Bloodlines

Somehow... by some mysterious force... Ridley and Ankh scurried to her bedroom undetected. Admitting defeat was not one of Ridley’s strong suits. Only Genevieve, dusting off the bedroom’s fireplace, saw the huntress and leaped out of skin in terror. The maid exhaled tensed up then curtsied submissively, not daring to look the hunter in the eye. “Do you need help unpacking, my lady,” she barely whispered, fearing that she enraged an experienced hunter. One that always looked ready for a bloodbath. “I-I can make space in the closet,” she stated then made for the closet near the elaborately done bed.

“Genevieve,” Ridley called demurely and the servant swallowed hard before turning back to her ward. “You don’t need to worry about calling me ‘my lady’. Just Ridley is fine. Or Axel.” She nodded fearfully. “I can see you’re busy so I can unpack my own bags.”

The servant nodded mutely then returned to dusting off the fireplace. The huntress laid her bags on her bed then sighed defeatedly. Tired from the mere thought. She shook off the idea then left the room, while Ankh was already getting comfortable on the bed for a nap.

The huntress took apart her bow but picked up a studded whip in its place. The hallways were unbearably quiet and lifeless. The familiar parts of the castle were dead and unsettling. Ridley gripped the leather whip firmly in her grasp while stealthily manievering down to the parlour.

That room too was lifeless. The castle was desolate. The bodies of templar armour that were scattered throughout some hallways were no consolation to the emptiness. There was no sign that the castle was presently inhabited or had any living occupants.

Ridley’s hand tingled as her fingers neared her karambit that was strapped over her black jeans. She took the next corner slowly, only to find a rugged man with war paint on his face. The barbaric face contrasted to the black shirt and ripped jeans he wore. Yet it paired well with the identical forged axes strapped at his side.

The axes that were covered in gold blood! The man saw the huntress who rolled up her sleeves, revealing her gradus. The man was enraged! He took a single axe as she stepped deeper into his hallway. He let out a battle-cry before he flung the axe at her.

The huntress dove aside with a gasp. The axe was firmly planted into a templar’s helmet. The man drew his second axe and came stampeding like a raging bull. Ridley scurried backwards while grabbing her karambit. She threw it at him, only for him to smote it out of his way with the axe.

She rolled over to scramble to her feet. She drew the whip and struck the axe out of the man’s hand. Another lash from the whip stunned the man from how close the studded top was to his face. The huntress retrieved the axe impaled into the steel cranium and found it to be heavy and awkward in her hand.

She struck the whip again, this time meeting the man’s face, slicing it open. She swung it around to snap it at his feet. Instead he stepped onto it. He pulled her towards him and a powerful fist freed her wind. Ridley gasped but wove the awkward axe at him, only for him to grab at its handle.

He took the handle in both hands and flung her across the hallway. The huntress crashed into gold candelabra that clattered loudly into a vase on the wooden table. All the noise boomed over the death-like silence. Ridley took hold of the tall candlestick holder to use as a bat. The man picked up his second axe while she charged at him.

He hacked at the pure gilded ornaments, barely avoiding hacking at the huntress. She held it up as a defense but his strength pushed her backwards. Bloodied below the neck and along her arms, Ridley shoved the man off her. She aimed the white candles at him before he gained the momentum to come rampaging again.

The huntress roared and tall white flames stunned the man enough for her to use the candelabra as a ram rod. She struck him in the abdomen, the chest, the face before finishing below the belt. She swat the candles into his face before pummeling him in the face with the legs. The candles tumbled out, if they weren’t already broken and scorched the man’s shirt.

Gold blood escaped the man and it wasn’t until his face was completely demolished that the huntress stopped. She threw the candelabra aside but didn’t anticipate the blaring loud sound it would make against the tiled floor. The man moaned weakly while Ridley retrieved her whip and her trusty curved knife.

Footsteps came charging from further down and the huntress groaned through her injuries before taking a defensive stance. More men like the first came storming towards her. She swallowed hard but tightened her hold on the whip. The men had an array of weapons from flails and clubs to batons and pickaxes.

Ridley flicked her whip threateningly at them. She was outnumbered but not out powered. “Stand down,” a woman’s voice roared. “All of you.” The men obeyed and dropped their weapons to the floor but Ridley stood firmly. “I said ‘all of you’!”

Ridley sized up the mammoth men before her then flung the whip to the floor, hiding her karambit. Out from between the men, Dominique squeezed between them, looking like a midget among their ranks. The rugged men may have physically towered over lady du Luq but her level of rage made her tower over them.

“What in the Lord’s Garden of Paradise is going on,” she yelled. “Who destroyed my property!” Stiffly she pointed to the shattered vase, its splintered table and the candelabra with broken candles. “Who,” she roared for firmly when nobody answered.

“He did,” Ridley replied through her strain, pointing to the man battered and beaten behind her. Her wounds were healing but it was more painful than usual. She cupped her ribs before falling to her knees. She moaned before looking to see her blood was fully gold. Not a trace of black.

“Tomás Édouard Adrahasis du Luq, get you arse into this hallway,” Dominique hissed. The great barrier of men parted for the Master of the House. He fell to his knees in front of his sister. “Take care of this mess. The rest of you, attack her again and I’ll let her severe your heads!” With that the cold woman stormed back into the room with double doors, slamming them hard.

Tomás flung Ridley’s arm over his shoulder before helping her to her feet. “I’m fine,” the huntress jeered but still used him as a crutch.

“Don’t mind aunty,” Tomás ordered warmly while the guards dispersed. “This masquerade has her in a tangent.” Ridley cupped her ribs to feel that her cut was healed. Her newly gold blood still on her hands. “What did you do,” Tomás went on, seeing the blood on her hands. “drain him of his worth?”

“He struck first.” She rubbed it against her dark jeans then cleared her throat. “Esmeralda always said ‘never hit first. Hit second’.”

“Did that apply to your craft or your school career?”

“Both.”

“Ah,” Tomás replied. “Well, I’m glad you’ve returned. For whatever reason it is, I hope you will come to see this luxury prison as your home too.” She said nothing. “Right. Um, Sebastian and I were hoping to capitalise on your talents.” Ridley rolled her whip while they walked. “We have a lead on the Source.” She stopped. “We have reason to believe Julien Bassé may have some insight. I’m sure you’ve read about him in history, no?”

Ridley scoffed. “The Prince of Nothing,” she replied. “Made billions from credit schemes in the United States that ultimately caused the Great Depression. Served seventy-three years in jail before he was permenantly banned from returning. All his assets have been under French state surveillance ever since yet some how he’s still living the high life.”

“Pays to have friends in high places.”

“I heard he and Escobar used to gamble together.”

“Roulette. Friday through Monday,” Tomás confirmed. “Escobar’s tell was the twitch in his left ear.” Ridley chuckled lightly and Tomás beamed at the sight. “Some say he’s living off Escobar’s millions,” he went on. “He’s hosting a bacchanalia this weekend. I wager you have talents in blending in?”

“Depending on what a bacchanalia is,” Ridley replied. “Sounds old.”

Tomás smirked then watched her hands fiddle with the razor studs on the tio of the whip. “The Festival of Bacchus. Dates back to the Roman Empire,” he confirmed with a nod. “Although, these days a bacchanalia is a sex rave. Julien has... an appetite.”

Ridley took in each of the abandoned hallways of the labyrinth-castle. Her whip grounded from her squeezing the handle. “Where is everyone?”

Tomás was at ease as they walked and had a glide in his step that he didn’t previously have. “Dominique has every soul in the estate hard at work for this masquerade. As for those men you saw, compliments of Viggo. These are the goons he promised. Trained in the barbaric art of viking combat.”

She nodded wordlessly in reply. “I got the invitation,” she stated. “What happened five hundred years ago that this became a tradition?”

“In 1720, the ship ‘Le Grand St Antoine’ brought the last major plague outbreak to ever to face Europe, in Marseille,” Tomás began. They rounded a corner and didn’t notice Aimée followed them from the door they passed. In her hand, was a thick tome that she was buried in. “Per French law, the ship was set alight. Two years later, the remains of the ship washed up on a shore. Inside one of the sealed compartments were dedications from from a man the harbour knew as le Masque.”

Ridley scoffed to herself. “What sort of dedications were these?”

“Only Lousi XV and the proprietor of that sailing company know. What we know is that they were of grand importance to the goldblood class. Every year for the past five hundred years, on the anniversary of the ship’s resurgence, we pay tribute to le Masque for acknowledging those people by doing what he was known for.”

“Masquerading. Original.”

“That’s what I said,” Aimée voiced. She was strolling behind them while still reading her book. “Your mother used to love attending it with Edwyn following her like a lovesick puppy.”

Tomás sighed then shook his head. “I thought you hated my papa.”

“That old goat ground my gears like clockwork, yes. He was a good man nonetheless. Have you spoken to him lately?” Tomás looked away from them then continued down the hallway. Aimée pursed her lips then cupped her niece’s shoulder. “That poor old man. I hope one day Edwyn comes to his senses.”

“Edwyn Grey?”

“You’ve heard of him, sister? He hasn’t done anything to gain The Hunt’s attention, has he?”

“Edwyn, no. His brother, Morien... debatable.”

“Good Lord, that lovestruck pup," Aimée hissed. "What has he done?”

Ridley shrugged nonchalantly. “Nothing in the past three centuries. Before that, he was caught smuggling rifles during the Gold Scourge. The Hunt offered him an amnesty and protection in exchange for information. No doubt Renee was the one to convince him of their offer.”

“My dear sister... God rest her soul... always could talk that chiant into her bidding. What’s he doing the days? No doubt hermitting under a rock.”

“Somewhat,” Ridley replied. “The Hunt still has him on a tight leash.”

Aimée chuckled lightly. “Oh, Mini is going to love you. And don’t mind anything she says; a blatant knife she is. Hopefully you’ll see her lighter side after all this posh partying.”

Ridley cracked out her knuckles then shook out her arms. “I don’t suppose this gilded maze has a gym or anything similar to a modern armoury.”

Aimée chuckled lightly to herself. “Tu es hilarante.” Ridley folded her arms expectantly. “A gym? Ha! When have the rich ever been associated with good health, huh? We are fat and greedy and stubborn.” Aimée U-turned abruptly and her estranged niece followed in confusion. “An armoury, however? Mini thinks Sebastian and I were being paranoid when we had it fully stocked.”

The French aristocrat turned into a dead-end hallway and wrapped her fingers around a gilded candle sconce. Ridley felt the hairs on her neck stand up. One hand gripped onto her whip while the other itched to draw her karambit. Aimée, however, was as cool as a cucumber as she pulled the sconce down.

The wall before them gave a hiss before parting to reveal a hidden passageway. “My sisters and I used these tunnels when Robespierre inaugurated the guillotine,” Aimée began as she led Ridley in. “This tunnel leads into a maze that - when journeyed correctly - leads to a haberdashery in Cannes.” The hidden door hissed back into place. “Alternatively, Sebastian thought it wise to keep our defenses somewhere protected.”

“What if the unexpected happens?”

“This castle spans over four squared kilometres; houses over three hundred people, both vampire and human; and has a modern security system, including biometric scanners. Whatever in hell those are. Not to mention it is the twenty-first century. Nobody can seize this compound without being spotted. Also, we have walls and statues lined with weapons as a precaution. It took us weeks to convince Mini not to cover them in gold or stones.”

The hidden labyrinth had sharp short turns and stretching paths. Despite that, Aimée’s route was short and mostly direct. Again she strangled a candle sconce that revealed the jam-packed armoury. Ridley’s scrutinising eye ran over everything in sight.

Rifles, machine guns, ammunition, pistols, compound bows, revolver arrows. Mauls, swords, daggers, battle axes, bows, arrows. Whips, batons, shields. Ropes, handcuffs. There were bodies of armour. All through the ages, accumulated weapons; all the top range of the technology of that specific time.

Ridley scanned beyond the neat racks and shelves, at the training space. Targets lined up for archery. Wooden models drenched in slashes. Shields batted and dented. The huntress raised a judgemental eyebrow, grazing her fingers over the wooden figure.

Aimée laced her fingers together at the doorway, taking in her niece’s observation. “Impressed? Hard not to be, no,” the bookworm replied to the silence, genuinely chuffed. “Sebastian and I ‘sharpened our skills’, as you say,” she went on with a chuckle.

Ridley’s eyebrows sank back down as she reached for a baton, thoughtfully. “Think fast,” she replied then threw the baton at Aimée. The aristocrat only gasped as the baton hit her in the head. “Blunt.”

“Was that necessary?”

“You’d be dead if I picked up something sharp.” Aimée massaged her forehead while Ridley scanned over the armoury a second time. “Who trained you?”

“Sebastian, why?”

“Basic instinct is to, at least, duck. Duck or catch,” Ridley replied. “You took a straight hit. If you can take a hit, you shouldn’t be in a fight.” Aimée gave a pout too much like Ryan’s. “I could give you some pointers; basic self-defense. In fact, all of you could do with some fighting skill. Might be useful.”

“Ha! If you can get Mini to hold something sharp, other than her nail file, you can have my dowry.”

Ridley rested a hand on an archery target, thoughtfully. “Whoever comes down here, has incredible talent,” she stated, taking in the perforations in the centre and smaller circles. “Talent like that won’t be useful in a real-life scenario. You can’t use a stationary target archery technique in moving-target archery.”

“Really?”

“Why do you think so many hunters hated the Hunger Games? Jennifer Lawrence was trained by a US Olympic archer. Technique, flawless; showmanship, no too shabby; practicality?” Ridley shook her head then made for the exit. “I wouldn’t pick her for my team of archery tag.”

“Hm. Interesting. I would very much like to watch archery movies with you to hear you jeer.” Aimée chuckled then chained her arm to Ridley’s. “Nonetheless. Me thinks sparring lessons ought to be good.”

Ridley nodded then went thoughtful. “You’ve been around a while, Aimée. Surely you’ve been to a bacchanalia?”

“Urg. God no! I was born some centuries after the fall of those homosexual heretics. Why do you...?” Aimée hummed a chuckle to herself. “Ah. Julien. Tomás and Sebastian have dragged you into their investigative shenanigans, I see. Word of advice don’t drink any of the champagne or eat any of the brie. Tu seras droguée.”

“Drugged? Noted.”

“Also,” Aimée added once they stepped out of the labyrinth, “you should get Mini to do your wardrobe. She has a fierce eye for fashion; both blending in and standing out.”

“Dominique doesn’t like me.”

“Oh, she doesn’t like anyone.”

“It’s weird. Being on the receiving end of hate.”

Aimée cupped her shoulder tenderly. “No,” she sang. “You are family. There is only one thing in this life worth holding into, and that’s family. Mini taught me that. She may not like you but she does not hate you. Dominique Ninlil du Luq has seen the fall of Mesopotamia, raised her two sisters after our father died from the Plague and survived the Revolution. She better than anyone knows how important family is.”

“Then she definitely hates me,” Ridley sighed then stared into the glare of a gilded sconce. “I killed my own twin then my mother. Both of whom were biologically her family. Regardless of the reasons, it boils down to familicide.”

“Family before fate, Ridley. Family before fate.”