Of course, Lucinda Applecott knew of the Occult Collection. She knew of what Uncle Augustus referred to as his 'academic interest', kept largely to himself because, he would often say, 'the coward's mind resents the daring'. Much of her own interest in things that went beyond what, to her, had always felt so tiringly trivial, she owed to his; though she would prefer to attribute it to her insatiability, to the commendable drive of a pioneer.
She had snuck peeks of some works, had dared to read almost half a volume once, on the rare occasions when Uncle Augustus read, among his sappy novels, in the north wing's library. But she had never been granted permission to peruse the Occult Collection for herself, and so she had not realised that Uncle Augustus was no mere dabbler, no hobbyist she had secretly admonished for being no better than a coward who had taken a few steps into the dungeon, making sure to keep the entrance in sight. The bladed quill, its crimson ink a token of more than just courage, proved her wrong.
Uncle Augustus was serious.
No, not just that. Uncle Augustus may have been on to something. He may have been the pioneer she, in what was now painfully shown as the foolish grandeur of youth, had fancied herself.
[You're really hammering home her insecurities, you know. Not that I mind.]
Lucinda Applecott jumped from her thoughts, which had held her in place in what, she briefly considered, must have looked too much like fear, when the Vampire rose before her like a demon ascending from the depths. He grabbed the quill and -
"Lucy?! How dare--"
Her heart sank deeper and faster than she ever thought possible. The voice of her uncle, shrill and irate like never before, full with the stinging disappointment she had tried to steel herself against for all her life, but not quite the same. Deeper disappointment, much deeper. The disappointment of despair.
Words failed her as she slowly turned around, bracing herself and realising that she was trembling, more scared of this man, this mere man, skinny and weak and not even all that much older than her, than she was of the Vampire.
[Ouch. Could have done without that.]
But when her eyes fell upon him, she froze all over again.
Uncle Augustus was covered in blood. Layers of crimson, from dried to fresh, caked his head, his face, seeping into or through, or both, his clothes. The night gown he wore looked shredded, as if left out in a storm of blades. Most patches of his pale skin looked bruised and cut, but surely not all of that blood could be his, not possibly.
It took her embarrassingly long to realize that he had not ceased his admonishment intentionally. His eyes, usually watery and maddeningly tame, now bloodshot and alert, the eyes of both predator and prey, were locked on the space next to her. On the figure of the Vampire.
The Vampire's presence was suddenly comforting. A strange sense of safety overcame her, of standing next to an ally. Without the oppressive force of her uncle's gaze, she dared turn towards him and felt encouraged in these thoughts. For the Vampire had rose to his full height, taller, she felt, than he had appeared to her in the Gardens, his cape billowing in a breeze she did not feel, his face like thunder. Neither smile nor smirk took off the edge of his features. He looked furious.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
He took a very deliberate step towards Uncle Augustus. In a fleeting moment, for which she would reprimand herself days later, Lucinda Applecott fancied he had taken a protective step in front of her, rather than a threatening step towards the hunter, caged in his own home.
"No!" cried Uncle Augustus. "You can not, you will not hurt me!"
He sounded desperate, satisfyingly so, with his voice still shrill and strained, but he was speaking with impressive conviction. She couldn't help but feel impressed, an impression that faded when Uncle Augustus continued, staking his claim too high, biting off more than he could chew. Not knowing his place.
"I am your master! I am the one who has summoned you!"
The Vampire's face was obstructed, but he did not appear to react to this incredible claim. He took a second step, no faster or slower than his first. Uncle Augustus winced.
"Can you not see?!" he asked - no, pleaded. "The marks of the Blood Ritual upon me! The marks that designate me one of You!"
Another step, almost cruel. By this point, Lucinda Applecott felt no fear at all. She was out of the lines of fire, both of them. Tension gave way to, of all things, pity. Her Uncle was no pioneer. He had attempted something big, something powerful, and it had failed. But he had not yet accepted that.
The Vampire laughed. A savage laugh, a taunting laugh, devoid of amusement but full of power. She could see the glint of his fangs reflected in her uncle's wide eyes. Mirrors to his fate.
"Insolent Wreck," the Vampire boomed, the force of his words, the first words in her uncle's presence, seemed to reverberate from the shelves. She heard the rustling of paper.
"You claim what has been stolen from Us. You play with it, ignorant, mortal," the word spoken with such visceral disgust, it made her Uncle flinch. "You soil it with your weakness, tainting it with lesser blood."
A pause.
"You are not worthy."
[Shivers.]
He took another step, then another, holding out a hand.
"Return it to me. Return it to me and you will bless the pain as a mercy."
[Not sold on this one, but I wasn't thinking straight at the time, you understand.]
Pressure, overwhelming pressure, made her bloodied, pathetic uncle shrink.
"NOW!"
But Uncle Augustus would find himself unable to comply. For Uncle Augustus had fainted dead away.
----------------------------------------
Several hours later, Lucinda Applecott stood by the secret entrance of Uncle Augustus' ritual chamber, hidden in the catacombs she had never known were there. Several corpses lay on the floor, adrift in a shallow puddle of blood. To her, it looked like a bottomless lake. She dared not make out any of the faces, fearing the stories they would tell. It's not like she cared for their lives, not really. But while a living person is just another extra, just more background noise accentuating the story of her life, a dead person is a grim reminder of mortality. A dead person becomes a symbol far greater than their lives could ever have been. A dead person held power over her, and Lucinda Applecott did not approve.
Amidst the dead, his boots and cape heavy with blood, the Vampire stood over a stone slab upon which he had spread out the scattered pages of the Tome. He cursed and struck the altar with his fist more than once, and though Lucinda Applecott was not listening, she made out just enough to understand two things.
First, this was not the full Tome of UnDeath. There were not enough pages. What Uncle Augustus had bought was a pamphlet at best. His broken fingers proved that no pages had been hidden. Uncle Augustus had shown some courage, initially, but Lucinda knew, understood intuitively, that he was not the kind to chose pride over the avoidance of pain.
Second, more worryingly, the Vampire could not decipher most of the text. The writing across all pages, though she would only see it first-hand later, was cramped and jagged, looking discouragingly illegible at first, yet still tauntingly intelligible. Uncle Augustus had claimed to have deciphered only very little, his eagerness to obtain the Vampire Blessing - the Gift of UnDeath - taking hold of him the moment he believed to have gleaned enough.
The Vampire, it seemed, gleaned even less.
How strange, she thought. Why would a Vampire be unable to read his own tongue?
Was this something other than the Tome of UnDeath after all?
Or perhaps..
But no, it seemed such a ridiculous thought. Her very mind rebelled against it, forbidding it to form.
...
Still, could it be..?
[Oh no you don't. I refuse to believe she had any idea. Not this early. No revisionism, please and thank you!]
[...]
[Well, not this kind at least.]