Chapter Text
After dark, the picturesque surroundings took on ominous colors. The small manor house with its garden looked like a vampire's mansion from a Gothic novel. The light brown shades had turned dark, and none of the windows were lit. Only a single, solitary street lamp provided illumination. The area was deserted. There were no other houses here, except for this historic manor house. Besides, who would want to move in here, knowing that behind such a beautiful garden lay a vast cemetery?
Suddenly, something moved along the fence.
A figure moved silently, almost like a ghost or a vampire, avoiding the light from the streetlights like the plague. Despite his unsettling gait, it wasn't a ghost, as he occasionally gasped, as if simple movement required incredible effort. Even in the darkness, it was obvious that he was limping. When he reached the entrance gate, he almost bumped into it. Nevertheless, he gave it a gentle push and slipped inside.
The yard looked much better than the overgrown hedge. The lawn was mowed, the leaves raked, and the porch was free of cobwebs. Someone had carefully tended the place.
The figure limped along the stone path and almost tripped on the wooden steps. Despite this, he pushed on. He reached the door and gripped the handle so tightly that his fingertips turned white. But despite his struggles, the door wouldn't budge. The night's silence was broken by a soft curse, followed by an aggressive search of every pocket. The key was found only in the inner pocket of his leather jacket. Finally, the door opened, and the figure slipped inside. He leaned against the door and turned on the light. The building was old, but thankfully, it had modern lighting, so there was no need to carry a kerosene lamp.
The light illuminated the entire room, including the figure. The mysterious figure turned out to be a man, apparently in his thirties. His dark brown hair was disheveled, and his eyes, which were the same color, scanned the hallway. He moved slowly, as if exploring unfamiliar territory. He held his right side with one hand. He didn't want to look down. As long as the adrenaline was running, everything was fine. There were four doors in the hallway, and opposite the entrance, a grand staircase led to the upper floors, but he passed the first door and only turned into the second. He reached a living room that looked as if it had been frozen in the first half of the twentieth century. A large leather couch sat against the wall, with armchairs on either side, and opposite, a small coffee table, on which lay papers and a cell phone with a distinctly aged appearance. He collapsed onto the couch and began to breathe heavily. He slowly looked around the room, even though he'd seen it a thousand times. A fireplace on the other side, two large windows with drawn curtains, a wooden chest of drawers beyond, and next to it, a cabinet with glass doors, revealing some old glasses and dishes. Higher up hung paintings—surrealism, Art Deco, and social realism. The juxtaposition of all these styles showed that the previous resident had no taste, or perhaps desperately collected everything, ignoring whether the pieces matched. On the other side stood more cabinets, this time smaller, and on one of them was a small television that clashed incredibly with the rest. The clash of the 20th and 21st centuries reinforced the residents' lack of taste.
He stopped looking around the room and glanced at his side. He slowly slipped off his jacket and threw it on the floor. Then he rolled up his shirt and hissed as blood adhered to the fabric. The wound looked nasty, still oozing blood and appearing deep. Damn vampires. No normal Hunter would have ventured into a vampire lair alone. He managed. Barely. But he managed.
He didn't even have the strength to get up and grab the first aid kit from the bathroom. He simply lay there, hoping the cut wouldn't require stitches at the hospital. Besides, he couldn't even remember the last time he'd been there. In his family, there was no other choice, and it was the elders who had to learn to heal wounds. Luckily for him, he wasn't the eldest son, only the second of three, and he was the third of all his siblings.
And he probably would have lain there for a long time if he hadn't smelled the unmistakable scent of sulfur. He immediately got up to pull the gun from his belt. But the pain intensified drastically, and he couldn't even move his hand. He fell back onto the pillow.
"Calm down, little brother," he heard a familiar voice, and when he turned his head to the side, he saw her.
Solaris looked the same as before. Blond hair falling to her shoulders, blue eyes that were practically piercing. A leather jacket with a fur collar, which had become her trademark.
"You look like you've seen Lucifer," she laughed softly and moved closer. He hadn't even noticed how much he missed her laughter, which used to fill almost every room.
"Probably the female version of it," he replied, and she pulled over an old ottoman that had been sitting in the corner, gathering dust. This house was full of junk accumulated over the years by previous owners.
"You're hurting me, little brother." She placed a hand to her chest in a dramatic gesture. He managed to avoid rolling his eyes. With her demeanor, she would have been perfect as an actress. She would have been. If only her family hadn't chosen for them. "What's gotten into you this time?"
"Vampires."
Solaris just shook her head and stood up. She left the room and headed down the stairs. It was a veritable evening routine they'd practiced for years. Or at least tried to. He breathed deeper and deeper, listening to the sounds of shuffling and opening cabinets. Everything creaked here, as if the house had a life of its own, or perhaps some souls hadn't quite left. That thought made him feel less lonely.
She returned some time later, holding a small first aid kit in her hand. He bit the inside of his cheek, knowing full well what was coming. She pulled the coffee table closer and sat down on the ottoman. She opened the first aid kit and pulled out some disinfectant and cotton balls. She was on autopilot. She cleaned the wound, ignoring his hisses of pain, then reached for a piece of cloth. His pupils dilated rapidly, and he opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly she shoved the cloth into his mouth. Her gaze said she wouldn't listen to any objections. He finally fell silent and looked away. He breathed slowly, though his stress was slowly building. He heard her rummaging through the first aid kit, shuffling through bandages and painkillers. Finally, everything fell silent. He knew what was coming. He tried to relax, to make the procedure as painless as possible. It never worked. It always hurts the same.
When the needle penetrated his skin, he clenched his fingers on the arm of the couch, his hiss muffled by the cloth. Sweat streamed down his neck.
"Stop pullin', or I'll stitch it crooked," she hissed, her hands never trembling. It wasn't hospital conditions, but that was always enough. No hospitals. No unnecessary questions. He could almost hear a familiar voice instructing them on what to do.
The minutes stretched on endlessly. He dug his nails into the couch so hard they were sure to leave marks on the leather. He panted like a dying animal, and with each needle thrust, he felt like howling like a dog.
"Well, it's done." Those words were like salvation. Solaris gently cleaned the stitched area one last time, then put the tools back in the first aid kit. She would disinfect them later. After all, the last thing the Hunter needed was sepsis. She pulled the cloth from his mouth and winced as she touched the damp fabric. This would have to be washed, and as soon as possible.
She was just getting up from the pouffe when the phone on the coffee table suddenly rang. They both looked at the device and froze. The phone hadn't been used since Uncle Dante died. Their uncle, or rather, their mother's friend, who had raised them when the rest of their family was killed, but who always told them to call him Uncle. He had shared the fate of many other Hunters. A failed hunt. The monster proved more cunning. He hadn't brought the phone with him, but at least they were with him. And so the device had sat there for over a decade, its battery only occasionally charged to see if anyone had called or texted, unaware of their uncle's death.
She took a step forward and grabbed the phone, then handed it to her brother. He simply tightened his grip on the device and answered. Before he could even say hello, someone on the other end had already started talking. Solaris just stood there, the rag forgotten, trying to make sense of the fragments of words reaching her.
"No, I'm sorry, but Dante Rerevendi is dead," he said coldly. It had been so long ago that he had finally come to terms with his uncle's death. A hunter had to bury his loved ones and then move on; those were the rules. The voice on the other end faded for a moment. He felt as if he heard someone else in the background. Maybe he was just imagining it. Finally, the voice spoke again. When he heard the next sentence, he couldn't hide his surprise. "Yes, Vesperi on the phone..." With each word, his eyebrows rose higher. "Mhm. Where? I see..." Without a word of farewell, he hung up.
"Who was that? What did he want?" Solaris immediately bombarded him with questions, but he just waved them off.
"Fuck, you won't believe who I had the pleasure of talking to..."