The Great Escape

Chapter-24

A/N: Long, unedited (you must have guessed that much already), irregular chapter.

This chapter is rated mature because of the blood and gore. There are elements which may upset some readers so please read with caution.

While unrest trampled the woods surrounding the Monroe Mansion this night, uneasy calmness drenched the mansion itself.

There, in an isolated wing of the mansion, away from the regular maids, servants and guards—a bed chamber that had been prepared and scrubbed clean with such earnest—was now painted with blood, flesh and bones. The six guards standing at their stations wished for the sun to rise as early as possible so they are free from the hearing the terrorized whimpers of the dying.

With a cloak around his shoulders, Darton appeared in the hallway. A corked glass jar with viscous red liquid his hand. He approached the bed chamber, greeting back as the guards greeted him. A particularly loud whimper came from the bedroom, followed by a sob. Darton frowned. Taking in a deep breath, he prepared himself for whatever havoc his master had caused and rapped his knuckles at the door.

Behind the closed door, the knock resonated in the room.

Marquess Edith had not tuned in the far off range hearing—had not done so since he tuned it out back in Summerswind—yet his senses felt increasingly sensitive. He reckoned it must be the lack of blood which caused so.

Blood.

The Marquess sighed. Thick black curtains blocked out any light from the outside. He opened his eyes—they shined a bright purple in the pitch black background of the room—and glanced at the previously white walls of the room. Now, they were painted red.

A man on his feet laid limp. He  detached his mouth from the man's pale wrist. Blood dripped from his lengthened fangs. He ran his tongue on them and let the dead man drop on the ground.

Another knock on the door. He was not in the state of mind to hold a rational conversation with anyone.

"Your Grace, it is me, Darton."

Marquess Edith licked his fingers clean as he eyed two man cowering and whimpering in the corner. His bright purple eyes shined ominously in the darkness, cutting through them from distance. They could only whimper and pray for a quick death at most.

"Come in," the Marquess answered as he looked away and stretched his arms, hard muscles flexing.

The black snake on the wide expanse of his back breathed with the movement of his back muscles. Its mouth wide open, just below the Marquess' nape. Red eyes glinting. Venomous fangs bared in aggression. Lithe body twisted and turned, sprawled on the back, along the firm spine, down to the waistband where it's tail disappeared behind the fabric.

Marquess Edith cocked his head to the side with a jerk, a loud crack echoing in the room. Rolling his shoulders, he let his back hit the soft bed with a thud.

And that is how Darton found him on the other side of the room—eyes closed, shirtless, with only a pair of brown pants hanging low on his waist, laid down on the blood stained bed sheets, black hair ruffled and unkept, splotches of red staining his pale skin.

Curtains drawn, with no lamp, candle or lantern lit inside, the Marquess laid in the gloomy darkness.

As his light red eyes adjusted to the darkness, Darton glanced at the right hand of his Master. The index finger was empty. Darton quickly closed the door behind him with a thud.

Marquess Edith hissed. "Why, Darton? Might as well shriek in my ear while you are being this loud."

"I offer my apologies, Your Grace." Darton bowed his head and stepped inside the room. Placing the glass jar on a table, he threw a wary glance towards his master. He knew it took it some time and a lot of servings for his master to overcome this sensitivity.