Light was an intruder in the Saint-Hayes' manor, never welcomed beyond the fire that lit Llyod Saint-Hayes's common room. To Llyod, it was the very thing that kept him sane, resting in his green leather lounger by the fireplace, whiskey in hand, watching the crackling flames tear apart wood like a sweet melody. He found comfort in the solitude, knowing his seven children and tiresome wife wouldn't want to be near the element that could kill their kind.
A sparkling chandelier reflects the fire. It holds red glossy candles, its wax dripping down on the golden holders. A drop falls from the holder, landing on the dark wooden floor.
Splat. Like blood, it stains.
The common room was a work of art. Emerald gold walls paint the room as ancient but elegant. Its walls hung gothic art, from Romanesque paintings of skulls, and warriors of ancient battlegrounds to Duccio di Buoninsegna portraits of The Cathedral.
The French and the Greeks inspired the aesthetics and the philosophical beauty of the Saint-Hayes Manor.
Ribbed vaults sloped up its high-rise ceiling. The corners of the room were crafted of Greek pillars, sculpted into mythic Gods and vicious Bloodhounds.
The common room had always been Llyod's favorite place to rest. He had an entire Victorian mansion, and 20,000 square feet of land to roam and lounge. But there was no other place he could drop his eyes for more than ten seconds than this room.
He tore his eyes from the fire to glance beside him. A glass of scotch sits on a torchiere stand. The ice reflected the fire like a mirror. He takes a flask from his robe pocket, and his pale wrinkled hand begins to pour red liquid into the glass slowly from the flask, dyeing the scotch garnet, like creamer in coffee.
When there's nothing left to pour, he raises the glass with his sharp fingertips and swirls it around like wine. Llyod downs the drink in one gulp aggressively. He growls at the sudden chill that enters his body. His eyes are bloodshot but satisfied. The whiskey clanks against the torchiere stand once again, the red ice the only thing remaining.
It wasn't Magician blood, but did the job just right.
The fireplace continues to crackle for a brief moment, and Lloyd's hands rest on the edge of the lounger, relaxed.
Abruptly, the fire fades. Llyod's hand twitches, tensing in shock before recovering to its comfortable position when he recognizes the woman by the door. He felt his fingers curling, a sudden urge to throw his glass across the wall.
A beautiful middle-aged woman is stilled by the double door, dressed in a silk white evening gown that is tinted red at the hems. Her pale face mimicked an angel sculpture from Greece, her features dainty but uncanny. Her dark hair glowed from the light of the moon that befell from the open skylight.
Allegra Landis Saint-Hayes conveyed patience and grace by the double doors of the common room, but from the twitch of her left eye, her expression came off begrudged.
"Rationing the fare, are we?"
Lloyd sits up against his lounger, annoyance ridden in his bloodshot eyes.
Allegra stared at him in resentment, but she knew better than to snap at the man. Even married to him for twenty-four years, she still flinched from his sick pale skin, his red eyes darkening against the moonlight. A pink scar runs down from his left forehead to the creep of his black turtleneck. His legs were spread against the cushion in an exhausted position but he looked ruthless.
"Your tone is ever so bothersome," he mutters grimly.
Allegra's eyes narrow, her smile still plastered on her face. But her blue eyes darkened.
"My tone is a parody of my mood, my lord. Even I have my lines to draw," she bit back.
Llyod averts his eyes to the fireplace. "There was no need to wither the fire," he says as a smug stains his face. "Oh dear, are you scared of getting burned?"
Allegra's smile drops, her mouth lifting in a foul expression. She moves forward, her heels clicking until she halts in front of the torchiere stand. Her sharp red nails graze the glass of red ice. She lifts it by its ridge and brings it to her nose.
Her blue eyes widen, her pupils dilating until it's pitch black, the rims red.
"Animal blood. How foul of you."
Llyod lips thinned, anger coursing through him at the insult his wife had just said. He restrained himself.
"Halloween is yet to come. Until then the manor shall ration."
Allegra places the glass down, her eyes twitching as she expressively withholds any negative emotion. "And what shall my son drink—"
"Your nimble son shall drink the pig blood stored for him." His voice was venomous with dictatorship. "If any of the lots have a problem with Lars's confines of blood they can all settle it with the tip of my blade."
Allegra briefly stares him down, anger brewing in her eyes as she dares not utter a word. Llyod's eyes did not lift to meet his wife.
She felt the need to battle with him. She hated it when a man had the final word. She was not one to be ordered. At one point in her life, no man or woman would ever defy her the way her husband does. At one point she was a feared Ghoul. Not a wife who beckons to that of a monster.
She turns around and walks.
Lloyd tilted his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his finger. "Put back my fire—"
"The Darkness will return my lord. Don't expect your children not to seek out blood before Halloween. Ashtaroth will still be summoned either way."
Allegra leaves the common room.
Llyod lets out an irritated sigh. He taps his fingers against the edge of the chair. Eyeing the glass of red ice.
He didn't expect his wife to understand the conflict awaiting them during Halloween. The vessel is being watched but in historic times they'd always been unpredictable. Ashtaroth is meant to appear in the coming weeks, but no one knows when he'll take over the vessel. The Darkness was awaiting, and it was close.
Ashtaroth is The Darkness. And he's coming to burn the world.
The fire returns, burning the woods and lighting the common room in a warm glaze.