1 - The Count of Innsworm

Prospero bounded across the mud. He leapt between sunken puddles and imagined himself falling into a great abyss if he splashed in. Luthor trailed closed behind him, two umbrellas in either hand, making sure the young master didn’t suffer a fall. It was raining on that day, as it did most weeks around Innsworm.

The three of them: the father, the son, and the butler, were on their way towards the hamlet, descending from the manor onto the rainy hillside plateaus where chimney smoke plumed and chickens roamed. The peasants - though Prospero had been taught graciously and strictly never to refer to them as such - had sniffed the rain out an hour ago and were now huddled indoors. Imprints of their passing in the mud were now filled with water.

Glimpsing a shadow, Prospero hopped over to the stables and lifted himself up by the peeling fence, where Cuileni speared lumps of hay on his pitchfork for the steeds  A fresh trickling of rainwater rolled down from the roof and felt frozen against Prospero’s neck. One horse raised its head, still chewing, and stared side-eyed at the child when he shouted, “Mister Cuileni!”

“Oh! How do you do, young master?” the old man’s face bunched up like an accordion as he straightened his back. “You’ll catch your death if you stand out in the rain like that!”

“I like the rain!” Prospero grinned. “Has Missus Cuileni made any scones today?”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt she’ll be baking something or other now that she’s cooped up inside,” his eyes went behind Prospero, towards the owner of the silhouette which was now stretching into the stable. Cuileni lowered his head. “Milord.”

“Good afternoon, Cuileni.”

Gaspar was a great behemoth of a man, and his height and build were made all the more impressive by the coat which trailed in his wake, somehow never quite low enough to dirty itself in the mud. A resting scowl emboldened by snowy, aristocratic skin likened him, as was only natural, to a Vampire. This comparison was not made nearly as often as one would assume, and, indeed, the villagers seldom commented on his appearance, especially in regards to what he may or may not have looked like, and had learned themselves the habit of remaining unflinching in his presence.

His looming shadow didn’t seem to bother Cuileni in the least. “Don’t you ever tire of the rain, milord?” he asked. “It’s always a shame seeing you and the young master getting yourselves soaked in all them nice clothes. Oh - and mister Luthor too, of course,” he nodded in the butler’s direction, who returned the gesture with perfectly reserved enthusiasm.

“The sun has never done well for my complexion.” Gaspar replied. “This is no weather to be working in, my friend. Why not relax inside for a while?”

“Oh, I’d like to. I really would, milord.” Cuileni balanced both hands on the end of his pitchfork. “But I must keep an eye on the horses today. Something’s had them spooked since this morning.”

“Wolves?” Luthor interjected, poking his gaunt face over Gaspar’s shoulder.

“No, no. Nothing like that, I don’t think.” he shook his head. “That’s just how they are sometimes; animals, I mean. You understand, milord.”

“I do.” Gaspar nodded. “But be certain not to overwork yourself today. And give my thanks to your wife. Prospero couldn’t keep his hands off her scones the last time she dropped some off.”

The young lad flashed a rosy smile as Cuileni adjusted his cap. “Heh. I’ll send your kind words along,” he replied. “Enjoy your walk, milord.”

Like that, they made their rounds of the homes skirting the old Baptista manor. Every face Prospero met was dusted with dirt and wrinkles. Innsworm was not a prosperous or lively region, and it was only by the grace of his father’s wealth that the peasants were able to survive the poor harvests which had scoured the hamlet those past five years. But it was quiet, and enjoyed a peace not particularly common in those days.

Prospero took a tumble as his shoe slipped in the mud. He caught himself on his hands and knees, but a loose, out-of-place stone grazed his palm. Luthor marched over and helped the boy to his feet, within the eyes of whom reluctant tears were already beginning to swell.

“Oh dear.” Luthor’s long face remained analytical. “Did you hurt yourself, young master?”

While he whimpered and grasped his wounded hand, afeared of the pain beneath, Gaspar went over and kneeled by Prospero’s side, pallid fingers curling out. “Let me see, son.”

Prospero turned his hand. The cut didn’t look half as bad as it felt, but to a young boy who had yet to experience pain in any worldly capacity, it was rather unbearable. Gaspar placed a hand over the break, and within a matter of seconds, the pain disappeared. Once revealed, Prospero’s hand was as pristine as it was a moment ago.

“Be careful where you step, son.” his father said. “-Or don’t. Tumbling around as you please is a freedom enjoyed only by the young. You’ll be grateful that you did once a bad fall could do you in like it could for me and Luthor.”

The tears were now a distant memory to young Prospero, who was now more concerned with the sorcery he’d just witnessed than anything else. “I want to cast spells like you do, father!” he said. “I promise I’ll be good, so can we please get Mister Suere to baptise me at the abbey!?”

Gaspar chuckled. “That’s the fifth time you’ve asked this week! I wonder if Luthor should have reserved his lessons on the System until you were a little older…”

The butler in question raised a hand to adjust his glasses. “Irregardless of this realm’s stance on baptisms, one cannot afford to skimp on a child’s education. If the young master so desires, I could always unearth my old grimoires on the Runic Path to teach him some spells the old-fashioned way.”

“A child? Concocting spells with runes?” Gaspar’s expression fell, only to be replaced with a joyous grin as he threw both arms out. “What a fantastic idea! Yes - a boy’s interest must be nourished! And who better to prevent him from burning the manor down than you, Luthor?”

Suddenly cautious, the butler inhaled air through his teeth. “Perhaps… we should wrap up the young master’s lessons on the history of the Incandescence before we-”

“I want to learn magic!” Prospero chimed.

“Haha! You heard the boy, Luthor!” Gaspar folded his arms. “Come - let’s return to the manor! I just know we have some notebooks from the Institution laying around somewhere!”

Pulled along by the weight of his master’s words, Luthor couldn’t help but accompany the father and son on their way back to the looming manor atop Innsworm’s central hill, his sigh equally exasperated as it was content.

The foggy days of Innsworm were marked by Prospero’s sudden liveliness. Whether hungry for knowledge or entertainment, Gaspar was all too happy to provide for the boy - often to Luthor’s chagrin. But the three of them were fulfilled with their lot, and as the years trickled on, tragedies which once trapped the household in an air of melancholy gave way to fond remembrances and moments of welcome solitude.

In time, young Prospero was no longer so young, and by his twentieth year, he had already devoured many of the texts archived within the manor’s overstuffed library, only omitting those he could not comprehend or which his father had strictly forbidden him from reading - and sometimes not even that would stop him.

“I know your memory to be as good as mine, son,” on the day of one such overstep, Prospero found himself being chewed out in the foyer with a tome hidden under one arm. His father stood with arms crossed, as he always did, wearing an expression crossed between stern and amused. “-So why is it that I find you sneaking out with a copy of that old tome? One that I’ve forbidden you from touching?”

The text: ‘Of Vampyres, Terrible Phantoms, and The Seven Deadly Sins’, was a loose collection of yellowed papers half-bound and ready to fall apart at the slightest knock. Prospero mulled several excuses over in his head until he decided that none would suffice. “...Because, you wouldn’t have let me read it otherwise?” he said.

Gaspar paused, then laughed. It was a great howling that bounced off the walls, unreserved and unapologetic. “You little scamp!” he grinned. “How can I be expected to rebuke such sound logic!? But the fact remains that those pages are forbidden! Do you really expect me to let you leave now that I’ve heard you thundering through the manor like a scorned ox!?”

Prospero shrugged. “Hide your secrets better if you don’t want them stolen.”

He stepped towards the front doors, but his father had already beaten him there by the time his head could turn. There was no secret held between them about Gaspar’s supernatural agility. Prospero had known from a young age that his father was no common man, but quizzing him about it had only led to riddles and lectures, and so he had learned to never bother. He fancied a quiet day reading, and now there was no path towards that peace but straight through the loud soul of his father. With a flick of Gaspar’s wrist, something delicate and metallic was tossed through the air. Prospero extended his free arm to slide his fingers into the rapier’s elegant handguard, purpose-made for his grip, tightening his other arm around the tome.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“If you will not follow your father’s orders, my boy, then at least have the guts to earn your reward fairly,” Gaspar threw aside his cloak with one arm, and with a flash of silver unsheathed another rapier from his waist. “Luthor tells me your skills have been improving. Perhaps if I were to reach the same assessment, you will leave this manor with that book in tow.”

“My feet are still aching from yesterday’s practice!” Prospero widened his stance, not at all confident that complaining would do him any good. “This isn’t fair at all!”

“War awaits the readiness of no man!” his father took a stance. “Have at you!”

With one arm curled at the hip, he flew towards Prospero with the vigour of a duelist half his age. Their rapiers slid and screeched, echoing the first clash of many in the sleuth-strife of fencing. Prospero was tempted to take a step back, but he’d learned better from Luthor. Fencing was all about graceful defence; holding one’s ground against baleful thrusts and turning an opponent’s blows against them.

Gaspar stepped in to lunge. Prospero tilted his wrist to catch the line of the thrust and deflected the blade to his side, stepping forward to capitalise on the opening while placing his father on the defensive. His own testing swing was caught by Gaspar’s weapon, rising as if possessed of its own will, stalwart in form and resilience, and the two men entered their courteous exchange of attacks and parries. Torchlight from the chandelier above illuminated their weapons with brilliant glitters of silver. With his free hand, Prospero hugged the tome close to his heart.

“I see Luthor has lent you some passing expertise, lad,” Gaspar smirked, “But has he taught you the mind of the sport, or merely the body?”

Prospero shook his head and frowned. “What does that even mean?”

“Take Carlo Pupesco’s interpretation of the lunge: low and unyielding towards the lower line.” Gaspar stepped in with his posture lowered, rapier at the ready. “-Forbidden in the rapier and thought invincible until-”

“-R.L. Roeburn’s counter, sacrificing ground for a chance at the opponent’s arm!” Prospero retreated, extending his arm to descend towards the oncoming attack. “Pupesco was a demon on the attack, but a coward on the defence!”

-But Gaspar’s lunge never came. He remained statuesque in that beastly pose. The movement had triggered a false reaction from Prospero, who trusted his mental playbook to account for every possibility. It was only in that moment of defencelessness when Gaspar launched forward, blade circling downward to trap his opponent’s line.

He stabbed, and the tip stopped just inches from Prospero’s face, who yanked himself back until he had fallen firmly onto his rear. “Ah!”

When he looked up, Gaspar was already sliding his rapier back into its scabbard. “Pupesco was a coward until budding fencers like Roeburn challenged his mastery of the sport,” he said. “The two of them would compensate and overcomplicate one-another’s disciplines like a pair of lovers, and in doing so, they scaled heights as-of-then unheard of.”

Prospero sighed and picked himself off the floor. “Is there a lesson to be learned here?”

“There are a great many things you may learn from your adversaries, my boy,” he continued. “Hatred, usually, but also love, for what is a nemesis if not a lover? It is remarkable how skin-deep our grudges are, Prospero, and how lonely we find ourselves in the absence of hate. If you learn to traverse this spectrum like water, any one man can seem so incredibly fickle and touched. Learn to move with him, and you’ll find that it’s as if a new world has been opened to you. A world of great peace and romance.”

A passing second lingered heavy in the air. Prospero blinked. “You’ve lost me again, father.”

“Oh, if only your mother was still alive! She would have transformed my words into such wonderful poetry! Oh, Mercedes…!” Gaspar curled his fists. “How am I meant to raise this boy who doesn’t take a moment to understand the words of his ageing father!?”

“No… I’m not sure mother would have known what to make of that, either,” Prospero replied. “And don’t even joke about your age! You don’t look a day older than you did when I was ten years old! I’ll end up looking older than you in a decade or two!”

“Yes, well - when your beauty routine is as robust as mine, it’s only natural that you would find yourself outmatched by these handsome features,” he folded his arms. “Perhaps if you moisturised and bathed three times a day, you would still have those rosy cheeks that your mother loved to pull on so much.”

He joked, but Gaspar’s youth truly was remarkable. For lack of want to know or ask, Prospero had never quite been able to pin down his father’s exact age, and it was only becoming more difficult to make an estimate now that the man had somehow remained free of wrinkles in spite of the oncoming decades.

“How slow I’ve become. It’s rather embarrassing,” Gaspar rolled his shoulders and yawned. “I think I may wile away the hours this evening with some light reading.”

He made for the staircase, only turning his head when Prospero shouted after him. “What about the book!?”

“The what?” he paused. “Oh, that old thing? Go ahead and read it; it’s a classic! Just make sure not to tear any of the pages. I’ve been meaning to return it for about… uh - quite a long time now, and the owner would be a little cross if it was damaged.”

He raised a hand in farewell and disappeared through the oaken doors on the landing. So much for being forbidden, Prospero thought. He placed his rapier down on an end table flanking the staircase so that Luthor would spot and retrieve it later on. The wild thumping of his heart settled when he pushed on the manor doors and stepped into the daylight. A gust of wind chilled the little beads of sweat on his forehead.

Now he had no reason at all to read outside, but the rain had only stopped an hour before and the hamlet was rich with the scent of the earth. He enjoyed those moments of dour twilight between the showers, when the clouds lingered still and silence reigned. His boots sank into the mud on the way down the hill, stepping down the crude staircase of planks descending from the manor.

Nearabouts where the hamlet levelled out, a bakery run by Innsworm’s oldest couple was shaded by a low porch. Prospero was allowed to sit there whenever he pleased, whether to read or to remain out of the sunlight for a minute or two. He wandered up, settled down on the flimsy chair and pushed himself up to the antique table of glass and wrought iron which the owners had bought from a travelling merchant many decades ago.

“Of Vampyres, Terrible Phantoms, and The Seven Deadly Sins…”

Prospero read the title again. He flicked past the dedications and foreword to the meat of the text, where faded words introduced him to the wicked heart of darkness lingering within the realms of men. Terms he had heard before; Vampyre, Dracule, Nosferatu; contained once to the imagination of his terrified, adolescent brain but which now took on a far darker, far more sinister nature. He could not distinguish truth from hearsay as the pages wrote on, which contained accounts equal parts horrific and unreal. Prospero knew of Vampires and their ilk, and especially of the lifetaker Dracula, who once captured the Incandescence in a storm of brutality many centuries ago, but had never known them to be anything more than monsters.

“Where darkness permits, the Vampyre dwells,” he read. “And he dwells not in the woods and wealds where beasts wander, but in the hearths of mortal men, and he spreads plague and rodents among those he courts, and seeks the pure blood of maidens to sustain his terrible immortality.”

“Oh… young master.”

Prospero turned his head to spot the wizened face of Mrs. Calum poking out from a crack in the door. “I was wondering who that voice belonged to,” she said.

“Hello, miss,” he greeted. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

“Oh, not at all. You’re welcome to sit where you please, young master,” with shaking hands, she pushed on the door and drew her shawl up to ward off the cold. “Only, Anton down the road - you know Mister Anton, don’t you?”

He nodded. Prospero knew everyone in the hamlet, but Mrs. Calum was getting on in her old age, and often forgot that he was a young man and no longer a boy of ten.

“Well,” she began. “Mister Calum told us there were wolves in the pig farm last night. They’ve been getting fierce, you know? Those old wolves…”

She made a great, ugly smile with her chapped lips. “So all of us old and wrinkled fools are hiding inside. My husband thought he saw another one close by just a few hours ago. Won’t you be careful, young master? For milord and milady’s sake…”

“I will, miss. Don’t worry about me,” Prospero replied. “Go inside and warm up. It’s cold today. I’m sure Anton will deal with the wolves.”

She nodded and slid back into the bakery, leaving Prospero to wonder if it was a sound idea to continue reading. I’m only going to worry her if I stay out here, he thought. I’ll head back to the manor and read the rest in my room. I already have permission from father.

He came down from the porch and stopped just short of ascending the hill. The butcher’s shop was just down the way, along the old fields where the northern road crept up to the woods. He hadn’t eaten lunch that day, and the cold only seemed to be exaggerating his appetite. A few silver coins were still tumbling in his pocket from when he’d helped out at the charcoal kilns a week ago.

I wonder if Nicolas still has some of those spiced sausages in stock, he wondered.

A quick detour to the bottom of the hill revealed that the hamlet was near empty. Mrs. Calum hadn’t minced words with him; word of the wolves had scared everyone into their homes. With the contents of his book still digesting, Prospero couldn’t help but wonder if the wind was a bad omen. He turned his head to see the silhouette of Baptista Manor looming over Innsworm, not quite so comforting as it normally was.

But it was neither the wind nor the manor that unsettled him. It was the streak of crimson awaiting him further down the road, trailing up from the woods and along the path, which quickened his pulse. It was undoubtedly a trail of blood. Prospero inhaled, and the scent of iron stung his nostrils. Something terrible has happened, he thought.

He bolted down the road, observed by dew-soaked leaves on high. The windchill singed his nose, now reluctant to breathe in the troubling scent. He followed in the silence of the oaks and felt suddenly as if he was alone; that the village would be emptied of life when he returned. He chased the darkness inviting him towards that sight nestled between the hill and the forest, pulse quickening all the while, where leaves detached, blew and were caught by the pooling blood beneath the canopy.

A wolf was turned over there, on the ground, in the cold. Lifeless.