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Realizing that you are not dead comes to you slowly.
You remember so clearly the knife digging into your sternum, the pain acute as it had ripped through meat, sliced open your chest and dug into your frozen heart. You had once thought yourself a god among men, but under the vampire hunter’s blade you had felt like a prey animal.
There was poison coating the blade—something you hadn’t realized until it was spreading through your once sluggish veins, rendering you helpless as the hunter wielding Shido’s crest had stared you down with a sickening sort of pity. Through the pain you had heard him snort and spit, “Enjoy your last few hours alive if you can.” Steel-toed boots slammed down hard upon your fingers scrambling to drag your quickly numbing body away. “Sunrise is coming soon, and I’m afraid it’ll be your last.”
You were not the crying type. Hadn’t shed tears since you’d buried your mother with hands mangled, muddy, and bloody in a grave you had been forced to dig yourself. But now that you’d realized the truth of your sad, sorry life? That all your scheming and planning had amounted to nothing? You wanted to sob.
How unfortunate that your transformation had robbed you of even that mercy!
You remembered the after too. Waiting, a mangled heap of limbs and spilled entrails, for the sunrise long after the hunter had left you to your fate. In your pain-fueled delirium, you had thought that at least you might see your mother again, if perhaps—
And then you had ceased, a period placed upon the story of your life.
What had followed had been darkness. Nothingness stretching on into eternity.
Until someone had picked up the pen.
And thus you found yourself confronted not by the sensation of suffering, but by the feeling of nimble fingers stroking through your hair.
You rest upon something soft, warm, and so very alive in a way that makes it easy to forget you shouldn’t be. It feels nostalgic. Like lazy days when you were small and fragile, protected from the world’s cruelty by your mother’s embrace.
“He’s rather… striking, don’t you think, Arsène? Like those princes in the fairy tales we’d read together. Isn’t that just lovely?” speaks a voice somewhere above you. Deep and smooth, though lilting in a boyish way that spoke of the naiveté of youth.
Though your mind has returned from death’s door, your body remains unresponsive. It allows you only to serve as a helpless passenger as the voices swirl around you, obscured by the darkness of your closed eyes.
“He is,” replies another, solid and warm. A gentle fondness effused the speaker’s tone, told of a past so entangled you were almost shocked to have gleaned it from two words alone.
It does not take a genius to realize you are the subject of this conversation.
You struggle against your clouded senses and finally catch the earthy scent of burning wood—lurking beneath, mildew and rot add their bitterness.
You finally force your eyes open and startle to find not a crypt, but a bedroom.
It had once been a thing of splendor, you’re sure. You could imagine a distant age where a young noble’s son called this room his home. Had found joy spending hours curled up in the nook of a window or penned letters to beautiful young maidens at the mahogany desk. Could even imagine him begging a stern butler for precious minutes more of rest in the wide, four-poster bed that you feel beneath you.
But time marched ever onward, and not even this room had been spared its cruelty. Decay had sunk its claws in and done its worst.
“I do hope he—Oh! I think he might be awake,” cries a voice, though in the clouded state of your mind you cannot pinpoint where he must be.
You force your head to move, and realize that what it rests upon is the lap of a young man. A sharp jawline contrasts round, pouting lips and wide, shining eyes that stare you down like a child enamored with his new toy. Your face is pressed against the soft silk of a fine dress shirt.
He seems odd amongst such a dark and gloomy room.
You might have thought him the owner of this bedroom, if not for how he felt so incongruous amongst it. Where it was so very dead, he seemed frozen at the peak of his life. Like a flower someone had tried desperately to save by pressing between the pages of an old, dusty tome.
It is his hands that stroke through your hair, slow and methodical in their movement; so gentle, it threatens to drive your mind back to that state of unthinking.
He smiles as he meets your eyes, and his voice is just as deep and rich as when you’d first heard it through the daze of your unconsciousness. “What is your name, my dear traveler? My companion and I stumbled upon you at the edge of my estate. You were in poor shape, but we patched you up rather well.”
‘Rather well’ feels like an understatement. Now that consciousness has returned to you, you can tell there is little aching in your body beyond receding pins and needles, as if you had merely fallen asleep on a limb and not been gutted like a fish and left to burn.
You should probably question that, but your tongue cannot find the words. Instead, you merely reply, “Crow. My name is Crow.”
“How lovely.” Your host’s smile widens, and you feel an embarrassing twinge of joy that you have pleased him. “A name for a name, then. You may call me Joker. And over there,” he lifts one bone white hand to draw your eyes towards a corner of the room you had not realized was inhabited, “is my dear Arsène.”
Arsène bleeds into the shadows like he is made of them. You almost have to squint to distinguish him.
There is something familiar in his countenance, almost but not quite like Joker. Not a twin, but not a stranger. Like someone had attempted to sketch Joker from an old and failing memory. He is sharper in places where Joker is soft, gaze piercing where Joker’s adores. Where Joker’s hair is neatly trimmed, his has grown long enough to pull into a small ponytail, a red ribbon stark against the coal-black of his hair.
When he speaks, there is something almost smoky and dark in his timber. An accent you cannot quite place curves each syllable as he chimes in with, “We understand this must be confusing to you, but please do not fret. It will all make sense in time. Simply allow yourself to enjoy the comfort that LeBlanc Manor can offer. As long as you are a guest, you will want for nothing.”
If you are honest, Arsène’s words do little to answer the most pressing of questions burning in your mind, but Joker’s fingers massaging your head make it hard to find the words to insist upon an answer.
Arsène smiles, stepping from his shadows to stand near Joker’s side. His fingertips (of which you notice the nails are quite oddly pointed), caress Joker’s cheek, pulling those doe-eyes up to meet Arsène’s own.
A pang of something cold stirs through you. You had grown quite used to being the center of these two’s attention. To be denied it feels a cruelty.
“Joker,” Arsène says, and the way he says it makes it sound as if he is saying ‘ darling ’, “perhaps we should allow Crow some time alone to grow accustomed to things?”
Joker’s face falls, a petulance twisting his expression as an argument escapes, “But—” His eyes flit down to you, and then the war is lost. “Oh, I suppose you’re right.”
You had not realized how comfortable Joker’s lap had been until he pulled away from you. The bed beneath you is soft, softer than your previous pillow had been, but colder in a way that leaves you unable to admire the cloud-like feeling.
You watch as Joker hurries towards Arsène’s side. They make a striking pair, their similarities and differences even more pronounced arm in arm. Arsène appears to be the somewhat taller of the two, only accentuated by the way he stands shoulders straight where Joker slouches, easy-going. They share a hushed exchange that your ears cannot make out. A twinge of jealousy pierces your heart.
As you push yourself up into a sitting position, testing that your limbs work to their fullest, Joker spins on his heels to face you.
“Take your time getting ready. Feel free to change out of your old clothes. You should find new ones in the armoire.” Joker points towards an old, slouching wardrobe gathering dust in a corner. “They should fit you, I believe. We’ll be in the library. Come find us when you’re ready.”
“Where is it?” you ask.
You expect instructions, or perhaps a signal that you might use to call someone to your side. Instead Arsène only smiles and replies, “The manor will guide you.”
And that does not explain much at all. Do they expect you to wander hopelessly through the hallways, opening door after door in search of them, you wonder? You watch, brow furrowed and mouth primed to complain, as the two of them disappear behind the door, slamming it shut and leaving you alone within this crypt of a room.
Now alone, you find the strangeness of the situation finally hits you full force.
You had died . You had felt it so acutely that you cannot imagine it nothing but a nightmare. Yet, as you rip open your shirt, you find no wound or mark to indicate what you know must have transpired. You tear your gloves from your hands, press your nails into the pale, unmarked skin of your flesh, and claw deep enough to cut. You feel the sharp pain as blood, viscous and thick, wells up at the crescent shaped marks your nails make. It feels just as real as the knife that had split you open like a pig.
You are alive.
You know you shouldn’t be.
You don’t understand.
Time means nothing when there is no way to count it. You know not how long it takes you to push yourself from the bed, wipe away the blood from your chest with the shreds of fabric that littered the ground, and pluck from the closet clothes finer than you’ve ever worn. They make you look every bit the prince Joker had dreamed you to be.
By the time you leave that dusty bedroom, so prim and proper one would never guess you had tasted death, a plan has solidified within your mind. One thing to cling to when everything feels unsteady beneath your feet.
You do not know how you survived. The fact of the matter is that you did, and now you find yourself within some strange lord’s manor. His kindness has awarded you a second chance, and his naiveté will grant you a meal. Once you have plunged your fangs into his throat and feasted, you will leave strong enough to take revenge against the man who left you for dead.
You do not allow guilt to twist your stomach at the thought of betraying the first person to show you kindness in ages. With how you must have looked, Joker should have known just what monster he was welcoming into his home. It is his fault, you tell yourself, and fantasize of how sweet his blood will taste on your tongue.
Such a thought keeps you company as you wander the mansion in search of your hosts. It is a shock when, as Arsène had said, it takes almost no time at all to find yourself at the entrance to the library. You do not want to fall into such fanciful beliefs that the mansion led you here, but you can’t deny that it felt as though the hallways had opened up before you, shifting to form a straight line where once had been a maze.
Beyond the solid oak door, you can hear the crackle of firewood and an idle conversation between two familiar voices, though not the specific words exchanged. The tarnished metal doorknob is cold beneath your fingertips as you twist it open and step inside.
Your eyes are at once drawn to the sight of Joker perched sideways upon a chair, long legs crossed at the ankles. Though he had called you a prince, it is he who seems the picture of carefree nobility. He is lost in chatter with Arsène, your entrance too unremarkable to be worth his attention.
You force your gaze away, lest you seem envious.
The room is lit dimly by firelight. At first one might think it homey , until the realization the dim light serves only to obscure the way time has marred this room too. Any grandeur that might remain had been tarnished long ago.
Though the shelves that fill the room are impressive in number, they sag and threaten to snap beneath the weight of books that line them. Thick dust marks places that had gone untouched for years, and highlights areas of frequent visit. Even the splashes of color provided by once-brilliant tapestries and elegant rugs call to mind mold growing upon a corpse.
The scent of rot lingers here too, though the fire tries to burn it away.
Even Joker’s throne cannot help but suffer once the illusion is shattered. The pattern of the cushion is fraying in places, yellowed and worn in others. Gouges in the legs and arm have peeled away the finish on the wood to reveal splinters.
In his hands, he holds a crystal glass filled with milky-green liquid; a nearby bottle—filled with undiluted, emerald green liquor—names it absinthe. You watch, silent at the doorway, as he extends it out to Arsène, who allows Joker to tip the contents past his lips.
You watch him savor the taste, eyes locked with Joker’s own as he licks his lips. Arsène hums in contemplation before responding, “You are right. It is quite… addictive.”
You feel like an intruder, though you are not given the chance to abscond before Joker tilts his head backwards and catches your figure within his steel-gray eyes. A pink flush colors his cheeks; your tongue darts out to wet your dry lips.
“Crow,” Joker calls to you as if you are an old friend. “I’m glad to see my clothes suit you so well. I hope they fit comfortably.”
You tug at the cuff of the shirt. “More than comfortably. I might have thought you’d prepared them for me personally if I didn’t know better.”
“No, merely a coincidence. Though maybe it’s a sign you were meant to be here?” Joker’s laughter echoes throughout the library.
You don’t see what’s funny, if you are honest.
But the tension that had stilled your feet finally snaps; you step past the threshold and into the library. Arsène is quick by your side, guiding you towards a chair opposite of Joker. It creaks beneath your weight as you take it. For a breath of a moment, you fear it’ll collapse under you, though it stands steady despite its protests.
Between the two of you is a small table. A chessboard sits atop it, primed for a game yet to start. You can guess exactly who it was waiting for.
In a surprising show of grace for one so red-faced as he, Joker unfurls himself from his contorted position and swings his legs around to sit prim and proper before you. All the while, his drink threatens to splash upon the floor with every movement, but to your own surprise, not a droplet is lost. It’s almost impressive.
“I hope navigating the manor wasn’t too daunting. You took rather long. I almost sent Arsène to look for you.”
‘You did not seem all that worried when I wandered in here,’ you think.
“It wasn’t much trouble at all,” you say, plastering on your most winning of smiles. “I apologize for the wait.”
Joker seems eased by it, so no ounce of your true thoughts must slip through. He raises his glass to his lips once more to drink, and then his mind catches on a thought before the liquor can hit his tongue. “Would you like something? We don’t have much more than what I’m drinking, but I wouldn’t mind sharing.” Your mind wanders to the image of him tilting the glass into Arsène’s mouth. “Or I can send Arsène to grab something?”
Your smile widens. “No, I’m quite fine. And after all—” you gesture the chess board, “—I wouldn’t want to deny you the pleasure of my skills at full capacity.”
“A glowing endorsement. You've piqued my interest, Crow.” Joker bites his bottom lip, pupils wide like a cat who's spotted prey. “Don't disappoint me now.”
“I wouldn't dream of it.”
The match that follows is… a tense one.
Though you had denied the liquor proffered by Arsène, Joker drinks freely of it. You watch, careful to never let it show how intently you track him, as Joker downs another glass as if it were water. Your eyes linger on the bob of his throat, feeling your own fangs ache to sink in.
You wonder if his blood will taste of anise and wormwood.
With every glass he takes, the redness in Joker’s cheeks only grows in intensity, while a slur curls the edges of his speech with every sip. Though you'd hardly call his posture refined, it grows sloppier. He melts into the chair, ruffling his clothes into something borderline debaucherous. You watch Arsène try to tidy him up, though it does little to help the libertine air Joker gives off.
And yet, Joker’s playing is no worse for it.
It is, in a word, infuriating.
You would never dare to admit it, but you had counted on your companion's inebriation to give you an edge. You'd even had a plan to play with your food , so to speak. To lead the poor boy through a game that would allow him the joy of feeling as if he had a chance of winning, right before you let the trap close shut around him. The rush of a near win did so sweeten the blood later.
Instead, you feel as if you are the one being made a fool, as you stare down at the bloody battle that seems headed towards a conclusion you are not all that fond of.
If it is intentional on Joker’s part, you cannot read it in his body language. His pale fingers caress the edges of one of your fallen knights; he twirls it between them, more dexterous than you’d expect from a man as intoxicated as he.
“You’re rather good at this,” you say, idle chatter to fill empty space. You cast your eyes to Arsène, still lingering just in the shadows. “Do you two play often, or is there another person here whose company I have yet to have the pleasure of meeting?”
Arsène blinks in a leisurely fashion, awakening from his role as mere object to fill Joker’s glass.
“We play occasionally, when Joker feels inclined. Though I am apparently boring to play against,” he says, words falling from his lips in a slow, almost methodical manner. “In truth, he entertains himself more often than naught with guests like you who we have the pleasure to host.”
You should not be surprised at the admission that there have been others before you, and yet you cannot help the sting like a fresh cut those words leave you with. Did you think yourself special? How foolish a thought.
“Do you make it a habit to take in strays then?”
Joker, still twirling the fallen piece between his fingers, responds, “Only when they wander onto our land, like you.”
He tilts his face towards Arsène, who smiles when their eyes meet and says, “We take care of what is ours, you understand.”
You don’t.
“Then are there any other guests here I might hope to meet?” ‘ Or any other people I should be aware of,’ you do not say. “Though I admit the walk here wasn’t long, I did find it oddly quiet for such a grand place.”
“No,” Joker’s words are thick with melancholy, “they always seem to leave me in the end.”
You know a bit about that, don’t you? From your birth you had been unwanted. First left behind by your father, then your mother when caring for you became too daunting a task. From there you had been forced to withstand abandonment after abandonment, tossed between those who thought you cute enough to keep like a pet, but not obedient enough to love like a child.
Like a dog hurt enough times it knew only how to hurt back, you had abandoned things to—those who might have been allies, friends, or even lovers. You hardened yourself against everything in the pursuit of one single goal.
You even thought yourself so very smart to toss away your own humanity before humanity could leave you too.
And look how that turned out, you poor thing.
“I think I’d like a drink now,” you say, watching the bob of Joker’s throat as he swallows the last of the absinthe.
Your fangs ache.
The bottle in Arsène’s hand is empty. From a quick glance around the room, you do not see anything that might replace it. The realization seems to hit the two of them nearly at the same time.
Joker, so eager to be a dutiful host, is the first to suggest an answer. “Arsène, dear? Could you go down to the cellar? Find something that Crow might enjoy? We can’t let our guest die of thirst.”
You do not say: ‘ You do not need to go down there. What I want sits before me now, flushed a pretty red I cannot wait to taste.’
It’ll be easier to take them down one by one, you think.
Arsène nods. He doesn’t even get the chance to ask you what you might like before the answer falls from your lips.
“Something red,” you say. “Rich and full-bodied. Something to warm me on a night like this.” You resist the urge to grin wide enough to show teeth, sharp and white as marble tombs. Instead, you offer only the most delicate smile, playing the role of prince as though it fits a monster like you at all. “I trust you’ll be able to fulfill my request, Arsène?”
For a moment, Arsène seems frozen in time. An odd, contemplative look crosses his face. You wonder if he sees beneath the mask, knows that leaving means dooming Joker to your fangs.
But then whatever you had thought you saw retreats in the next blink, and the pleasant, if distant facade returns. “I shall try my best.”
Your eyes follow as he heads towards the door without another word. You study the way his form seems to be engulfed by the shadows where the firelight does not reach and hear as the heavy oak door clicks shut behind him.
And then, it is only you and Joker alone.
Joker still waits for you to make a move, but you have grown tired of this chess game. You push yourself from your chair and wander over to shelves filled with old, worn tomes. Though bound well, age has begun to fray them. You drag your fingertips across a few that seem particularly well-loved, and tip them out to read the titles.
“A fan of fairy tales, aren’t you?”
The clack of a piece set down upon the table answers you.
You hear Joker’s footsteps as he rises from his chair in turn, feel as he shifts to stand behind you, rising onto tiptoes to glance over your shoulder. His presence is warm, blood thrumming through his veins.
“I’ll read most anything,” he says. “But I confess fairy tales have a special place in my heart. There’s something fanciful about them. The idea of a prince rescuing a fair maiden from a curse... I can’t help but envy them.”
You shift on your heels, leaning lightly against the bookshelves as you turn to face Joker. He stands with his arms behind his back, swaying on his tiptoes before dropping down flat. He looks up at you with innocent doe eyes. You think him too naive for his own good.
“Would you want that?” said like it’s a secret between the two of you, soft and barely more than a whisper. You lean towards him, just enough to test how far he’ll let you get, but not enough to break eye contact.
He does not pull away. You resist the urge to smirk.
“A prince to rescue me from my curse?” Joker’s lips curl into a smile, shoulders shaking with a soft, little chuckle. “I think… it would be nice, wouldn’t it?”
You laugh as well, resting your hand against his shoulder. Joker does not flinch, so you push further. “Is that what you were hoping for when you rescued me?”
You glide your hand up against the length of his throat. You curse the gloves covering your skin. You think you’d like to feel the way his heart thrums against your palm, so full of life. Maybe it would race, you think, with his head so full of fanciful thoughts as it is.
“Perhaps.” Joker’s lashes flutter, long and dark as he stares up at you through them. You cannot deny a long dead part of you stirs to life looking at such a face—lovely in a way you wish you could keep all to yourself. “Or maybe I just wanted a companion.”
“Is Arsène not enough for you?” You cradle his cheek within your palm. “Maybe I could…”
Your words trail off into the air as Joker melts into your touch. You know you have him under your spell when he does not resist your approach. You feel his warmth, like a fire against your lips, as you graze them across his flushed skin.
He is more pliant than any thrall you’ve compelled before. He succumbs to your touch, your words, as if he was made for serving you. You almost wish you could take him with you when you leave.
But you have always been a solitary little thing, haven’t you? You were not made for companionship, or at least you tell yourself that to ease the sting of loneliness.
When you finally sink fangs into flesh, you cannot tell whose moans echo within the little library, if they are yours or his—a pleasure so entwined that it is hard to disentangle. Joker’s fingers rest against your shoulders, digging in at the first pinprick of pain, and relaxing as venom courses through his veins.
Your own hands wrap around his waist to hold him close as his knees grow weak. It is smaller than you’d expect beneath the layers of billowing fabric.
The first taste is heavenly, sweeter than you’d ever had before. You imagine you can taste the absinthe running through his veins, the copper mixed with anise to create a dark and intoxicating bouquet. You drink deeply from him, lifting only from the wound upon his neck to trace the droplets that threaten to stain darker the once-white of his dress shirt.
Gluttony is the name of your sin, but you cannot help the way your very marrow wishes to devour him whole. He bleeds easily. Willingly. His body shudders against yours and does not resist even when you know he is growing lightheaded from the blood loss. You make up for his weakening grasp by shifting your own vice-like grip to steady the lolling of his head, to press his chest and its weakening heart beat close to your own as your mouth carves its shape into his delicate throat.
There is a point where you should have stopped, but you are too lost within the pleasure to realize when you have crossed so far beyond that line that there is no going back.
By the time you realize that no matter how deeply you drink, there is no more blood for Joker to bleed, he is naught but a doll-thing, limp in your arms.
Your mouth is a mess of dark red, as shameful as an uncouth child. It falls open, but no sound escapes as your own grasp on Joker falters. He falls to the floor a dead weight. Nothing cushions him as his head slams against the wood, neck lolling at an unnatural angle. His eyes are still open, but they are murky and unseeing. His skin is unnaturally pale, almost gray. Even the wound where you had pierced his throat bears not a bruise—there is no blood left within him to leave a mark.
But there is so much blood staining his shoulders, the white of his shirt turned crimson. It is already cooling, turning a dark rust color.
You do not need to check his pulse to know what you will find. You have seen far too many corpses before.
(You had held the hand of one as the last of her heat had left her, begging her to wake up and tell you it was all just a bad dream.)
You had not meant to kill him, you tell yourself.
You meant to leave him only dazed, make your meeting feel more like a dream he would wake from in the morning. You would have left him asleep by the fireplace while you had cornered Arsène, had your fill of him, and left the two of them to wonder what strange occurrence had happened the night before. By then you would have been a distant figure, too far on the horizon for either of them to realize you were the cause for the strange marks already healing on their neck.
But now there is a body turning ever cooler upon the library floor, his blood churning through your veins as your heart pounds loud within your ears. Arsène will be back soon, you know.
You have only one option left.
You run.
You are a pathetic sight to see, fleeing from the scene of your crime. You would pant, were your lungs fit to even take in air. Instead, the only accompaniment to your escape is your heart pounding with stolen blood. It gives away the prey animal fear that moves you through labyrinthine halls.
Though the mansion had been kind to you when its master wished for your presence in the library, now it toys with you—a fickle cat batting at its half-dead prey.
Hallways extend on and on. Doorways lead to rooms with boarded up windows that do not relent under the strength of your tugging. You do not even know what floor you are on. You feel as if surely you should have reached the foyer not too long ago, and yet every staircase never brings you far enough down. Had you somehow mistakenly backtracked without realizing? It feels impossible. And yet it is the only explanation that does not make your head ache to dwell on long.
You skid to a halt in a hallway that seems familiar even though you know you have never graced it. You press yourself up against a wall to steady yourself, to confirm that the world is not shifting around you.
It is warm; it gives just slightly under your touch, as Joker’s skin had before you bled him dry. The air fills with the scent of mold and mildew. It sours the lingering taste of blood on your tongue.
You jerk away as if you had been scalded.
An old manor rotting from the inside will not be your tomb. Maybe if you say it enough, you can force yourself to believe it.
You need only to calm your mind. Paranoia is to blame for how maze-like these halls are, you reason. An exit exists. It has to. And you will find it. You need only to think rationally.
With a clearer mind, you move onward, pushing back the voice that says rationality has no home within these walls.
You are running out of time.
Arsène must have discovered Joker’s body by now. You had hardly attempted to hide him, simply discarded him like a doll upon the floor of the library. You wonder if he wasted time on grief, or if he had moved with efficiency to pursue after you. It does not matter much. Whatever advantage you had had was lost to your own panicked wanderings. He has lived a life you could not even begin to know within this manor’s halls; they would not confuse him as they had you.
But, you soothe the unease before it can take root and muddy your mind once more, you are a fully-fed vampire. What is he, but a man compelled by grief? He cannot know of the ways to kill you.
You are in control here. You are superior.
Such becomes your mantra even as you are helpless to the winding hallways that do not bend to your whim, no matter how much you try and make them.
It is still repeating in your mind once the footsteps begin to echo your own.
At first you think them only the hallucination of a mind driven mad by an inescapable maze, but you realize quicker than I give you credit for that they are very real.
You have been found.
You listen to the pattern of his steps, and discover the oddity in them right away. They are not the sound of someone desperately searching—he knows exactly where you are. He is following you.
One might even say: stalking you.
You do not take flight, and neither does he. His gait is even, steady—an almost mirror to yours. These are not the footsteps of a man avenging his fallen lover. They are the footsteps of one who thinks he has already won.
Infuriating, you think. The confidence he has.
Damn it all. You had hoped to make it out of this accursed manor without needing to fight. Though by some miracle of fate you had healed from wounds which should have killed you, you had no interest in testing whether or not you could do so again. It would serve you better to leave in the best shape, lest the hunter that had done you in once was prowling nearby, ready to finish the job. It would do you no good to escape one near death, just to waltz into the arms of another.
But Arsène has forced your hand. Two would die tonight, it seemed. At least, you muse, they could be together in hell.
And so, you turn on your heels and approach your stalker. You might as well make this a fair fight, if you intend to kill him.
To his credit, your pursuer stops as soon as he realizes what you are doing. He is not a coward at least, you think.
You find him not too far down the hall, leaning against a wall and bathed in shadows. Lean and tall, though shorter than you by some. He seems more specter than human. His head is turned away from you, his posture is easy. There is no trace of the hunter in this man’s form; it is as if he’s asking for you to end his life.
You realize your mistake long past the point where the jaws of the trap have snapped shut around you.
As you take another step forward, the figure turns his head and greets you with a smile far too polite to give his own murder.
Not Arsène, but Joker, hale and hearty, as if his death were nothing but a dream. His cheeks are flushed rosy still; it matches the dark rust red staining the collar of his shirt—the only proof you had not imagined tasting his blood.
“Hello, Crow,” he says, pushing from where he leans against the wall. “I hope you weren’t planning to leave so soon. We hadn’t even finished our game.”
There is no time to wonder on the hows and whys of the man breathing before you; something wraps its claws around your throat. Sharp as the knife that had once gut you, they dig into the fragile skin of your throat, but do not draw blood. Yet.
The hand lifts you into the air like you are nothing. You do not even have the ability to scream; the beast holding you up silences whatever protestations you might have had before they can escape. Even your scrambling hands, which struggle to peel away those dark claws, are wrenched behind your back and pinned in place.
“Thank you, Arsène,” Joker says. You cannot make out the form that reflects within those dark eyes, but you know it is not the human you had met earlier. “But be careful. He’s more… hearty than the others, but he can still break.” His expression shifts to one full of a longing you can’t understand. “I’d like to keep him. He can’t leave us like the others did.”
Like hell you wouldn’t, you think. As soon you could, you would tear apart this mansion to get away from these—
“You must be… confused,” Joker says. He tilts his head to the side and makes a gesture which has Arsène ease you down to your knees. You are still held in place, but he’s lessened his grip upon your throat. Enough to allow you speech, but not enough for you to snap at the hand which reaches out to cup your cheek. It is warm; you can feel Joker’s heartbeat in his palm. “You won’t be leaving here, at least not the property. He lets us go outside sometimes. Though I’m not sure how inclined you’ll be. Your kind doesn’t… take well to sunlight, correct? A… vampire?”
“Yes,” you reply, gruffer than the honey-sweet tones you’d used to enthrall him. Maybe that should have given the game away earlier—how easy he was to take. But you were a fool, lost to mindless pleasures and blinded by pride, convinced your prize had been won of your own merit. “I am.”
There is no sense in hiding it. The wound on Joker’s neck is still fresh. And Arsène’s claws still sit like a collar around your throat, ready to return the favor if you do not speak.
Joker’s eyes light up. “I can’t believe they’re real. I wonder how far he had to look to find you. Is it true that you are ageless? That you need only blood to survive?” Joker’s fingers trail along your chin, tugging at your lips to see the fangs you had dug into his throat. A low growl emits from your throat, but you and Joker know you are only a leashed dog making a show of barking.
You wonder of the he he speaks of. Arsène, perhaps? Did the little lordling send his monster out to find fresh meat?
But, no… That’s not right, and you know it.
You still have no clue what he has in store for you, but your mind races with images. “What do you want from me?”
“Nothing more than I have asked,” Joker says, and you cannot hear a single lie within those words. Joker seems to genuinely believe them.
“Stop speaking in circles,” you snap. “Why did you bring me here? Where is here?”
A hush falls over the three of you. You watch Joker’s expression twist, watch it turn contemplative. A mist clouds his eyes. When he breaks the silence, he speaks as though it is a heavy burden, “Do you know how we spoke of princes rescuing maidens from their curses?”
His hand still resting upon your cheek tilts your face up. He leans in, breath warm against your lips.
“I’m afraid, my prince, you won’t be able to break this curse. The god who placed it wouldn’t have let you in if he had even a sneaking suspicion you could. Your job is to be my companion. A balm to the loneliness of this birdcage so I do not go mad. There was only so much I could do by myself, and making Arsène nearly killed me. It is… a painful thing to split yourself in two. I lost much of myself then.” Under his breath, he sighs, “And I wish that cruel god would have let me die then.”
As if I would ever have allowed that.
When you gaze upon Joker now, it is with new eyes and understanding. Frozen as he may be, time is cruel. There is a weariness in his expression, a faded look in his eyes. He has spent years—centuries even—alone within this manor. You cannot even begin to imagine what those years had been like; the people who had been welcomed in to stave off that madness eating at him.
You will learn the story soon enough. Learn of those who’d failed before you.
There is no escaping this manor; there is no need to. Whatever could that cruel world beyond it give, that I could not provide?
Perhaps Joker can see the moment that revelation cracks through the last shards of your composure, when panic stirs the heart in your cold chest to a rapid pace. “It’s not bad, Crow. I promise. You’ll grow used to this cage. You might even grow to love it one day.”
His thumb caresses your cheek. Soft, soothing. A mannerism performed with a familiarity that tells of years seeking such comfort.
“…Did you?”
Joker’s smile is more somber than you’d seen him wear before; he does not answer—he does not need to.
You both know the answer.
I hope that you might be able to change it.
When he presses his mouth against yours (he was so fond of fairy tale ends), his lips still taste of bittersweet absinthe.