Damon watched, eyes narrowing, as the creature's obsidian fur unraveled into a thick, black fog. The dark mist swirled around the wood, drifting downward like heavy smoke before dissipating entirely into the shadows of the street.
'It's watching us.' Damon thought.
They didn't waste time. Hailing a passing carriage, the brothers endured an agonizingly slow ride back to the entertainment district. The rhythmic clop-clop of hooves against cobblestone seemed to mock Damon's rising anxiety, each second stretching like an hour. When the carriage finally halted, they threw the fare and bolted.
Weaving through the alley they quickly reached the reinforced rear door, as Damon pounded on the steel, he frantically called out. "George! Open up!"
Seconds dragged by, but then they heard the sound of locks.
The door swung inward and George stood there, wiping grease from his hands onto a rag, a look of annoyance etched into his face.
"Keep it down, runts," George grumbled, stepping aside to let them into the dimly lit hallway. "You two are back early. Where's the 'cure'?"
"We need to see Marco," Damon said, stepping past him without breaking stride.
George reached out a meaty hand to stop him. "Hold ya horses. Your brother is still in there with him. Marco said he needed some time--"
"It's urgent," Damon interrupted, his voice tight. He didn't wait for permission. He sidestepped the clown and headed down the corridor.
As he neared the back room, the smell of soothing incense abruptly vanished. It was replaced by something warmer. Heavier.
Blood.
Damon's step faltered for a fraction of a second as the metallic scent hit his nose, unmistakably sharp.
"Hey! I said wait!" George barked, stomping after them.
Damon didn't listen. He reached the door. He didn't knock. He threw it open.
"Vincent, we have a—" Immediately the words died in his throat.
The room was bathed in the warm glow of the lamp, but the walls, once covered in esoteric charts, were sprayed with a violent, crimson.
Vincent stood still in the center of the room, his back to the door. Damon's gaze dropped. The bedsheets were soaked, a heavy, sodden mess of red. And there, on the floorboards near the foot of the bed, was Marco.
The diviner's head sat upright, severed cleanly from the neck. His eyes were closed, his expression slack and peaceful, as if he were merely sleeping.
"What in the..." Henry's voice was a breathy whisper behind Damon.
George barreled into them from the rear. "I told you not to go—" The clown froze. The rag dropped from his hand.
At the sound of the commotion, Vincent slowly turned around.
The movement was mechanical. Almost Rigid.
There was a smear of blood across his cheek, stark against his pale skin. But it was his eyes that terrified Damon the most. The arrogant, calculating spark of Vincent Redhill was gone. In its place was a flat, terrifying void. A blank stare that registered neither his brothers nor the horror he stood amidst.
In his right hand, his heavy broadsword hung low. A single, thick trace of blood ran down the fuller of the blade, pooling at the tip before dripping onto the wood.
Drip... Drip…
****
An hour Earlier…
After Damon and Henry left, the door clicked shut, leaving Vincent alone in the dim room. The sound of Damon and Henry's footsteps faded down the hallway, leaving only the rasping, wet sound of Marco's breathing.
Silently creating a barrier, Vincent turned back to the bed, his shoulders dropping slightly as the mask of the "cocky older brother" slipped away. He looked at the frail man on the bed, his expression softening into genuine concern.
"They're gone, Marco," Vincent said gently, pulling a wooden chair closer to the bedside. The wood creaked under his weight. "You don't have to keep up the act anymore. Talk to me. What is this 'Gospel Melody' really?"
Marco didn't answer immediately. He stared up at the ceiling, his chest heaving with the effort of simply existing. "Vincent... are you aware of what the Summer Festival is truly for?"
Vincent blinked, caught off guard by the academic question. "It's a ceremony. A ritual to honor the birth of the Trinity Gods. The citizens adorn themselves in ritualistic body paint, feathers, and bone accessories to mimic the first believers."
"The performances are supposed to be an offering. Its believed the better the performance, the more blessings the people receive, but everyone knows this. Are you saying what happened to you is related to the festival?"
"Yes..." Marco let out a dry, rattling cough. He turned his head, his hollow eyes locking onto Vincent. "On the 10th of June, an anxious young woman came to me. She was a student at the Quintet, worried about her upcoming solo for the Festival."
Vincent's brows began to furrow as a picture was slowly painted in his mind. "She's the source? Is she the resident of Winchester street."
Marco nodded weakly. "I did a reading for her. But while I was using my mystic eye... I saw it. There was a dark, malicious intent latched onto her spirit. It was feeding on her anxiety."
"And you didn't report it?" Vincent asked, his voice low.
"I was afraid," Marco whispered, shame coloring his pale tone. "I feared that if I spoke up, I would attract the attention of the entity that marked her. Or worse, the Church would purge us and anyone we both encountered just to be safe. So I stayed silent." He paused taking a breath then continued "Two days later, she disappeared."
Vincent gripped the arms of the chair. "That's when you got sick."
"It was the guilt," Marco confessed, his voice trembling. "I felt responsible. That guilt... it created a bridge. A path for that malicious intent to weave its way into my mind, It quickly started contaminating my Core. The more I resisted, the more I felt my insides being torn apart."
He looked at his trembling hands. "If you hadn't come today, I would have turned into a mindless beast by sundown." Marco took a ragged breath, his gaze hardening. "I need you to kill me, Vincent."
The room went silent.
Vincent stood up abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. "Is that why you sent Damon and Henry away?" Vincent asked sharply. "Don't be stupid. If we take you back to the Manor, my Mother might have a way to stabilize you. We have containment protocols."
"She can't fix this," Marco denied "And I sent your brothers away because... there is still a chance."
"A chance for what?"
"A fragment of that girl's spirit, the part that hasn't collapsed, might still be out there," Marco said, his eyes pleading. "If your brothers knew I was dying because of her, they might just destroy the spirit out of vengeance. But Damon's different. He already has the ability to reach her. I hope that if he finds her on his own terms, he can save her."
"Even so, I am not killing you," Vincent snapped, turning away, his hands shaking slightly. "We are not doing this. How could you ask me to."
"Do we have a choice?" Marco's voice was soft, cutting through Vincent's panic. "Do you remember the first time we met, Viny? You were supposed to kill me then, too. I was your target."
Vincent froze.
"We played poker instead," Marco smiled faintly. "You went against protocol because you saw a person. You saved me then."
Marco reached out, his withered hand clutching his own chest as another spasm of pain racked his body. Tears streamed freely down his face now. "Please... I'm begging you. Don't let me turn. Don't let me become a monster that hurts Georgie and Harley."
"This will hurt them just as much!.. What am I to tell them huh...?!" Vincent stared at the crying man. He looked at the fear in his friend's eyes, not fear of death, but fear of the corruption taking his soul.
Something in Vincent's mind snapped.
It was a strange sensation, like a switch flipping off in a bright room.
The shaking in his hands stopped instantly. The panic in his chest evaporated, replaced by a cold, absolute silence.
His facial muscles relaxed. The concern, the friendship, it was all scrubbed away, leaving only a smooth, blank surface.
Vincent reached over his shoulder and gripped the hilt of his broad sword from his inventory. The steel sang a low, mournful note as he drew it.
He stepped up to the bed. He raised the heavy blade high. "Are you sure?"Vincent asked. His voice was flat. Empty.
Marco looked up at the blade. He closed his eyes and exhaled long and slow.
"Thank you."
Hearing a confirmation, Vincent didn't hesitate.
He brought the blade down with a single, fluid motion.
SHILK!!.
The steel sheared through muscle and bone, severing the Core located within his nape.
Marco's head separated from his body, thumping dully onto the floorboards as the spray painted the wall in a violent arc of crimson.
Vincent stood there, the blade hanging from his hand, staring at nothing.