A whistling maid jostled down the large hallway, a lone lamp in hand as she blew out the candles in her wake. Her feet padded in comfortable ease, completing her last duty of the night.
A leisurely curl-up in her bed with a worn-out, old erotic romance book awaited her after she was done. The little reminder added speed to her steps.
She passed by one of the many vast rooms, only to notice that one of the doors was open. With a scrunch of her brows, she cursed the maid who hadn't fulfilled her duty of closing the mansion's doors.
She held the handle, but before she could close the door, something caught her attention.
A low golden glow.
Indeed, there were a few candles on tabletops, one glowing at the far end of the room, barely lighting the still-dark space.
With a frustrated groan at the increase in her workload, she cursed under her breath and hustled forward, gathering up her skirt to quicken her steps.
She blew out the candle, furrowing her brows at the sign that it had been lit only recently.
"I'm sure it's the work of Nila. She's the only incompetent one here," she grumbled, putting out the flames.
"Like, who lights candles in an unused room?" She cast her gaze sparingly around the small lit corners, noting furniture and equipment covered by thin material to shield them from dust.
After blowing out the flames from the surface tops, she walked to the lone candle at the far side of the room.
Noticing it was close enough to reach the closed curtain, she shook her head, praising herself for saving the witch Lucinda, her son—and the whole mansion—from a potential fire outbreak.
A muffled scream came from somewhere in the room just as she blew out the last candle.
She perked up, alert, clutching the handle of the lamp tighter and hiking it higher.
"Who's there?!" she called out into the quiet room, her gaze darting around to assess her now-dark surroundings.
Gosh, she must be losing her mind, she wondered. The late-night work must be getting to her.
As she turned to leave, another insistent muffle split through the once-silent room.
A whimper followed.
"Hello..?" Her voice was small now but still insistent.
She ventured into the darkness. Her footsteps were small but purposeful, her way illuminated only by the lamp.
A short flurry of movement came from the side, only to stop a second later. She turned toward it and moved closer.
Now quaking with fear, she hesitated to tread forward.
She came to stand in front of a large wardrobe, covered in linen like the rest of the items in the room.
Oh, she hoped she hadn't stumbled on some ghost or witchcraft shenanigan their lady might be performing.
As she stood in front of it, her skin prickled with unease, the hair on her neck standing on end. She reached out shaky hands to part the cloth aside. Her fingers bent to pull down the shutter. She was quaking at this point but committed to finding out what was happening.
Slowly, she raised her lamp to see between the darkened spaces.
Green orbs with golden flecks stared back at her, tears at their rims.
She shrieked, stumbling back in fright, hitting what she thought was a solid wall. Insistent muffled murmurs came from the wardrobe. The hairs on her arms and neck stood on end before she felt the warmth of the "wall" and realized, with sudden dread—it wasn't a wall, but the expanse of a muscled frame.
A strong arm gripped her, and a cold metal pressed to her neck. Her eyes widened and jerked once more to the shutter, seeing the eyes behind it widen in fright, and in the next moment, her throat was slit open.
She didn't have enough time. Everything dulled for her as she tried futilely to clutch her rapidly bleeding neck, spraying blood. A frightful, insistent murmur rang out until she dropped, bleeding to death.
•••
"Argh! We should just go find her," a gruff voice grunted.
"Hold your horses. The others will arrive soon with her." The impatient man turned to his accomplice, scowling behind his mask that covered the lower half of his face. A haggard scar ran across his narrow left eye, his foot tapping impatiently.
"You know, I heard she's a cold beauty, but it doesn't matter. The body will be warm, and I don't mind as long as—"
A gruff chuckle escaped the other man. "You never change, mate. Must you sample all the women we kill?" A whimper drew the man's gaze to the child on the ground, now next to the dead woman. The spray of blood coated half of his face and his white nightwear. His bloodied small palms, which had once been in the puddle, were now wrapped around his small frame as he tried to wrap his feeble mind around the whole situation.
The maidservant was dead?!
That's what these men who kidnapped him said after checking her body.
A bark of laughter. "Look at him. He's still so shaken up." The man bent to Theodore's level.
"Hey, kid," he tried to get Theodore's attention, but the boy's eyes remained downcast. "Cheer up. At your age, I wasn't shaken by blood."
"Yeah, because you were already covered in it," the other man snorted.
"Hey! I'm trying to tell a story here," he called back to his chuckling accomplice.
"Kid!" He turned back to Theodore, poking him on the side of his trembling frame.
"Poor kid," he teased.
"Guess what, kid? This guy here is gonna ravage your mama. You know, the things mama and papa do. Only this time, your mama will cry and beg—"
"He doesn't have a papa," the scar-eyed man corrected in front of Theodore.
"Look at you, soaking up information about the victims. Why do I care? A kill is a kill. If we're lucky enough, we'll find treasures to take."
As the scarred man chuckled and turned to the kid, he saw him trembling harder but slowly raising his head, mumbling something.
As his gaze met the child's, only then did he hear the words.
"I have a papa." The child's eyes were dazed and blank, the golden flecks reflected by the burning lamp beside them, but behind that gaze lay a look so fierce and sharp that it made the man lose his bearings. In the next second, powder was blown into his eyes from the young boy's now dried bloodied palm.
"ARGH!" he shouted in fury, and Theodore acted fast, getting to his feet, kicking the lamp far away from them, and running.
The other man checked on his partner, who was still crying out, "The bastard blew something in my eyes!"
"Shit. Kid!!!" the man roared in annoyance as the child ran past the door.
The next second, both of them started coughing as their eyes watered.
•••
Theodore ran out the door and into the arms of his mother, Lucinda.
"Theodore!" Lucinda cried as she wrapped her arms around her child, her bloodied, brave child.
She had arrived a few moments ago, at the peak of the carnage. A dead maid, her bloodied son next to the corpse, and those bloody assassins. Trying to sneak into the room, her son had seen her and somehow concocted a plan to escape. Whatever he did to that assassin had worked, but it wasn't her intention for him to act. Her poor boy, who should have been dazed and crying, was silent and had risked a lot to get to her.
It was her turn to be strong—to put him out of harm's way. She pulled back to assess his features in the dark. Spots of dried blood dotted his face, unshed tears rimmed his eyes.
"My child…" she put a hand to her mouth, stifling the sob.
"Mama, there's no time. We have to go," Theodore's voice was small but distressed. Only then did Lucinda hear the groaning of the assassins stumbling around inside.
She got her bearings, a fierce look in her gaze as she stood and unsheathed something from her hand. The menacing cool metal of the blade gleamed in the moonlit hallway. Only then did Theodore see it, and his eyes widened in wonder. She gripped the hilt tighter, held Theodore's hand, and nodded at her little boy. They took off running down the hall just as the assassins broke free from the room and ran after them with disoriented shouts.
Three more assassins trickled in from other corners and were hot on their heels.