Tenebrae Manor Page 4

  It may have been only the cobwebbed haze clinging to the air that gave him the appearance of a bull snorting steam from his nostrils; in any account, he was livid. A pudgy finger trembling with rage patiently gestured her to take her leave, the chef was obviously trying his hardest to restrain his wrath.

  Madlyn was astute enough to understand the chef’s moods. He would never act upon his fury, despite Madlyn’s frequent provoking. There were no losers in the current situation. Madlyn was briefly free of responsibility and the mute chef could manage better without her in the way. Stopping only to swipe a few withered orbs of varying fruits and cram them forcefully into her apron pouch, Madlyn bolted out the doors of the kitchen from whence she’d come.

  ****

  A labyrinth of stairs connected Tenebrae’s half-lit rooms with steps akin to creaking tendrils. Spiders mused quietly in the high echoing ceiling corners, their cobwebs adorning peeled wallpapers of brilliant red and decayed grey. Shadow sank into shadow, a tide of macabre drifting deep into impenetrable umbra.

  As Madlyn disappeared into the dark ground floor dungeon of her humble abode, another femme fatale brooded soundlessly in a forgotten drawing room in the whispery southeastern corner of Tenebrae’s third floor. A ghastly wind rattled the perimeter of the room’s arch windows, as though it were attempting a hideous intrusion. Its sombrous sound spiralling about the window ledges gave an impression of polar chill but the ashen darkness of the unused fireplace in the room confirmed the heat wave’s continued presence.

  The woman sat on a large leather chair; her form slouched upon the slender white arm that propped against the wooden armrest like a pale mast. She was the vampire Edweena.

  Short of temper yet steadfastly composed, Edweena had wrestled with an unquenchable blood lust for several centuries. Indeed, she was one of Tenebrae’s oldest inhabitants, locked eternally within the lusty body of a lass in the prime of her youth. As the wind tore ever-onward outside, she sat content with the contrasting stillness of the room and the equilibrium the two composed. Her fingernails tapped rhythmically on the surface of a dusty book and although the candle that had served as her reading light had been extinguished for what could have been innumerable hours by now, Edweena stared vacantly into the blackness of the night outside. Still no moon.

  The present times had been taxing on her; the unexpected appearance of a live human so close to Tenebrae Manor had interrupted her regular hunting. The very idea of a ripe, hot-blooded mammal in her reach made her bloodless eyes dilate. Years of feeding on the awful scum around her had tested her patience thoroughly. Rat blood was tepid and repulsive and the occasional livestock she encountered had usually been dead so long that their life fluid was significantly decayed.

  Why did I not just finish him when I had the chance? Edweena cursed her hesitance. Now the man was in the care of those two harlequins, Deadsol and Comets.

  They care only for the cheap thrill of frightening the pathetic vagabond.

  She hoped that death would steal the human’s breath swiftly; she would be there in a second to devour the remains.

  It had been Edweena who had discovered the lost man. Observing his aimless wandering from her perch in the conifer canopy, her mind had argued within itself on what actions she should take. A thread of remorse, a reminiscent remain of her past humanity had kept the man alive long enough for him to stumble upon the manor itself. And only then had she realised her responsibility towards Tenebrae.

  The man had made it all the way to the front foyer, the Usher allowing his ingress as he did to all who appeared at the front door. The Usher had been civil to be certain, menace was not of his composition. Yet the mere sight of the hulking monstrosity had thrown the intruder into wild panic, galvanised by the sudden entrance of Edweena. She had leapt down in front of him, delighting in the pale terror that pasted itself onto the man’s pallor.

  “W-who are you?” he had stammered.

  Edweena had hissed venomously in response, flashing her razor sharp teeth with such ferocity that the man had wailed and collapsed. She nudged the pile with her foot, confirming his vital signs before pondering her choices.

  “Do you just allow anybody to waltz in here?” she hissed at Usher.

  The doorman stood vigil with an expression almost of hurt, a rare showing of emotion on Usher’s stitched face. “It’s my job.”

  Edweena sighed apologetically. She did not mean to vent her frustration on the simple servant. She knew what she must do.

  Curse my abiding devotion to this forsaken house!

  It had been an act of moral duty that made Edweena present the human before Lady Libra. It had been her first encounter with Libra since the latter’s ascension to ladyship of the manor and was, as one could expect, a reluctant encounter.

  Ugh, she’s gotten so fat.

  The Libra she remembered was the svelte, though voluptuous gorgon with which she had once been loyal friends. What was this overweight thing lounging before her? It had been Libra’s hedonistic lust and Edweena’s unwavering restraint that had divided the two.

  I saw ourselves as better off serving Tenebrae as we always had, probing the countryside for predators who may somehow threaten the secrets of this land; its erasure from all the world’s maps and minds.

  Libra had seen opportunity. When Malistorm, the previous baron of Tenebrae had disappeared so abruptly, she had no problem swooping in and taking his post. Ever since, the gorgon had no time for her vampire companion and Edweena was not one to let go of a grudge. Bordeaux should be the baron. He does all the work. Lady Libra has merely assigned herself the superfluous title and does nothing but eat and laze.

  If she had blood, it would be boiling as she mused upon such memories. Their reunion had been a loveless encounter, fraught with a tension that Libra had tried to coat in glossy voluptuaries.

  “Dear Edweena, what am I to do, my love? I am already so positively preoccupied with the running of the manor that I am bewildered as to what to offer!”

  “Such responsibilities are native to your position. What am I supposed to do with this man?”

  Libra ran a finger over his forehead and cheek, “Oh! So sumptuous, I could just eat him alive.”

  Edweena rolled her eyes. The thought of robbing the man of his life had enraptured her more than once but again the pang of humanity struck her and the idea of killing him seemed barbaric.

  “Oh Edweena, why do you look at me in that sneaky way? Make your decision. I find I am at a loss to help you, after all, someone has to make sure this lovely night sky remains intact.”

  Edweena sighed, she knew the spell must not be all that complicated. Yet Libra had continuously hid behind the notion that it kept her too occupied to attend to other affairs.

  Malistorm had managed and he used to bustle about as much as Bordeaux!

  With the unconscious man dragged behind her by the arm, Edweena hurled him across the hallway outside Libra’s lavish quarters, abandoning all reason and baring her viscous fangs.

  “No! Stop!” wailed the man.

  He had come to so suddenly that Edweena was knocked back into composure. Her mind raced with temptation, the man’s warmth emanated from him, his life was there for the taking. She cursed herself again, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him screaming through Tenebrae’s halls, down past the Usher to the front most drawing room of the manor. She kicked at its door and stared into its interior with incredible fury bristling in her eyes.

  “Deal with him.”

  She threw the man into the awaiting arms of Deadsol and slammed the door behind her.

  My last great error. She sat bemoaning in her seclusion. Life seemed so unfair at times that Edweena cursed her immortality, toying with the idea of racing away from Tenebrae until the blanket of dawn washed the night sky away and she crumbled to ash. Was eternity worth such sufferance? Of what worth was everlasting life when she was unable to completely enjoy it? A rat scurried across the dusty carpets at her feet. Its fearless
ness in the face of impending death mocked the vampire. She sneered at its ignorance to the fatal predator above it. No, she would spare this one. Her hunger was unabated, though her apathy overwrote its pangs.

  It was too late anyway. From the dusky opening of the cracked door came a stately owl, which resolutely ignored all other instincts and pounced upon the helpless rodent. A squeak at the deathblow, a hoot of the reaper, then the room was silent again. Edweena was unmoved.

  Elsewhere, Madlyn had flung herself onto her simple straw mattress in her windowless room and scribbled into her journal with childish penmanship. She sung softly to herself and kicked her feet about like a limp rag doll as she drew spirals in her book. Her only quill was a haggard old crow feather she had found one evening between trips to Libra’s room. Falling apart though it was, the quill was Madlyn’s favourite treasure as its red inked tip scrawled across sepia page. All her drawings were in red ink. It was her favourite colour, the colour of her hero. The spirals she drew almost looked like horns.

  5: Irksome Harlequins

  In the vast, empty miles of isolation that surround Tenebrae Manor, a world where all is countless pine and prickled crag, hazards of grave fatality protect and conceal it from mortal eye. The woods are still. The woods are quiet. But life is there. Lives of creatures both conceivable and nightmarish, no less brutal than each other, lurk within the sea of gloom. As night is unending, bearings are near impossible to confirm. And it is the night that is oft the death of intrusive fools who venture into Tenebrae’s forests by intent or fortuity. Such natural circumstances have galvanised the defence of the mansion and established a veil of concealment upon it and its relation to the world beyond.

  Still, there are times when, from some divine prank of the deities there comes the arrival of a mortal whose resolve is unyielding to the pressures of insanity and as such, find themselves interloping to the highest degree. It becomes a taxing affair on what to do with such a human and has long been considered a scenario of incredible abhorrence to all of Tenebrae’s residents.

  There was a live human wandering in Tenebrae Manor. From all accounts, Bordeaux had gathered that he was a man, one of mental stability in spite of raw fear. One whom, if not dealt with swiftly, could escape, back to his reality and uncover the secret world.

  Bordeaux cursed to himself. Usually one of calm composure in the heat of confrontation, the crimson demon had found his patience dwindling to an alarmingly short order. His rank as a head servant of sorts meant that it fell upon him to resolve the present situation. The previous baron, Malistorm, had been of such soothing authority that Bordeaux had rarely felt the fabric of his anxiety torn down to its very fibres as he did now. But Malistorm was gone and in place of his paternal overseeing there appeared Libra in all her grand proportions.

  And it was with her portly appearance as head mistress that Bordeaux begun to feel the strains of concern for Tenebrae’s wellbeing. In his years as master of affairs, he had not dealt with many cases of live humans within the walls. The most recent had been Madlyn and the girl had been of such frazzled disposition that she could easily be dealt with without resorting to fatal measures.

  The Usher had not moved from his post; not that he should have either, as Bordeaux reached the front foyer of the manor and made his way to the imposing doors of the eastern drawing room. He acknowledged Usher with a tip of head that was observed but not returned by the deadpan doorman.

  Bordeaux’s claw-like hand clutched the lion head doorknob and slowly turned it. The burgundy oak creaked thunderously, the echoes of its cries flying off into the spacious black of the hallways.

  The first evident feature of the drawing room was that of a sickening heat. Deadsol and Comets had lit a fire in the mantelpiece, a fire that roared with such vehemence as to singe the wallpaper surrounding and cause it to bubble and melt away in peels. A shadow stood before the flames. It was a most irregular shape, a body like that of an inverted light bulb, a chemistry flask, supporting a melon of similar dimensions upon its thin neck. Sprouted from the melon’s sides, a pair of rabbit ear protuberances where the distinct jingle of bells could be heard chiming from their tips. From the mouth of the melon, for it was in fact a head, came a squabbling collection of squeaks and rambles, as the shadow’s small arms thrust a poker into the glowing embers with violent repetition.

  “My boy, that fire is prominent enough,” said Bordeaux.

  Visibly vexed at the interruption of his stoking, the small creature heaved his chest in flustered breaths and throwing aside the poker, turned to face the demon. Standing as he was, the creature appeared to be intimidatingly lanky in stature, the light of the flames outlining his unusual shape. His shadow stretched to an end at Bordeaux’s feet. As the creature advanced forward, the shadow receded, until it became discernable that a two-foot tall jester stood beside the crimson demon. The imp’s eyes were mismatched in size, his face seemingly locked in a mischievous smile where two fangs upon a lower jaw sprouted like weeds.

  Bordeaux smiled affectionately and ruffled the red and yellow motley cap of the runty jester, his bells jangling obnoxiously. “Comets, my boy.”

  Comets attempted to recoil from Bordeaux’s welcomes but instead became unbalanced on his curled silk shoes and fell onto his rear with a thud. He shook his head, sending the rabbit ears of his fool’s cap rattling away again, before running back to his post by the fire.

  “Bordeaux!”

  Deadsol grasped him suddenly by the shoulders and welcomed him warmly. Bordeaux had to reach for his counterpart’s wrists to remove his hands from digging into his shoulders.

  “Deadsol.”

  “Why, sir? And why what, you ask? Why are you here? Here, in this very room, when the clock strikes on this very hour.”

  “I am but answering to your summons, my brother.”

  “Summons? Summons, he says! I made no such summons!” Deadsol flung his arms flamboyantly and placed a hand on his chin. Bordeaux was nonplussed.

  “But a few moments ago, with your bust appearing so suddenly in my quarters! Surely you – “

  “I am certain I would have remembered such a visit, my dear friend. Now! I am pleased you are here. A most important matter! Of a grave and vital urgency, citizen! A chief concern! The human, sir! Bordeaux, he’s here!”

  Deadsol pressed his palms into Bordeaux’s back and gave him an encouraging shove towards a corner closet, where a brouhaha of bangs and bumps rattled the inanimate object into life.

  “Now see here, Deadsol; I can manage! Now, this man. What is the state of his cognitive composition?”

  “Critical, citizen. Dwindling by the moment, good man!”

  Now there’s a good sign, thought Bordeaux.

  The cupboard rocked, the teak groaning under the internal throes of the human.

  “Pray, tell. Have you spoken with him? Reasoned with him?”

  “Lo! Listen to the words he says, ‘Have you reasoned with him?’ To what avail, you pray tell?” Deadsol replied. “To what avail do we ever reason with such fallible fellows? Their lives are far too fleeting to tax oneself upon such matters as the man’s feelings. The very idea!”

  Bordeaux tilted his head in a display of chastisement, “A little mercy on his life, brother. They only get one. Fleeting though it may be, you surely see that they deserve at the least a quiet life of settled banality?”

  Deadsol, clearly distracted, was curling his fingers together with an inhumane dexterity. His moustache twitched involuntarily. “Sir, a thousand pardons. You must have bored me with your vapid bemoaning of human sentimentality.”

  There was a pause in which the two demons stood and stared at each other.

  “No need for that look, Bordeaux. I know what that means!”

  Here, Deadsol’s voice took on a rather sinister tone. “The human is, shall we say; under wraps.”

  He planted his foot against the cabinet door in the form of a forceful kick, causing the doors to burst open and a sweating pile of ho
rrified human to collapse outwards onto the floor. He exerted himself in futile squirms, pallor pale with terror.

  “And this be him.” Deadsol grasped the man by the scruff of the neck. “Helloooo, mister!”

  A frantic cry pattered meekly from the man’s mouth.

  “Come now, Deadsol. That’s enough,” said Bordeaux.

  “Fiddlesticks! You can be quite the killjoy at times, Bordeaux.”

  Deadsol let the man drop back down into a crumbled heap on the floor and Comets had his turn of terrorizing the poor soul. The jester rocked to and fro on his heels with the man’s collar in his gloved hands, grunting like a rocking chair with each sway. The human whimpered like a child.

  “Pathetic really,” said Bordeaux, almost sympathetically.

  “Hmm, yes, quite,” replied Deadsol, distrait. He had procured a pipe from his brown wool coat and was puffing upon its tip with unwarranted self-importance.

  “Now, then, the matter of this elephant in the room,” said Deadsol.

  “Elephant? The man?” squalled Comets.

  “A metaphor, you imbecile!” Deadsol scolded, uprooting the jester by the rabbit ears of his cap. Comets struggled like some animated turnip before Deadsol gave him a savage swat with the back of his hand.

  Comets spun across the room like a meteorite and crashed headlong onto the carpet.

  Seemingly unhurt, he leapt to his feet immediately and ran back to where he had been standing next to Deadsol not a moment earlier.