"Don't bother screaming." Cassandra tilted her head to one side and grinned all the wider. Bugs flitted around her, casting flickering shadows on the walls.
She carried herself with the bearing of a predator, muscles ready to launch her into action. Her fingertips twitched in nearly imperceptible movements – anticipating the impending bloodletting like a junkie before her next fix. "Nobody will hear you," Cassandra giggled, pointing her eyes in the direction of the dungeon corridors. "Not even dear sister Bela."
Ethan remained rooted in place, heart pounding in a frenzy. His increasingly shallow breaths had to be pointedly steadied as he sized Cassandra up – for what little advantage that would give a man-thing like him.
She didn't appear any different from their last encounter – save for the lack of blood smeared over her mouth. Cassandra wore that same ominously dark dress. With her hood up, the shadows cast on her face were long, dark, and sinister. It made her already angular features appear all the sharper, like a knife poised to strike.
She hardly needed that sickle hanging from her hip which glinted sharp in the dim lamplight. Cassandra was a living weapon enough as is – far more than either of her sisters. Much like Jack Baker and his horridly sharp shovel, or Marguerite and her long, spindly, insectoid legs – Cassandra was death given physical form. She was the reaper coming to collect.
"Has Bela got your tongue?" Cassandra quirked a brow as she went on, "Where is that foul temper of yours from when we last spent quality time together?"
Ethan was powerless to resist the bait as the fire rose up to his chest. His mangled hands remained clenched at his sides as he growled out, "Fuck you."
In Cassandra's eyes, Ethan could see his own anger reflected with a sinister glint. It was plain as day that the brunette was getting a kick out of this – of the violent reactions she could elicit from him.
"There we go," Cassandra laughed, twirling the keyring around her finger once more. She took long strides towards the side of the cell, stopping by Ethan's chest of confiscated belongings.
"What the hell are you doing here? What – what game are you playing this time?" Ethan watched through guarded eyes as Cassandra undid the hefty padlock with a sharp click.
Cassandra's only response was to hum to herself as she propped the chest open, ignoring him completely. Ethan glared at the back of her hood, gritting his teeth and resisting the urge to grab her through the cell bars. The chest wasn't too far off. If he really tried, he could probably grab a fistful of her dress and reel her in.
Of course, like many things in this castle, that was suicide with one extra step. Or perhaps more aptly, suicide with two extra steps – including the torture Cassandra would inflict in retaliation. Acting on his baser instincts and putting Cassandra in a chokehold wouldn't end well for him. Not by a longshot.
When Cassandra turned around, her toothy grin had settled down to an equally unsettling smile. The anticipation teeming from her very being was palpable, almost like a kid at Christmas – that was, if kids normally butchered other people and ate them for Christmas dinner. Cassandra gave the wooden chest a hearty pat as she spoke, "Take a guess – what game are we playing?"
Ethan's additional missing finger was a sore spot that wasn't going away anytime soon. It was with that in mind, rather than his unlocked chest of equipment, that he spat out, "You gonna fucking carve me up again? I know that's how you get your sick kicks."
Cassandra shook her head in the negative as she giggled. "That?" Her eyes ran along the length of the arm she'd torn open a week ago, "That wasn't a game. That was simply me enjoying myself."
"I hope you fucking choke on that enjoyment." It wasn't Ethan's sharpest comeback, and he knew it. His nerves were too fried to be witty. All his brain could process was the need to keep talking in the hopes that it would keep blood inside his body for a moment longer. If he were lucky – which he never was these days – maybe he could keep Cassandra talking long enough for his personal angel of mercy to make an appearance.
After last night's confrontation, Ethan wasn't counting on Bela's intervention any time soon though. If Bela was giving him the cold shoulder, he thoroughly deserved it.
Rather than dignify him with a verbal response, Cassandra drew Ethan's shotgun from the chest.
Ethan stilled and took care not to make any unnecessary movements – as if that would save him from a face-full of buckshot from an unhinged bug-woman.
Cassandra turned the weapon over in her hands in a manner that was too practiced to be experimental. She inspected the shotgun, muzzle pointed down as her hands ran along its length. Her fingers paused by the receiver, which was worn and abused by time. There had been a handful of close calls in the village because of the faulty receiver. When Ethan's hands were slick with blood, it was already a challenging task loading fresh shells into the gun. The fact that the receiver caused shells to snag was another complication that had nearly spelled his demise.
"You are a difficult man to get ahold of, do you know that?" Cassandra posed the question without taking her eyes off the gun.
Ethan eyed Cassandra wearily as she rubbed her fingertip against the receiver, like she was feeling for the crack in the steel. Since the question seemed rhetorical, Ethan remained silent.
"My sister has been watching over you like a hawk." Cassandra glanced at Ethan once as she added, "Except even hawks need sleep."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Cassandra turned to properly face Ethan. With the shotgun in her hands, she appeared even more menacing than usual. Ethan erred on the side of not snapping at her while she was holding a gun. That went doubly so when taking into account she carried the hefty gun like its weight and balance were familiar to her. There was no need to turn his complex suicide into a three-step plan of, piss Cassandra off, get tortured, and get his face shredded by buckshot at point-blank.
When the brunette's eyes weren't full of sadistic delight, they were filled instead with suspicion and scrutiny alike. Ethan did his best not to squirm under her intense glare. Cassandra once more turned the shotgun over, this time deliberately tugging back on the fore-end and checking the chamber – which was empty.
Ethan was relieved to know Cassandra wasn't actually holding a loaded shotgun. He was the opposite of relieved to learn Cassandra had some knowhow of firearm handling. As if her bladework wasn't bad enough.
"Bela had anticipated that I would be coming to see you again." Cassandra spoke of Ethan's soon-to-be-tortured state so nonchalantly. "This whole week, she had made it a point to patrol the dungeons late in the evenings, and in the early mornings."
Ethan's brows pitched together in a frown.
"She does have trouble sleeping, though. I imagine the walking helps put her mind at ease. Keeping me away from you is just an added benefit to her patrols." Cassandra then grimaced as she returned the shotgun to the chest, "Every time, she would catch me as I tried to make my way to your cell." With a wry, somewhat fond smile, Cassandra added, "You are fortunate Daniela isn't your jail guard. She would never be able to catch me in the act like Bela."
"I don't know how she did it. Whenever I varied the timing of my attempts, she did the same with her patrols. I suppose somewhere in that boring brain of hers is still the mind of a huntress."
If Cassandra kept that up, she would almost sound like she had as much admiration for Bela as she did contempt.
Ethan waved a hand down the corridors as he posed his question, the answer of which he had an inkling of. "And tonight? How'd you get past her?"
It seemed like a no-brainer. This was the closed fist to Bela's usual open palm. He stepped out of line like an asshole and was now going to get what was coming to him. Cassandra – the sickest pup of the litter – was personally enacting payback on Bela's behalf. She must have welcomed Cassandra right into the dungeons, giving her free reign over him.
"I did not have to." All humor was void from Cassandra's face. She appeared uncharacteristically serious, and her squinted eyes took an accusatory turn. "She didn't make the rounds, for once."
Ethan blinked once and tried not to show his surprise.
Once more, his paranoia was getting the better of him. This didn't at all sound like Bela sending Cassandra after him to exact retribution. This was more of Bela breaking routine because she felt like shit after he acted like an asshole.
Bela hardly seemed like the vengeful type. After all the effort Bela went through to keep Cassandra away, it seemed like quite the heel-turn to use said brunette as an instrument of revenge.
Ethan could mentally smack himself then. He knew Bela well enough by now – one week of odd friendship and all. He wouldn't put it past Bela to slap him across the face, or maybe even kick him into next week – but nothing more than that. Certainly, she wouldn't go so far as to send her deranged sister in her stead to get even.
Not anymore. Not after everything.
Maybe it was the Stockholm Syndrome, maybe he was insane – but Ethan knew then without a shred of doubt that Bela would never send Cassandra after him. That wasn't the sort of person she was, and he had to remember that.
The look Cassandra wore soon returned to its taunting form as she asked, "Did my sister get bored of you, man-creature?"
Oh, y'know, it was less her getting bored and more of me acting like a jackass and yelling at her instead of talking to her like a reasonable human being.
Ethan kept silent about last night's events. If he were to tell the truth, Cassandra may just go ahead and retrieve the shotgun, load it, and blow his kneecaps off. The psycho before him was unhinged enough, and undoubtedly looking for a reason to maim him and eat the remains. Offending her sister may cause Ethan to lose more than a finger this time around.
"Probably got tired of how my blood tastes," Ethan gave his poor attempt at a deflection, making a show of shrugging his already tense shoulders.
Cassandra, all sharp eyes and skepticism, didn't look like she bought it. She made it a point to glare at him for a moment longer before returning her attention to the chest, rather than grill him further.
"Normally, I'd be dying to know how you got Bela to break routine. I'm sure I could make you talk." Cassandra pulled Ethan's sheathed knife from the chest. The blade came free, and Cassandra gave it a once over – probably noting its dull and unpolished state. She gave him a meaningful look, pressing the flat of the blade into the meat of her palm. "One way or another."
That implied Cassandra wasn't about to simply repeat their last encounter by shackling him, tearing his arm open, and playing with the insides. That was good – but good was a low bar when it came to Cassandra.
"What's the deal then?" Ethan asked. "What are you doing with my stuff?"
A green bottle of disinfectant and a rag were pulled next from the trunk. Cassandra tucked them into the crook of her elbow as she turned her devilish grin to him. "We are going to play fetch."
Ethan wasn't sure what it was with these bug-women and their canine-adjacent jabs at him.
"I'm not your fucking dog."
Cassandra beamed all the wider as she retorted, "Oh, but you are Bela's puppy, are you not?"
The weariness and unease were easy to replace with the anger that bubbled up within Ethan. There wasn't embarrassment or shame per se to Cassandra learning of that pet name Bela threw around. There was only the prickling fire hearing Cassandra using it to taunt him.
For better or for worse, fucked up and insane or not, puppy was Ethan and Bela's thing. It was theirs, and nobody was going to fucking use it as a weapon against him.
Baring his teeth, Ethan stepped closer to the bars with measured steps, taking solace in the tiny height advantage he had – all the better to glare down at her with. He spoke barely above a whispered growl, "I'm nobody's goddamn pet, and I'm not playing any fucking games with you."
Cassandra rolled her eyes. "There is no time for your whining, man-thing."
Ethan watched Cassandra walk over to his door, set the sheathed knife and medical supplies on the floor, and then cross the space back to the chest with quick paces. Even through the fiery, frustrated haze hanging over him, Ethan could start putting two and two together. He was evidently being equipped and geared up. Coupled with this talk of fetch, it at least meant he was going to get some time outside of his cell. Though it was an easy guess that it would in no way be as leisurely as he and Bela's strolls.
Fuck – Ethan had enough hellish experience with games hosted by high-functioning, murderous psychopaths. Jack and Marguerite in their moldy, deranged minds had certainly played their fair share of games with him, but Lucas took the cake. Those were games he could go the rest of his goddamn life without ever remembering.
The mere thought of the grainy footage on the VHS tape, with Happy Birthday scrawled onto it – it made Ethan's fucking skin crawl. Who could forget the man's bone-chilling screams as he was burned alive, or all his raspy gasps and hisses of pain when falling for Lucas' traps one after the other?
It was because of that damn VHS Ethan was able to make it out of that game in one piece. Ethan had no such VHS to guide him this time around.
"Your assignment is a simple one." Cassandra drew his LEMI from the chest next. She inspected the pistol in her hands as she did with his shotgun, deliberately pointing the muzzle away from either of them. "I need you to fetch a bottle of Sanguis Virginis from the lower dungeons. I'm not too fond of the trip, so I would rather that you do it for me."
Cassandra ejected the magazine, eyed the rounds within, and promptly picked up a box of 9mm bullets from the trunk. Cassandra didn't break eye contact with Ethan as she loaded the mag with nimble hands. "You are to take that bottle upstairs to the wine room on the second floor. There, you will find your reward – something I believe you may find valuable."
Ethan didn't rise to the bait just yet. Cassandra was leaving out the part where he'd be up to his eyeballs in Moroaice in the efforts to find the bottle of wine.
"There is little time left before the castle begins to wake. If you can fetch the wine, deliver it upstairs, and make it back to your cell all in half an hour – well, you win."
"Yeah? What do I win?" Ethan narrowed his eyes.
"You get to keep all your hands and fingers this time around," Cassandra answered all too casually; she nodded towards his limbs in question as she slammed the fresh magazine into the pistol. With a slight tug on the slide – a press check – she ensured that the weapon was still loaded from the last time it had been used. The safety was flicked on, and Cassandra then drew two spare magazines from the trunk.
Ethan wasn't so sure of his odds just yet.
All this time, he had assumed they were already on the lowest level of the dungeon. The access to the lower level had to be located and mapped out, which meant burning valuable time. The Moroaice nipping at his heels would only slow him down. The consolation was that once he was back on this level, it would be, in theory, a straight shot upstairs.
Based on Chris' map, there were only a handful of doors immediately accessible on the second floor. It wouldn't take him too long to find the wine room. From there, he just had to backtrack to his cell before he ran out of time.
Assuming he wasn't gutted by a ghoulish servant before then.
And of course, assuming he even agreed to participate in this fucked up game to begin with.
Sighing, Ethan asked, even if he didn't want to acknowledge its possibility, "If I lose?"
Cassandra picked up Ethan's flashlight from the trunk and tested its functionality. As she locked the chest and turned to face him, the sadistic delight was back in her eyes, "Mother Miranda wanted you alive. She didn't say you need all your arms and legs in one piece."
Ethan had to suppress a shiver at the vile look Cassandra's hungry eyes had as they looked him up and down. "You have a wonderfully gamey taste, man-thing. You'll make a delicious meal."
The brunette walked on over to the cell door, standing just behind it as she keenly watched Ethan all the while.
"What if I don't want to play your sick game?" Ethan sneered.
He was being given two possibilities:
Get mauled by Moroaice and keep his limps if he won.
Or, get mauled by Moroaice and lose his limbs if he lost.
This wasn't the sort of bullshit he had the patience and willpower to deal with, especially after last night's headache. Not to mention, the game was undoubtedly going to be rigged from the start anyway.
"You expect me to believe this is a fair game? That it's as simple as grab the fucking wine and bring it upstairs?"
When Cassandra gave him no response, save for the infuriating playful quirk of her lip, Ethan reiterated, "What if I don't want to play your goddamn game?"
Cassandra tilted her head one way, eyes narrowing in the slightest. "Is that the example you want to set for little Rosemary? A quitter? A coward?"
Ethan was up in Cassandra's face before the witch could blink. His hands rattled the cell door with the force he grabbed the bars. "Don't you fucking talk about my daughter, you crazy bitch."
With the little distance between them – Ethan could have reached through the bars to throttle her if he wanted to – it was easy to see Cassandra's face light up in response to his fury. A twisted sense of excitement was fueling Cassandra. It made Ethan sick to know that he was the current gasoline to her fire. The knot in his gut could only be matched by the intensity of his pounding heart, crashing against his ribcage with a vengeance.
"If you play along, then maybe I don't need to pay little Rose a visit."
"Don't you dare," Ethan snarled in a low voice, pushing every word out through his clenched teeth, "Don't even fucking think about it. You leave my daughter out of this."
All Cassandra had in response to his fire and brimstone was a smile and a tilt of her head. She waited and watched. Like the hunter she was, she had Ethan right where she wanted him. Ethan was fully aware of it, and it pissed him off all the more.
Ethan allowed himself several deep breaths before he pushed off the cell bars. There was no choice left to be made. He was fetching the damn wine and getting swarmed by Moroaice if that meant keeping Rose safe.
It took Ethan a conscious effort to unclench his stiff jaw and growl out, "Fine."
The last of his belongings were laid out on the floor. Cassandra took the key to his hardy cell door. She paused once the key slid into the lock.
"I will be… checking in on you from time to time." The wink Cassandra shot him was enough to make his stomach turn.
With a twist, the rusty tumblers shifted, and the lock popped open. Cassandra swung the door ajar and giggled a final time, "I'll even give you a five-minute head start. Be seeing you."
She was gone before Ethan knew it. The swarming mass of flies darted off into the darkness beyond the corner, and into parts unknown.
Ethan had little time to think. Only to act.
The journal, safely tucked underneath his mattress, was retrieved before anything else, and shoved into the back of his jeans. Ethan scrambled on over to his belongings next. The first aid supplies were stuffed into his hoodie's pocket and zipped up. His hands trembled with mounting adrenaline as they secured the LEMI.
This pistol had seen better days. The trigger weight was oddly inconsistent, sometimes needing a heavy finger, and other times reacting to the slightest pressure. The magazine well was chipped, and did an awkward job of guiding the mag home. The slide was unreliable, and he often had to manually clear spent brass that failed to eject. Ethan wasn't sure if all the faults were a result of his tumbles and crashes throughout the fights in the village. It was just as possible that the defects predated him, coming from a long history of use by the old man Ethan got it from.
Yet in spite of all that, the effect the LEMI had was instantaneous. The solid mass of steel in Ethan's now steady hands brought a sense of security unlike any other. Ethan went over the motions that Cassandra had – just in case. Tugging the slide back in a press check, he confirmed that the gun was loaded and ready.
Pondering the finer points of Cassandra's firearm handling knowledge could wait. For now, he had to haul ass.
The knife was clipped to his pants, and the flashlight was scooped up and turned on before Ethan straightened up. He had half a mind to return to the chest containing his stuff. If things were going to get hairy, then more mags and especially the shotgun would go a long way. All he had to do was shoot the padlock off and –
No, no. It was a massive padlock. Not even emptying the entire mag would get him anywhere. All that would get him was a face full of ricocheting lead.
With little other recourse, Ethan rounded the corner, preparing to take off in full sprint.
He skidded to a stop almost immediately at the sight of the pitch-black corridors concealing their untold dangers.
"Fuck."
Every single torch and sconce that Bela had lit for him had been extinguished. His crummy flashlight cast long, foreboding shadows all around, and struggled to reach the far end of the current hallway.
Ethan's heart was beating all the way up into his ears as he stared down the expanse of the dungeon halls. There was little way but straight through. Ethan had the dungeon maps seared into his memory, but there were still countless unexplored turns and passages. It was now a process of elimination to find the stairs leading to the lower level.
The inky blackness ahead was, if Ethan were to be honest with himself, terrifying. All he could do to overpower that horror was keep close the anger that had been boiling within him moments ago. Knowing that Cassandra dared to bring Rose into this and use her to fuck with him.
And for what?
Her entertainment? To get a bite out of him again?
Ethan's chest rose and fell with deep breaths as he steeled himself.
Kicking Bela's door down and asking for help may have been an option. A bad one, but still an option. If she didn't willingly hand him over to Cassandra, then maybe – just maybe, she'd be willing to give him a hand. They could sort everything out afterwards and he could apologize to kingdom come.
But then this was Cassandra's game, the parameters of which were as fucked up as the lady herself. Trying to get Bela's help may very well void any sort of agreement between them. It may just cost him a leg, and Rose to –
No. No, no, no. He had to stick to the path provided to him. It was the best chance Rose had to get out of this unscathed.
Ethan gritted his teeth hard enough for it to hurt.
If the opportunity ever came up, Cassandra would die first. Give him a goddamn window and he'd turn that bitch into a popsicle before she knew what hit her.
Inhale. Count to four.
The low baritone of Chris goddamn Redfield rang in Ethan's mind as he went through the breathing cycles to calm his hyperactive nerves.
Exhale. Count to four.
Ethan's grip eased on the LEMI – not loose, but not the death-grip he'd been clutching it in earlier. He flooded his muscles with the much-needed oxygen for the fight ahead, as his wits returned to him, if only for the moment.
And off he went.
His leather shoes – still far too fine and unsuitable for the rugged activities – pounded the hardy stone floor. His heavy footfalls echoed across the darkness. The bleak shadows were barely illuminated by his swaying flashlight, securely clasped in his left hand, which supported the gun in his right.
Ethan steadied himself against the wall as he rounded his first unexplored corner. He swiveled the flashlight this way and that to get his bearings. Empty cells, bloodstained torture racks – and a brick wall across the hall. A dead end.
He spared no time skidding to a stop and turning around. Ethan sprang forward and onwards.
All the while, Ethan kept his pistol tucked close to his chest and trained forward. In the relatively cramped space of the dungeon, it would be exceedingly easy for one of the ghoulish servants to disarm him. This gun was his lifeline and he had to hold onto it for all he was worth.
His flashlight pointed this way and that, lighting the path ahead and all the bloody cells along the way. With the map still ingrained in his mind, Ethan knocked off dead end after dead end. As soon as he'd catch sight of a wall at the far end of the current passageway, he'd turn right around and return to familiar path.
It wasn't long before the hungry, raspy groans filled the air, joined by the telltale stench of death and decay. Ethan was making a lot of noise in his mad dash, and the blood pumping in his veins rang the dinner bell.
So, there was little surprise when Ethan's flashlight was reflected by eyes in the darkness. Cassandra had let the Moroaice out of their cells – because of course she had. This was never going to be a simple fetch job.
Still, as much as Ethan had been expecting the ghoulish servants, it was still another thing altogether to see them in person.
Dry, peeling lips parted to reveal sharp, gnashing teeth. Long, gangly limbs clutched rusty weapons, ready to strike. Their hollow, sunken eyes fixed on Ethan; their eerie sheen only lit up when his flashlight crossed their faces just right.
They were everywhere.
In the unlocked cells, on the main path, and down the upcoming turns.
Ethan didn't have enough bullets for all of them. It would be foolish to even try fighting them all.
Once more, Ethan had little time to think and assess the situation. All he had time for was action.
Ethan continued his mad dash forward – straight through the Moroaice.
There were three that made to block his path – shambling forward with jittery, inhuman strides. Between them, they split an assortment of weaponry fit for a medieval armory. A mace, a sword, and a battle axe.
If they were trained footmen from the dark ages, he'd be fucked. As luck would have it, the Moroaice were hungry, mindless husks.
Former servants, unfortunate travelers, and countless other poor souls lured in, murdered, and turned into ghouls.
But still slow, mindless husks.
So, Ethan settled on the Moroaică to his left with the mace – because he'd be least likely to cut himself on its weapon.
Ethan kept his pistol's safety on and held it close to his chest. He gripped the flashlight tightly in his other hand – as tightly as two fingers and a thumb could grip it. He tucked his head down and raised his arm up, bent to point his elbow forward – the tip to his metaphorical spear.
The distance was closed before the ghouls could attack. A gangly arm was caught against his own, failing to crash the mace down onto his head. Ethan's elbow crashed into the Moroaică's face, bashing the back of its head against the stone wall to the side. Pushing off of the dazed Moroaică, Ethan launched himself past the broken first line of defense before the other two could swing.
He didn't need to glance back to tell they were shambling behind in pursuit. Their ghastly moans were enough of an indicator.
Instead, Ethan focused on the next Moroaică in his path – blocking an unexplored corridor. Once more, it would take a precious couple of seconds to acquire the target, aim, and pop off the shots. But there was no telling when Cassandra planned to check in on him. Time, like his scarce ammo, was invaluable, and evading the ghouls was quicker.
It was easier evading this Moroaică – and the next few that followed. They were spread out and scattered throughout the twists and turns of the dungeon. It was a simpler matter of baiting movement on one side, then darting around their flank. Other times, he simply barreled through them like a human battering ram.
He had Bela to thank for still being strong enough to brute force his way through the lone and uncoordinated Moroaice.
As Ethan drove his shoe into another Moroaică's chest and sent them toppling over, he was struck once more by that thought – that possibility of seeking Bela's aid. He could tell Cassandra to go fuck herself and head straight for Bela's room.
The risk of stepping out of bounds was too great. With Rose on the line, Ethan had to play along with Cassandra's whims. Rose's safety was paramount. Nothing could come before it.
Whether Ethan liked it or not, he was on his own, and had to make do.
As Ethan made his way back from another dead end, he knew there was some solace in the familiarity of it all. The musk of the castle's underbelly wasn't unlike the decay and mold permeating the Baker House's boiler room. The dungeon's pitch blackness wasn't something he hadn't seen before either. It was just like all the dark crawlspaces he crammed his body into to hide from Jack Baker's murderous gaze.
The lesser creatures that stalked him – here they were slow, emaciated ghouls with rusted weapons. In the Baker House they were writhing human-shaped masses of mold with claws sharper than any razor.
They differed in the details, sure. But when instinct took over, and he was left fighting with every last bullet, blunt knife, and bare fist – there was no meaningful difference from his current game to his time in the Baker Residence.
He'd done this before.
He was a survivor.
One way or another, Ethan was clawing his way out of this.
Soon, he returned to a path he easily recognized. Even without his mental mapping, Ethan could tell he was by the dungeon's center now. One set of iron bars was bent and deformed in a vaguely humanoid shape. A stray set of manacles on the ground were ready to be tripped over.
This was where he and Bela stood back-to-back against the Moroaice a week ago. There was a passageway up ahead – opposite of the turn they would take to get to the dungeon exit. It was larger than these small branching dead ends Ethan had passed. It wasn't much to go on, and was still woefully dark and unexplored, but it was his best bet.
But first, there was the matter of another three Moroaice shambling forward to greet him. Luckily, the other ghouls didn't seem to give chase for long. Ethan's lungs may have been burning, but he'd successfully been putting enough distance between himself and the last Moroaice. They had apparently given up on the pursuit.
His current opposition was staggered in their approach – both in their uneven steps and their position to one another. Ethan could afford to handle them one at a time and save the bullets for when shit hit the fan.
Ethan still had momentum going, so he charged for the closest ghoul. It raised a jagged, broken sword in the air and swung for him. Ethan kept his hands up, catching the Moroaică's arms with his own to negate the threat of the blade. As he did, he swept his leg forward, targeting the emaciated ghoul's much thinner legs. The creature was swept right off its feet, crashing down hard on the ground.
He wasted no time going for the second Moroaică. With a growl, the ghoul proved more aggressive than the last, and it delivered the first attack. The axe came careening in a wide arc, forcing Ethan to come to a dead stop and weave back. The Moroaică threw a horizontal swing once more as it pressed forward. Ethan struggled to catch his balance as he stepped back and just out of the battle axe's range – close enough that he could hear it splitting the air in front of him.
Luckily enough, the weapon was much heftier than the ghoul itself, and it had to take a moment to get its own footing before swinging again. This time, it cocked the axe over its shoulder in preparation of swinging down. Ethan anticipated the movement, bending his knees and coiling himself to strike.
Once more, it was just like being back in the training yard with Chris.
The axe came sailing down, and Ethan lurched in to close the distance and nullify the axe's use. He turned as he lunged, knocking his hips into position and looping an arm around the Moroaice's waist. The creature's momentum coupled with Ethan's twisting and tugging, sending it sailing over his side in a textbook hip throw. The Moroaică let out a breathy grunt as the ground knocked the wind out of it. The axe clattered and clanged on the floor with a racket.
All the sprinting coupled with the close quarter fighting – as brief as Ethan was trying to keep it – was taking a toll. His breathing was growing ragged as he straightened up and turned to face the last Moroaice that stood between him and the next passageway.
There was no time to rest and dawdle. The ghouls Ethan just knocked to the ground would be up in moments.
The final Moroaice pressed in – already much closer than Ethan expected. It swung its sword in a diagonal arc, causing Ethan to weave back once more. Intuitively, the next swing would come from the opposite shoulder. Momentum from the first swing would cock the sword back over the Moroaică's left shoulder. So, Ethan braced himself for a swing from that angle, tucking his head in, and preparing his arms to catch the attack.
Instead, the Moroaică swung in the reverse, diagonally upward. The sword caught Ethan in the side as he crashed forward and into the ghoul. Ethan barely registered the impact of the weapon as he busied himself grappling with the creature.
His hands were full – flashlight in one hand, pistol in the other – so the best he could do was press his forearm into the Moroaică's neck. Ethan swung his leg forward and then back, reaping the Moroaică's leg. Its back hit the ground hard, and that was all Ethan needed before he was back to breathless sprinting.
The growing heat and dampness by his ribs would have to wait. The hit wasn't debilitating, and so it didn't merit a first aid stop.
Ethan rounded the prospective corner and found his first lucky break – if it could truly be called that. There was the faintest glow from this passageway – indicative of light from somewhere down the path. Ethan would take any hints he could get in Cassandra's twisted game of fetch. This was less of a helpful breadcrumb, and more of an angler fish's bright lure.
The hallway differed from the others, in that it was a plain stretch with no cells flanking the path. Although, even without the cages, there were a disconcerting number of bloody shackles lining the walls.
In time the dim light grew stronger. Ethan just wished that meant the path would be a smidge less foreboding.
A wrought iron door stood ajar at the end of the passageway. Evidently, there were stairs leading down to the sub-level of the dungeon. A warm glow was cast from the bottom, illuminating the top of the stairs, on which there were bloody handprints and drag marks.
This must be where the maid from last night, and all the others before her, came to meet their grisly fate.
Ethan paused at the doorway, staring down at the landing below. The flickering light at the bottom was likely cast by a torch just out of sight. From up here, all Ethan could make out was the stone floor, stained with blood. He tried not to notice the long strands of hair, or the broken fingernails which seemed to litter this landing.
This was the belly of the beast he was descending into. The undoubtable heart of the Dimitrescu Family's gruesome operation. Ethan had always figured the dungeon was where all the atrocities were committed – but actually seeing the sub-level specifically designated for such acts – well, Ethan's stomach was churning with disgust and anger alike.
The Moroaice had been avoidable for the most part, which only meant the bulk of the trouble had yet to begin. Not to mention, this considerately lit sub-level was a trap if Ethan had ever seen one. Unfortunately, there was clearly no other way but forward. More resistance awaited him down there – regardless of Cassandra's game or not, there were bound to be more ghouls assigned to guard the wine.
Ethan's evasion tactics would only go so far down there, where space was bound to be even more limited than up here. He would do well to conserve ammunition by avoiding the Moroaice wherever possible. Maybe he could try to sneak his way around the lower level this time around.
"Rah!"
It was all Ethan heard before a solid mass slammed into his back, and he was sent flailing down the stairs.
"Fuck!"
Flies swirled overhead as maddening laughter echoed in the stairwell. Ethan's ribs and joints wailed in protest with every walloping blow the unforgiving steps dealt to him. He protected his head as best as he could as he rolled and tumbled down. It forced his arms and body to take the brunt of the damage by the time he finally hit the bottom of the landing face down.
Ethan could barely groan in agony before Cassandra mounted his back. She dug her hand into his hair in a tight fistful – forcibly craning his head to the side to expose his neck. Her grip on his shoulder was equally firm as she used her inhuman strength to pin him down.
Cassandra's teeth broke skin, and Ethan's neck soon pulsed blood out freely. He wriggled and writhed for all he was worth, but it was to no avail. Someone may as well have parked a car on his back with how firmly Cassandra was holding him down.
All he could do was send his wild eyes about to survey the room as his shallow breaths and Cassandra's pleased hums filled the room. Joining them was the bitter, metallic smell of blood in the air – thick enough to taste.
The worst part was that Ethan was sure the blood he could smell wasn't his own.
It was a long room, lit up by a wall-mounted torch. Broken furniture filled one side of the room, along with a cage fit for a dog – or perhaps a person forced to curl into a ball. Lining the walls were more shackles and manacles, stained with blood far fresher than in the upper level of the dungeon. Positioned below the restraints were metal basins, undoubtedly used to collect blood, along with gnarly, well-used tools to facilitate the bloodletting. It was probably not a coincidence that there was a dripping sound emanating from somewhere in the dungeon. There was also a doorway to the immediate left, leading to what looked like a larger room – not that Ethan could tell from his position pinned underneath Cassandra.
And speak of the devil – she popped her lips free from his skin sooner than expected. Her wet tongue ran over the wound once, sending a disgusted shiver down Ethan's spine. Her breath was damp against his ear as she taunted, "Tick-tock, man-thing. Take any longer and I may just take another finger."
Through the anger, terror, and exhaustion alike, Ethan managed to snap out, "Fuck off! Let me go!"
Another cruel giggle, and Cassandra responded, "As you wish."
Her weight left Ethan's back in an instant. She didn't give Ethan the opportunity to so much as glare her way by the time her swarming colony of flies departed up the stairs.
These were the 'check ins' that Cassandra had promised. A painful nuisance at worst, for now. As long as she wasn't amputating limbs willy-nilly, then Ethan felt he still had a chance of completing this deadly errand on time.
And since the universe had a habit of proving Ethan wrong, another array of sounds joined the steady dripping. The bone-chilling moans of the hungry Moroaice emanated from the next room over.
Ethan ran a hand over the wound on his neck, and it came back slick with blood. Grimly, Ethan noted that it was an acceptable level of bloody. Cassandra – probably on purpose – had missed his jugular. She'd simply gotten a drink and rang the alarm for the ghouls on this floor, all in one go.
The torches in the next room over cast long shadows on the floor, signaling the Moroaice's imminent arrival. Stopping the flow of blood would have to wait. For now, he had a single objective – survive.
The warm glow of the torches may have made the fresh blood splatters on the floor all the more gruesome, but they did the job of illuminating the space. Ethan pocketed his flashlight and gripped his LEMI with both hands. He lined the sights up, squared his stance, and steadied his shallow breaths.
When the first shambling ghoul rounded the corner, Ethan fell back on his training.
The pistol barked out three rounds in rapid succession to welcome the first Moroaică – two to the body, one to the head.
A high-pitched ringing filled Ethan's ears – drowning out the shuffle of the Moroaice's advance and their ghastly moans. Ethan winced hard with teeth clenched.
The powerful snap and crack of his pistol within such tight confines could not be understated. If only the gun's bite was as bad as its bark.
The bullets had all found their marks, sending the creature staggering as it advanced. Unfortunately, much to Ethan's alarm, it didn't drop the Moroaică like he'd been hoping. In hindsight, Ethan figured he shouldn't be too surprised. These were moldy husks in humanoid form. Blasting a hole where their brain used to be wasn't guaranteed to put them down – especially with the humble 9mm rounds he was packing.
It was times like this Ethan missed that shotgun, faulty receiver and all. No doubt the ghouls would be less resilient when blasted with buckshot to the face. Though firing that shotgun in a room this size may just net him long-term hearing loss.
Still – better a lifetime with hampered hearing than a lifetime in the grave.
With a quiet exhale, Ethan squeezed the trigger once more, firing another round at the Moroaică's head. This time, the second headshot dropped the ghoul.
Ethan rolled his shoulders, cursing under his breath as he lined his sights up once more, waiting for the next one. Going for consistent headshots was easy-peasy in a videogame. In practice, the head was a tiny target, and things were going to go from bad to worse if the Moroaice showed up with numbers.
The next Moroaică came into view; this time, it wasn't alone. It was joined by four more trailing shortly behind it.
"Fucking hell," Ethan muttered over the steady drone of ringing in his ears.
His gun cracked out one shot at a time, aiming for the head. It was tedious, time-consuming work. With each bullet splattering into the Moroaică's cranium, the ghoul's head would snap back, and it would stagger and regain its balance – only then could Ethan let the next shot loose.
With the third round out, the Moroaică dropped. Not that his odds were significantly improved with three of the shambling, groaning ghouls still closing the distance. Ethan's mag was getting light, and he didn't have the luxury of time to treat them like a shooting gallery to practice his headshots.
Retreating upstairs and using the stairwell as a funnel would introduce more Moroaice into the fray. If he kept the fight contained in the lower level of the dungeon, he could limit the number of ghouls he had to contend with. It meant engaging multiple of these Moroaice at once – and there was no telling if more were on the way – but at least down here he had visibility, and relatively less foes.
It took Ethan a split second to make the tactical decision. He squeezed the trigger in quick succession, emptying the remainder of the mag at the closest Moroaică – two to the body, one to the head. It staggered back, bumping into the ghouls behind it.
Ethan took the time to flick his wrist to the side as he ejected the magazine, sending it sailing across the room. Normally, he'd be saving those, but now wasn't the time for diligently pocketing his emptied mags. The next magazine was loaded in with practiced hands, and the slide stop was flicked down, chambering the next round.
As predicted, the Moroaice were even closer now, but at least he was loaded up with a fresh mag. Ethan kept the Moroaică in his sights as they filed into the room, and he took measured steps to circle them – keeping his back facing a wall. Being cornered was generally a bad thing – but it also meant nobody could sneak up on him.
The already injured Moroaică only needed another shot to the head to drop it like a sack of bricks, leaving two more ghouls in the immediate room with him. Things were, as always, never that simple, and Ethan could already hear more raspy groans from around the corner.
The closest Moroaică was barely a kick away, and so Ethan felt it was apt to close the distance, rather than risk missing a headshot at this awkward range.
The ghoul brought its sickle high in the air and began to swing down. Ethan tucked his head to the side as he stepped in and brought his arm up. He caught the Moroaică's wrist against his own and then shifted, using his arm to lock its elbow in place, rendering the weapon useless. Ethan then unceremoniously jammed the muzzle of his gun under the ghoul's jaw. He squeezed the trigger in a flurry as he used the momentum to begin pushing the body away.
Stale blood and grey matter alike splattered Ethan's face. Any semblance of hearing he'd recovered from the initial shots were overpowered by a fresh wave of ringing. His armed hand was slick with blood by the time the ghoul went limp after the third shot at point-blank.
Ethan could blink at that moment and be back in the Baker House, covered in mold and muck, and clinging onto survival out of the skin of his teeth.
Except this time, there was a certain clarity that made its home in Ethan's mind. The adrenaline pumped with power in his veins. With a gun in his hands, and the odds stacked against him – Ethan was at his element. There were few moments in Ethan's life that had been as clear and collected as the times he survived insurmountable odds.
That wasn't to say Ethan was a war-freak filled with a violent bloodlust. He'd take a lazy afternoon snoozing on his couch over this shit any day.
It's just that in these circumstances, Ethan's mind and body worked in such flawless unison. His instincts were well-honed and reliable as anything. It was a perfectly uncomplicated thing to maneuver his body and fight for his life.
Ethan was aware there was a complex duality to that – of how hearing creaking floorboards could be enough to make him tense – anticipating Jack Baker's sharpened shovel at any moment. Yet at the same time, feeling a bloody gun in his hands made him feel so damn alive – like he was as invincible as the dreaded moldman himself. The unease and terror leading up to the shitfest was always the worst. But the moment things kicked off, Ethan's head would inevitably be on straight, and he would be prepared for the trials to come – at least for the time being.
In any case, these were thoughts better contemplated when not actively fighting and shooting for his life.
Ethan pushed the ghoul's corpse down as he turned and gripped his gun with both hands, keeping it close to his torso. It was more instinct that guided Ethan's next shot. His point-shooting earned him the first shot to the head, sending the Moroaică stumbling back as it hissed in pain. Ethan pressed the advantage while the other Moroaice were still making their approach. The current ghoul was still off balance, and the old, rusted sword in its hand was hanging uselessly to the side.
With a lunge forward, Ethan's forearm found the Moroaică's throat, and he forced it up against the closest wall with a thud. In the close quarters, Ethan got an eyeful of the Moroaică's features under the torchlight.
It was different seeing them like this. The ghoul's features were decidedly feminine in appearance – the delicate nose, the almost heart-shaped face – they were stark reminders of who these Moroaice once were in life.
Bitterly, Ethan felt it was a mercy to put these Moroaice out of their misery. They already suffered horribly at the hands of the Dimitrescu family, and now they were forced to guard these dungeons, forever thirsting for blood.
At least in death, that suffering was over.
Ethan lined the pistol up to the former maid's eye socket and winced as he squeezed the trigger twice. His currently deaf ears protested further as the gunshots reverberated throughout the small room. The Moroaică went limp, and Ethan allowed it to crumple to the ground.
Craning his head over his shoulder revealed another batch of five Moroaice spread out and staggering into the room – some with weapons and some unarmed. They advanced much faster than the last pack, and Ethan was forced to adapt.
His magazine was light, and reloading now, while they were nearly an arm's reach away, was suicide.
Ethan's pistol cracked its first shot into the closest Moroaică's head, stunning it long enough for him to lurch forward to close the distance. He meant to grab the creature by the neck – use it as a shield of sorts. The Moroaică's arms flailed wildly, and intercepted his attempt at a grapple. Instead, its teeth sunk into Ethan's forearm, as its clawed hands dug into his clothes.
All Ethan could do was hiss in pain and bite back the urge to waste energy screaming anything other than a quick, "Shit!"
With the Moroaică clamped onto his arm, it was immobilized, and it was the best he was going to get. The others were filing in and getting far too close for comfort. Ethan raised his gun up, blasting a shot at the Moroaică approaching his right – sending it staggering back and roaring in pain. In similar fashion, Ethan twisted his body to angle his right hand over to the left – even as it caused the Moroaică to tug on the flesh of his left arm even more. The agonizing maneuver allowed him to line the shot up with another approaching ghoul. The bullet splintering through its moldy skull bought Ethan a little time.
With the gun dry and the slide locked back, Ethan was in need of a reload – but not before the ghoul clamping onto his arm was dealt with. The excruciating pain from his torn-up arm wasn't getting better any soon, but beggars couldn't be choosers. Better that it got hold of his arm than his neck.
Like a hammer pounding a nail, Ethan swung down on the Moroaică's head using his pistol. The bottom of the grip smashed into the ghoul's head in one, two, and finally three strikes, and it was just enough to loosen its grip on his arm, and ensure the flesh wouldn't be stripped all the way to the bone. Ethan's legs had become thoroughly entangled with the Moroaică's own, and he used it to his advantage. Ethan shifted to get better footing, then reaped the ghoul's leg, sending it crashing to the floor.
The momentum had Ethan twisting in place as the Moroaică kept a solid hold of his arm – this time with its clawed hands. It forced Ethan to give his back to the approaching Moroaice, which was far from ideal.
Ethan's left hand, weighed down by the ghoul, was able to grab hold of the last magazine in his pocket. Simultaneously ejecting the empty mag, Ethan bent low and sent his foot back in a vicious kick, catching one Moroaică in the chest. It toppled over backwards, bumping into one of the other Moroaice in the process. Ethan straightened up enough to cock his elbow and send it back in a wide arc, catching the next Moroaică in the face. He swung once more for good measure, smashing the gun against its head.
The precious seconds he was buying himself – even as the Moroaică on the ground was digging its claws into the gash on his arm – were well spent. Ethan successfully loaded his last mag into the bloody magazine well. The slide stop was pushed down, and the LEMI was hot once again. Ethan wasted no time cracking two rounds into the Moroaică on the ground, finally freeing his left arm.
Ethan turned on his heel, facing the last four Moroaice as he panted in exhaustion and pain alike. His lungs were on fire from all the sprinting. The only break he had gotten from the running to this close-quarter fighting was Cassandra pushing him down the stairs and taking his blood. That could hardly be considered a break.
His strides grew sluggish as he made an effort to stay light on his feet; mobility was one of his best tools when outnumbered and outmatched like this. It was a difficult feat all in all, as the searing heat and pain of his gored arm joined the sword cut on his ribs – it made him want to curl into a ball and vanish from existence.
Ethan pushed on, pointedly circling around and keeping the injured Moroaică closest as they shambled to meet him. He had eight shots left, and had to make them count.
At this range, point-shooting was easier than diligently lining his sights up to their swaying heads. Ethan fired the first shot at the injured Moroaică's head, staggering it. They were beginning to clump together in their effort to reach him.
Taking a big step forward, Ethan sent his fine leather shoe crashing into the Moroaică's chest. Already off balance, it fell down completely, bumping against the other ghouls in the process and slowing their advance. Ethan took the time to fire a final bullet into its head from where it lay on the ground.
With the group collectively unsteady, Ethan pressed the advantage. It was reckless and ill-advised, but Ethan would be damned if he didn't make the most out of his limited ammunition.
Ethan was all elbows and shoves as he knocked the Moroaice away to home in on his target – the other Moroaică he'd shot in the midst of his grappling. Ethan grabbed ahold of its neck and kept his bloody arm locked and straight. The Moroaică was unable to bite him from here, and its gangly arms could only grab uselessly at his clothing. It was, for the time being, not thinking to dig its claws into his torn arm.
Even if the exhaustion was beginning to dig into Ethan's very bones, he was still larger and stronger than the Moroaice. He used that to his advantage, swinging the Moroaică he was holding around to keep it between himself and the rest. It had no choice but to stagger along as it snarled and clawed at Ethan's clothing.
The ghouls were moving faster now, perhaps spurred on by Ethan's steadily bleeding left arm. The other Moroaică was bumping up against Ethan's makeshift shield and struggling to reach Ethan with its sickle. But one particularly agile Moroaică lunged to Ethan's right, circumventing his makeshift shield for the most part. Its gnashing teeth came forward, only to be intercepted by the muzzle of Ethan's gun. He crashed it forward to meet the ghoul's incoming mouth.
Pulling the trigger in quick succession did Ethan's ringing ears no favors as even more blood splattered onto his face. The ghoul went limp and crashing to the floor – taking Ethan's gun along with it, locked in its jaws.
"Fuck," Ethan grumbled.
Until he pried the pistol free from the Moroaică's mouth, he would be forced to finish this fight up close and personal.
Still gripping the Moroaică by the throat, he pushed forward to throw a kick at the other ghoul to the back, buying him time to deal with his present quarry. As it stumbled back, Ethan focused on the current grapple. The strength of his bleeding left arm was waning now, and he was forced to keep it at bay with another hand on its ragged clothes.
He had the knife clipped to his pants, but first it was a matter of getting a hand free to draw it and use it effectively.
The Moroaică was still pushing towards him, so he used that momentum to his advantage. He bent low and knocked his hips into place. With the straightening of his knees and a vicious tug, Ethan hurled the ghoul over his shoulders and crashing onto the ground head and back first.
Ethan tugged the knife free from its sheath. With his left hand still gripping the creature's clothes, he tugged it up just enough before sending the knife crashing down. It sank into the Moroaică's eye socket with a sickening squish.
Ethan's own eyes widened when the Moroaică continued to struggle on the floor, attempting to regain its footing. With gritted teeth, Ethan then grabbed either side of the Moroaică's head and tugged at an angle, snapping its neck with a resounding crack.
The ghoul finally grew limp, but Ethan had no time to celebrate. The last Moroaică had a sickle in hand, and was back on the approach. The knife was thoroughly lodged into the Moroaică's skull, and it took considerable effort to free it.
Then, Ethan felt a dull impact against his back, followed by warmth, and dampness permeating his clothes. It was only when Ethan's knife came loose that the sharp pain of the fresh cut began to register.
Ethan turned around in time to see the Moroaică swing the now-bloody sickle down on him once more. He was too gassed out from the fighting to swiftly evade the attack. The best he could do was bring his arms up to take the brunt of the damage. His sleeves tore open, and blood splattered the walls. The excruciating stinging came sooner rather than later – perhaps because of how acutely aware Ethan was of the attack this time around.
He bit down on his tongue as the pain sunk in. Rather than focus on all the blood he was leaking out, Ethan launched himself forward before the Moroaică could attack again. Swinging the tiny knife around would net superficial cuts at best. He needed to end this as soon as possible.
Ethan kept his bloody arm to the side to prevent the sickle from cutting into his torso. As he closed in, he sent the knife right up into the Moroaică's throat. Predictably, it wasn't enough on its own. He pushed forward to keep the Moroaică off balance. The only thing Ethan wasn't accounting for was just how small and frail this particular ghoul was. The difference in size and strength had them toppling to the ground.
They landed in a heap of tangled limbs, and the clatter of metal on stone indicated the sickle had been dropped. Conversely, Ethan's knife was still wedged into the ghoul's windpipe. Its hands came up to claw at his face, but Ethan gave no quarter. He kept the Moroaică's head pinned to the floor, and he tugged the knife free, just to send it back down.
He jabbed furiously at its neck like a murderous sewing machine. The flesh of its throat ripped and tore as stale, black blood sprayed the area and thoroughly coated Ethan. The ghoul's strength ebbed with each sharp puncture of her gory neck. Ethan's ferocious pace began to slow with each slick impact of steel and flesh. His exhausted gasps for breath were inaudible to his ringing ears as he slowed to a stop, but not before plunging the knife down a final time for good measure.
By the time the haze of battle cleared from Ethan's head, the Moroaică lied limp; its neck was nothing but a red mess of torn meat.
The Moroaică's hands on Ethan's face and neck came loose. Ethan's eyes, still wild with the rush of adrenaline, followed the movement as the hands settled lifelessly on the Moroaică's chest. Around the creature's wrist was a bracelet with beads of different colors, and the bones of small animals.
"Zoria," Ethan breathed out through his shallow inhales and ragged exhales.
A sense of remorse wormed its way into Ethan's gut. It was strange, in a way – considering Zoria was long dead by the time Ethan gored her neck with his knife. It's not like Ethan knew the woman particularly well, either. There was that tense exchange they had a week ago, and since then, there had only been a few polite pleasantries when she came to drop off Ethan's meals.
When it came down to it, Ethan didn't know anything about Zoria at all – save for her name, and the fact she'd had the misfortune to work for the Dimitrescu family. Maybe the bracelet hinted that she was superstitious, as were many of the locals in this remote part of the country.
Regardless of how little Ethan knew about her, he almost felt like some words had to be said – something to give her demise a little more dignity. At the end of the day, this ghoul Ethan ravaged with a knife was once a person – a young woman who likely wanted to provide for her family, only to wind up with a death sentence.
With trembling hands, Ethan tugged the bracelet free from Zoria's emaciated wrist. He held it for a moment longer, eyes boring down onto it.
Joining the remorse was a renewed frustration – the same anger he'd felt at being unable to help the maid who'd been butchered just a day prior. Hell – was it Zoria he'd heard? Ethan was no expert, so he couldn't tell how far along Zoria was just by looking at her. Her face was just as gaunt and monstrous as the other Moroaice. She could have been drained dry and turned into a ghoul either days ago or hours ago for all Ethan could say.
The longer Ethan remained where he was, crouched by Zoria's body, the more time his wounds had to remind him of their presence. There was nothing more he could do for Zoria now. He had to get a move on.
Pocketing the bracelet, Ethan addressed the burning pain of his chewed-up left arm first. Ethan shifted away from Zoria's body but remained on one knee as he assessed the damage. It was a little reminiscent of the damage Cassandra had done, but far messier. Still, it wasn't anything his moldy cells couldn't fix. The torn flesh was doused in disinfectant, and Ethan was forced to bite down on the collar of his shirt to stop from screaming. Ethan pressed his rag down on the wound to apply pressure.
By the time he pulled the rag free, his flesh had mended to form a new, ugly scar along the inside of his forearm. One by one, Ethan went over the rest of his injuries. Cuts on his right arm and back from Zoria's sickle. Cassandra's bite on his neck. A messy cut along his ribs from the rusted sword.
At least he'd gotten a tetanus shot after the Baker incident. After all of this, maybe he needed one or two more, just to be safe.
With haste, the wounds were disinfected and sealed, and Ethan was, for the most part, back in fighting shape. The brief reprieve had allowed the sharp, all-encroaching ringing in his ears to be reduced to a lighter, high-pitched hum. Over the droning, Ethan could hear the disconcerting sound of dripping liquid in the otherwise deathly silent dungeon. Ethan's breath had also gotten the chance to even out and stabilize. He wasn't going to be running a marathon any time soon, but if push came to shove, Ethan was ready.
Ethan tugged his LEMI free from the jaws of the Moroaică who'd inadvertently disarmed him. The gun wasn't in pretty shape, and wiping it down on the Moroaică's robes did little to clean it. Ethan smiled with a sense of bitter irony when he noticed the gun had jammed – a loose casing had gotten caught trying to eject. Somehow, he had enough luck on his side for the gun to have jammed after the fighting.
The mag was ejected and inspected – three rounds left. With a tug on the slide, the jammed casing was freed, and the magazine was returned to the gun. Another sharp pull of the slide, then Ethan performed a lighter, swift press check – round chambered – then the LEMI was good to go.
After wiping down and sheathing his knife, Ethan pushed to his feet with a grunt. He pressed onward through the unexplored room, pointedly stepping over the bodies of all the Moroaice. He was more lightheaded than he would have liked. All the blood loss was to thank for that. He couldn't afford to get into any more altercations as grisly as the last.
Ethan's pistol was raised and ready as he entered the room, even if it was just an extra precaution at this point. If there were any Moroaice left down here, they should have made their appearance by now. That was, of course, ignoring the possibility they were laying an ambush for him up ahead. If that were the case, he was, quite frankly, fucked.
The room was similarly lit up by a torch on the wall, casting its warm glow on the room. It didn't take long for Ethan's breath to grow shallow and ragged once more.
Bodies, wrapped head to toe in dirty cloth, hung from the ceiling. There was the slightest back and forth sway – leftover momentum from when the Moroaice had pushed past them and into the other room. Numerous metal basins, nearly overflowing with blood, were positioned underneath the bodies. All the cloth-wrapped bodies had been drained dry, save for one, which dripped blood down every few seconds.
The stench of death was palpable in the air – as if all the blood coating Ethan's face wasn't bad enough. It took Ethan his best effort not to vomit all over the bloody stone floor.
He pressed his sleeves – equally bloody – to his nose in the effort to block out the stench. Ethan stumbled on through the other adjoining room, which didn't appear to have any fresh bodies hanging from the ceiling.
As Ethan stumbled in, the sight that greeted him was equally horrifying the longer he swiveled his head around.
Tall shelves filled the room from floor to ceiling, filled to the brim with bottles of wine. Joining the shelves of bottles were entire casks, stacked on top of one another. Ethan's trembling hand tugged one bottle free from the closest shelf. The ornate bottle was decorated with golden flowers, and the label proudly decreed its brand – Sanguis Virginis.
Ethan's pulse was once more pounding all the way into his ringing ears as he stared at his reflection on the bottle. He tore his eyes away to take it all in – the sheer scope and magnitude of the Dimitrescu family's operation.
The Bakers had racked up their fair share of bloody kills. There were enough bodies around the Baker Family's property to fill a small room if you stacked them all up.
But this –
Ethan's stomach turned violently at the idea of it all – of all the lives that had been needlessly lost to give nourishment to the Dimitrescu House.
The shelves of wine were endless. The wooden casks numbered in the dozens. Hundreds of people had perished to stock these shelves. Maybe thousands.
Ethan staggered along mindlessly, eyeing all the bottles and casks. There were bottles that were simply blood – perhaps meant for direct consumption of Lady Dimitrescu and her daughters. As Ethan numbly bumped against one wall, he could see a doorway on the far end. The warm glow of that room's torch lit up yet more shelves, filled with wine and blood.
Ethan's throat seized up.
It was one thing to ponder over the Dimitrescu House's predatory practices. It was another thing to witness all the fruits they'd reaped as a result of it.
It was incomprehensible.
Ethan couldn't begin to count the number of bottles and casks in this storage area, which just went on and on. Each bottle, whether bloody wine or just blood – that was a life lost.
That was a life that ended in frantic screaming and unimaginable torture – until the sick fucks of this house grew tired of their play-things, and left them to bleed dry until they perished.
The bottle of Sanguis Virginis that Ethan held felt dirty in his hands. It was more out of instinct than anything else when Ethan dropped it. The shattering of glass was nearly deafening in the ominously silent dungeon.
Ethan stared at the filthy wine pooling at his feet, and the shards glinting under the torchlight. He looked at his hands, which were numb and heavy – and then back at the shattered bottle on the floor. His head swiveled about to facilitate the movement of his flighty eyes – trying their hardest to keep up with what had just happened.
After taking a moment to process the broken bottle, a sense of catharsis washed over Ethan. The despair and terror gave way to be overcome by his anger at the depravity and injustice of it all.
Ethan grabbed another bottle of wine and barely spared it a glance. With a grunt, he hurled it across the room.
If Cassandra wanted to treat him like a dog playing fetch, then he would be the most rabid fucking dog imaginable.
Ethan flung bottles at the wall two at a time, heaving and grunting in exertion.
Fuck her. Fuck her game. Fuck her family. Fuck Chris. Fuck this entire goddamn village.
Ethan smashed bottles left and right, spitting curses out for nobody but the dead to hear. Blood and wine pooled at the floor. Broken glass littered the space.
That crazy bitch thought she was so smart setting up her goddamn game of fetch and pitting all the Moroaice against him – this was what she was getting for her effort. She could say goodbye to their goddamn food supply.
This was what he'd been reduced to – a raging madman throwing bottles of bloody wine around a cellar that reeked of death.
His wife was dead, shot to bits by a man they thought they could trust – the same man he now had to count on for an eventual jailbreak.
His daughter was kidnapped, out of sight, and there was no sure way of telling what her fucking condition was.
The one ally he made in this godforsaken castle likely hated his guts, and one way or another, unintentionally gave Cassandra free reign over him.
Ethan had enough.
He grabbed hold of the shelf he'd been tossing bottles from. With a grunt and a powerful heave, Ethan sent it toppling over to the center of the room, where it just barely avoided knocking into the shelves on the other side. The crash of splintering wood and shattering glass were earsplitting in the confines of this room.
The ground was slick with the bloody wine, and there was little Ethan could do to avoid falling down atop the broken shelf. He stopped himself, just barely, from inadvertently smashing his face on the ruined shelf. With a deep inhale, Ethan let all the fury, frustration, and despair out in a powerful, guttural shout.
The air soon grew thick with silence, save for Ethan's wild, shuddering breathing, and the dripping from the other room. His hands trembled as they gripped the remains of the shelf, and he tried to find it in himself to stand up and resume the rampage.
But Ethan was tired.
He was tired beyond words when this all began, and he still was.
Even when things were good, and he found refuge in Bela's arms – Ethan was tired. Her embrace was a sanctuary, but Ethan wanted to curl up in her arms and fall asleep forever if that meant ridding him of the exhaustion deep in his very soul.
He'd seen so much and suffered through even more. Ethan could close his eyes and feel Jack Baker's shovel splintering bone and tearing muscle to dismember his foot. He could bite down on his lips and feel Jack's knife crashing into his mouth and bloodying his gums in the effort to pry his teeth open.
His shaking hands, still gripping the remains of the shelf, were acutely aware of their missing digits. The blinding hot pain of the lycan's jagged teeth, or Cassandra's blade, sharp as a scalpel – they were seared into his memory. No matter how much Ethan could feel his fingers moving normally, there was always the disconnect when he gripped things far less efficiently than he used to – with the pitiful seven fingers he'd been reduced to.
Where had the simple days gone? The nights of cold beer, hot pizza, and Mia by his side? Or even the more painful, but equally simple lonely nights with an audiobook keeping him company in his cold, empty bed?
Or even after Louisiana, when he and Mia had been working their way back towards normalcy? Ethan would prefer a routine visit to the BSAA lab before going to the groceries over this shit any day.
Those days were gone.
They were gone, and Ethan had to remind himself that this was his life now.
Slumped over the remains of the broken shelf, Ethan raised his head. As the red haze of rage gave way, he stared at the next room over – at the body draped in filthy cloth. The drip of blood had become infrequent. It had reached the point Ethan found himself waiting for the next drop to land – the next millimeter of blood which would go on to feed the Dimitrescu family.
It was a person bleeding that blood.
The same as how it had been ordinary people whose blood filled these bottles that Ethan smashed.
People had died for these bottles.
The bottles which – thanks to Ethan – were shattered, and their contents spread on the floor.
He'd made their deaths even more meaningless than they already were.
Ethan pressed his bloody hands into his face and took in another ragged breath.
There was nothing good Ethan was accomplishing in his rampage. More people would die to even out his destruction. Each bottle smashed would need replacement – and a life to pay for it. Ethan couldn't care less for the retribution Cassandra or Lady Dimitrescu herself would inflict on him. The fact he'd just sealed the fate of more innocent people was what made his stomach violently churn.
All he was doing was perpetuating this predatory, violent cycle, in which only the Dimitrescu family came out on top. More loss would be born of Ethan's impulse and rage.
With trembling hands, Ethan pushed himself up onto unsteady feet.
The damage was done. All he could do now was get a bottle and get out.
Ethan tugged a pristine bottle of Sanguis Virginis out from one of the shelves he hadn't touched. He tucked the bottle close to his body and handled it with care. Someone had given their life for this bottle. It was only right that their life didn't inadvertently lead to more loss because Ethan wasted the bottle.
Ethan made his exit from the room, stepping over the debris of the broken shelf. He paused at the exit, taking a ragged breath as he spared a look over his shoulder at the destruction he'd unleashed. It would undoubtedly bite him in the ass down the line, but he could worry about that later. For now, he had to push himself onwards and upwards.
The path ahead was fraught with danger.
Inhale. Count to four.
Exhale. Count to four.
It didn't matter. With steel and fire in his resolve, Ethan knew he was the most dangerous creature in these dungeons.
A/N: Thanks for taking the time to read! Be sure to fave, follow, all the good stuff, and leave me a review to let me know what you thought of this chapter, I love hearing from you guys!
I'M ALIVE! I apologize for the delay. Real life has been, uh, not great. I've had this chapter's skeleton mapped out for a long time now, but it's only recently I got the details fleshed out. I gotta say this chapter, and my recent newfound motivation, could not be possible without the wonderful Beta reader I picked up last week. We've been shooting the shit and bouncing ideas back and forth, and he has been INVALUABLE in helping me flesh out scenes to give even more impact, and to catch typos as well. Let it be known I spelled "Marguerite" as "Maurice." God help me.
So... Ethan's in a bit of a pickle. Or is he? I think he's trying to convince himself he isn't, for the sole reason of not psyching himself out. As long as he's convinced he's the danger, then he'll (probably) be okay. I think this is our first chapter without an appearance from Bela. Oddly enough, I think Bela has been in more chapters than Ethan, since Bela's interludes (one is coming soon, I swear) have been away from Ethan.
Anyway that's enough out of me for now. Thank you all once again for your overwhelming support. All of your feedback, praise, and criticism alike are highly valued. Expect chapter 19 to drop Sunday-ish of the weekend after this one, since I'm just in the process of refining the draft for that. Shoutout once more to my very biblically-named Beta Reader, who made this chapter possible. Stay safe out there, and I'll catch you all soon.
