"This way..."
Looking at the black Mold on the ground writhing as if it had a mind of its own, slowly arranging itself into legible words, Ethan's grip tightened around his weapon.
"Great. Even the Mold knows how to play tour guide in this hellhole." Ethan gritted his teeth, feeling like everything he thought he knew about the world had been getting its face ground into the pavement all day.
A blast of frigid wind hit them as they climbed out of the dark, damp underground passage, and Ethan shivered.
Before them lay a massive circular altar blanketed in white snow. At its center sat a complex mechanical device, flanked by four eerie stone carvings.
And at the altar's edge, that enormous carriage that somehow always managed to arrive first was parked right where you'd expect it. The Duke had wedged himself into a folding chair that looked like it might collapse at any second, a steaming cup of tea in his hand.
"Heh heh heh... welcome back to the surface, my esteemed guests." The Duke set down his teacup with a smile, his gaze sweeping over the lingering smell of gunpowder on them. "It seems the castle renovation went smoothly? The Lady must have been quite impressed by your visit."
"Cut the crap, Duke." Ethan tossed the winged key and the yellow crystal he'd swiped from underground onto the table in front of the Duke. "We need to find Mia. Which way?"
The Duke's eyes, squeezed into slits by the fat of his cheeks, cracked open slightly. He glanced at the key, then pointed toward the device at the center of the altar. "My, what an impatient man. This altar is the only entrance to the village's core, Miranda's laboratory. But to lower the platform, you'll need to collect the 'crests' held by each of the four Lords."
The Duke extended a pudgy finger toward the valley to the west, perpetually shrouded in thick fog. "The commotion at the castle has already put the remaining three Lords on alert. To the west lies House Beneviento. The mistress, Donna, is an expert in puppets and illusions. She holds the next piece of your puzzle."
Ryan clapped Ethan on the shoulder. "Let's go, Ethan. Back to work."
...
The mountain path to House Beneviento was brutally steep, fog rolling at their feet as if it were alive.
A cluster of hoarse roars erupted from the dense fog ahead, and four or five Lycans covered in black fur burst from behind the rocks, rusted farm tools in hand, red eyes locked on the pair.
Ethan instinctively reached for the RPG on his back.
Ryan smacked his hand down. "You're pulling out the rocket launcher for grunts? You think ammo grows on trees? Use your sidearm."
Ethan hesitated, but the road so far had taught him to trust Ryan on instinct. He drew the M1911 from his hip and gripped it with both hands.
"Deep breath. Don't panic. Treat them like moving targets at a shooting range." Ryan stepped back half a pace, clearly with zero intention of joining in, content to coach from the sideline. "Watch their knees and heads. Line it up, squeeze."
Crisp gunshots tore through the fog. Ethan clenched his jaw, fighting down the fear clawing at his chest, and pulled the trigger. The first shot went wide, but the second blew half the skull off the lead Lycan.
Splattered with black blood, Ethan didn't flinch. If anything, it lit something mean inside him. He'd blown up Lady Dimitrescu to save Mia. A few mangy Lycans were nothing.
He swapped magazines, used the rocks for cover, and picked off the remaining Lycans one by one.
Standing over the twitching corpses, Ethan was breathing hard, his gun hand still trembling slightly, but the look in his eyes was harder than it had ever been.
"Not bad. At least you know where bullets are supposed to go." Ryan gave him an approving nod. "Keep that up. Let's move."
They crossed a suspension bridge, and the valley beyond opened wide. Yellow flowers glowing with a faint luminescence blanketed the mountainside, and the air was thick with a cloying, dizzying sweetness.
Ethan stopped mid-step. His eyes went glassy.
Through his vision, a familiar figure stumbled forward through the flower sea.
"Mia?" Ethan's voice shook with disbelief and wild hope. "Mia! Is that you?!"
The figure ahead didn't turn, only let out a faint whimper and kept walking deeper in.
"Mia! Don't be scared, I'm here to save you!" Ethan lost it completely. He dropped his gun and stumbled headlong toward the flowers.
Ryan stood right where he was, watching Ethan lose his mind, and casually pulled out a Molotov cocktail. A flick of his thumb, a hiss from the lighter, and the wick caught flame.
He eyed the densest patch of flowers at the center of the altar and hurled the bottle.
Fire met the bio-oil-rich pollen and the whole thing went up in a roaring blaze. A wall of flame erupted skyward, swallowing the entire field of yellow flowers.
The cloying sweetness in the air was instantly replaced by the acrid stench of char.
Ethan inhaled a lungful of black smoke and doubled over coughing. The "Mia" in front of him rippled like a reflection on water and vanished. He looked around at the sea of fire, then at Ryan casually dusting off his hands nearby. "Ryan? What are you doing? Where's Mia?!"
"Weeding." Ryan rolled his eyes. "If your wife were really out here taking a casual stroll, why would we be busting our asses? Get a grip. Keep moving."
Past the scorched flower field, an old, gloomy manor stood at the cliff's edge.
They pushed open the heavy front door. The inside was eerily silent. The hallways and parlor were filled with finely crafted porcelain dolls radiating an unsettling aura, their hollow glass eyes seeming to watch from the shadows.
Residual hallucinogenic pollen and the manor's own neurotoxic gas enveloped them both instantly.
The moment Ethan stepped into the parlor, his brain buzzed again.
In his eyes, the walls began to warp and twist, and Mia's anguished cries echoed all around him. Like a man possessed, tears streaming down his face, he lunged into the corner of the room and threw his arms around a dust-caked wooden coat rack.
"Mia, I'm sorry... I'm too late, I'll never leave you again..." Ethan clung to the coat rack, sobbing.
And the only person in the room operating on a normal wavelength was Ryan.
His abilities and mental resistance made this level of hallucination about as effective as a squirt gun. He didn't spare a glance at Ethan's tearful reunion with the coat rack. Instead, he walked straight to the vintage sofa at the center of the parlor.
On the sofa sat a woman in a black mourning dress, her face hidden behind a heavy black veil. On her lap sat a porcelain doll in a wedding dress with a grotesque face.
Donna Beneviento was fully focused on manipulating the illusions, ready to savor the sight of Ethan's total mental breakdown.
Until...
Creak.
The old sofa springs groaned in protest. Ryan dropped onto the cushion right next to Donna, casual as anything, and even nudged the doll aside like it was in his way.
Donna's veil shuddered. Angie's glass eyes swiveled stiffly toward this man who should have been raving mad inside the illusion.
"You... how are you not affected?!" Angie shrieked, her raspy voice pitched high with something close to terror.
Ryan ignored the doll. He leaned slightly toward Donna, his gaze seeming to see right through the heavy black veil to the scarred face beneath.
"Miss Donna, right?" His tone was sincere. "Hiding out in the middle of nowhere behind a veil all day, that's no way to live. That scarring on the right side of your face looks like it's been there a while. Hope you don't mind me asking..."
Ryan paused, the corner of his mouth curving into a devilish smile.
"Have you considered cosmetic surgery? I know a few surgeons with incredible hands. Scar removal, ninety percent guaranteed results. Fair price, no tricks. And if you're not satisfied, I might even swing a full refund."
The air in the room froze solid.
For a woman whose disfigurement had driven her into crippling self-loathing and psychological ruin, those words hit harder than the RPG that had just gone off in the castle.
"I'll kill you!!!"
Angie let out a piercing scream. Donna was beyond furious. She ripped away her veil, baring the horrifying right side of her face, a pair of sharp tailor's shears materializing in her hand. She drove them at Ryan's throat with murderous intent.
"Won't see a doctor, and throwing a tantrum about it." Ryan sighed. He didn't even dodge.
A single clean smack. Ryan's right hand blurred, chopping down on the back of Donna's neck with surgical precision.
The hit landed flush, heavy and decisive. Donna didn't make a sound. Her eyes rolled back and she crumpled into the sofa like a ragdoll. The shears clattered against the wooden floor.
Without Donna's control, Angie went limp too, tumbling off onto the carpet, nothing but a heap of dead weight.
The moment Donna lost consciousness, every illusion in the manor shattered.
"Mia, don't go...!"
In the corner, Ethan jolted like he'd been shocked awake. He gasped for air, looked down, and found himself clutching a rigid wooden coat rack.
His face flushed red. He flung the coat rack aside like it burned him and looked toward the sofa, bewildered and mortified.
"Ryan... what just happened?"
Ryan stood, straightened a collar that hadn't actually gotten wrinkled, and pointed at Donna's unconscious form draped across the sofa. His voice was as casual as someone commenting on the weather.
"Met a hot-tempered prospective client. Gave her the physical anesthesia."
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