Claimed by the Prince of Darkness-Chapter 121: He Who Waits

In the open casket lay Lady Irina’s body, her eyes closed in peace. The violence that had claimed her was hidden beneath a silk gown arranged with care. Her hands were folded upon her chest.

Black soil had been dug from the frozen ground and laid upon the snow that refused to melt, as though winter itself sought to keep her a moment longer.

"...a soul that never weakened but fought until her final breath. A brave woman. A devoted wife and mother," the priest spoke in a grave voice. "We return to the earth what was shaped by it and entrust to eternity. May her rest be undisturbed and her memory keep her among us."

Families close to Lord Azriel and Lady Irina were gathered around as the priest spoke. They were dressed in dark coats and mourning veils. When it was time for farewell, Lord Azriel knelt next to his wife, kissing her lips and then her forehead, where his lips lingered five seconds longer before he pulled himself away.

Dane followed next, kissing his mother’s cheek just as he used to in the past. His rigid hand fixed a strand of her hair.

"Lucian," Lord Azriel called his youngest son, who hadn’t moved from where he stood and wore a calmer expression.

Lucian walked to the head of the casket before he knelt beside his mother, who looked like she was asleep. His hand reached hers as he watched her, as if giving her a silent promise.

After a few minutes, the casket was closed. It was lowered into the ground. Soon the grave was filled with soil and the ground was smoothed before a headstone was set in place.

As days began to pass, the Slaters’ Mansion didn’t notice the passage of time.

Dane, who once spent his days beyond the mansion walls, shut himself inside with old books and parchments which were forbidden to be used, while the younger Slater turned to the training grounds with a focus that spoke less of discipline and more of intent to kill.

One afternoon, the head of the housekeeper ordered the servants to draw the curtains back and open the windows for the winter air to leave. Lucian’s room was among the last to be touched, even though his bed remained untouched as if he hadn’t slept in it.

"Master Lucian," said a maid, bowing her head, her voice low. "Where would you like this to be kept?"

Lucian, who was about to leave, paused at the threshold of his room, glancing at the bowl she held in her hand. His gaze fell on the dark soil and he looked at it with indifference.

"Get it out of my sight," he said at last, his voice cold.

The maid carried the bowl down the stairs. She had just reached the last stair and was about to head towards the back of the kitchen, where the dirt and waste were disposed of, when one of the servants called her in a hushed voice.

"Margot, Guillaume is looking for you," the maid informed her, glancing over her shoulder as if wary of being overheard. "He was asking where you kept the sickle. Maude wants the ground cleared before dusk and he’s been in a temper searching for it."

Margot shifted the bowl against her hip with a faint sigh. "I placed it in the stable, just as he asked," she replied with a small frown. "If he had eyes in his head, he would have found it."

The maid then made her way towards the stable, when she caught Guillaume already at work as he pulled the hardened soil in steady strokes to loosen it.

"I see you have found it," the maid sighed, stopping a few paces away.

"Ay," the male servant answered, straightening with a grunt. He harrumphed softly and said, "Found it fallen between the hay." He wiped his brow with the back of his wrist and nodded toward her hands. "And what have you there in your hand?"

The maid brought the bowl close to her face, sniffing it and she answered, "Looks like just mud."

"Maude has ordered for fresh grass to be laid with spring coming," he remarked, turning back to his work, the blade biting into the softened ground. "The ground needs to be prepared."

"Then you may as well have this too. It is just soil," the maid said, tipping the bowl and letting the dark soil slide out. The mud broke apart when it struck the ground. The maid wiped her hands on her apron. "I should go clean the bowl and put it to use." She turned and went back toward the kitchen.

While grief lay buried deep within the Slaters, far beyond the reach of their mourning and their gates, on the other side, the Belmonts, like many other human families, had fled or been driven from their homes and were forced into poorer villages which were away from the towns where people had been massacred.

Right now in Brackenwell, Mrs. Belmont stood by the narrow window, her brows drawn as she watched smoke curl from unfamiliar chimneys.

"Now that the fighting between humans and vampires has ceased," she turned to her husband, who was wearing his coat. "We should be able to return home, Harold."

"We tried," Harold replied, his voice edged with impatience. "The bitten humans and ones that are half turned have turned rogue and roam through the towns. They attack anything that moves." He clicked his tongue in distaste. "We do not know when those rabid creatures will attack us. It is not safe," he shook his head.

He had taken Ruelle with them when they had fled. Not out of tenderness, but out of leverage, only to find later that the minister who had promised him and his family a brighter future was found dead in his carriage during the attacks.

"But some families have returned," Mrs. Belmont pressed, her lips thinning. She had not expected fear to root so deeply in her husband. "The Whitcombs, the Starlings—"

"And they will regret it," Harold replied sharply before softening his tone as he added, "I heard that some of the lower-class humans were angry at us for trying to build an alliance. We are safer here. We can have a better life here. We are wealthier than most in this place. Respect will be given. You will see. New beginnings favour those who arrive with coin."

He moved closer to her, placing his hand on his wife’s shoulder. "We are better off without those sickening vampires near us."

"Sickening vampires," Caroline parroted her father’s words while she sat with a doll in her hand.

"I shall step out and see how matters are faring," Mr. Belmont announced, picking up his cane. The thought of spending another hour within the same four walls had become intolerable to someone like him, who was used to spending his time with men of high status.

"A man must make his presence known," he muttered as he made his way down the road. Perhaps this village required a magistrate, he mused. The thought made him chuckle.

As he was about to pass a low-roofed establishment, the muffled voices of men reached him along with the clatter of coins. Deciding to take a look, he had just entered the place when a man sprang to his feet.

"If it isn’t Mr. Belmont," the man said with a deep bow, the others following suit as their eyes took in Harold’s fine coat and the polish of his boots. "Pray, allow me to fetch a chair. What will you have to drink?"

Another man came forward and asked eagerly, "Mr. Belmont, will you honour us with a game? It would be a privilege to wager with you."

Just as he thought, importance suited him. It always had and Mr. Belmont smiled to himself.

"I have pressing matters. Time is of the essence. You gentlemen can continue." Fools, Mr. Belmont thought to himself.

A snicker rose from the back, "Or perhaps you fear losing to the likes of us?"

Mr. Belmont’s gaze snapped toward the man who had just spoken with a glare. He offered coolly, "Then I ought to show you the strength of my hand."

A chair was drawn out at once and cards were dealt. When Mr. Belmont won the first round, his laughter rang bright in the room. He proudly taunted, "Perhaps you will now remember who Harold Belmont is."

"Luck smiles upon you, Mr. Belmont!" someone in the gathering crowd commented with a nod.

Harold Belmont leaned back in his chair with his eyes settling on the person who had lost coins. His lips twisted in amusement and he suggested, "Another round? You may win your money back." He intended to strip the person’s last coin. To see the person humbled and pleading.

But luck, like respect, was a fickle companion.

Mr. Belmont, who wanted to mock the man, started to lose the games. Coins he had not meant to risk found their way into the growing pile at the centre of the table. In his haste to recover what was lost, he wagered more and lost that too.

And pride was often the downfall of a person.

Back in the Belmonts’ new residence, little Ruelle stood by the window. Her fingers rested against the cold glass as she watched strangers pass along the muddy road. When they had first arrived at Brackenwell, she had slept for a whole day, her head heavy and unresponsive.

And when she woke up, the world felt empty. Like a book from which pages had been torn.

"Ruelle!" Caroline’s voice burst into the room before she did. She hurried to the window, breathless with excitement. "Come play with me. The governess isn’t coming today. Mama said so! We can have the whole afternoon playing."

Ruelle turned her head to look at her sister. She asked softly, "Play what?"

"Anything!" Caroline clasped her hands. "We can play house or tea. Oh or go outside and explore—"

"Caroline," Mrs. Belmont’s stern voice interrupted. "You are not to go outside. Not today. Not until we are certain this place is safe."

Caroline’s smile wilted. "But Mama, everyone is walking about—"

"I said no," Mrs. Belmont’s words were firm. Her gaze shifted to Ruelle and she frowned. Over the past few days, she had kept an eye on Ruelle, as the young girl clutched her head as if in pain since they had arrived here.

"What’s the matter?" Mrs. Belmont asked, and little Ruelle answered, "It hurts. I–I can’t remember—"

"Listen to me," Mrs. Belmont said in a firm voice, "Stop trying to remember whatever it is. If you don’t think, it won’t hurt."

"Come, Ruelle! Let us play house." Caroline tugged at Ruelle’s sleeve impatiently and Ruelle followed her younger sister, leaving the window and forgetting there was someone with whom she once played hide-and-seek.

In the evening, when Mr. Belmont didn’t return home, Mrs. Belmont took a walk and on the way met Mrs. Clifford.

"Good evening, Mrs. Belmont," Mrs. Clifford greeted, while Megan caught sight of the newsletter that the woman carried in her hand.

"I didn’t know there were newsletters distributed here. You wouldn’t mind if I borrow it, do you?" Mrs. Belmont asked with a polite smile.

Mrs. Clifford offered the newsletter before eyeing Mrs. Belmont’s silk dress. She said, "It is pitiful what happened. I am more than happy to introduce you to the women here."

But Mrs. Belmont wasn’t listening to what the woman was saying as her eyes read the news—House Slater Seeks Allied Human Families Connected to the Betrayal.

Her fingers tightened around the newsletter as the colour drained from her face.

They had promised cooperation for the treaty but they had left the place. Were they seeing it as treachery? The newsletter trembled in her hands and she murmured, "I should return home."

They would need to stay low and away from the elites sight! Mrs. Belmont thought to herself and she hoped her husband hadn’t gone to their previous dwelling.

As days passed, the conflict between humans and vampires began to fade leaving only silence behind. And though the balance between them remained uneven, somewhere within the grounds of the Slaters’ mansion, a small green shoot pushed through the soil among the grass...

Back in the present at Sexton, the room lay hushed, save for the soft rhythm of Ruelle’s breathing and the low crackle of the fire from the fireplace. Lucian lay beside her, watching.

"It is fortunate that we did not meet back then," he murmured, his voice scarcely more than a breath. As the corruption in his blood and rage in his bones was what he had felt those initial years.

And by the time they met again, she had erased him from her mind. He exhaled.

"I did not come looking for you," he said, the words calm. His gaze did not waver. "You walked into my life again of your own will. And now that you are here," his fingers tightened slightly in the sheets. "I will not let you leave this time. Even if I must remain...until you choose me of your own will."