A Concoction of Stubbornness and Strife

Blood dripped from the Chief Butler’s sleeve, a piece of his arm brutally mauled. Horace gritted his teeth and hissed in pain as the doctor continued to treat his wound, glaring at him and his wife.

“What is the meaning of this?” the butler spat. “What the hell is wrong with your children?!”

“Horace, please calm down,” said Maribel.

“Calm down? You want me to calm down?!” He pointed at his injury. “This… this is impossible for a child to accomplish! What are they?!”

“They’re… vampires, Horace,” Solomon said. “Half vampires, to be exact.”

Horace dryly laughed. “Vampires? Don’t give me that nonsense. They… they don’t exist. They only exist in folktales…” He paused and turned pale when the couple didn’t stray from their expressions. “My lady, did you know about this?”

“Yes, yes I do. Solomon and I… we had a reason to conceal their true identities.”

“What reason?”

“They’re… still too young to understand it.”

“...Is that a joke? They’re simply too young? What excuses! Clearly, that backfired! Have you seen them? They’re terrified out of their minds!”

Solomon knitted his brows and clenched his fists. “And that is entirely my fault,” he said. “I… should’ve been more careful.”

“Careful? No, that’s not the issue here. You need to properly educate your damn children! Do you two seriously think you're doing these kids good by keeping such important secrets from them?! You are their parents! They trusted you! They need to face reality and get proper guidance. Otherwise, a disaster like this happens!”

He turned to Maribel, distraught. “My lady, why did you marry a vampire? Are you out of your mind? Did he deceive you into this?”

“No!” she said, briefly raising her voice. “No, he didn’t trick me, Horace. I married him because I know he has a heart, just like us humans.”

Horace stared at her, trying to comprehend such a half-baked reason. He shook his head and stammered in disbelief. He couldn’t deny it—Solomon truly was a kind gentleman who had already saved plenty of lives, including the Lady herself. Thus, he scowled and pointed a shaky, blood-stained finger at the doctor.

“You! You damn vampire! I don’t know what’s your true purpose here, but mark my words, if you or your children dare to harm Lady Maribel, you will regret it!”

✦☆✦

Horace blankly observed the grandfather clock, resting his chin on a hand as he leaned on his desk. He trailed around his office utterly cramped with bronze and copper metalworks—all invented merely for display. He began to reach out toward one of such gadgets before a knock at a door interrupted him.

“Come in,” he said.

A middle-aged man dressed in a dimly gray coat stepped inside, his dark purple ponytail elegantly flowing behind him as he greeted with a bow and a tip of his cap. “Good evening, Monsieur Horace.”

“Ah, Mister Ortrone. Good evening. I assume you’ve completed repairing the armor?”

“Indeed, I have.” Ortrone pulled out a box and placed it on his desk. “Although, I do not recommend using it right away. The robes have yet to fully cool down after the maintenance.”

Horace opened the box and observed the pocket watch dulled into a near pitch-black color. “In other words, until this watch returns to its bright red hue, I cannot use it?”

“That is correct.”

“I see. Thank you for informing me.” He rubbed his chin, curiously pondering to himself. “Hypothetically speaking, what if I were to use it before it cools down?”

“Then it will melt you from the inside out.”

Horace snapped the box shut. “Goodness, what a frightening consequence.”

“You did instruct me to return it as soon as it is complete.”

“That I did. I appreciate it, Mister Ortrone.” Horace opened a drawer and pulled out a bag of coins. “Here is your payment.”

“You have my gratitude as well,” he said, accepting the money. He paused and stared down at the box, lost in thought. “However… there is something that is troubling me.”

“What is it?”

“Do forgive me if I sound presumptuous for asking this, but… are the stories written in the newspapers true? Was my old friend truly behind The Star-Crushing Tragedy? Is that why you accepted my offer nine months ago so willingly?”

Horace narrowed his eyes, gazing back at the incomprehensible, orange slit-eyes.

Were it not for Solomon interfering with Ren’s plan that day, The Star-Crushing Tragedy could’ve been prevented. Therefore, he was equally at fault as Horace himself.

“Yes,” said Horace. “He is guilty. I am sure of it.”

Ortrone raised a brow, gazing back at his dull blue eyes. “Is that so? I still fail to believe it.”

“And why is that?”

“Solomon is a doctor, is he not? Why would a doctor claim innocent lives?”

“Have you considered that his profession may be a pretense—a show masquerading his true intentions?”

“Him? Masquerading? Nonsense. His acting skills are abhorrent.”

“But you were not there during the tragedy, yes? Surely you haven’t seen what he did.”

Ortrone frowned and gazed back down at the box full of doubt.

“Also, a small word of advice, if I may,” he added. “I suggest you watch your tongue out there. You might draw unnecessary attention if anyone were to find out about your former relationship with the wanted criminal.”

The train conductor scratched his head. “Please excuse me. I had the assumption that I could speak freely in your office.”

“Of course you do. However, I cannot guarantee your safety once you step out of this building.”

“Haha, I am more than capable of defending myself.”

Horace pursed his lips. “I am certainly more than aware of your prowess, but I still cannot shake the feeling of uncertainty lingering in the air these days.”

“Is that so? I reckon it is a sign of fatigue—I can see the dark circles under your eyes, good sir.”

“Haha, that certainly sounds plausible…”

Ortrone waved a hand as he turned around. “Then I shall leave you to rest and be on my way,” he said, walking to the door.

“Ah, alright. Have a good evening, Mister Ortrone.”

“You as well.” He stopped before the door, freezing on the spot. “By the way, may I request you to deliver a message on my behalf?”

“Of course. What is it?”

“Whatever the truth is surrounding The Star-Crushing Tragedy, I still have faith that you, Solomon, and King Carmin have a reasonable justification behind it all.” He glanced over his shoulders with a dark gleam in his eyes. “Should you see the king again, please tell him that if he were to fail my expectations, I will have my train demolish his castle.”

Horace couldn’t help but twitch and remained silent, debating whether he should be concerned or impressed at such boldness.

“Haha, rest assured, King Carmin will understand. He and I are also well acquainted, you see.”

With a tip of his cap, the train conductor left a dark red mist as he vanished.

A few seconds later, the door creaked open, revealing an old gentleman with a dumbfounded expression.

“Sheesh, that guy’s scary when he gets mad,” Ren muttered, scratching his head. “And I was this close to kicking the door open and slamming his face too…”

“...If you did, he would’ve run his train through this building instead.” Horace leaned back on his chair with a heavy sigh, dropping his formal mask. “God, this week has been so hectic. Where were you most of the time?”

“I was… erm… preparing for a surprise. Don’t worry about it. Anyway! Did you almost die again?”

“...Perhaps.”

“What happened this time?”

“It was a sniper this time.” He tapped his box. “Can you believe it? They managed to pierce through Mister Ortrone’s armor. Crimoire-infused technology is certainly on a whole new level.”

“You tell me. It’s not like we had to fight against crazy killer robots before or anything.” Ren slumped on the couch and crossed his legs on the table. “But Horace, my buddy, my pal, my poor, workaholic lad, I also think you should take it easy tonight. I can tell you haven’t had a wink last night.”

Horace looked down at the documents before him, at the box, and at the clock that struck seven in the evening. “It’s a little too early for bed, but I suppose some leisure time tonight wouldn’t hurt. I can’t patrol tonight without the armor anyway.”

“Of course, that’s the reason why you would rest. Well, it’s a valid excuse, I guess.” He chuckled and snapped his fingers, red ribbons swirling around a bottle of whiskey resting on a shelf. “Here, allow me to spare you the trouble!”

The bottle and a Glencairn glass floated toward Horace’s desk, and with a twirl of Ren’s finger, the bottle opened and poured some whiskey. The bottle sealed itself back up as it gently settled beside him, followed by the glass floating into Horace’s hand.

“Ah, thank you. Crimoire sure is a work full of wonders."

“Haha, it sure is!” Ren playfully waved a hand. “I have plenty of tricks that…”

He paused and widened his eyes, sniffing the air. “Wait, do you smell that?”

“Smell what?”

“I smell something foul and acidic.”

“Hm? Could it be the scent of alcohol? You vampires can’t tolerate it, right?”

“No, not that. It’s different.”

Horace tilted his head. “Is it? I don’t smell anything,” he said, lifting the glass to his lips.

Ren jumped up from the couch and aggressively swung an arm, Horace’s glass flying out of his hand and crashing onto the wall. The whiskey trickled down and dripped onto the vase holding a colorful bouquet, and as the liquid touched the flowers, the petals and leaves withered with an ominous hiss.

Horace widened his eyes. “Oh dear…”

“Well now. So much for a break,” Ren muttered. He stepped toward the desk and inspected the whiskey bottle.

Meanwhile, Horace rushed to the vase and pulled it away from the wall. “Oh, not the flowers!” he said as if he had broken a taboo. “Dorothy grew these for me!”

Ren sealed the bottle with Crimoire and turned to Horace with a frown. “You can cry about it after we figure out who poisoned your whiskey.”

Horace frowned as he stared pitifully at the bottle. “Why did it have to be my favorite brand of all things?”

“Because someone clearly wants to make sure that you’re dead!” Ren squeezed his nose bridge and shook his head. “This is the third time this month already. First, it was an ambush, then it was a sniper, then a goddamn poison attempt! The fact that the assassin simply waltzed into your office confirms it—we have a traitor in our midst!”

“...So it seems.”

“Was this bottle always here in this office?”

“As far as I’m aware, yes it was.”

“Do you know when you last drank from this bottle?”

“I suppose it was around two days ago.”

“Have you felt sick ever since?”

“Unless it’s been causing my migraines, I did not.”

“Then, do you remember anyone entering this room between now and the last two days? Do you have any idea who could’ve possibly poisoned it?”

Horace stared blankly at the bottle and faced Ren with a lost expression. “To be fair, anyone could easily sneak into my office.”

“...In other words, you have no idea.”

“That is correct.”

“Horace, why am I the serious one now?”

“Good question. I have not the slightest clue.”

“Look at this idiot. ‘I have not the slightest clue,’ he says.”

“You don’t sound that serious either.”

“I am in fact very concerned for your life. Shocking, isn’t it?”

“Why, certainly.”

“...You’re not afraid of dying at all, aren’t you?”

Horace tossed a gaze devoid of light, one of a man who had already lost everything. “Of course not,” he said. “I've been chasing after a man who could easily crush my skull with his bare hands after all.”

“And what comes after catching him?”

He didn't answer.

Ren frowned and snapped his fingers, sealing the door and windows shut and barricading them with transparent, red walls. “Don't forget our contract as well, buddy. You're chosen as the leader for a reason.”

“Haha, of course, of course. I won’t be that reckless. I promise.” He walked to his desk, sat down, and rested his chin on his intertwined fingers. “If there truly is a traitor here, then there's only one other person I can trust in this chaotic organization. Bring him over.”

For a moment, Ren hesitated. With a sigh, he bowed and tipped his hat. “As you wish,” he said, vanishing in a cloud of red mist.