Discover Top Posts Tagged with #adaru

May 11

Student of Unhallowed Arts

Summary: Now settled into his new position as Herald of Tragedy, Sergio is sent by Fear to Darkmoor and encounters several of its strange residents.

Fandoms: Halloween Horror Nights, Dark Universe

Tags: Not Canon Compliant, Referenced Violence, Canon-Typical Grave Robbing, Griffin being Griffin, The Author Making Up Herald Lore

Word Count: 5.3k

A/N:

Fun fact, I started writing this fic in January! Time flies :,)

The concept for this is a fun headcanon that I've been bouncing around in my head that ties HHN's IP houses to the rest of the event. Thought it would be fun to combine it with Universal's tendency to do Classic Monsters houses, even though that hasn't been in the rumor mill this year.

Ao3 Link

“Adaru’s sending one of us out on assignment.”

A loud groan issued from the corner of the Lantern’s common room. Its source, Jack, who lounged on a tattered fainting couch as Chance played with his hair, glanced around at the blank faces staring back at him. He groaned again.

“What? Am I the only one who hates playing errand boy?”

“You’re the only one who enjoys vocalizing it so loudly,” Julian muttered.

“As if you ever enjoy setting foot out of your precious theater. His jobs are a chore, admit it.”

“Perhaps you need to get more creative with your kills. Use the locale as inspiration,” said Paulo. He didn’t look up from the length of film stock he was attempting to untangle, words dreamy with distraction.

“I do!” Jack snapped. Some of the annoyance drained from his face when he continued, most likely lost in a memory. “You all should have seen the stunt I pulled with the Sandworm way back when. Not my worst work.”

The conversation lulled. Sergio took the opportunity to put aside the journal he’d been using to sketch a bit of thorny filigree and looked towards the one who had announced Adaru’s intent. Lady Luck leaned against the common room’s doorway, posture as elegant as ever despite her mischievous smirk. While he hadn’t had many opportunities to acquaint himself with the Herald of Temptation, Sergio got the feeling she’d been seeking a reaction like Jack’s.

“Assignment?” he asked.

She glanced over at him, eyebrows raising as though she’d forgotten he was there. “Ah, yes, you’re new, aren’t you? Don’t worry, it’s not complicated. Adaru sometimes seeks assistance from sources outside the Lantern, and he uses us to deliver his invitations.”

“It’s one of the few times we break out aside from the usual,” Chance interjected from her spot on the couch. “As long as you’re recruitin’ the right people, it’s a pretty sweet gig.”

“If he makes me talk to those idiot teenagers one more time, I’m gonna go even more nuts,” Jack grumbled.

A flicker of the Lantern’s ever-present glow cut him off. In one corner, the vines broke from the wall and stretched, curling around themselves and solidifying in the familiar shape of Adaru. The top of his head brushed against the rough ceiling as his imperious gaze swept around.

“The cycle approaches its zenith,” he rumbled. “Preparations are necessary. Approach, my Herald of Tragedy.”

Sergio started and immediately stood. With a glance towards Lady Luck, who looked surprised despite her role as instigator, he stepped before Fear. Though such efforts usually ended in neck pain, he looked up into the creature’s hollow eye sockets.

“I am ready to fulfill mis deberes as a Herald.”

“Very good,” Adaru said. He raised his hand, and in it appeared an envelope crackling with small flames. “Your first journey outside the Lantern will bring you to a village unbeholden to the flow of time. A land of the unhallowed arts.”

Sergio heard someone stir behind him. Albert Caine, who had up until now been content to listen, spoke with caution.

“You’re referring to Darkmoor?”

“Indeed.”

“Is that manageable as a first-time assignment?”

Adaru tilted his head. “Are you questioning me, Herald of Death?”

“Not at all. But the Painter has little experience with the types of individuals residing there, and it may prove a challenge. I could go instead.”

“You just want to see the Bride again,” Jack snickered.

“I have experiencia in the arts, unhallowed or not,” Sergio pointed out.

“My decision is final,” Adaru said firmly. “To me, my Herald.”

Stepping forward, Sergio tugged the letter from Fear’s grasp. It felt warm in his hand, and as he turned it over, charcoal-black words appeared on its front: Victoria Frankenstein.

With a sound reminiscent of both creaking branches and a crackling wildfire, the wall to Adaru’s right dissolved. In its place, outlined by roots, appeared a hazy window, its surface rippling like a pond disrupted by skipping stones. Through the sheen, Sergio could glimpse dark bricks covered in moss.

“How will I know where to go?” he asked.

“You will know.”

Casting a final look back at the other Heralds, Sergio stepped through the portal. A roar rushed through his ears, and the world went black.

***

Mist settled on Sergio’s skin, damp and refreshingly cool. Before he could get his bearings and clear the cotton from his mind, however, a sharp kick to his side jolted him up.

Swearing, he scrambled to his knees and glared at his attacker. A man in a brown suit stood over him, arms crossed.

“So you’re not dead.” He sounded disappointed.

“No thanks to you,” Sergio responded, taking the opportunity to brush himself off and rise to his feet.

The man looked him up and down, his eyes inscrutable behind dark railroad glasses. In fact, he had difficulty reading any emotions from the man at all, for his entire face was covered in thick medical bandages.

He hmphed. “No fault of mine that you were lying on the ground like a drunkard. You must be new here. I’ve never seen you before.”

“My name is Sergio Navarro,” he responded, ignoring the insult. “And I am looking for Victoria Frankenstein. Do you know anyone by that name?”

At the mention of his target, the bandaged man recoiled and let out a scoff. “As far as any genius is aware of his inferiors. What business could you possibly have with the… good doctor?”

“I’ve been asked to deliver a message.”

“If it is an acceptance to a scientific conference,” he said, “you can give it to me instead. My proof of concept is far superior to hers.”

“It is not,” Sergio said flatly.

“Oh. Then I’ve no further use for you.”

Sergio watched the man stroll off, not sorry to see him go. But before he disappeared around the corner of one of the many dark buildings, he called, “Do you at least know where I can find her?”

“You don’t seem as much a simpleton as the rest of the commonfolk here,” he called back with a cackle. “I’m sure you can figure it out!”

And with that, he was gone. Sergio pinched the bridge of his nose. Dr. Caine certainly had a point, he reflected; if the rest of Darkmoor’s residents proved that infuriating, this would take much longer than he anticipated. Instead of stewing in frustration, he opted to get his bearings.

Adaru’s description of a “village” rang true—Darkmoor would have looked ancient even in his home time of the 19th century. Dull, sloping buildings of wood and stone pierced through grey mist, fragments lit by sporadic, flickering street lamps. From his spot (below the sign for an inn), Sergio could glimpse what might have been a town square, a paved clearing amidst the crowded structures.

As he approached, he caught a glimpse of another man. This one, hooded rather than bandaged, stood with his back to him and towards a well in the center of the square. His posture was stiff. Sergio swallowed down his wariness, told himself the assignment would be done the sooner he got any antagonistic interactions out of the way, and called out.

“Buenas tardes.”

The man’s stance softened, and he turned with a nod. “Well met, stranger. Have you come to pay your respect to the sacrifices?”

“Sacrifices?” he asked, stopping beside his conversation partner. He seemed friendly, though the soot on his face and stake strapped to his hip kept Sergio from relaxing fully.

“In the well.” The man nodded towards the Latin inscriptions carved into its lip. “For the vampires.”

“Ah,” said Sergio, who promptly decided he must be mad. Though, then again, he had thought of ghosts with that same derision before his ill-fated move to La Casa Creación.

“Curse this truce,” the man said quietly. “Had we the chance, the Hounds could drive that filth from our region once and for all.”

“I must confess, I am unfamiliar with this town.”

The man gave a slight jolt, then apologized with a sheepish smile. “Don’t let me scare you off, then. Darkmoor is a good place, as long as you keep your wits about you. And even if you don’t, we Hounds are experienced with protecting others from monsters.”

Sergio wondered if the Hound would be as welcoming if he knew the monstrous company he kept. “I will keep that in mind. Though the residents have been my biggest threats as it stands.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve run into the mole people already,” the Hound said, murmuring something that sounded like “terrible first impression.”

“Ah… no. I refer to the bandaged man who tried to kick me earlier.”

The man let out a loud laugh. “Sounds like you’ve met Griffin! Doctor Griffin, I guess, but he doesn’t use that PhD as far as I’m aware. Don’t worry, he’s harmless—mad as a hatter, though.”

“That reminds me—“

The deep, rich tolling of a bell cut Sergio off. The Hound brightened.

“Ah! You’re in for a treat, my friend. It’s not every day that a newcomer gets to see the Burning Blade Tavern light up,” he said jovially.

Sergio frowned. “Pardon?”

The Hound set off at a brisk pace, and as Sergio followed, he wondered tiredly if this would lead him to the elusive Dr. Frankenstein. They stopped at the edge of town (or what may have been the edge, for the mist obscured more than he liked). Placing a hand on his shoulder, the Hound directed his attention to the windmill atop a nearby hill, decrepit yet proud of its own creaks and rot.

As Sergio watched, its blades gave a great heave, then to his horror, lit ablaze seemingly of their own volition.

“It’s lovely, is it not?” the Hound said, unperturbed.

“Is anyone in there?!”

“Most likely. The fire won’t hurt them.”

True to his word, the inferno shone fiercely, then died into peaceful embers within a minute. But before Sergio could speak, or even really react to the ancient windmill being consumed by flames with no damage, a distant howl made the Hound tense.

“Oh dear, something must have happened with the Guild of Mystics. I hope to see you again!”

“Wait—!”

Without hearing him, the Hound took off with a gregarious howl of his own. Sergio took a step after him, then thought better of it.

“Fantástico,” he muttered.

He stuck his hand in the pocket of his coat, feeling for a sharp-edged palette knife. Not that he’d use it (not for something so small), but running his fingers over the small yet deadly object soothed some of his annoyance. A sunset painted streaks of orange and violet into the sky when he looked up. Yet, that beauty quickly faded into mere background as it silhouetted what must have been the village’s crowning jewel.

Aloof compared to the closely packed houses of the town square, a castle stood haughtily in the fading light. Wide and stony grey, with vines snaking up its sharp spires, the Gothic effect was simultaneously undercut and complemented by tubes of metal and glass that sparked with electric blue energy.

Adaru told him that he’d know where to go, and Sergio finally understood. If Victoria Frankenstein couldn’t be found there, then he’d be shocked.

He set off with a renewed sense of purpose and, after a short trek through half-dead underbrush, came across a path heading towards the mysterious castle. Once on the walk, a flash of white flitted across the corner of his vision. When he turned to look, however, the vague impression of a dress and equally pale shock of hair had vanished. Perhaps another of Darkmoor’s residents watched him from the shadows. But any desire to find out fled from his mind at the sight of a cart on the side of the path and its rather strange-looking driver.

A small man in a leather apron and gloves struggled with a ragged doctor’s bag fallen from the cart. Short, greasy-haired, and muttering something that sounded like an archaic profanity, the stranger wore dirty, metallic goggles that simultaneously obscured his gaze and made him look bug-eyed.

“Hello?” Sergio asked cautiously.

The aproned man gave a loud shout, dropped the bag, and whirled towards him. “Do not sneak up on Ygor like that! You nearly caused a heart attack!”

He pulled a literal human heart from the bag, scowled at it suspiciously, then replaced it. Sergio cleared his throat (in embarrassment? Befuddlement?), then spoke. “My apologies. Can you help me?”

“Ohh, of course, everyone needs help from Ygor! ‘Oh, Ygor,’” he said, his annoyed voice taking on a high-pitched tone, “‘unclog Erik’s pipes for me. Ygor, keep Larry from taking a bite of the Gilman. Ygor, go to the 7-11 and get me French toast. Ygor, don’t play with the bats, they have rabies.’ And does Ygor ever get any appreciation? No!”

Sergio thought he understood most of those words, but their combined meaning eluded him. He tried again anyway.

“I ask no action of you, mi aliado, merely information. Will I find Victoria Frankenstein in the manor beyond those trees?”

Stopping short of another rant, Ygor tilted his head like a curious animal. “You need to see Doctor Victoria?”

“I have a message for her.”

“If you’re another one of those suits trying to make her pay taxes—“

“Nothing so crude,” Sergio said hastily. “My… employer has a business offer of sorts. Does she live there?”

“There’s a lot in Frankenstein Manor,” said Ygor with a suddenly sly lilt. “Some of it’s living, some of it’s unliving, if you catch Ygor’s drift.”

“To a certain extent,” he responded.

“But she isn’t accepting guests right now.”

“I don’t intend to stay long.”

Ygor leaned back and gave him a long look up and down. “What did you say your name was?”

“I did not.”

“Eh, what good are those, anyway? Well, uh, Doctor Victoria might make an exception if her ‘devoted’ lab assistant puts in a good few words…”

“Name your price,” Sergio said with an internal sigh.

He immediately answered, “Help Ygor get this cart back on the road.”

Despite shrugging and wondering why a man visibly used to physical labor would have trouble with such a task, he nodded. Without delay, Ygor bent to grab the doctor’s bag (lettered with his name in messy red paint), then heaved it and nearly toppled over. He stopped, panted, and crouched to open it instead.

“Hold these,” he said brusquely.

Sergio nearly didn’t have time to catch the first object thrown his way: a disembodied hand, very real by the smell. Another hand (this one attached to an arm) and a leg sawed from the knee followed. With the bag now empty, Ygor picked it up with ease, putting it on the cart and gesturing at Sergio to assist.

It only took a minute to understand why the man needed help. The weight of the cart didn’t pose the trouble (though that didn’t help), but it was rather the sheer amount of glass jars that threatened to drop at the slightest movement that proved a hassle. Sergio found himself abandoning the pushing effort to circle instead, safely catching the withered hand of some creature and a scrap of Egyptian parchment before their containers could shatter on the pavement.

As soon as the cart had been righted, Ygor let out a loud yell. Not for any particular reason, as far as Sergio could tell, beyond maybe catharsis. Shaking himself, he turned to him.

“Okay, time to go before the fungus starts growing out of your noggin,” he said with no indication of whether or not he was joking.

The path continued the same way as it had. It was not unpleasant, and Sergio appreciated the company. Though, admittedly, it could prove strange at times, such as when the doctor’s assistant suddenly spoke after several minutes of silence.

“Where did you get your vocal cords from?”

He coughed. “Excuse me?”

“Your vocal cords,” Ygor said impatiently. “You know, the little-bitty string flesh thingies that let you go ‘AAAAAA.’”

“They came with the rest of my body, I suppose.”

“Which is from?”

“Spain.”

“Oh, that makes sense. Good country, Spain. Nice people, very cooperative. Large hearts.”

“Easily suggestible hearts,” Sergio said with an ironic laugh.

“Ygor was not speaking metaphorically, but that too.”

“Ah.”

“Brains are ehhhh,” he waved his hand, "negligible maybe, but that is fine. Better than American ones. Have you ever seen a Florida brain? Yeesh!”

“I have not seen many brains,” Sergio responded, thinking back to a “live dissection” Dr. Caine had let him sit in on. “My experience is limited to corazones and a few abdominal organs. And blood, of course, I have seen quite a bit of blood.”

Ygor made a light scoffing noise. “What is the point of blood without the body parts?”

“It can make for a beautiful scene,” he pointed out, reminded of the gory masquerade ball he had painted in La Casa Creación. Admittedly, that had been representative red paint rather than anything literal.

“If you’re an artist, maybe, but it gets too sticky for my work.”

“I do happen to be un artista,” Sergio said proudly. “In fact—”

“Hoo, can I get your digits?”

Sergio nearly tripped. “What?”

“Your digits.” Wiggling his fingers, Ygor glanced at him. “Artists have fantastic fingers, and there’s a, uh, side project I have been working on—”

The pair passed onto a bridge leading to the manor’s entrance before he could finish, and he fell silent. They came to a halt before a tall door barred by a portcullis, and Ygor left the cart to scurry around the side.

Frankenstein Manor looked no less impressive or intimidating up close, the crackling blue energy soaring overhead now made brighter by the twilight sky. With a rusty screech, the gate raised just high enough for Sergio to slip through. The sight of the foyer stole the last of the breath from his once-living lungs.

An elegant staircase dominated the space, drawing the eye to a second floor topped by arching ceilings and a chandelier. His gaze raked over all of it thoughtlessly, a minor detail compared to the art adorning the space.

Wailing figures froze in painted agony on the walls, pleading hands desperately grasping towards the top of the stairs. Blue streaks of light, somehow glowing, shone from their eyes, ringed by deep red scars. Dark trees, their blackened limbs as withered as the subjects, made for an otherwise gloomy grey background.

“Wait here,” said Ygor, who had been standing by the entrance the entire time.

Sergio barely heard him as he slipped out, too enraptured by the mural. Fascinatingly, its subjects seemed to be drawn towards a portrait hung just at the top of the stairs. Perhaps it had been designed that way for heads of the family, given that the framed painting seemed younger than the surrounding manor. A dark-haired man with haggard eyes clutched an electrical device to his chest, which shone with the same energy that Sergio now realized snaked in tubes over his head.

His eyes followed the azure trail to a balcony at the other end of the room. There stood another painted figure, this one hung slightly above her pair. Matching dark hair, a sleek black lab coat, imperious features—this must be Doctor Victoria Frankenstein. The painting’s gaze met his own in perennial defiance.

Sergio gently ran his fingers over one of the statues that guarded the staircases. It posed like a solemn martyr and seemed to suffer like one as well, with patches of skin stripped away to reveal (elegantly detailed) muscles beneath. The half-skull face looked almost peaceful.

Ygor re-entered with a panting cough and equally wheezy giggle. “The Doctor will see you now.”

He led Sergio through a corridor that had previously been hidden by a nearby bookshelf. After a surprisingly slow walk, they arrived in a sitting room, and Sergio promptly became distracted by another exquisite mural on the ceiling.

“Thank you, Ygor. Leave us.”

“One more thing, Doctor…”

“Hm?”

“The Jungle Navigation Company just called to say that the, uh, skipper we requested for the Amazon trip won’t be available. Rhino attack. Real nasty.”

“Understood. Ask if Skipper Awol is willing—otherwise I trust their choice.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

The click of a shutting door reminded Sergio that he was not merely an artist here to appreciate the stunning aesthetic choices—he was an envoy for Adaru and needed to make a good impression. Finally tearing his gaze away from the intricate paint, his gaze landed on the only other occupant.

Victoria Frankenstein sat on a couch across from the sitting room’s fireplace, which lay beneath a photograph of the haggard man and a woman in white. The doctor herself was only partly illuminated by the low fire, which sent sparks and shadows dancing across her face. It made her look softer than the portrait implied, though the glint in her eyes shone with no less steel.

“I hope you haven’t been delayed too long,” she said formally. “My work is extensive, and I did not expect guests.”

Given that she wore the same black gear as the painting, minus the gloves and with the addition of a few glistening stains on her front, Sergio was inclined to believe her.

“I believe the interruption will be worth your while,” he promised.

“Then by all means, speak.”

“My name,” he said, “is Sergio Navarro.”

The statement had its intended effect. Doctor Victoria’s eyes widened subtly, an indication she recognized the identity of the tragic artist who’d died a century before her birth.

“Continue.”

“I am now a part of something much bigger than my mortal mind could have comprehended. I am un servidor, a Herald of Fear itself.” Drawing the letter from his coat pocket, he offered it to her. “And now, Fear seeks you.”

Her callused hand tugged it from his grasp and broke the wax seal depicting a thorny X. Standing, she crossed to the fire, and Sergio now noticed fragments of newspaper smoldering in the grate. Taking the opportunity to look around, he noticed a family tree on the back wall; Victoria’s photo sat proudly in the center, noticeably contrary among smaller, painted portraits. A closer examination revealed the haggard man a few spots away, his name marked as “Henry Frankenstein.”

“I theorized this would come.”

Sergio looked up to see her with hands clasped behind her back, the letter burning in the grate. He tilted his head. “You did?”

“I’ve heard stories.” Her face was unreadable. “Of my great-grandfather’s second creation. Of battles fought in Egyptian tombs. Of chaos on the streets of Paris. Of the Van Helsing daughter. When you deal in legends made reality, it’s a matter of course to expect it holistically.”

“And do you have an answer to the summons?” he asked.

This response took longer. “Fear once knew me. He is aware of me still. Were you told of the one that he sent you to?”

“No.”

“I am not surprised," she said tightly. “Inform Fear that I respect him greatly. I am by all means willing to work with him. But I refuse to work for him. If he rejects that answer, then he, like the rest, will fall to the name Frankenstein!”

Sergio gave a mute nod. He could hardly do anything more, for the intensity with which she spoke astonished him. Until now, Darkmoor’s residents had baffled him, their lives out of his current understanding’s reach. But Victoria Frankenstein… her vision, her will impressed itself upon him with a force stronger than mere words could convey.

The intensity passed a moment later, and she stepped back, though she still seemed more open than before. “Do you plan to stay in Darkmoor?”

“I—” Sergio frowned. “I do not know. Fear did not specify. I doubt he’d like me to stay too long.”

“In that case, I’ll lead you out of town.” She crossed to the door, holding it open for him. “We’ll travel through my family’s catacombs. The moon is currently full, and while I assume your nature would protect you, I have no desire to encounter werewolves tonight.”

The new duo passed through a maze of rooms and corridors that didn’t look fit for visitors. Sheets of scribbled notes papered the walls, more of the same artifacts he’d seen on Ygor’s cart sat on every surface, and displays that he would have found grotesque before his experiences in the Lantern cluttered the space. Most of it lay outside his full comprehension, aside from the photographs of three women; both beautiful and viscerally unsettling, they reminded him of the Hound’s warning of vampires. At one point, she pulled a device from the wall and spoke into it.

“Ygor.”

“Yes, Doctor?” her assistant answered, his disembodied voice crackling with static.

“I trust Mr. Talbot’s restraints have been secured?”

“Tightened ‘em myself,” he said proudly.

“Excellent work. Send my Creature to escort Mr. Navarro and me through the catacombs.”

“You’ve got it, Boss.”

She hung the device back up, then turned to Sergio as they continued. “How familiar are you with the undead?”

“Save for myself?” he chuckled. “Not very.”

“Then I should warn you that our traveling companion is… not of the natural world. But he is not the monster that people call him!” she said with almost as much fierceness as her response to Adaru. “He’s a scientific marvel.”

The entrance to the Frankenstein catacombs looked much less maintained than the rest of the manor, possibly because of their lack of immediate usefulness. The stone-block walls had a rough cut to them, and the passageway smelled of damp rock and smoke. Distantly, the notes of an organ floated through the air.

A gigantic man, green-skinned and scarred, met them with a torch in one hand and a crossbow that looked more Victoria’s size in the other. Someone with less experience than Sergio may have found him intimidating, but the painter merely saw someone with less hostile body language than the (many) ghosts he’d met by this point.

“Stranger…” he said in a deep, rumbling voice.

“No, a guest. A friend,” Victoria said, putting a hand on Sergio’s shoulder. “Mr. Navarro, I’d like you to meet my Creature.”

“Es un placer conocerte,” he said with a nod of his head.

“Friend.”

Victoria set off at a brisk pace, the Creature following behind. The torch he’d brought provided just enough light to see a few steps ahead, and it made Sergio wonder how many times she’d gotten lost down here.

“My great-grandfather, Henry, sought to conquer death once and for all,” she said, not slowing. “He created a man, sewn from the flesh of the dead, and gave it life through electricity. A new species. But cowardice overtook him, and he rejected the creatures he brought into the world. I am no coward. Mine is better than the original. He’s amazing.”

“Certainly a wonder,” he responded, glancing back towards the Creature. He had a beauty to him, in a way, like the statues resting in the manor’s foyer. “But I wonder if hubris may prove a source of destruction as well as creation.”

“I’m surprised at you. The Sergio Navarro I read of in books would not hesitate to sculpt his name into the annals of history.”

He laughed hoarsely. “Do not misunderstand, I pursue that goal still. Morir, experiencing death firsthand, can refine that ideal, though.”

“Over a century, and the memory still shackles you?”

“It has not been nearly as long for me as it has for you.”

They passed an opening into a brightly lit cavern rigged with more of the same electrical work. The source of the music, a man sitting at a monumental pipe organ built into the wall, glanced at them, then returned to his haunting music. Victoria didn’t pause.

“You don’t deny being enslaved,” she said.

“It is too strong a word,” he responded. “Fear chose me to spread his vision. I have no problem serving when he calls upon me.”

“That’s unexpected.” Victoria went silent for a moment. “Mr. Navarro, have you ever considered that Fear is not as powerful as you believe him to be?”

“How so? Sergio asked cautiously.

“I’m a scientist first and foremost. I have my theories. Fear is, to my understanding, an entity older than any of us can comprehend. Even more ancient than the mummies I’ve encountered. Possibly,” she said, “even as old as humanity itself.”

“You are doing a poor job convincing me of his weakness.”

“Then let me cut to the chase. I believe that Fear is beholden to the very people he terrorizes. He is only as powerful as the emotion he stirs in us.” Victoria glanced back at him. “Chaos, Death, Sacrifice, Legend, Vengeance… those are the concepts that portend his coming, are they not?”

Sergio found himself nodding, captivated by her words despite the danger he knew they could pose. “Si, they are a few of the pigments he works with. Tragedy is his most recent. My medium.”

“Tragedy, hm? Not an ineffective method. But like the others, I have conquered it. And thus, Fear cannot touch me,” she said, stopping to feel for a point in the wall.

“To be free of any mastering influence…” Sergio murmured. He had spoken the truth to her, he reflected. Adaru’s direct dominion stirred no feelings of resentment within him. But the indirect influence, which smarted of ghostly families, overwhelming visions, and strangling roots, held feelings much harder to parse.

“The human will is indomitable, Mr. Navarro,” she said in a low voice, seeming to hear the complexity in the single phrase. “If you are content in your heraldry, then I cannot contest your judgment. But power—true power, the kind that lets you seize your own fate—is achieved through fearlessness.”

A latch clicked beneath her fingers, and the bricks scraped away to reveal a dingy stairwell. Sergio felt the urge to respond to her bold assertion as they climbed, but words eluded him. It took until they reached a gate of wrought iron (for which Victoria produced a key) for them to find him again.

“You are a bold woman.”

“I’ve had to be,” she said, looking back at the Creature. Her voice held a bitter note. “They call my great-grandfather a monster. The Frankenstein name will hold no glory until I achieve a victory so grand that it utterly eclipses his.”

“Then I wish you luck on your journey.”

They emerged into a graveyard with headstones even older than Sergio’s mortal birth. Behind lay a sign indicating Darkmoor’s entrance, while ahead, an archway of rotting wood loomed with a dark path beneath it.

“I don’t know how you’re getting back, but this is the village’s main exit,” Victoria said, nodding towards the arch.

“Muchas gracias,” Sergio said, shaking her hand. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Doctor Frankenstein. I hope we will meet again as allies.”

“Remember what I said,” Victoria responded.

“I believe I will have trouble forgetting it.”

“It was good to meet you as well, Mr. Navarro. If your path leads away from Fear, the manor’s gates will always be open to you.”

She disappeared into the catacomb depths once again, presumably returning to her Creature and heading back towards the manor. He looked towards her descent for a moment longer, then scanned the graveyard. A few monuments stood out—a cloaked reaper, a little girl adorned with fresh flowers—but mist obscured the rest.

Darkmoor was a strange place, he thought as he turned back to the archway, very strange. A madman in bandages, a monster hunter, a bodysnatcher, and a scientist of grand ambition had welcomed him there. Were these individuals (and the ones that they mentioned) unique fixtures in an otherwise normal place? Or was the village itself just odd?

Probably the latter. Either way, he had quite a bit to tell Adaru. Though perhaps he wouldn’t tell him everything. With a full mind, Sergio stepped under the rotting arch and put Darkmoor behind him.

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