A thick layer of soft snow had already covered the roads. White and cold, yet tender and dazzling. Rokah, hypnotized by the contradiction. The solitude. The awing existence and the fragility of the tiny little crystals. Crushing them as he slowly moved and merged amidst the ephemeral moments.
Along the way, he spent the time thinking of a context in which he should paint this new commitment. A vague picture traced the hollow paper of his inspiration, but he wasn’t very clear about it. Thus, he decided he should find out more about the black ghost. He needed to meet him again, talk more before he would start drawing.
Nikolai Hendrickson told him he was staying up there at the edge of this village, in that antique house. The glorious palace Rokah appreciated when he first came to this village.
Through a meticulous search and investigation, he judged that the owner of that house was the owner of this village.
Closing the door to his dull room, he followed the action with glares and an objection. This unexpected, unwelcomed visitor invaded the serenity of his privacy.
“What are you doing here?” He denounced,… “The time we have agreed to meet has yet to come,” a placid fake voice masked his fear and surprise. He had cultivated it with the passing days, always proved useful. Then he reached for the stove to warm his hands. An act of nonchalance to seal the performance.
The big man who settled in the middle of the room said with mockery while staring at the corpse-like person in bed: “Still playing the caring doctor, or perhaps some new experiment to change the way you look?”
Rokah stood still in his place when the big man started approaching him. An adult Aractanthrope, four cubits tall, armored with muscles. Not quick, but one strike from him in the right place can be fatal.
When the big man bent over to bring his face to the same level as him, Rokah smelled the odor of fresh blood.
The big man smiled, revealing his yellow curved canines, and asked in disbelief: “You can change your name, face, but you will never change your true self… mongrel.”
His tone transformed into something tainted with disgust before he continued: “No matter what you do, you won’t be more than a low, worthless half-bread… Waiting for his master to throw him some leftover.”
What the arrogant man said was the truth, the truth Rokah tried to deny all his life. It irritates him; the truth irritates us all when it is hard to accept.
He had heard that some residents got attacked and killed in the past days. Now he knows, for sure it was this predator. Yet, he wanted to engage him in conversation, to lower his guard, lessen his hostility. He wanted to know his purpose for staying here near a bunch of mongrels whom he despised so much.
Slight movements on the bed got Rokah’s attention. He flew to the side, abandoning his chain of thoughts and taking away all the covers to reveal a body bandaged like a mummy.
He checked his pupil, counted his pulses, smelled his breath, tested his reflexes, and examined his skin for infection. All was better than when he had found him, even when the tissue regeneration had started. No wonder a lycanthrope’s regeneration capacity must be very high.
Those actions gave the unwanted guest a bad impression. Low respect from a lowly mongrel generated a load of hostility. Those trivial acts made the big man lose his cool easily.
There is an opening. The doctor thought.
A hard hit between his shoulders caused him to fall on his knees and made him gasp for breath. He wasn’t surprised. He anticipated it and chose not to avoid it because he wanted to test the physical power of this man for future purposes.
A bad decision? Maybe…
Rokah felt crushed. The world started spinning around his head and before the big man got out; the doctor heard him murmuring about giving him an answer to his proposal, then everything became black.
***
“Didn’t I tell you to not let him go out alone? He is still very weak?” The Count screamed. His pair of white pointed canines manifested, marking his anger.
The butlers and the maids were all silent. An aura of fear possessed them, but the arrival of the chief servant of the house had softened the air a bit.
The butler was a unique creature with a matchless physique. A tall and thin body covered in dark reddish hair, even his face. An observer couldn’t distinguish his features or the emotions that could paint it. His long arms overrun his knees. They attached two big hairy hands. His body crammed in a black, elegant servant’s outfit.
He responded to the Count in the most formal way, showing ample respect: “Your guest has returned, sir.” But his tone sipped a certain arrogance: “He is taking a rest in the room next to the great hall.”
The count stared in disbelieve. His eyes widened for a second, and the wrinkles in his anger softened. He descended to the great hall to check for himself. And there the object of his anger was, sitting on the chair drinking the tea alone. The long silky black hair slid on his back whenever he moved his head.
A breath of relief escaped the Count’s tensed chest. He approached slowly and asked, hoping to start a conversation: “I learned that you have left the main house to pay a visit to the villagers of this estate.”
“Would your lordship kindly drop the formality?” A cold, bitter voice flew: “There is no need for it now.” Said Mr. Hendrickson.
The Count sought a chair, and sat face to face with his guest, then asked again: “Humm, Mr. Hendrickson, or rather, Nicolai, where did you go in this weather…″
“Am I not allowed to leave the house?” Nicolai interrupted. He took a sip from his cup and not even bother to look in the count’s direction.
“No, I just thought you were still not in good shape to w…” The Count tried to explain, but he got interrupted again.
“You don’t have to worry, there is nowhere I could go given the location of this place and my right leg.”
The count lips curved to repress his annoyance caused by the constant interruptions of his words. He kept watching Mr. Hendrickson, who seemed indifferent to his presence and was waiting for him to make eye contact, but sadly Nicolai appeared or pretended to be absent-minded.
A maid with a narrowed eye and a big pair of fluffy ears. The foxy face she had was unpleasant to look at. She brought a deep red glass bottle and two fancy goblets and put them on the table that separated them. When she tried to open the bottle, the count signaled to her to stop and to leave. He took the bottle and opened it himself while saying, at the same time:
“Would you show me a little respect, please? Like letting me continue my sentences, at least?”
Finally, Nicolai glanced at him, but in a stern way, his pitch-dark eye foreshadowed a degree of resentment: “I beg your pardon, your lordship!″
The Count filled the two cups with crimson liquid and decided to change the subject:
“What do you think of the changes in aesthetic I have made in the whole house, less gloomy and more natural? I know we have a completely different taste…”
“Are all the workers and maids you keep here under a pact of slavery… right?”
Nicolai asked, recalling the person who had meddled with the destiny he had chosen. Then he heard the Count attempting to correct him. His sound had an unpleasant tone:
“No… No… this is out of my concern, Seaben takes care of all the trivial matters, directs this question to him…” The Count paused before he added, “Well, he told me each one is staying in this house out of his/her own will.”
