“She has been safely delivered,” the wolfman said.


Lord Ultralon did not reply. Instead, he took a sip of brandy from his snifter glass and asked, none-too curiously, “Where was she Retrieved from-?”


The fire warmed alcohol did nothing to thaw his vocal cords. His voice remained refrigerated as he stared fixatedly at the flames blazing in the grate, apparently unperturbed by the scorching heat despite the quilted, velvet robes he wore.


His servant hesitated.


“Lycurgus?”


The wolfman swallowed nervously, and replied, “She was taken from the Edinburgh’s collection, my Lord-”


He flinched as the brandy snifter fell to the floor and smashed into a thousand tiny pieces as Lord Ultralon started violently. The latter jumped out of his chair and whirled to face the anthropoid creature, his robes billowing as he bellowed, “She WHAT-?”


A fine shower of dust and soot rained down on them gently and the wolfman, who normally faced the world with aggression and defiance, flinched. He raised his furry hands to protect himself, and repeated, whining, “She’s undamaged, I’m sure! I swear that Agrippa hasn’t laid a finger on her-!”


“It’s not his finger I’m worried about!” Ultralon gnashed his teeth, thrashing, “And you are sure it is her this time? Not some murdered woman mummified and boxed for the gold-?”


He glowered dangerously at his hairy servant.


“Positive, my Lord,” Lycurgus grovelled, snivelling.


The man before him was one of only few that could put the fear of death in him and he had seen firsthand what the blond could do in his paranoia. The second he imagined smelling disloyalty, he killed the perpetrator and never once felt remorse.


Lord Ultralon regarded Lycurgus contemptuously for a moment and then brushed past him. He made his way along the dusty corridor and down the unlit staircase; excitement bubbled within him and he struggled to contain it. He wanted to run to the saloon as though he was a child running down to the living room on Christmas Day, but he forced himself to exude cool restraint instead. He walked calmly, even haughtily across the hall, despite that there was nobody to see him, although he did fiddle with the heavy, golden signet ring on his right hand ring finger as he entered the gloomy saloon, where, on the mahogany dining table, there was a short, oblong box covered by a black silk pall. He tore it off and stared at the plain lid, running his hand over the surface and sneering as he felt planking barely good enough for a making a chopping board out of. He inspected the wood more closely and noticed that someone had nailed it together like they would a crate; glaring at Lycurgus, who crept in behind him, Ultralon reached for a pronged iron poker.


“Is the dungeon prepared?” He asked, touching the coffin again and caressing the rough wood with what was almost tenderness. His voice was as cold and empty as a grave.


“Yes, my Lord,” the wolfman told him, slightly nervous.


“Did you fetch the necessary…equipment?”


Lycurgus bobbed his head obediently and replied, “Yes, my Lord. Three young men as you said and a big mirror too.”


Ultralon smiled thinly, although more himself than to his hairy servant.


“Good. I shall retrieve the book.”


His servant stiffened in alarm.


“You are going to perform the ritual now?” He spluttered.


Lord Ultralon froze and slowly turned on the latter, his eyes flashing. The werewolf realised his grave mistake immediately and trembled rather fearfully.


“Never question me again, cur,” Ultralon breathed, softly but icily, “And do not forget your respect. I am Lord Tork Ultralon and I do what I want when I want, and if that entails me wanting to perform a midnight ceremony, then I shall perform said ceremony tonight.”


He glared at Lycurgus, who quivered, swallowed and barely worked up the courage to say, “It’s just, well…”


“Well what?”


“Usually you have to have a physical examination beforehand and-”


He ducked as the poker was hurled at him, but he was not quick enough, and Lycurgus let out an ear-splitting yelp as the brass rod caught him on the snout and tore his furry skin open. The blood blossomed immediately and he ducked into the corridor, clutching his nose and whining in pain.


“Pathetic,” Ultralon hissed, passing the wolfman and shouting at someone hiding in the shadows. A thin little man-like being with yellow skin came forward eagerly. He was a little stooped and stared at the other man with greedy black eyes.


“Yurei-assist Lycurgus in taking this delivery to the cellar, and be careful about it! She is very fragile and any damage done to her will be taken from your flesh!"


The second servant bowed and remained bent as Ultralon swept arrogantly out of the room.


“You mangy fool!”


The sound of footsteps grew faint and Lycurgus, who was holding a bloody handkerchief to his bleeding snout, bristled angrily.


“I am not a fool!” He snarled ferociously, wincing in pain, “Quite the opposite, actually. A ritual like that is highly dangerous! It has not been performed in centuries and none of us know what will happen exactly. He will be severely drained at the very least and to wake her up-it’s madness!”


“We are his servants,” Yurei hissed back, “he pays us a pittance more than anywhere else, has us fed, clothed and gives us a roof to sleep under for obeying his every word! We should not question him, mutt, or it’ll be the work farm for us all-!”


“But his Lordship should prepare himself!” Lycurgus argued back, “He should eat a legume diet and drink a vial of some vitamin concoction for three months beforehand! He should study other rituals that are better known-sleep well-do memory exercises-not leap into performing a resurrection like a schoolboy at the start of-!”


Yurei smiled thinly, reminding Lycurgus of a Cheshire lizard.


“He probably has, but you’re just unwilling to be at the beck and call of someone else who’s better than you-”


The wolfman sneered, and, wrapping the kerchief around his nose, he grabbed the makeshift coffin. His yellowy fellow followed suit, taking the foot of it; together, they manhandled the box into the hall and down to the corridor a little, where, beneath the staircase, there was an open door. A cold gust of damp air was spewing out of it, ruffling Lycurgus’ fur as they edged their way down the stairs, which were worn smooth and unlit but for a green glow that was emanating from the cellar itself. The room in question was carved out of the same cliff-face as the house but was even chillier and gloomier than the rest of the building. There was a copper brazier piled with glowing green stones in the fireplace at the far end of the cellar, in which a table stood waiting. A mirror had been hung on the wall, to which a fresh coating of white paint had been applied, hiding the scars where the cages had been.


Lycurgus and Yurei slid the coffin onto the table, narrowly avoiding the ornately carved lectern standing nearby. The stone floor had been pounded smooth as part of the cleansing process, whilst above them an iron chandelier was waiting to be lit. It hung from the vaulted ceiling and Yurei hurriedly put a flame to each of the eight candles, which were made from beeswax and smelt sweet. He narrowly avoided setting the silk tablecloth alight as a spark or two rained down on it; from a sink in the corner, Lycurgus fetched water in a small gold bucket that was not thicker than a piece of foil. The wolfman pulled the mahogany chair closer to the table as well, having carried it down from the loggia earlier that week.


“Go fetch them,” he told Yurei, who sneered but scampered off. He soon came back with three young men who had been lodging in the front room under the belief that Lord Ultralon desired their services, which he had, for it was they who had painted the cellar and flattened the floor, but that did not quell their surprise and mounting horror as the alien hybrid led them to the left hand wall and manacled them to it. He lined them up and backed away, smirking as they rattled their chains uselessly and tried to shout, although to no avail as Yurei had gagged them beforehand. He cackled to himself and glanced at Lycurgus, who ignored him in favour of untying his nose and inspecting the damage; neither heard Lord Ultralon coming down the stairs.

Want to comment on this Prose? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Prose and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...