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.
"Careful, you might slip and die." Marquess Edith warned him, putting his arm over his face. He propped his one knee up and let the other ankle rest atop it.
"Yes, Your Grace." Darton nodded. The strong scent of blood wafted in the air and his mouth watered. He looked around the room and shook his head. Five dead bodies. Blood, flesh, bones littered the room. He counted three hearts, twisted and torn into pieces and his master laid in the middle on a bed with stained red lips.
"Do me a favor, Darton, yes? Bring me one more."
A sob rang in the atmosphere. Darton's head snapped to the side where the two men sat cowering in the corner. His eyebrows furrowed as he looked at them. Casting the dead body at the foot of the bed to the side, he redirected his attention to the men.
"Sir, stand up." His order was directed to none, giving them an opportunity to decide who is to be served first.
They sobbed louder.
Darton bit his lips and shook his head. His master was not very patient, despite whatever the world might be fooled into thinking. Kicking a piece of bone to the side, he took a few steps forward.
"Sir, up." He did not give them a choice this time. Grabbing the hold of the closest man, he dragged him to his master.
Marquess Edith sat up on his bed and swung his feet to the side. Grabbing the shivering and sobbing man with his collar, he pulled him near effortlessly.
"My Lord—" the man cried, looking up at the man peering down at him, and Darton could not help but think this was not the correct title which he was using to refer to his master.
"My Lord, please spare me! I—I swear I won't tell no one."
"Of course you would not," Marquess Edith murmured, his voice low and husky, "You have to remain alive to do so."
"My Lord—"
"Silence," Marquess Edith glowered,"I do not wish to do so—" he grabbed his neck and squeezed it,"—but your heart must cease beating for mine to remain alive." Bringing his wrist to his mouth with his other hand, he continued,"This is for mere sustenance. Please do not take it otherwise." Then, he sank his teeth into his wrist.
The man screamed and the Marquess' eyes glowed bright purple. The snake on his back slithered, hissed. A single squeeze to the man's neck. A loud crunch. The man did not whimpered ever after.
A putrid stench suddenly the atmosphere. Darton looked at the last man sitting in the corner and then at the pool of yellow beneath him. He scrunched his face, but a sharp pain in his nose alerted him. He glanced at his master. Marquess Edith had stopped drinking as well. He sighed and dropped the wrist of the man he was drinking from.
"Get rid of them." Marquess Edith ran his hands through his locks, their ends stained with blood as well. He laid down on the bed again and closed his eyes.
A few drops of blood fell on his chest.
To death, I proceed. The words scribbled right above his heart were becoming the canvas of the proof of his hunger.
"Yes, Your Grace." Darton looked at the whimpering man and asked with hesitation, "Your—Your Grace, that one as well?"
Marquess Edith's eyes snapped up to look at Darton.
Darton felt a thunderbolt striking him as his light red eyes were met with the glowering purple of his master. He gulped.
"Darton," his master said lowly, "Do you expect me to drink from the one who has just relived himself in his clothes?"
"No—No, Your Grace." Intimidated to meet his eyes, Darton looked down as he answered.
"You have your answer then." Marquess Edith hummed.
"Yes, Your Grace." Darton nodded and marched towards the man. His boots accidentally fell upon the yellow liquid and he closed his eyes. Drawing his sword, he took a breath as the man started begging for his life. He stopped after his neck was slit.
Loud meowing broke through the dead silence of the room. There was some commotion outside the room, in the hallway.
Darton rushed to the door and opened it. There, in the hallway, his master's cat, (which his master asserted that it is, but Darton certainly believed it was not) stood hissing at the guards and swinging its tail, ready to attack. She was twice as big as a regular cat. Black spots decorated her head, but her had black bands on her tawny fur.
"Sir, you stay inside—" A guard started but Darton cut him off.
"No sir, it is fine. Apologies for the discomfort. Sweetie, come here." He called out for the giant cat.
She ignored him.
"Sweetie, please, here."
She swatted at the guard before growling and licking herself.
"Let's play."
She looked at him finally. Then turned her back to him and sauntered to other side of the hallway.
"Sweetheart," Marquess Edith called out from inside, loud enough for her to hear and she turned around, meowing. Ears up, she stood there for a while, before rushing inside the room.
Darton sighed in annoyance and closed the room behind her. He turned around to see her smelling and sniffing the blood and dead bodies. The torn pieces of flesh and heart were her first choice to munch on.
"Guess cleaning will have to wait." Marquess Edith sat up on the bed, with his back resting against the bed post. He looked at Darton. The blue slowly slipped away into the white of his eyes. The purple growing fainter and fainter. He blinked a few times and his eyes were blood red again.
"Can you hand me the robe, Darton?" The Marquess asked as he stepped out of the bed.
Darton handed him the black robe dutifully, glancing at his index finger. The serpentine ring adorned it. It's eyes red.
"Thank you." Marquess Edith nodded at the younger man and headed towards the bathing chamber.
With his back turned to him, Darton could see the bare back of his master, devoid of any serpent tattoo.
No sooner did the Marquess stepped inside the bathroom, Darton sighed and sat down on the bed. He glanced around. The room was in a mess. Blood, blood, blood all over. Bones and flesh and organs sprinkled like an icing on a cake. Not to mention the yellow bodily fluid pooling the floor. He wondered which poor soul would be assigned to clean this mess tomorrow morning.
The Marquess stepped out of the bathroom and Darton stood up again, clearing his throat. His master looked at him with a raised eyebrow.
"Your Grace," he darted towards the glass jar he had brought and put on the table, "Your medicine," he extended the jar with both hands towards him and bowed his head.
"Thank you, Darton." The Marquess took the jar and patted his head. "Hand me the corkscrew."
Darton froze. He forgot the corkscrew.
The Marquess sighed, understanding his silence. "It is fine." He raised the jar to his mouth and pulled out the cork with his teeth. Stepping out of the room, he took a swig of the drink, barely managing not to grimace at its taste.
The guards bowed and greeted him. He nodded back as they kept their eyes averted from the pureblooded aristocrat, roaming the hallway, clad merely in a robe. The end of his hair dribbled with water and the black robe clung to his wet skin. The eyes of serpentine ring were green yet again.
The doors to the adjacent room were pushed open by the guards. The Marquess entered and Darton followed, closing the doors behind them.
"Did you give my letter to Lady Kiara?" Marquess Edith asked as he took another swig from the bottle.
"Your Grace, I handed it to her lady- in-waiting."
Marquess Edith raised an eyebrow as he settled on the chair beside the window.
"Did you see to it that she receives it?"
Darton blinked. Marquess Edith sighed.
"So you did not."
Closing his eyes, Marquess Edith let his head lean back on the chair. Inhaling, he concentrated on the sounds, slowly extending his hearing range. The mental image of the Mansion in his head directed him what he was hearing vaguely. He finally reached Lady Kiara's room—nothing.
The Marquess straightened.
Not a single breath.
He opened his eyes, looking at Darton sharply.
"Did you at least make sure the lady was there?"
Darton's eyes widened.
The Marquess shook his head, extending his hearing further.
"Did you hear—"
Footsteps.
"I don't want to wake up that early—"
"It's a shame—"
Snores.
"The Lady is quite beautiful—"
"What did the Count saw in her!"
"Young Master—"
"—the red head—"
"—fire in the dunge—"
"—seven prisoners! Can you—"
"The man is charming—"
"—is expecting—"
"No, no, no—its Lisa and Minda who are having an affa—"
"—eloped with his step father and—"
Snores.
"—ate the boot polish—"
"—in his butt—"
"—Marquess to ravish me—"
Sucking noises.
"I don't even like men—"
"Bruce has a hairy navel—"
"—not as innocent as he—"
"—smell fart—"
Clothes torn apart.
"—ate her puke—"
"—beat him up—"
Footsteps.
"—his armpit hair in my plate—"
Metal clinking.
Snores.
"—sat on my fa—"
Slurps.
"—as Lady Kia—"
Snores.
"—ugly, burnt face—"
Snores.
Footsteps.
Metallic clinking.
Quiet.
Leaves rustling.
Owls hooting—
Marquess Edith stopped and clenched his jaw.
Expanding his hearing, he focused again.
Crickets chirping.
Leaves rustling.
Low growls—
The Marquess stiffened.
Quiet.
Wind sweeping past the tall trees.
"Duck!"
Marquess Edith's eyes snapped open.
Lady Kiara was in the woods.
A/N: So yeah....thoughts on Marquess? What do you guys think about his character? Is he kind of what you imagined him to be or are there some differences? Annndd what do you think will happen next?
Thanks for reading XD