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13-The Children of Darkness

For most of his clothing was now unwearable, Caspian slipped into the tailor's workshop under the veil of night and stole every dark thing that would fit him. The lord's slender body shone under the pale moonlight. Ever curve of leg, torso, and arm appeared like fine marble under the delicate glow. Were it not for his reptilian appearance, he would have been divine in all his glory.

The tailor and his wife slept deep, dreaming of better days when the sun dared shine so brightly it melted every last snowflake away.

Caspian did not need the light of a candle to find his way around the tailor's shop and work area, for the lord's blue eyes focused easily in the darkness. He found a railing of outfits that had already been completed. A selection of leather boots was against one wall, above them, a hooded cloak hung on a nail.

Mourning hues were what suited Caspian now, clothing as black as midnight, as dark as the lowest levels of hell. The black cloak was wrapped around the dark attire Caspian chose. The hood of the cloak was pulled over his pale face, hiding it well. The lord's long, lean legs slipped inside a pair of leather boots which he tied tightly with the laces that reached to his mid-calf.

In the reflection of the wall mirror, Caspian surveyed himself. He spread open his arms, reaching from one end of the reflection to the other. A cool wind slithered around his feet and swirled the hem of the long cloak. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of wings caught his attention. Caspian walked from the mirror towards the window and pushed the purple curtain aside. A flock of bats flew towards him, their leathery sound enthralling him. Caspian's lips curled in a slow, cruel grin. "Look at the children of darkness." He drew in a breath, closed his eyes and allowed the pair of wings on his own back to tear forth from the clothes he wore. The shirt ripped at his shoulder blades, allowing the black wings to escape. Caspian reached for the cloak and adjusted it over his wings. The sound of the bats' wings grew louder as they flew past him. "Oh, the music they make."

Caspian slipped into the night's chill. With the help of his wings, he took to the skies, the sound of flying bats followed him all the way back home.

The following night, when Caspian stepped out of his manor and held up his hand to the snow, he noticed he was as white as the frost spread out before him. Though the night was dark and cold, Caspian barely felt the chill.

In the stables, his two fine horses slowly rose on their newly formed feet. Caspian thrust the stable doors open and two pairs of blood-red eyes looked his way. Steeds of rotten mass stood before their master. The animals' flesh hung off their skeletal frames. Their powerful legs betrayed thick ivory bone underneath tears of dark skin. Manes and tails shone like black satin. Their eyes glimmered in the light of the moon.

When the horses saw their master they gave off a stomp of their legs and a snort, but they showed little fear towards Caspian's new form. It was as though they had all entered the gates of Hell together, having transformed into grotesque entities for one another. The horses were bound to Caspian loyally, even death could not sever their faithfulness.

Ice blue eyes narrowed at the sight of his beloved steeds. He walked to them, placed his hand on their torn hide and felt tough flesh against bone. The horses whinnied. One of them tossed back its head and from its throat came a guttural sound. Caspian lifted his hand to the horse's mane, his fingers weaved through the coarse strands and he made a fist. The animal tensed, Caspian felt its muscles contracting as it looked at him with a sidelong gaze. The lord pulled the horse's head down, till its eyes were below his chest. Without a word, the horse calmed down and that was when Caspian let go.

The lord collected the reins then hitched the grotesque animals to his carriage. His face was a mask of anger. He would rain terror upon the whole of Transylvania, upon every living thing that crossed his path. Whatever magic dared turn him into a monster and kill his wife also gave him the gift of eternal life. Caspian would use that to terrorize whoever had the misfortune of coming across him. Though he might never find the witch responsible, Caspian silently promised that he would bring hell to the citizens of Transylvania until the woman that harmed him and his family would come begging on her knees for forgiveness. Then he would string the pieces of her on the trees, ribbons of the witch's bloody flesh and broken bones would decorate the vast land of his estate.

From a window high up in the manor, Agnes watched the lord tear into the night. The maid gasped at the sight of the horses, their mangled bodies, their mad red gaze. She clasped her hands together, brought them to her forehead and closed her eyes. "We are all doomed," she whispered knowing that she was powerless to do anything.

"Father in heaven, why have you spared me?" Agnes opened her eyes and looked Heavenward. She saw no stars twinkling in the inkiness of the sky. Only the moon shone down faded fragments of yellow light. "Why?"

But no reply came to her. She heard not a sound but that of a lone wolf howling softly somewhere down the hall.

The old maid turned her attention to the sound. She was no match for a wolf. She had never hunted, barely knew how to use a knife. But she was not about to face any sort of wild animal without the aid of something long and sharp.

The room where Agnes stood was a small place with little furniture and few decorative items in it. It was Troy's private study room. It featured a writing desk and a chair, simple yet pretty items carved from mahogany wood. A painting of a young boy holding a wooden mouse toy hung upon the wall. It was that of a six-year-old Troy, commissioned by a well-known Transylvanian painter named Alistair Cova. Caspian hated the painting. The sight of his only son holding a toy mouse always made him think of the boy's weaknesses. If only he had put a sword in the lad's hands and not have let Calla allow Troy to pose with that Godforsaken mouse. Upon Caspian's show of hatred for the painting, Calla had secretly hidden it away and gave it to Troy on his 13th birthday with the warning to keep it in his private chambers. An ink-bottle and a quill rested on the desk next to a brass candelabra.

Agnes frowned when she looked around the room and didn't find anything neither sharp nor long. A sword, if only there was a sword around! "Silly old woman. Even if you found a sword to use, would you know how to? You can barely lift one." Agnes pursed her lips but was determined to face the wolf with something she could at least hit it with were it to attack her.

Her gaze roamed back to the desk. The deadliest thing she could think of using was the candelabra. The item stood tall for a desk candle-holder. Agnes still wished it were a sword.

Armed with the heavy brass candelabra held up in front of her, the maid stepped as bravely as she could into the hall.

As she neared the bed chambers at the end of the hall, the howling of the wolf was clearer. Agnes listened carefully noting that the sound coming from the animal was that of one pained. It was when she reached Troy's bedroom when the howling stopped. The closed door was the only shield between her and the wild thing. For a moment she hesitated but then Enid's words came to haunt her. A wolf. A wolf in his bed! Through the possibility of certain death may be inevitable, Agnes would be damned if she let the wolf who found its way into the young lord's chambers live. She would fight tooth and nail against the creature. She would give her life to end its wretched one.

Agnes crossed herself before she slung the door open. What lay before her was not a wild animal devouring the young lord or that of a creature basking in blood. The sight before her was that of Troy laying on the cold, hard floor, panting and crying. Deep gasping sobs wracked his body. Troy lay crookedly on his front resembling someone's broken doll. 

In shock, the maid dropped the candle-holder. It fell to the ground with an almighty clang barely missing her left foot.

Troy's head rose slightly, he looked as though moving any part of him was with grand difficulty.

"Young lord!" Agnes ran to him and fell to her knees by the boy.

Troy's face was drenched in tears, his brown eyes were bloodshot. When Agnes grabbed one of the covers off his bed and wrapped it around him, Troy began to shake. As Agnes held him the young lord cried and cried till the sounds of that of a boy turned into the sounds of a wolf.