked his captor for returning his confiscated belongings. Bela thanked her blood-cattle for not murdering her with the bitter frost beyond the dining room window. These roles they played were growing difficult to follow. The lines blurred into one another.
It was easier seeing the woman before him as simply Bela. The woman who was masterful with a scalpel, had a burning curiosity for the world around her, and could cook a mean high-iron medley.
But Bela the captor and Bela the woman were the same person. It was something Ethan had to learn to reconcile, lest his brain split in half in the effort to rationalize it. Just because Bela was nice to him, it didn't make her an angel in witch's clothing. It didn't change the facts.
She caged him up. She drank his blood. She manipulated him into lowering his guard.
And just because Bela did those things, it didn't mean she was supposed to be incapable of kindness. It didn't make the connection he was forming with her more human side any less legitimate.
Well, maybe it did. Ethan wasn't sure anymore.
He was losing his fucking mind.
A/N: Thanks so much for reading, my dears! Slam those fave and follow buttons home if you haven't yet, and shoot me a review to let me know how you liked this one. I love hearing from you fellas. It legitimately makes my day reading what you guys have to say about this story so far. It's a wild ride and I'm so happy to have you all along for the ride.
If you can't see me winking at you when Ethan says he isn't dead, and that SOMEONE would have told him if he was dead, then please see me winking at you now. I'm not straying from that current canon, and Ethan is just as clueless about that. He's well aware that he's infected by the mold, but has no idea it's as bad as it is. So yeah, just wanted to make that a little clear.
Also, I hope Ethan isn't sounding like too much of a broken record going over his spinning thoughts about Bela. I figure that, in his position, anyone's brain would be split in two opposite directions trying to understand and rationalize it all. Some thoughts you'd purposely repeat to try and drill home into your skull. Other thoughts you'd paraphrase until the end of time in the attempt to figure out the enigma before you.
This was another scene I've had floating in my head since this story's inception. That moment where time practically stands still as Ethan realizes he could end Bela here and now, but then chooses not to - with his attachment to her as a driving factor, and then quickly rationalizing his decision with less personal reasons.
I hope this was all entertaining to you, and I'll catch you at the next update. Have a good one!
