Chapter 31 ~ Dream No More
It was homely, but by no means plain. The building was a triumphant creation that combined and fused together Victorian and Spanish architecture. A pair of mighty antlers adorned the mantle of the rustic lobby. A great fur rug covered the floor of umber wood panels. Thick, luxuriant sofas were crowded around the flagstone fireplace, forming with them a semicircle. The fire pit was filled with timber logs, flickering out calm blue flames. The polished lobby desk was made of cherry-wood. Warm smells of home-cooking wafted through the warm, Christmas air. A yuletide atmosphere was a welcome change from the remoteness of the frigid road.
"Interesting . . ." Vergil commented.
The red slayer and his group had reached the hotel, the reason for their trip a mission he had taken. Neither one of them desired to work after such chaos the world had seen, yet Vergil felt it beneficial to them for a shift of scenery, if they left the confines of his rustic, cramped shop, to go elsewhere and enjoy a different set of cultural norms. Not to mention, it would be good for the child.
As much as she tried to hide the truth from him, he knew Patty couldn't sleep well because of those memories. He heard her soft cries as she tried to calm herself in the night. Sleep avoided her. Rest . . . rest was not a luxury that they could much afford in recent times, the darkness of Mundus an overbearing remnant that burned away in the man's mind, as it undoubtedly did for his fellow travelers. Lady had not felt well either, almost three in the morning the clock told them, its solid face no liar, and when he felt the cold chill from her absence, it made him decidedly unhappy.
He saw her standing at the window, accomplishing nothing of importance, just standing aloof watching the outside snow-fall. She returned beside him after all but twenty minutes, boredom strung through her endlessly twisting thoughts. At the very least, she had not to worry about anyone's mistaken identity, the removal of his passenger through the climax in that city a gladly received gift for the holiday.
And yet, the guilt he still felt was like gasoline pouring through his intestines. Inside, within him, he died slowly in toxicity, needing no more than a spark to set it ablaze.
Recovery wouldn't be easy, it was a fool who believed that the nightmare could so easily be forgotten, but still, it remained possible. He purged from himself these regrets as they reached the front desk.
"Hello. Two rooms: One for a couple and another for three . . ." He said.
The man working the reception looked upon his blue screen and transcribed this data within the digital tower's keyboard.
"Okay," He sighed, "aaand what is the name, sir?"
"D- Vergil." He corrected himself.
"Okay." The man spoke as he typed along, ". . . So, it looks like you'll all be in rooms 103 and 104. That'll be three-fifty out the door. Would you like to pay cash or credit?"
Vergil pulled from his coat pocket a wedge of green bills, and plucked from it the correct amount he would need. He handed the man the necessary fee, combined together for this temporary residence. The man accepted the currency and quickly processed their reservation, inputting countless commands lightning fast into the machine as they stood cautiously watching the surroundings, paranoia possibly factoring into their communally rigid demeanors. It'd been long since any member experienced a safe passage into new waters. The man behind the desk tossed two separate keys toward him that read the respective numbers.
"Alrighty, enjoy your stay." He smiled as the ragged group passed the second key toward the Italian man.
Patty snatched the key from his hand and cheered.
"Race ya!" And with that, she bolted toward the stairs.
A bundle of energy, as always.
"Oh come on," Tony shouted as he lugged all the bags after her, "Wait for us!"
The slayer thanked the concierge as he held Lady's hand in his own, then said, "Let's go."
The woman nodded and winked at him. The pair were about to depart when the man felt Lucia touch his shoulder. Looking back at her, the red-haired foreigner held a strange look in her eyes.
"What is it?" He asked.
Lucia stayed silent, briefly seeming to become lost in her thoughts. It was of great importance to her that she find the perfect words to speak.
"There is something, I wish to speak to you son of Sparda!" She spoke and gave a look to Lady, a gesture for her to leave them alone.
"I'm not leavin', you can tell me as well." The scarred woman spoke broadly.
Ah, he did hate it when women would fight, and he felt that Lucia's abruptness was worth addressing. He simply led them to the brown couch nearby in the quiet, empty lobby. He sat opposite of her and waited for the woman to become comfortable in her seat. He would not tolerate any wishy-wash tomfoolery. She would either tell him, or she would not. There was something, truthfully, and it genuinely troubled her, according to the pale expression that adorned her face. The words he often heard from her were strange, eerie, confusing. But still, what it was must be said, a piece of information she claimed he held need for. Lucia displayed upon her sullen soft lips a scowl, and for a split second, it appeared as though she was going to simply speak of her troubles. And yet, the woman's brain lodged itself in place, unable to move forward beyond her first thoughts.
Lady tapped her boot impatiently, the curtness of the proceedings had created discomfort.
So, she excused herself, "I am going to the room." She slightly bowed with a false smile.
And she walked off, making way for her quarters in the vain hope the trouble would leave her. Vergil stood from the sofa but remained still, not a single muscle moving as he stared her down, the foreigner leaving both him and the Devil Huntress behind in that empty lobby. The pair were unspeaking for a time, and in this silence, the hybrid desired to know what the woman had kept silent from him. Any and all times, he despised someone who chose to hide from him the truth.
"I do loathe when I am kept in the dark." His baritone was glacial and callous. Lady almost felt to flinch had it not been for his impeccable warm grasp that soon accompanied her waist.
She knew of what he spoke, she had just thought these same things herself. It was almost as if he had read her mind.
"You're not feeling well, are you?" He asked, touching her chin and drawing her gaze to his own.
Those blue eyes held disappointment within them, that she could see clearly. But it wasn't held for her, the disappointment had come from Lucia's departure, the feeling of knowledge lost. In the wake of all that had transpired, the failure to know what he desired was considered a dangerous mistake. He kissed Lady's red lips to sooth his discontent, and she smiled and giggled in his arms.
"You're in a good mood." She told him.
"I ought to be after ten years a slave." He told her, "How about when we get to the room, we have a little fun, eh?"
There was undeniably a piece of Dante in that sentence, the kind of loose feeling he would have given her all his own, and she felt that within him. A kindness had come to exist behind those blue eyes that hadn't previously been observed in him. She felt taken in by his seamless vision, what woman wouldn't be? And now she felt satisfaction in knowing that it was entirely genuine in their humble lives.
They led together to the stairway, a rosy red carpet of holiday cheer greeting them as the ascended the spiral corridor up to the second floor, where all rooms codified through 100-199 were located.
Twas the season to be jolly, certainly, and he felt that this snow outside now was a genuine construction of mirth and love, not the evil frost of the time before when the mad King Nothing had nearly reigned unchallenged over all humanity. The days had passed by so slowly yet surreally, it had already almost felt as though it were a giant year, seconds dragging on for hours and humans enjoying each others company once more without fear of what lurked in the dark. Vergil himself felt that if his mind had ever closed once more out of fear, he desired that Lady pull it back open.
To room 103 they went, and when they arrived, he opened the room to discover, much to her pleasure, a tremendous tree placed in the corner of the room ornately decorated with olden trinkets and glistening orbs of many shades and hues, and the style of the room's overall decor evoked a sense of a Spanish villa one might come across while wandering historical 19th century landmarks. Decadence had no home here, it knew not the purpose of human reservations. With Christmas' splendor all around, it was hard not to imagine that only a short time ago had the world been so mortally threatened.
Lady came to the broad window and brushed aside the left panel of wood blinds, revealing to her the white-blanketed landscape that stretched on as far as she could see past a beautiful lake vista rendered frozen and the grass brown by winter's gentle touch. Christmas always reminded her of an innocent time, one in which the horrors of the past could be forgotten through the wonder of the future. Though she knew not why it had occurred to her, these naive impressions always seemed to bear fruitful hope, one which this year she believed would finally come true. She slung a long cylindrical backpack off her shoulders and placed it upon the bed. Inside was her trustworthy Kalina Ann, the weapon of her mother's suffering. She felt it appropriate to conceal such a beastly weapon during this time of year, the holiest of all days, or so the Christians believed.
The man himself plopped down a guitar case off to the side, its brown leather polished and soft as Dante had originally kept it. Within lay an actual guitar, as Vergil had been practicing and thought it a novel thing to share with Lady. He relaxed and sighed, removing his faded carmine coat of shin-length from his broad pale shoulders. Beneath it was a long-sleeved midnight blue shirt, a black vest of a thick hide, and brown fingerless gloves. It was time to tuck in for the evening, and so he removed these brown articles, throwing them on the dark wooden nightstand next to the bed.
Night had come for them all, unfortunately.
There was much to do in the morning. He sat down on the king-size bunk, legs adorned by brown knee-high boots and dark slacks. He had felt it a fitting switch from Dante's older uniform.
Times change, and so must he.
Lady traversed into the bathroom, Roman tiles fixed on the floor, Spanish flourishes marking the bathtub and it's shower, together with the expansive white countertops that housed two sinks that laid off to the left of these other accoutrements, a door separated them; yes of course, the toilet. Everything that was needed was in place and so she set about accomplishing her traditional routine, that which carried her off to sleep usually. Vergil shut the blinds and drew the curtains closed. As much as the hybrid enjoyed the view, he knew it would lead to no good if it were allowed to remain open. Any aperture was a weakness that the enemy would take advantage of, and in this new Demonic climate, he felt it hardly the time to take chances. Within the bathroom, Lady continued about her activities, removing her green jacket and brown gloves to reveal the white blouse she wore beneath. She folded them and placed them upon the chair positioned in front of the washbowl.
Turning around to the left-most corner of the small room, she saw a sliding glass door that led to the closet. Perfect. She hung up the necessary articles and kept her supplies stowed away within the counter, ready to be grasped and used quickly for any situation that might arise the following morning. From behind, she heard him enter, and Vergil carried over the remainder of their luggage, which he shoved inside the compartment and left them there. It was uncertain whether or not they should even open them currently, as it was not known how long they might stay.
His arms clasped themselves around the front of her flat stomach. She felt his warm body press into her own. Vergil kissed the nape of her neck and smelt her fine raven hair.
In the mirror, he saw themselves embraced, but in place of a pleasant grin was a troubled face.
He pulled back on his affection, "What's wrong?"
Lady sighed, "Look, you went through enough." She turned around to face him, "I don't want to burden you, I can deal with it on my own."
Understandable reasoning, but he disliked this excuse. He had told his fair share of lies to know that it was never the grandest option.
"Okay. I understand . . . but we're partners, correct?" He looked agitated, "Don't hide this from me on my behalf, I know what you're going through. I still deal with it."
Lady was taken by surprise, she hadn't anticipated his approach.
Had it always bothered him so? She supposed it was another of many attributes she could add to the list that differentiated him from Dante.
"Alright, alright," she almost sighed, "I-. . . I only kept quiet for your sake," She replied, "I didn't sleep well last night."
His face softened.
"I see. Nightmares?" He whispered.
She nodded as he drew closer.
He ran his fingers through her hair.
"Well, that's nothing the good doctor can't fix." He told her.
"You're a bit weird you know that?" She chuckled and kissed him once more, "The-"
She stopped dead in her tracks. It had struck her mid-thought.
"You remembered him, didn't you?" He asked, and she didn't know what to say, there wasn't an answer she could give him.
It was not within her desire to drive Vergil away, nor did she believe that Dante was somehow 'better,' it was simply the shell-shock of their similarities.
"Yes." She mumbled, ashamed, "Sorry."
Lady sullenly pulled herself away, somewhat saddened. She still couldn't quite believe what had taken place. At least Vergil wasn't walking that same path as she was.
Constructing a front, an emotional wall, was neither smart nor was it ever a tremendously successful ideal. Yet, as humans do, there she was living this paradox.
"It's fine." He sighed, "Don't blame yourself for that."
Lady drew her sight back to his ruggedly handsome face.
"We may have a complicated relationship, but he is still my sibling." He assured her, "And I tell you so in the hopes that you feel respected."
Time had passed them, and so too had the remainder of daylight they had left
"I swear, these jobs get more bizarre as the days go by," said Vergil, "I suppose the pay justifies the worth."
"Yeah? Morrison did make a big deal about it. What was so special that he called you and not me?" She replied.
Lady lied down across the mattress, lounged and loose, somewhat tired after a long day of travel, though still, her mind was sharp.
Vergil shook his head and grumbled, "On Christmas Eve, this man wants me to exorcise a haunted house."
Lady lifted her head slightly from the pillow, "Say what?"
He ran his hand back through his hair, the expression seeming to shift from tired trepidation to outright exhaustion. He sat down by her on the opposite side, his mind flowing.
All the things he could achieve with the payment of this contract . . .
"The man spoke of a ghost wandering around his house." Vergil explained, "Had I not told you?"
"No." She replied.
"I see. I'm sorry. Basically, the man is being haunted by what sounds like an extreme form of poltergeist. Every time he has a guest over, he wakes up the next day to see them standing at the front door, trembling as though they've begun to suffer an epileptic seizure, crying about a creature that inhabits the robes of a monk. His house, he told me, was built over the plot of an old church built in the late sixteen-hundreds which was demolished after years of languishing in disrepair. There've been many, many ghost-sightings related to this site over the past several decades. The man who lives there now is rather wealthy. He's renovated the manor, which seems to have angered the ghost, so now it routinely haunts both him, his family, and whoever sets foot on the property."
"Well," Lady replied, absorbing what she could, and she tilted her head slightly, "That sounds like fun."
He gave an approving look, "Yes, well, the hauntings themselves are what formed his interest in the history of the land, so when he did some digging and discovered its origins, he called Morrison."
"You said he was wealthy?"
"Yes. That's why we all flew out here in first class."
She smirked, now it made sense.
He couldn't hide his expression any longer, "So, you came out here with me. We're all together, like a family. Are you coming with me or what?" He said and laid down, resting his sore back.
Her options were to be a Scrooge and resist the temptations of a Christmas mystery, or, she could enjoy her time within this small east coast town solving a ghost story. She opted for the latter choice.
"Sure, why not?" She answered with a chuckle.
He shifted on his side towards her, "Good." He smiled, "Good . . . so I'll be getting a payment of twenty grand. Five to you for tagging along, deal?"
"Umm . . ." Lady murmured, "No, I'm gonna need a bit extra."
"Because . . . ?" He asked.
Lady's eyes glowed, she often enjoyed this part, "Firstly, the expenses, secondly, the sexism of only getting one quarter instead of half, and thirdly, the damages of the aftermath."
Once he heard that, he sat up immediately.
"You think I'm going to destroy the man's home?" Vergil spoke, tremendously annoyed.
She smirked and shrugged, "Your words, not mine."
"Oh, I don't believe this . . ." He turned his head forward to stare at the wall, "You do remember that I'm not Dante, right? I am a perfectionist, he was a slob."
Of the many moments he had shared with others, the time he encountered bias within the woman he thought capable of understanding him was not one the man sought to keep for all time. Lady, for her part, seemed to always keep on expecting Dante's attitude in place of Vergil. It seemed, to this day, the red slayer would forever remain trapped in the shadow of his sibling rivalry.
How could he come to expect otherwise? Lady had been through Temen-Ni-Gru alongside both Vergil and brother-Dante.
"Why are you irritated?" She asked, worried, "There's no need for that. I just got used to your brother so much, I didn't know what to expect from you. That's all."
"Because it seems to me that you want to leave me holding the bag. Well, I apologize, but for the risk of liability and the fact that I'm the one this job came to, I'm afraid accountability must be shared."
She stared at him blankly. There was a moment of silence.
"I know that look . . ." She said with a smile, "Are you jealous?"
Discomfort entered his eyes. For lack of better phrasing, he simply didn't know how to answer it. And the fact Lady had known Dante much longer than him made his stomach churn. He wasn't jealous. Jealousy was a poisonous repellant of sanity, and he sought never to feel its clawing grasp over his chest again. So many years spent chasing the dream of power, to be superior to that of his twin, that he was no stranger to the emotion, and yet, he existed now without its cold suffocation.
"Oh, babe. That is adorable." She said and embraced him, resting her head on his chest.
She had misinterpreted him. She had definitely misinterpreted him.
"The deal stands." He spoke at last. "You get five for assistant-compensation but only if you actually work, take it or leave it."
"Huh?" She whispered, surprised.
He wasn't his brother, this much was certain. She couldn't wring him for money; that is to say, Vergil wouldn't allow himself to be taken for a fool.
Lady sighed, but lifted her head to look at him, stone-faced as always.
"Deal." She smiled, "Come on relax, it's fine. 'Tis the season,' after all."
"Bah, Humbug." He disregarded the holiday sentiment, though only after he'd considered her letting go the additions had his face softened, "Very well."
He long scorned such an idea, this idiotic festivity celebrated by hypocritical dullards he'd sooner spit on than help save. Christianity held a special hatred within his heart.
And he held her as well within his grasp, resting his face on her shoulder, nuzzling her neck. It was a truly surreal experience for him to be in the arms of another for so long and in so many instances. He had never exactly been the popular one with women. They had, traditionally-speaking, taken a liking to his brother, the more confident and outgoing of the two. He had long sought to know the comfort of a lover's embrace, and had only once before been so lucky as to acquire such an immense passion from a partner. Part of him always wondered where she had gone, what she had done. He hadn't thought of her since his time in Fortuna, the woman known to him only as Helena.
Still, he supposed, if it truly was the season to be holly, perhaps then he'd be wise to return the Lady's affections.
"I'm in the mood for anal." She whispered.
A sentence . . . so bold he made an audible inhale, a light almost effeminate gasp. It shocked him.
Vergil pulled back to look at her face, cheeks flushed.
"Is this your idea of dirty talk?" He asked.
Lady placed her hand on his chest, pulling her self closer, their faces mere inches apart.
"No, I'm just going straight to the point. I'm not really the blushing lovey-dovey type." She leaned in, pecking at his neck.
"I . . . don't do romance either." He heaved the words, "Don't expect dates and flowers and all those tacky things."
"I know." She replied as she lightly bit and tugged on his lower lip.
Simply the attention itself was all he desired. And yet, he did not fancy a tryst at this peculiar moment, no matter how much his body craved it.
"Later," he said, pushing her back, "When the job is done."
He knew the look he was getting. She wasn't happy.
And yet still, a part of her was glad. Sleep was key.
So, after many moments of an uncomfortable scowl, a large smirk formed on her face, "Uh-huh . . . Yeah, later."
"Hey, Vergil!" He heard someone calling his name. Still felt weird to hear it, after such a long time.
Patty came in through the connecting door between suites, and she beamed that bright smile that was so customary to their joy. She wore long-sleeved shirt and pants colored white and brown respectively. Of the money he had, spare change for dresses and gowns he did not possess. Sadly, his was a frugal yard, where no time could be held special for dalliances with exotic form or functions.
"Miss Lowell?" He answered her. The girl jumped on the bed and laid on her stomach, looking at him.
"Hey Lady." She said.
"Yo." The woman responded, throwing out her fingers in the customary peace sign.
"Wanna go down and take a walk around?" She asked with such innocence.
"I'm afraid not. I don't feel up to it, little one."
Patty's face was defeated, "Oh come on, you are such a killjoy."
Vergil pursed his lips and grumbled aloud, "Why don't you take Lucia and walk around with her then?"
Patty pouted. "She doesn't speak words well . . . ah- besides I have a feeling she'd rather take a walk with you."
"Why do you think that?" He still desired to know.
Patty continued, smiling slightly, "Well, from what I understand, she kept asking about Lady and what the two of you are? And for how long?" Her wry smile grew, "I think she likes you a bit too much."
The man closed his eyes and lifted his face up to the ceiling. Lucia? Not a chance would it work. It was not that she was unattractive, nor was she unlikable. The man simply knew that they were not a coupling meant for one another. No chance, not a one percentile favor, it wasn't meant to be. Lucia was almost childlike with her naïveté, it would never last between them even if he ever considered it. Truthfully, he had always found a certain allure to Lady, even as far back as his first time meeting the woman as enemies in the field. Maybe the child misunderstood what she had meant, that Lucia had desired to speak to Vergil regarding the status of her people back on her small, small, small island.
"I don't think so." He shook his head.
"Yeah, maybe I'm wrong." Patty let it go, as a good child should, grinning madly still, and she left the bed and tried once more to cajole him, "Walk with me?"
And once again he declined.
Her face bowed in defeat as she went for the door and closed it behind her.
There they road the dirt and the tides of dust that came with it under a new sun, for in this old town, pavement was a rarity reserved for the inner-town streets
Far down the lane past the nearby frozen lake stood the infamous house known as Melmoth's Gate. People would try to avoid it passing by as much as was possible, while the poor owner sat upon the cobblestone steps, alone. Strands of dead grass popped out with every rung of the long-brick stairs, and the man was a sullen shell of a healthy state, trodden down profusely by bad weather, stormy and wet, stormy and wet; and caustic home perils. He had to be the one moving if he so desired to meet with his friends and family, the hauntings so severe that they had left the house for greener pastures out west. No one ever visited him. The day they left was one that broke his heart, and now he remained to tend to Melmoth's Gate as an old fool and caretaker till someone would purchase this dead lot.
He felt cursed to remain while evermore his family grew distant in the passing days.
The manor walls sprang from the soil like the very dirt had insulted them. Such ornate brownstone was too arrogant to touch the earth, indeed it was fancier than many an Italian palace. The windows were oversized, mullioned and almost cathedral-like. They stood as murals, multi-colored, but lacked stories to tell their passersby. Inside, each room was bathed in daylight, carried from the first kiss of dawn to the darkness of twilight's hour.
By nightfall, the oak floors and antique furniture stand tall in the flicker of yellow candlelight from many candelabras that still hang inside; to the eternal irritation of the housekeeper, electricity to the overhead hall fixtures had never been installed. Only the individual rooms were lit by modern electricity.
The current owner's great-grandfather had commissioned the manor to impress the bride of his choice, and apparently, it had worked rather well.
Passed down through three generations, it had come by the name Melmoth's Gate honestly. Outside the manor lay a blackened metal port that welcomed visitors ominously, and at that time, the family name had been Melmoth. The locals had never been an imaginative bunch. The simplicity within this name was disappointingly dull and the current owner felt ridicule by the piety of the local church.
He was not a catholic, as they had wanted him to be. Oh, the dreadful hypocrisy of such an institution held no interest for him, it never had.
He had only hoped his own son would understand the gravity of these times, what the old walls had meant. Alas, the monk in black had torn these dreams asunder.
Vergil arrived with Lady by his side. The sight of the manor instilled awe to those that passed, and Lady was no exception. She felt almost hypnotized by its olden decadent grandeur, fortune long-since faded. The architecture of these old places had always interested her, the modern taste had shifted so dramatically in the years since they were built. She had forgotten the roots of the country, truly.
A brown forest surrounded the estate, left dead and barren by the chill of the season's turn.
Vergil, for a moment, thought he had seen a dark shadow, a figure humanoid in shape moving through the woods far off to the right.
Winter's frost stung at Lady, she had taken the precaution of wearing black leggings and a thicker coat than usual. Still, it didn't help.
"What a perfectly fine house." He commented, "It's a shame that it's haunted."
The man stood from the steps and came to the gate, opening the prison door to welcome them. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, yet he was sickly looking, hair grown jagged and frazzled, deathly sallow skin hanging from his face . . . perhaps from stress. The time of his illness had not been known, and Vergil had not heard the man ever mention it to him. Dragged under hysteria and superstition, any man may have looked as he did.
"Mister Dante?" He shook his hand, "I'm Harry - Harry Underwood, we spoke on the phone."
Vergil nodded gently, "Yes of course. Pleasure to meet you."
Lady had forgotten that, in a way, Vergil himself was still Dante, or Dante was Vergil . . . they were all one with the father, goo goo g'joob.
She came towards the man and introduced herself, "and, uh, I'm Lady. I'm his partner."
A disturbance made itself evident in his long face.
"Ma'am, I think it's better if you go, this place . . . it's more dangerous than you know." He advised her.
Lady snickered back at him, it was not the first time a client had spoken of her so.
"Don't worry, chief. I can take care of myself just fine, been doing this job for over a decade."
A sense of relief washed over the poor man, "Good- Oh, good! My mistake, my mistake," the man readily said, looking to Vergil, "I apologize, I should've known anyone you'd bring would be experienced with these sorts of things."
Vergil merely smirked.
"Yes, of course. I pride myself on professionalism."
"That's exactly what I was hoping to hear you say." Said the man, smiling crooked teeth, "So, how does this work, you guys need anything from me, you need a space to set up your stuff, or-"
"No. Sit tight, we'll be back out shortly." Vergil replied, "Should anything go wrong, visit our hotel and await further contact. Ask for a man named Tony."
"Y-You don't need me to do anything?" The man asked.
A simple shake of the head was all he received.
The man brightened, yet trembled, "Well! Uh . . . make yourselves at home." And then he walked away . . . perhaps he would drive to town and take time off relaxing within the old cigar lounge.
Vergil stood tall as he gallantly strode to the front entrance, the double-doors made of finely cut mahogany, intricate tales carved into every conceivable surface.
The lack of light was the first thing they saw as they entered the home.
Within the decorated foyer they entered, above them hung a steel chandelier, silver and swaying back and forth though there was no wind to accompany it. The living room laid off to their right, past the stairwell existed an expansive recreation room designed for lounging and games, and to their left was a darkly lit parlor that accompanied the smell of old smoke, and visiting colognes not documented for many moons in this aged room. Candles sat on pillars antiquated with dragons perching proud on their hind legs, the figurines built into the structure in gargoyle fashion, hewn into the dead walls across the structure in as many corners as possible.
"D'ya think the wicked witch of the west lives here?" Lady whispered to him.
Far, far ahead of them, trailing off into the second floor, twisting in a perfect spiral like a child's slinky toy stretched to the bare ends, there existed the steps leading to the remainder of this hollow house.
What a place to be haunted, it's old-fashioned design a fitting home for such a thing. Otherworldly apparitions tended to exist within structures that had long served as the home of a celebrated lineage, it made little sense for a restless spirit to antagonize the modern homes and streets with which it had no connection. He knew she was only quipping in this moment as a form of nerve management. The thickness of the air inside felt maddening, the darkness ill-fitting the presence of human beings; it felt evil. Far away from the Christmas cheer of the town outdoors.
"I guess now we investigate. You should go upstairs." He said.
She glared at him, "Upstairs? . . . Okay."
Lady did not want to tread upstairs. Yet, she nodded at him and wished for him the best of luck, walking away towards the dark chambers that awaited her, flashlight in hand.
He went towards the main room, as he had sensed within a being, a presence that should not be.
He walked into the recreation room and noted the orange glow of candles and an ineffectual lamp above fixed to the room's own chandelier. He saw an old painting hanging over the mantlepiece, one that predated the great war, the first of the two conflicts in which the world had become enveloped in human ignorance. War. Conflict. What was it good for? He had little idea. There upon the cape beneath the painting was the name Gregor Melmoth. He looked to be of high status, his face resembling many a politician's of that gilded age.
Within seconds, the light of the room became blotted and faint, the curtains shielding the sunlight away from the interior, and a fire crackled to life in the hearth.
All the heat Vergil could feel faded away, the only source remaining being that which he saw below the painting. It was a room of art, yet the austerity of its history was lost on him. The candles fluttered out, extinguished by a cold gust he could not explain. No windows remained open, only the gentle breeze of the fire's warmth affected his skin, and yet, the back of his neck felt a deep freeze come. Emerging around him were the sounds of soft music, a Gregorian chant accompanied by the sound of primitive fiddles and lutes.
The floorboards creaked behind him and he turned.
A figure sat in the rocking chair left in the black corner, dressed in a dark robe, face obscured by shadow.
"Gratam mea," A deep voice told him, steeped in latin he understood to mean 'I welcome,' and it continued, "You have brought to me your undying soul. That which you guard closely shall now be mine."
Vergil stared at the being and tilted his head, "Oh it is? I was not aware that simple proximity guaranteed you the life of another." He spoke without fear and without emotion, "Little pest, give something more worthy of the son of Sparda. I will not entertain your dark theatrics on the basis of human fear, I am no man."
Still it spoke in latin, "Do you know how many souls I have taken? I will never stop, even if you escape from my grasp, others will come, and they too will know my rime-ridden grip."
The scarlet slayer smirked at the presence, "Empty threats from an empty spirit, devoid of physical form. You couldn't even hope to steal the soul of a small child."
"Tu loqueris sine timore est, Diabolus est in domum suam," It said of him, that Vergil had spoken without fear, the devil was in its home.
"I am but half a devil." He sighed, boredom stuck to his core, "Lucifer himself is not your guest." He travelled to the couch and sat down.
"A Cambion." The voice replied, "Your lineage means nothing here, so-called 'son of Sparda.'"
The man watched as the entity stood up, seemingly on the verge of an almost child-like tantrum. Vergil could see and interact with entities such as these, twas a natural gift of his heritage. In many ways, he was the only one who could've performed this task without failure. Lord knew many false prophets had used their televised connections to try and communicate with the afterlife, packaged in a manner that so successfully entertained the masses. The creature that sat opposite of Vergil was no product of treachery, it was a genuine article of that which laid beyond the grave but would never leave, remaining in unrest a vengeful specter hellbent to destroy the lives of those who could no longer perceive its tortured existence.
Vergil, who smiled at the Monk, sat straight and flexed his hands of the tension he had been storing. He felt the boards beneath him shift and so practiced peering out from the corners of his eyes.
Perhaps he could throw it through the glass window and be done with it.
At once his neck and eyes became rigid, frozen.
"You will surrender your soul to me, wretched thing." The monk closed both its hands and began to pray.
From across the room, without any touch, the flames within the hearth died, leaving only the light between the purple shades to peer into this darkened room.
Vergil's patience ran low, "Are you going to bring out your crystal ball next?"
"I will swallow you whole, abomination."
The devil's lips formed a twisted grin, "Then I will end you."
As if by supra-cosmic means, a pale blue light sprung from his hand, summoned out of possession of another reality, another dimension in space and time. Shining brightly in the dark, it drove away the creature as it approached, and the Devil stood, the light fading to reveal a stern long object, a sword of eastern ilk. The Japanese katana that had served with him trustily through the decades clasped in his right hand, he drew the Yamato and unleashed a phantom slash that forced back the entity to the foyer, and the being fled from him. Winds began to gather within the room, the manor shook as the man moved through the halls searching for his sacrilegious prey.
Down through the atrium he chased the presence, running past obscure Renaissance paintings and Venetian sculptures salvaged from ancient Rome.
Through the living room, he reached a wide hall filled with centurion statues of gold and silver knightly armor, a wide-spanning hall of pitch-dark wonder, separated on his left by a massive dark wood recreation of a small chess board. A black fog fused itself within the mouth of a golden horse statue that stood over seven feet high, positioned back past the board and the gold-twisting arch behind it to a another section of the room where the suits and statues stood.
It roared to life, green spectral eyes emerging from the horse head, and it moved fluidly as though it were an actual steed, charging the slayer with reckless abandon.
Streaking along the great room, the animated creature thrust its head forward intending to ram the slayer worth of every graviton packed inside its possessed figurine.
Galloping on the black-white textile floor down the channel he had entered, the nightmare reached him. Vergil dove to the side and slashed his steel through its side with one swift right-hand motion.
The beast split in two, legs severed from the body and the head as it neighed and crumbled to dust behind him.
From the ruin materialized the Monk, and it turned back toward the red slayer, howling.
There, he saw its true face. A black corpse bathed in shadow, the living embodiment of misery, despair, hatred . . .A wraith.
A spectral claw reached out and flew towards the rightward wall, a trail of shadow left behind from the Monk's black cloak sleeve. It seized a broadsword of the knight's templar, kept as a treasure within the house from the days of Gregor Melmoth's Freemasonry. Summoned to its side, the blade glowed a green hatred, the power of stolen souls over years and years and years. The agonies of a thousand mortals denied heaven burned brightly into the metal and the wraith growled and swung.
Western metal collided with eastern steel, and the bright collision of sapphire and emerald illuminated ever so briefly the dark great room. The torn spirit heaved and struck at the man's right hip, expertly deflected by Vergil's precise parry as he circled the blade and fluidly stabbed into the wraith three times before lurching back and grasping Yamato with two hands. He resumed the stance of a samurai and initiated an iron blockade of defensive counterstrikes that defused his opponents heavy swings. Both himself and his weapon were a blur of talent, skill, and prowess.
Catching the opponents blade against the guard of Yamato's hilt, the dark slayer forced the broadsword back and thrust forward his boot.
Raw strength pushed the Monk back off its feet. The wraith soared back through the great room and turned towards the direction it had been sent.
Flying off, the creature merged itself with the partition in its wake and hid from his sight.
Katana clasped at his side in waiting, the slayer vigilantly awaited the return of the nightmare.
The voice rasped to him once more, croaking to life, "You are in my domain, Daemon child."
It trailed from behind him, and with Yamato glowing brightly, he twisted in the dark and swung swiftly, releasing a sonic wave that the Monk barely managed to divert with its own weapon. Vergil zoomed on by, covered in cyan power that pumped through his blade and released dimensional afterthoughts in its wake, time slowing, and there the undead clergymen became ensnared within a sphere of cosmic strikes, millions of cuts tearing through the astral body at one time.
Heat released, it keeled over, almost torn apart and smoking, when yet another strike occurred. Through its backside ran Yamato, plunging out the front of the Monk.
Black blood sloshed across the floor and it wheezed a scorn-filled warlock's call.
Vergil twisted the blade and the screams intensified, the walls shook and trembled, and then he bashed forward his boot once more, and the wraith came detached. It slammed upon the ground and slid near-lifeless off into the shadows. Vergil flecked his weapon to the side lightning-quick, and the blood was thrust from its surface clean. Once more he waited, sensing the Monk's corrosive presence still, unchanged however weakened it had become.
"Repent!" It hissed as it emerged through the floor and slashed its claymore at his ankles.
Jumping with vigor, the slayer flipped backwards through the air and countered twice the beast's ascending strikes, the Monk on the attack in a spiral motion.
Continuing the assault, it plopped down upon its now-solid feet and lunged at him with an overhead helm-breaking smite.
The Slayer threw up a lackadaisical counter, and the swords sparked within the darkness brighter then they'd done before, filling the room longer and brighter, onward lit as though a torch were burning. They repeated the motion twice and held the blades in place in their steady opposition, the Slayer's smirk meeting the wraith's undead scowl, flesh rotting and putrid. It pushed off from him and glided far away with elven grace on its heels. Reaching out to the wall with an open decrepit hand, the spirit called upon inanimate objects once more, and the preserved corpses of three stuffed eagles came to life and circled around Vergil, hunted many decades prior by the great Melmoth himself.
Diving in for the kill, they came for his throat. Vergil vanished from sight, as though a deity had removed him from his place and so substituted what the Slayer left behind, a prism of light solid light poles.
For the feathered, it was a contraption of death. The very second contact had been made, breaching the poles, triggered volatile pre-recorded strikes that destroyed their forms in indigo chasms.
From earthbound flights of fancy, the birds were no more, and the wraith submerged itself within the floorboards.
Though it travelled many feet once again, from above came an unexpected sensation.
Yamato punctured the wood above, thrust down from ceiling-high by the mighty Vergil's ruthless grip.
It squealed and felt hands alter reality to reach its black form, the Slayer ripping the pinned beast from the safety of lurking. By the husk of the hood, he thrashed the Monk's twisted form around into the partition beside them, then slammed its face back onto the ground leftward. Dragging it by the hood still, he scraped the horrible face along the floor till the pressure released, and it propelled the phantom off into the door-henge of another entryway. Collision was two-fold, the entity cracking against wood before crashing down upon the ground with a powerful thud, form broken, yet somehow still alive.
Looking back upon the enemy with hatred, it crawled like an animal on all four of its limbs, forcing itself forward by any means necessary through the doorway to the sweet, albeit, brief escape.
The hunt for the shade continued, the Scarlet Slayer stalking the halls after the creature
The doorway led him to what appeared as a dining room. It was a great vast eatery, decorated with family photographs of Thanksgivings and Christmas's long since passed on the beige wood walls. He saw a long table set with the basic functionalities of any ordinary dinette. On this eve of joy, neither toys nor feast were to be had in this house. The spirit that plagued this family had seen to that.
He hounded through the dining hall and wondered where it had gone. The passing time was a concern for him, he sought to exorcise it quickly and be done with this holiday once and for all.
The dead candles upon the table sprung to life, lighting themselves abruptly as he passed them by.
The wind howled Mary, searing into his ears, like the tormented cries of hell itself had risen to claim the house.
It blew across him and chilled his bones.
"Theatrics will not save you." Vergil spoke aloud.
It rasped aloud in response, laughing, "Hahahaha . . . You believe yourself beyond reckoning, I wonder what your other will say when I have taken her soul next."
He rolled his eyes, a hollow threat made by a non-demonic being. He knew that it meant nothing, as if it could rip the soul from Lady's body, the Slayer would kill it first before it could reach her. That was the purpose of sending her away, upstairs. That was his promise to her and that would be his vow. His life was meaningless if his word could be broken. And Vergil was an honorable man. No mere convict of love's usual holding cell. Mist began to rise through the floorboards, a dense fog slowly forming all around him till he could see no further three inches in front of himself. Clever. He came to stand still, no longer wandering, and the attunement of his senses steadily realigned themselves, growing more inclusive.
He focused in particular on the senses beyond sight, that which could allow him the opportunity to see without seeing, to see physically without eyes.
He clicked his jaw. Waves of sound illuminated themselves into outlined pictures, and through the fog he could see the structure around him just as it was.
Through the denseness to his left came a sound, and it raptured into being once more, possessed broadsword in hand.
With mere seconds in hand, the Slayer did the only thing he could do. He tensed his wrist and struck out to his right.
It charged on at him, like an old soldier, a pious and insane maniac centuries old who'd been burned at the stake for heresy. It screamed and it came without feeling, bringing the broadsword down onto his shoulders. It stopped abruptly, just short of his jacket. Frozen in place, the wraith had been silenced by Vergil's sword. Yamato stuck through its mouth, splitting its tongue and piercing out the back of its skull. It trembled and crumpled limply in Yamato's steel kiss. The broadsword left its grasp, clanging to the floor with an awful shout.
"Blindness and phonic misdirection. Admirable." Vergil said, "But you cannot outwit my experience."
It choked and spluttered and the man offered only another boot to its side. The entity flew back and crashed across the table, taking out all on the wooden surface.
The fog died and the Slayer awaited the weakening wraith's disappearance.
That was when he heard her scream.
A chill crept up his spine and he darted for the next pair of stairs he saw.
Bolting upstairs, he moved past common rooms and through the constricting serpentine hallways till he reached that of the master bedroom.
There inside, he saw the wraith in its true form, having revealed itself to Lady, the huntress caught in its grasp.
It turned its head towards him and smiled those blackened teeth, burnt by catholic flames so long ago.
A spectral blade shot straight through its chest. Rocked back, the entity looked down at the weapon and saw it as an astral construct, not dissimilar to itself.
Within moments, it shattered into pieces. The legless entity, floating in a black cloak, grasped at its chest with its giant ebony hands twisted and mangled.
A hail of identical blue swords appeared around Vergil, standing in the Gothic doorway, and plunged forth, stabbing at the being, tearing unto its flesh the sweetness of revenge.
Awful sounds escaped its mouth, guttural growls and ferocious screams, high pitched wails and even anemic sobs. It grew weak and fragile, very nearly falling apart at the seams, but still it was not finished, and the slayer had come prepared. He held out his left hand and muttered aloud the incantation necessary. Passages of Greek, Latin, and Romanian emerged from his lips, merging to become a burning fire of arcane rings that formed around this crooked monstrosity, and restrained its insistent un-death to the bowels of hell. The mouth of madness opened beneath, cracking the floor apart itself, and there came the vanguard's hand, grasping the Monk by its every vantage, and soon it was being pulled down, down, down, down to the pits of hades.
It would burn and choke and scream and cry till the end of time. No salvation, no light.
Still, it resisted. It had not been laid to rest as any ghost should, it was an evil spirit consumed by vengeance upon the humans that had lived on without it.
The hands would not relinquish the Monk till it was carried down to the sixth circle, the circle of heresy, the circle wherein traitors to god, if there was one, would be sent to lie within flaming tombs.
Such was the punishment of this individual, whose soul would not be carried down no matter how hard the vanguards of hell pulled. That is, till one certain individual rose to meet this indomitable will. She stomped upon its hand clasped to the very edge, and with an enraged scorn no hell hath ever known, Lady unloaded the entirety of her weapon, the VZ.61 Scorpion submachine gun. The Monk's face was a perfect target. Lead bullets streamed out, pumping incendiary rounds through the creature till it could no longer resist, and with that, the door to the underworld shut closed, swallowing the unholy specter whole, locked away inside a stone grave to burn for eternity where it could dream no more.
And with that, the woman uttered the phrase Vergil hadn't heard in forever, "Jackpot."
Light returned to the house.
It was an almost instant transformation, from ruined home of darkness to venue of the bright and gleaming, almost enchanted within its glorious halls and grand old architecture. From the outside poured in the evening sun, silence washing over the freed house like rain. And there they felt that the presence was gone. Whatever it was that Lady had seen had been dragged to hell, as she'd forced it down.
The light of the outside no longer glowed as brightly.
It seemed as though time had run down ahead of them, minutes taking hours to pass, as the morning of the 24th had gone, replaced by the calm snowy eve.
Christmas time was here.
"Well, that was fun." Lady said to him.
He only smirked at her, pulling her close.
"Let's get outta here." The Slayer smiled.
This Christmas, Vergil had become as good a friend, as good a director, and as good a man, as the good old city knew.
Twas true this year, he had let go that old humbug in him at the advent of almost losing the one he most cared for in the dark room. He had called the man whom had procured his services and to his surprise, the man now looked to be healthy, his skin a rich tan and his hair wavy and slicked black, just the way he had been years before. Upon the death of the wraith, his soul had been released to him, as had all others within the world that had known the Monk's frigid gaze and evil touch.
Now, in place of it came the merriment of the year's end, a bright glow across the town restored by the evil's purging.
Many a friend of the man, Harold Underwood, had been restored to their former glory, waking up within hospitals from comas to the bizarre looks of their doctors, and elsewhere in their homes, while tending to other things, the restoration took them by surprise. They acclaimed the event 'the miracle of Christmas Eve,' believing that faith had given unto them a second chance.
And today, Vergil felt that there wasn't a single thing wrong with the concept of faith.
Vergilius, the Son of Sparda, felt truly welcome in the halls of the old hotel, joined by the pariah Underwood and his own company who dared to call themselves his friends.
The inn's adjoining restaurant had been decorated specially for the holiday, and all the trappings of this year's feast had been esteemed for its visitors. A smoked ham, the buttered steak of dreams, and but of course, a turkey filled to the brim with stuffing, seasoned mashed potatoes finely pureed, a gravy of cajun spice and gilded marble, a rich cranberry sauce, and vegetables such as carrots, parsnips, turnips and a multitude of so much more.
It truly was a special time of year, he felt. When all the sins of the past could be forgiven, when the time of kindness and giving was one venerated and taken seriously.
With the unity of the feast came the caroling of passersby, simple townfolk that desired to share the ambiance of joy these days brought for them. It wasn't often that the songs of others were enjoyed by him, but for an odd reason, a lone sentiment of forgiveness, or for all he knew, love, had spread across his heart and changed his mind. Off from the wreathes and the streams of valiant red bows stood the tree itself. For the evening's grandeur, the hotel had spared no expense, and there for all patrons of the lodge was the tallest, thickest, most-monumental tree that could've been found. Decorated from top to bottom in brilliant colors and ornaments of white doves, golden bells, cherubs, string lights - the star on top had completed the scenery - and beneath the tree sprawled forth what seemed to be hundreds of presents, gifts wrapped in gold silk and green satin.
When the feast had been finished, strangers and family alike came to the tree, walking after their rushing children to admire happily the communal tributes bestowed upon each resident.
For once, it had seemed as though all things had worked themselves out. Much time was spent joking, laughing, even the Devil himself was heard to crack wise a time or two, and the marriage of heaven and hell enabled them to forget, at least for the time being, what kind of life had been led prior to the present. When the time had come to retire to the rooms, the denizens did so, and they parted ways.
The grateful Underwood left for his own family, to inform them of the good news, to explain his sickly son's miraculous recovery.
To the rooms they went, 103 accommodating the five that still remained ever so cozily, the others crowding in together with Vergil and Lady.
A demand came for him, the request of song, from the young Patricia to Vergil asking that he play the guitar he'd brought along with them.
Who was he to say no to those rosy cheeks?
And he sat on the bedside playing to them all, old classic pieces from the wood, a quiet and intimate display of skill beyond destruction, that he had quickly cultivated. He plucked away on the strings to Requiem and played melodies they could all sing, even when the man Tony suggested a song he disliked intensely. There was an odd sense of satisfaction he had gleamed from the day's events, and when the young Patty had fallen to sleep, Vergil carted her off to bed in his arms, the child sleeping so soundly as not to disturbed even a mouse.
And Lucia and Tony tucked in for the night as well, off to room 104, the last goodbyes had with a surprising degree of humility from all individuals, till it was only Vergil and Lady inside their room.
And the two laid with another so naturally, beauty beheld within her by his blue eyes.
All that was said came from Lady's red lips, "Merry Christmas."
And a Happy New Year!
More to come soon :)
I forgot to thank you StableGenius TR, it's always nice to read from you, Thank you so much. And thank you to everyone else who left reviews all is appreciated.
About Patty, Vergil most definitely does consider her as a daughter