“How much of an idiot can you be?” Vukosava screams. There’s got to be something she can do, something that can distract him at least for a while. She’s still got her own equipment, but she can hardly reach them now with this thing right behind them.
Fred is the first to reach the exit, before a great beast plunges its cws into his upper back. All Vukosava can do is watch helplessly with the others, seeing blood pouring out of Fred’s mouth as he gasps for breath. He flops over. The dogman rips his cws out, before reaching deeper, as if wanting to take his organs while they’ve still got warmth in them. After salivating over the meal, the monster grows impatient as Fred punches away - squirming in defiance. Twisting its arms sideways, he splits Fred in two, breaking his spine, sending his lower half spinning away violently. Vukosava can’t do anything. Amber takes her by the arm with tears streaking down her face. The st image Vukosava gets is Fred’s upper half, being thrown about like a chew toy, his gssy eyes disappearing into the maw of the greasy, stinking dog. Its eyes glow in the dark, too human to be that of an animal.
“Fred!” Gregory tries to help him. But the beast doesn’t stop, there’s more meat waiting within reach. As Gregory cries out to his friend, the feral animal sshes at his legs with his cws, and the st thing Vukosava can hear is Gregory screaming at the top of his lungs. Trying to cw himself away.
“You’ve wasted my paint, dog.”
The Eternal Prince sneers at the rabies ridden beat of bck fur.
Its guttural bark contorts into barely legible English. “You promised us a meal, prince.”
“He was under my roof. You have vioted our agreement.”
“Outside of your purview, prince.” The beast snarls. “You said that we could have our way with them. Any that look to escape.”
Vukosava is running away, cursing her weakness and inability to act. The dogmen look at their leader for a moment, despite their bestial nature they still wait for his nod of approval. It’s clear the Prince and the leader of the dogs still have things to discuss. With feral barks, they start going at full pelt - tearing rents into the ground with their sharp cws.
“What was that thing?” Harley cries out.
“His loyal dogs, the brigands he hired to drag Fodor and his guests into this pce.”
“Can Fodor help us?” Amber is still crying, her words spluttering out.
“He was helping us, he gave us warning after fucking warning.” Vukosava growls angrily.
“What can we do?” Mark asks.
“Those dogs don’t have permission to enter. There’s more than one exit.”
“So, we run for one of our cars and book it?” John is staring at Nathen and James, their faces reflecting his hopelessness.
“No. Those dogs can run faster than we can - no matter how fast we run, they can outpace us.” Vukosava reflects aloud, leading the group away, down into the depths of the castle. “There’s one thing we can do; you have spare canvases, right?”
Vukosava doesn’t get an answer right away - the dogs continue to breathe down their necks, they need to get to the room first. They’re pyful - they want to toy with their prey first before killing them. That’s an oversight on their part, Vukosava picks up a rock before pelting it back - causing one of them to yelp in annoyance.
As they rush through an old iron door, Harley snatches up a bone. A femur - she’s already way ahead of the others. The dungeon, of course, Vukosava catches the bone before ramming it through the lock. It’s old and very dense. The dogmen sm into the door - it manages to hold them out. Vukosava’s mind is racing with the yout of the castle, there’s more than one way to outwit a cat. A dog in this case.
“I got the canvases, Vics.” Harley snaps. “What special pn do you have?”
“Well, if they can enter into this world, we can send them back to theirs!”
“That’s your pn?” Harley says incredulously. “How much time do we have?”
“How much do you need?”
“I can do a rushed job.” A bang from the door startles Harley for a moment, before she recovers. “You got a pn for his mutts as well?”
“They’re connected to the Prince, if he goes, they’ll follow.” Vukosava and the others kneel down around the canvas, fiddling with it. Amber the artist takes to the task, brushing the others out of the way as she draws two images side by side, the dogmen and the Prince.
Harley immediately sets to work with the piece, casting the backup canvases into the centre of the room. As she hastily throws everything together, Vukosava takes in a steadying breath. Any of the dies can do it, Vukosava didn’t want to put it on anyone but herself. “I’ll run distractions. The Prince won’t kill me on the spot - he’s had a lot of favourites after the Red Queen. Keep this door locked up tight.”
“Are you insane?”
“Yes, I’m batshit insane, now get this thing done!”
“What should we do next?” Nathen is catching on quickly.
“Let the bastards in - take the femur out, have them run into the circle. Candles, chalk, the works. Five minutes. We can thin out the pack.”
“Where are you even going?” John asks her.
“I know the yout of this pce, the dungeon has a grate. Where the King would look down into the cells.” Vukosava is making her way towards it. “By this point, it should be rusted through.”
Before anyone can debate with her, she runs back into danger - starting the hazardous climb upwards. If there’s one thing she can do, it’s dey the prince a bit longer.
Vukosava who’s bancing precariously on one of the stone cells, manages to punch upwards, using one of the spare bones from the dungeon to send the grate buckling off. In 758 to 760, no prisoner dares to do what she’s doing now - usually a spear goes down and the guilty plunge back down, breaking bones and getting internal bleeding. It’s a horrific pce, but there’s nothing else for it. With sweat and perspiration running down her face, Vukosava with fear giving her strength she cws into the upper room of the dungeon.
She takes in a deep breath, rubbing her hands as she runs back to the Prince and the leader - their argument not even close to over.
The Prince is clearly reaching the end of his patience with dogmen, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. There’s a lot of snarls and barks that go his way, but none of them, not even the leader of the dogmen, raises an objection. If they were to fight, that would be fucking nice, Vukosava thought. Those five precious minutes are ticking by.
The Eternal Prince walks towards the stairs that lead down to the lower levels. “You have deyed me long enough, dog, I have no more time to waste on you or your lust.”
“Give us two more, and we’ll be satisfied, prince.”
“I do not require your chivalry. I can attend to them myself.”
“We have waited for so long.” The leader is shining with crimson along his front. In the pale moonlight, Vukosava can make out the rest of his features, the bones poking through his thin, spectral human flesh and greasy fur. The leader’s final punishment in life is gruesome - a slow, agonising death as he’s cooked within his own armour. With the rest of his feral followers. His ears and snout flick around for a new scent to chase.
A tail flicks out, heavy and cumbersome. It’s their leader - a dark, heartless dog. A beast of hunger. “One of the girls should be ours. To enjoy.”
“I’ll be generous, beast. You can have one more of their boys. But the one with brown hair is mine.”
“Prince, shall I go?”
“Go, dog, find your prey. I tire of this conversation.”
The leader runs down to join his feral brothers.
Vukosava can feel her stomach churn in disgust and horror. He wants Amber. They’re reaching an agreement, but if there’s one thing that’s useful about being a walking encyclopedia, it’s having information that stings. If Fodor Dresk is a rival to Prince Zar’va, then who’s to say they can’t have another argument now?
She sets down the EMF, switching over its functionality. John’s EMF is packing a lot of power, and it can pick up on words a lot easier. There’s been an endless debate in the paranormal community about the effectiveness of doing a double up - but Vukosava doesn’t care at this point. Right now, it’s going to be her means of distracting the Prince. It doubles as a spirit box; she nestles it away from sight. Before turning it on. Vukosava quietly prays for Fodor to talk through it: please, Fodor, buy us time.
“Zar’va.” The spirit box sputters to life; a single word stopping the prince in his tracks.
The Prince couldn’t contain his spite for his long-time foe. “Fodor Dresk.”
If animosity could kill, Fodor and Zar’va will kick buckets until the end of time.
“Our battle of creativity ended an age ago; I have no need to repeat history here.”
“My death did not prove you right.” Fodor jabs at him, in a cutting tone. “Nor did the others.”
“I was proven right before your unsightly demise. You refused to admit it.”
“You never gained her affection. Nor did you gain accim for your art. You failed completely.”
At this the Prince roars in anger, his mouth opening wide, with sharp fangs on full dispy. It’s a chink in the amour he presents, even after all this time he couldn’t entirely get rid of what made him human once. He needs to prove that his philosophy is superior, that he’s a better man. In the end no one could tell if the woman loved either of them.
“You cherished nothing, and so you died with nothing.” Fodor voice snarls through the spirit box, a st rejoinder before the prince raises his hand. “You cimed what you wanted, but you never understood any of it. You could never love anything, not truly.”
Vukosava can feel a chilling breath of wind sp her on the chin. She slowly turns to see the Prince, his anger palpable. His left hand is curling into a fist, she can see motes of dust and Fred’s blood circling around his arm. The blood hardens into a javelin which he fires with tremendous force. The spirit box is blown apart instantly; its parts and screws scattering everywhere. The Prince stands there for a moment, anger and sadness buying her time.
What he did so long ago destroyed the love that his mother and father had for him. Just like the spirit box he blew it all away. He was disowned and disinherited, removed from all references and ledgers. A secret. But his curse didn’t leave so quickly, the serial killers were posers of the real, disgusting leech. Decorating walls with blood in the dead of night.
Thank you, Fodor. Vukosava ducks away, keeping herself low to the ground as she makes her way back down to the dungeon. The five minutes went by and hope fills Vukosava’s heart. The dogmen were gone, a good chunk of them spiralling back into their world. Hopefully it stays that way.
“Harley, have you got it all done?”
“I didn’t have much of a choice, I don’t know if we can trap the bastard.”
“It has to work, doesn’t it?” Amber tries to keep the tears from her eyes. “If it doesn’t...”
She doesn’t need to finish the sentence.
“We have to py on his emotions; that’s the only way we can get him to lower his guard,” Vukosava says boldly. “Get another circle drawn - we’ll do the same thing with the Prince.”
Harley and Amber nod grimly. They work tirelessly to reestablish the circle, relight the candles and make sure it’s ready for the Prince when he makes his grand appearance.
Marcus scowls. “I don’t like this, what if this goes wrong?”
Amber takes his hand. “This is the best we can do.”
“I can’t believe this.” John’s face is pale, with anger fshing in his blue eyes.
“Stay out of his way.” Vukosava gestures for them to step back.
“And not protect each other?”
“I know you got that feeling right now, Marcus, but you have to do the opposite! We need this trap to work.”
Off in the distance, Vukosava can hear the dogmen howling at the moon. The guttural roars of men and beasts. How can they be back so quickly? Harley’s mouth is agape.
“How the fuck?” Nathen splutters. “We just sent them back! To wherever the fuck they came from.”
“Did you get their leader?” Vukosava snaps.
“We did, surely.” Nathen and Harley exchange a quick gnce.
The portal that John and his group did - that’s most likely the way they’re coming back. Vukosava curses vehemently.
“He’s almost here.” Marcus informs the others.
The Prince is making his way downstairs. He stands at the entrance to the dungeon, and for the first time everyone can properly see his elven face. He is elegant and breathtaking to look at - but that's it, his smile doesn't reach his eyes. The Prince is hollow on the inside with a deep, ugly hunger. “It’s time for you to decide, Lady Amber. Will you join me in immortality?”
Amber bites her lip before replying. “Please come down. I can’t say it unless I’m looking upon you. Properly.”
There’s a moment of hesitation from the Prince. As if he is sensing an ulterior motive, before shrugging it off. He enters the dungeon proper, making his way towards Amber - a hunger residing deep in his eyes. “You remind me of the one I lost years ago. The one that I won the heart of.”
Anticipation is eating them alive. The Prince walks down onto the circle and for a moment, Harley’s desperate chants and commands seem to work against the thing. Amber runs back to Marcus. It’s not anger this time, it’s absolute rage. “Your affections are mispced, my dear, allow me to correct this mistake!”
This is a reminder of the battle he lost long ago, when a woman sought the affections of someone else. Or at the very least did not want to be with him. The lights around the circle start to flicker and splutter, the wind from upstairs seems to be coiling around the prince. Harley concludes the ritualistic chants, and for a moment, there is shock on the prince’s face. His essence warps momentarily, turning into a funnel as if he were being sucked down a drainpipe. This could be it, if the Prince goes - they could run. The dogs should be far enough away that they could get to their cars and go pedal to the metal.
The Prince’s eyes go completely bck, radiating with malevolent power.
In the blink of an eye, the Prince is next to Amber, seizing her by the arm. She cries out in surprise and pain, instinctively Marcus tries to get her free, swinging the camera at the prince. It goes right through him, his form twisting into a hideous swarm of glittering bck butterflies. A humming shifting mass of wings that crawl and dance in the open air. “I feel a compulsion, and I cannot resist it.”
Marcus continues to swing the camera fruitlessly, before the prince seizes him about the throat. He can’t love anything - all he has is infatuations. They all wear the face of Fodor, his lifelong rival in art and self-expression. Who stole the heart of the woman he was fighting for.
“I will show you my devotion, Lady Amber. It will be a beautiful dance.”
Harley, Nathen, James and John rush forwards, each with their own piece of equipment. The Prince deforms, his legs turning into butterflies that fly directly into them. The wind from their little wings sends them back.
He rips his cws down from Marcus’ throat, opening a gaping wound in his chest. He yelps in shock. The camera falls from his hand.
“Marcus!” Amber cries out, trying to fight the prince.
“Your moments of joy belong to me!”
As Marcus falls down onto his knees, his lifeblood pooling onto the floor. The prince starts flickering his hand about, like a brush. Vukosava rushes forward, the Prince merely turns his head around to face her, sending Marcus’ blood crashing into her. Vukosava crashes hard onto the floor, her vision spinning violently.
“It’s time to water a new garden.”
His blood is becoming the paint of the prince to finish the masterpiece for the one he loves. The one he would fall down onto his knees for. He holds Marcus up for a moment. Marcus’ mouth moves wordlessly as he looks over to Amber. A final assurance before the end. His face goes a glossy white, and the blood starts to solidify onto the walls of the dungeon. It continues to seep out of his body into a spiral that the Prince casts onto the stone walls. The Prince and Amber are in the painting - smiling at each other in a sickening fashion. Marcus is dead.
