The rain poured down heavy and hard like a vengeful god, turning the alley into a drowned gutter.
THUD!! THUD!!
The sound of boots walking on wet cobblestone was prominent, and as this person makes their way to the end of this alley, they sense of sme was instantly hit by the garbage, piss, and clogged gutter filled with to the brim with nameless filth that stank.
The sky loomed as an eternal void, crushing down upon the World of Man, thick clouds so potent it blocked out everything, leaving the world below with no sun, stars, or moon of the night sky.
Just this ceaseless torrent from the clouded abyss, soaking everything in bone-deep cold.
Beatrice shivered under her umbrella, the relentless tap-tap-tap on the fabric splashing her from different sides.
Her breath came in ragged puffs, misting the frigid air. Across from her, huddled beneath her own umbrella, was another woman, she looked out place her given what she wore, and also because she was standing at the dead end of the alley, beside an open door.
"Auntie Maine." Beatrice said to the woman before her.
She looked almost human at a glance, but the illusion shattered the longer you stared. Her limbs jerked with that unnatural grace, joints too fluid to be humanly possible, she was like a puppet strung by invisible threads.
In a way she was.
Her skin gleamed under the alley night light, that was blinking on and off, her skin was pale and waxy, unnaturally flawless. And she wore a simple black dress that cinched her waist like a straitjacket, it's gothic edges frayed with lace that fluttered weakly in the cold wind.
There was a black ribbon around her throat? Tied in a perfect bow at the back of her neck. Her face... fuck, it was hauntingly beautiful, in a way that clawed at your soul. Lips stained crimson like old blood, and a pair of nocturnal blue eyes that glowed creepily in the dark.
However what make her stand out was her limbs, arms visible, also her legs hidden by her dress. All four of them where doll limbs or prosthetics, that control as if they where apart of her from birth.
She looked up at the woman, who was taller than her, about two or three heads. "So you came." She said to Beatrice, who just nodded. Causing her to sigh internally and soon thereafter began to speak. "Not gonna lie, I would have rather you didn't do this... But I guess you have already made your choice little Bea."
"I am afraid so auntie Maine." Beatrice replied, as her violet eyes began to look down on Main with a smudge of regret in them. Main sighed, as she pulled something from her shadow, her hands trembling as she present it to Beatrice. The thing in question was cradled and wrapped in frayed cloth, blood staining it from within. And as she extended it slowly, her fingers where clearly hesitant, as if the act pained her.
"Like you asked for." Her voice cracked slightly, low and regretful. "I vowed I would never make one of these again, but in case like this, it's lesser of two evils, so here child take it before I changed my mind. This is the Reliquary of the Stillborn. God, Bea, I never wanted to hand this over to you."
Beatrice's fingers spasmed at her side, a shiver racing through her that wasn't just the cold. Maine drew back the cloth with gentleness that bordered on grief.
When the cloth peeled back, the thing inside was no relic. "Oh god." Beatrice almost vomit at the sight, the smell of blood and oil thick on its surface. It was a blasphemy to the eye, and the stomach, that much was sure. Given that ritual item was a dead baby's head, flayed of skin so the raw tissue glistened wetly. It sat propped upright like a trophy. Its jaw had been wrenched open far beyond what bone should allow, teeth cracked and shattered, the fragments jammed together with the bone remains of a lesser vampire splintered fangs which was wedged in like some cruel offering.
The sockets where eyes should have been were sewn shut with wire-thick thread, the lids stretched so tight they split in places, leaking a sluggish trickle of black fluid that crawled down its face like oily tears.
Carved into its cheeks and forehead were demonic looking symbols gouged so deep the skull itself showed through in pale glimpses. A crown of thorns had been nailed into the scalp, each barb biting through bone, leaving rivulets of dried blood that flaked and cracked with every shift of the box that head was in.
And the box, God have mercy, the box was worse than the head. It wasn't wood, nor was it made of stone. It was stitched abomination, of flesh. As the container had been fashioned from the skinned arms and legs of other infants, their tiny limbs crudely stripped, and sewn edge to edge like thick leatherwork. Their fingers were still there, stiff and curled, forming the corners. The flesh had shriveled and dried, but in places it still looked tender, almost fresh, despite being made a week prior.
A stench rolled out, sweet and sour, like spoiled milk curdled with blood. It clung to the air, sticky and heavy, a smell that made the stomach knot and the throat tighten. And even looking at it made Beatrice disgusted with herself.
Given she had to killed multiple pregnant woman with her own hand to even make this ritual possible, a small sacrifice she tried to convince herself, but nonetheless she open back her eyes, her self disgust, now replace with determination and hope, as she place the cloth back around it.
"Take a good look at it Beatrice... This is the price we impure must pay and take if we want to use the power of the spirits." Maine said, trying to educate her niece on the harshness of the world even further, and sacrifice needed to reach there. Beatrice naturally nodded her head as she responded with. "I have no right to be feeling guilt, I took the life of many just so I can have this chance, I won't take this sin for granted." Beatrice said with a stone cold resolved.
And Main sighed as she responded back. "I still don't agree with this."
"It doesn't matter what you think, I have to make a contract tonight, if I fail, I might as well just kill myself before they come and kill me." Her voice was quiet, and steady despite the storm. "There is no other way, I either take a massive step forward at chance of life and ambition, or jump backward and embrace the hell that awaits me."
Hearing this Maine lips pressed together in something between a smile and a sigh.
"Your mother wouldn't want this." She shifted the reliquary now in her nieces hand, as though tempted to take it back, alas she didn't "But I am not your mother."
Her gaze softened. For all her porcelain coldness, for all the strange doll-like stiffness of her movements, there was something warm in that look, painfully human.
"As your aunt." She said finally. "I will support you. even if your actions slowly tears you apart."
Hearing this Beatrice bowed her head, extremely greatful for her aunt.
She the exhaled, lips trembling, then pulled her umbrella closed. Droplets spattered down her shoulder as she straightened. "Thank you, Auntie Maine."
She turned toward the door tucked into the alley's end, looking at it small, iron-framed, its wood dark with rot. With the reliquary clutched to her chest, she pushed it open and stepped inside.
The door then shut behind her.
Maine remained in the alley.
For a moment she simply stood, umbrella steady, rain dripping in rivulets around her boots. Then she exhaled through her teeth, lowered the umbrella, and dug into her pocket.
A slim cigar was now in her hands as she set it between her lips, patted her coat she wore around her black dress, until she found the lighter, then sparked flame into the damp air.
The smoke curled, sharp and acrid, a counterpoint to the rain's metallic tang.
Her shoulders sagged as she drew in a breath and let the smoke slip from her painted mouth. Stress tugged at her features, something deep and tired.
Beatrice was her only family left. The thought weighed heavier than the rain. If she could have chosen, she never would have let the girl touch the reliquary. "Just don't die kid."