XV - The Facade Crumbles, The Battle Begins

  Sleep was rare for Osmond. The worse the Plague became in his caravan, the more restless he grew. Were it not for Dr. Frost’s efforts to keep the terrible disease at bay, he very well may have never slept again.

  Between his hours of fitful rest, he liked to wander the caravan, walking up and down its length until he became weary enough to return to his carriage and once again attempt to sleep. He rarely saw anybody during these walks besides the occasional sentry at their post, but he did not mind the seclusion. It gave him time to reflect on the day that has come to an end, as well as to prepare for the one ahead, and to clear his mind of any lingering woes.

  He was on one of these isolated walks when he saw the figure standing ahead of him in the darkness. Osmond paid the figure no mind at first, assuming it to be a sentry or another restless traveller, until he drew closer and the person’s face became clear. Standing in the darkness, almost appearing to be wreathed in the gloom, was Dr. Frost.

  “Good evening, Mr. Osmond,” she said with a pleasant, radiant smile.

  “Oh,” Osmond said. “Good evening, Dr. Frost. I’m surprised to see you awake at this hour.”

  “I’ve been an enjoyer of the night for as long as I can remember,” she said passively. “Actually, I am glad to see you right now, as there is something I was hoping to discuss with you.”

  Osmond frowned. “Right now? Are you certain this cannot wait until morning? I was just preparing to retire—”

  “It is urgent,” she said suddenly. “But do not worry. I shan’t take up much of your time.”

  Her eyes seemed to glow white, reminding Osmond of moonlight reflecting off of freshly fallen snow. And suddenly he felt unable to deny her.

  ___

  The girl moved briskly through the night, slipping between carriages and stepping over snuffed out campfires on the way to her destination. With most of the night’s flames extinguished, she was guided by little more than the pale light of the moon, but this was no matter—she had grown used to such nighttime errands. And besides, her vision was stronger now than it had ever been in her life.

  Before long she found herself at the rear of the caravan. The final few moments of her walk were guided by the soft glow of a dying flame that told her the person she wanted to see was thankfully still awake, and would hopefully be willing to leave the comfort of his campfire in order to assist her.

  She found Vlad Albescu sitting crosslegged on the ground in front of his fire, gazing into the flames. He noticed her surprisingly quickly and turned to look at her, smiling until he saw the worry plastered across her face. “Felice?” he said. “Is something wrong?”

  “Thank the Mother you’re awake, Mr. Albescu,” Felice said. “It’s Mr. Osmond. He’s suddenly collapsed, and appears to be in a terrible way.”

  This news spurred Vlad to his feet. “Is it Plague?”

  “I do not think so,” she said. “Dr. Frost believes it may be his heart. She is tending to him now, but she needs help. She sent me to come fetch you, saying that you are likely the one best capable of assisting her.”

  “Do not worry, Felice,” he said. “Allow me to rouse Night Owl and we shall come with you posthaste.”

  Felice shook her head. “There is no time. Dr. Frost needs help immediately, or she might lose him! I can wake Sybil for you and send her after you.”

  “Very well,” Vlad said. “Please inform her of where I went once she is awake. Where are Mr. Osmond and Dr. Frost?”

  “In the forest near his carriage,” she said. “He must have been on one of his nighttime walks when he collapsed.”

  “Alright,” he said. “Thank you for coming to inform me. And worry not, Felice. We will do all that we can for Mr. Osmond.”

  The Plague doctor departed, moving with a step faster than Felice thought the old man was capable of. When he had disappeared into the darkness, Felice turned and made her way closer to his smouldering fire. Sleeping in front of it, her back leaned against a tree stump, was Sybil. Felice figured that she must have drifted off while resting in the warmth of the blaze. Her closed eyelids rested peacefully while her breaths came in the form of deep, easy sighs. Long shadows danced gently across her face, spurred on by the nearby fire. Never had she looked so pretty.

  It was such a terrible shame that she was about to die.

  Felice pulled a dagger out from its sheathe behind her back. She twisted it around in her hand until its sinister end was angled downward; beautiful moonlight bounced off of its blade as it shifted through the darkness like a silent phantom. In a matter of moments it was ready to fulfill its purpose.

  Felice leaned over her sleeping friend and smiled. “My apologies, dear Sybil,” she whispered. “As much as I’ve taken a liking to you, I cannot allow you to stand in Master Vivienne’s way.”

  She raised the dagger high above her shoulder, allowing it to linger in the air for a moment where it caught the cascading moonlight one final time before achieving its goal. After taking some time to savor the moment, Felice lunged the blade downward in a swift, deadly arc.

  ___

  Which is when Sybil made her move.

  Opening her eyes, she immediately slashed at her attacker with her own brandished blade, which glistened beautifully as it impacted against Felice’s weapon. Silver clashed against steel in the ethereal moonlight. The unexpected resistance caused Felice to stagger toward the fire; she almost dropped her dagger and then herself into the gently crackling blaze. Sybil used this moment to scramble to her feet. She faced her foe with her dagger held in front of her chest, ready to lash out like a viper at the next opportunity. Her arm ached with the force of their clash; Felice had struck with greater strength than a girl of her stature should have been able to muster.

  Felice grimaced, the surprise obvious on her face. “Sybil?! But I—I thought you—”

  “Did you truly think Mr. Albescu would be so foolish as to fall for your act?” Sybil said. Bright orange firelight glinted in her eyes. “He has outsmarted opponents far older and far more clever than the likes of you!”

  Felice’s surprised grimace turned into a deadly scowl. “So he left you here to contend with me while he went after Master Vivienne, did he? My master was correct about the two of you after all, then. She feared you were out to destroy her, and she had the right of it!”

  “I didn’t want to believe that your mentor was a nosferatu,” Sybil said, “but I suppose the truth can no longer be denied. Why do you ally yourself with a monster like Dr. Frost, Felice? What hold does that vile creature of the night have on you?”

  “Monster?” Felice sounded disgusted by the moniker. “Vile creature? You would do well to hold your tongue, Sybil. I will not allow you to insult my master with such despicable words!”

  Felice darted forward, overtaken with a fresh rage. She swung violently at Sybil—a clumsy, angry attack that her opponent was easily able to avoid with a nimble dodge. Another slice produced similar results; Sybil handily parried the blow, deflecting the attack as the clang of both daggers echoed through the night. Her arm burned with the impact. She felt certain that Felice had in fact been turned into Dr. Frost’s familiar. Her heightened strength was going to be something to consider, but she appeared to lack any and all skill with her weapon, which might have given Sybil the edge.

  After two more avoided blows, Felice, growing tired, took a few large backward steps away from her foe. She huffed and puffed violently, her body still quivering with rage. Her hair fell into her face in a messy, stringy heap. “Master Vivienne saved me from my miserable peasant’s life. She took me in as her apprentice, and she promised to transform me into not only a great apothecary with her vast knowledge of forgotten medicine, but when the time is right, to also make me just like her.” The girl used her free hand to swipe her sweaty hair away from her face. “I owe her everything! And I will prove my loyalty to her by disposing of you.”

  Felice went back on the offensive. She slashed at Sybil once more, and this time, Sybil was barely able to avoid the blow. Another attack came in, and Sybil struggled to deflect it with her own blade. It was clear that Felice had fought to quickly regain her composure, and she had grown more deadly as a result. Her heightened abilities, as slight as they appeared to be, were now shining through.

  Sybil dodged another attack. “So you will sacrifice your humanity to serve a creature that has long since lost hers?” she said. “You would turn a blind eye to her evil deeds in order to further the pursuit of your own selfish ambitions?”

  Another slash, another deflection. Felice backed off slightly, catching her breath. “Master Vivienne saves lives with her medicine, Sybil. You have seen as much for yourself. How can you harbor such contempt for her?”

  “Because I have also seen what horrors a creature like Dr. Frost is capable of,” Sybil said. “I have experienced them for myself, firsthand. And I shall not allow such a nightmarish abomination to continue its reign of terror!”

  “And I shall not allow you to besmirch my master’s name,” Felice said. “That woman is a saint in my eyes. She freed me from nothing less than a miserable existence. The day she slew that wretched peasant family of mine was the day she saved my life!”

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  “She slew your—” The revelation stunned Sybil. Her fingers suddenly went numb, and she was uncertain if she was still actually holding her blade. “You mean to say that Dr. Frost killed your family—your parents, your siblings—and you actually joined her?”

  “I did,” Felice admitted, “and it was the greatest decision I have ever made.”

  The icy numbness that infected Sybil’s body threatened to send her to her knees, but she managed to chase it away before it could overwhelm her and replaced it with a fresh, burning anger. Her grip tightened around the hilt of her dagger. “I… I can’t believe what I am hearing. She took everything from you, and you… you worship her for it. I called Dr. Frost the vile creature, but you are every bit as inhuman as she. Worry not about waiting for her to turn you into a strigoi, Felice—it is clear that you are already a monster.”

  And with that, it was Sybil’s turn to go on the offensive.

  She lunged at Felice with a renewed vigor, catching her opponent by surprise. Felice dodged the incoming blade, which barely missed its mark before it came toward her again in the form of a vicious slash. Felice brought her dagger up in a desperate attempt to block; the two blades clanged off each other once again, the force of the blow staggering her backwards. Sybil’s arm rattled with the blow, but she did not relent. She lunged at Felice again, the shimmering weapon aimed at her foe’s chest. Felice managed to recover and dodge out of the way, but not before the deadly length of silver slid along her upper arm, slicing through her sleeve and opening a thin line of crimson. Felice gasped as blood escaped from the shallow gash in her flesh.

  “Does that hurt, Felice?” Sybil asked. She slashed at Felice’s head, but her opponent ducked away from the incoming blow. “Can you feel your warm essence leaving your body? Well that pain is an infinitesimal fraction of what your family endured at the hands of the master that you now serve!”

  Sybil, blinded by rage, lunged at her foe again. Felice nimbly stepped out of the blade’s path, revealing Vlad’s coach behind her in the gloom. Sybil, unable to slow her momentum in time, watched helplessly as she embedded her own dagger into the wood of the coach, sending up splinters as the blade sunk into the old timber. She tried to pull the weapon free, but it held tight, and she was unable to loosen it before Felice’s own blade was coming in for a retaliating strike.

  Sybil was forced to release her grip on her stuck weapon in order to avoid the incoming blow. Felice, now back on the offensive and pressing her advantage, slashed at her unarmed opponent. All Sybil could do was dodge as a flurry of swift, deadly attacks came her way. Felice’s blade finally caught Sybil in the shoulder, creating a new crimson line in her foe’s skin that matched her own. Sybil cried out with the fresh, hot pain. Felice, emboldened by her connecting attack, went in for another lunge. Sybil barely managed to move out of the way of the attack, and, in a move that surprised herself as much as it did her opponent, she quickly grasped onto Felice’s wrist with both of her hands. Both girls began desperately grappling for the dagger in Felice’s grip, its blade swaying back and forth between their waiting torsos.

  Sybil, once again surprising both girls present, slammed her forehead into Felice’s face with all the force that she could muster. She felt something shift against her skull as a gush of blood splashed into her hair. Pain overtook her aching head, and she fell away from her opponent as the dagger slipped from both of their grips. Sybil staggered for a few steps before she fell to one knee, overwhelmed by the agony that ran through her head and neck. She fully expected Felice to lunge at her while she was on the ground, skewering her through the chest and ending their bout once and for all, but the blow never came.

  She soon recovered enough that she could struggle back to her feet, her swimming double vision reuniting into a single entity. Sybil looked around as she approached Vlad’s coach, cautiously searching for her foe, but Felice was nowhere to be seen. She reached the spot where she had headbutted the other girl, and saw the pool of blood on the ground that told her she had likely broken Felice’s nose. The other girl continued to elude her.

  “Where is she?” Sybil said out loud. Her own voice sounded far away to her still pounding head.

  She made it to the coach, and quickly found that her silver dagger was gone from its spot in the splintered wood. Clearly Felice had armed herself with it, but instead of attempting to re-engage with Sybil, she had seemingly crept off into the night. A trail of dripping blood led into the waiting darkness.

  Sybil searched the space immediately surrounding the coach for a few more moments until she was certain that her enemy was truly gone. When she was sure that she was alone, she made her way to the rear of the coach and retrieved her crossbow and quiver from inside. She quickly loaded her crossbow, threw her quiver over her shoulder, and slipped away into the gloom.

  “I’m coming, Mr. Albescu,” she said.

  ___

  Vlad rushed through the caravan, his beaked mask shaking at his belt as he made his way deeper into the darkness of night. It took him several long minutes to successfully navigate his way to Osmond’s carriage. When he arrived, he found Dr. Frost waiting for him in front of the carriage, her normally calm, collected demeanour visibly replaced with worry.

  “Mr. Albescu,” she said, walking up to him. “Thank the Goddess you have come.”

  “I arrived with as much haste as I could permit,” Vlad said, stopping in front of her. “Where is Mr. Osmond?”

  “This way.” she gestured into the darkness beyond the treeline. “Near the river. We need to move him immediately!”

  She led the way through the waiting gloom. Vlad took a hesitant step after her into the trees.

  “Odd that he would collapse in the forest so far away from his carriage,” Vlad said as they walked, “and you would be fortunate enough to stumble upon him.”

  “I know where he enjoys taking his evening strolls,” Frost explained. “I had come to his carriage to see if he was awake—there was something I wanted to discuss with him—and when I found he was absent, I went searching for him.”

  “And why did you send for me, at the rear of the caravan, to come assist you all the way at the foremost point?” he asked. “Certainly there are plenty of able bodies between here and there. Mr. Brant or any of his sentries could have rendered the aid needed.”

  “I needed a practitioner of medicine that I could trust to not make matters worse. There is no telling what sensitive state Mr. Osmond might be in, and Brant and his men would certainly lack any care in his transport. He is far too large for me to lift, even with Felice’s assistance. You are the only person who could help us.” She glanced back at him and frowned. “These questions of yours are wasting precious time, Mr. Albescu. We must tend to Mr. Osmond posthaste!”

  Vlad came to a sudden stop. Frost, realising that her companion had halted, did the same. She turned to face him, her frown lengthening. Vlad reached for his Plague mask and unhooked it from his belt.

  “I believe you and I both know that you do not need my assistance to move Mr. Omsond,” Vlad said. “In fact, I am quite certain that you would be able to lift him on your own with ease, and likely with a single hand at that, Dr. Frost.”

  For a long time, there was silence. Vlad and Frost stared at each other from either ends of the chasm of space between them, an ocean of forest threatening to swallow them both. Then her laugh came echoing through the trees.

  “Then Felice was correct,” Frost said. “You truly have discovered our secret.”

  Vlad said nothing. He held his mask in his left hand, and felt the fingers on his right twitch instinctively, his grip yearning for the hilt of his sword.

  “I was hoping you would be foolish enough to postpone your plans to destroy me if it meant coming to the aid of another,” Frost went on. She smirked at him, revealing a new pair of slender, deadly white fangs. They strangely accentuated her already limitless beauty. “I thought you may lower your guard if you thought me unaware of your plan to slay me. After all, if I did not know who you truly were, I would have no reason to draw attention to myself by killing you.” She chuckled again. “Evidently you saw through my deception.”

  “I discerned your ruse before you had even the chance to concoct it in that vile, black mind of yours,” Vlad said. He pulled his mask over his face and fastened it tightly, hiding his focused scowl. A moment later, his cowl was pulled up over his head. “Now come, why not tell me what it is that you have actually done to the good Mr. Osmond?”

  “Why waste words when I can show you just as well?” she said. “Come out, Mr. Osmond. The Plague doctor would like to see you.”

  Long seconds passed before Vlad heard the shuffling. Soon he saw a large, rotund form come shambling out of the nearby shadows. It stopped next to Frost, and he could see by the light of the moon that it was none other than Mr. Osmond. His face was pale, matching his vacant white eyes that were entirely devoid of thought and life.

  “The… Plague doctor…” Osmond muttered, his voice breathy and very distant. “Albescu… Mr. … Mr. Albescu… Plague… doctor… Plague… Plague…”

  Vlad studied Osmond’s absent countenance, then returned his attention to Frost. “Hypnosis, hm? That is hardly the technique of a young or amateur strigoi. You are quite the aged nosferatu, indeed. Just as I suspected.” He paused. “Aged… and powerful.”

  “I mastered such a simple technique long before you were ever born,” she said with a casual, vicious smirk. “I do not employ it often, but when I do, it produces stellar results. It so easily enables me to suggest mortals to my bidding…” She raised a single slender, clawed index finger to her mouth and ran her tongue against its sharpened edge. “... or to effortlessly slice open their throats without the slightest hint of resistance.”

  “So you will use Mr. Osmond as a shield, will you?” Vlad said. “One incorrect move on my part and you will bleed him like a swine.” He shook his head. “I cannot say I am surprised. I expect such cowardly tactics from all strigoi—and you are no exception.”

  “I do not wish to harm such a wonderful, generous man as Mr. Osmond,” Frost said, “especially considering that we’ve still a long ways to Ardvent, and I would hate to give up this fantastic little arrangement, but I will begrudgingly do what I must. A cornered fox is left with little choice, no?” She stepped closer to Osmond and raised that same clawed finger to his plump, eager neck. “Offer yourself in his place, and I will gladly let the man live. After all, this world would be a far better place with Mr. Osmond still living in it—and with one less Plague doctor infesting it with his filth.”

  Vlad stood staring at the vampyre and her victim for several eternities. He desired nothing more than to take Frost’s offer, to exchange himself for Osmond so that the man could go free. But despite his wants, he knew what he had to do—and it was not to give in to the nosferatu’s demands.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Osmond,” he said to the hypnotized man. “You have done well by me, and I regret that you’ve been caught in this terrible creature’s grip.” Vlad sighed. “But there are still many souls that I have yet to protect from such nightmarish monsters as this, and so I cannot give up my own life in order to save yours.”

  Osmond gazed on with that same blank, empty stare. Frost, however, looked surprised, her mouth hanging slightly agape for the briefest of moments. “You would so selfishly choose to preserve your own life over the life of the man who so graciously took you into his fold?”

  “Call it selfish if you will,” Vlad said, “but I know that my cause is just. Mr. Osmond was lost the moment you took him under your spell. You never had a single intention of letting either of us return to the caravan alive.”

  Frost’s earlier surprise dominated her face once more—she could no longer disguise the shock that so terribly rattled her. But that look of surprise quickly turned into an angry, hateful scowl.

  The nosferatu acted almost too quickly for Vlad’s eyes to follow. Her clawed hand slid along Osmond’s throat, cutting it open from ear to ear with the effort it would have taken her to scrape warm butter. Crimson blood escaped from the gash in violent spurts, running down his neck and staining his shirt. Osmond was dead before his body hit the ground; the display of distant apathy never left his face, even as the life faded from his eyes.

  Frost licked at the dark blood that dribbled from her sharp fingers, then shook the liquid away with a quick flick of her wrist. “It appears that such tricks will not work on you. Never matter. I have slain many of your ilk before without the need for pawns like poor Mr. Osmond.”

  In the blink of an eye, the woman was changed. Gone was the beautiful, elegant Dr. Frost, and in her place stood a pale, nightmarish hellspawn whose gorgeous crystalline eyes were now two burning spheres of malice and hatred. Her once tame, neatly combed head of hair instantly fell before her face in long, unruly rivulets that appeared to each have separate minds of their own. Her fangs and claws elongated, eager to perform the dastardly task ahead of them.

  “When you meet those other Plague doctors in hell, you can tell them you were delivered there by the great vampyre Vivienne Frost.”