Page 115 of Eternal Craving

Within one of the rooms hung a portrait of Delacroix above the fireplace. Dressed in Italian fashion, he held a carnival mask by his side. His wry smile accompanied a knowing expression. Several other masked characters stood behind him. I didn’t need to see their faces to know they were suspect.

On the other side of the room, I tried to exit through a fake door that, when opened, revealed not an exit, but a brick wall. A clock on the mantelpiece ticked away, but the time was off. The dial lied that it was morning.

Delacroix’s library appeared well stocked. For a split second, I wanted to linger, but with no time for such indulgence, I headed out and trekked down the corridor.

On an overly embroidered couch, two vampires were in the throes of passion. The female straddled the male, who controlled her pace. They were fucking, not caring who saw them. I’d never seen such blatant eroticism before. Her long raven hair was so like Sunaria’s that it was alarming. She paused and glanced over at me, then turned and resumed her pleasure as though I weren’t there. Her partner gestured for me to join them.

Tempting, but fear has a way of dulling certain appetites.

Heading back the way I came, I passed a sad-looking vampire, and considered asking him if he’d seen Sunaria, but then thought better of it.

I descended to the main foyer and caught a glimpse of Delacroix just before he disappeared.

I followed him into the shadows. He went through a doorway and descended a dark stairwell. The lower I went, the lower the temperature felt. As I reached the bottom, I almost crashed into a stone statue of a naked man. The six-foot sculpture guarded the entrance, looking strangely out of place. I passed under the arched doorway and soon saw three gaping tunnels just ahead.

A loud bang behind me made me jump.

I flew back toward the door and tried to turn the brass handle. It was locked. I yelled with anger as I heard something being shoved up against the door – likely the stone sculpture.

I chose the east corridor, careful of my footing as I trekked along the wet ground. A rat scurried over my foot, and I broke into a sprint as the tunnel veered off to the right. The cold water kept rising until it reached my waist, and the darkness wrapped itself tighter around me the further I walked, nervous of what may be lurking beneath me.

Sunaria, can you hear me?

I was soon forced to swim through the murky water as the never-ending tunnel narrowed, its brick work crumbling. When a bloated body floated by, face down, I turned around.

When my feet touched ground, I ran down the middle corridor dripping wet. After ten minutes, I reached a dead end. Layers of clay had been heaped over the exit, shoddy workmanship, but effective. My wet clothes cleaved to my skin.

My last choice was the left tunnel. The ground was covered in dark stains and dead insects. With my handkerchief pressed up against my nose, I rallied my courage and continued. A series of doors lined the way. I reached the last one, finding another dead end.

If ever I met with Delacroix again, I’d thank him for his hospitality.

And then kill him.

I pried open a rusty hinged door and peered inside the room. A lone chair with leather straps that hung from the armrests was positioned in the center. Beside it lay a small table, strewn with assorted instruments and strange contraptions, designed for the sole purpose of torture. My gaze hovered over the worn saw. I could tell from the sticky discolorations on the floor that it had been used recently. Lined along the far wall upon poorly constructed wooden shelves was a collection of oddities - stuffed dead animals, their fake eyes bulging, and the skeletal remains of small creatures were ghoulishly preserved. Lined along the top shelf were large glass bottles filled to the brim with murky water.

I approached the shelves and peered into one of the jars.

Through the cloudiness, I made out a familiar shape.

“Bloody hell!”

It was a floating severed hand, pallid and wrinkled. For a split second, I thought that the middle finger twitched. On the small finger, a gold band with an ornate crest was embossed into the metal. I pressed my nose up against the jar.

The hand jerked.

“Fuck!” I leaped back.

The clang of the door echoed as I slammed it shut.

As I started back down the corridor, a sob startled me. Using caution, I followed the noise and found a jail cell. Two young men and a girl, wearing rags, were shackled to the wall.

Studying their faces, hoping for a sign that would indicate sanity, I stepped inside and tried to mouth breathe to avoid the stench.

“Take me,” the redheaded man muttered. Tatty spectacles balanced on the bridge of his nose, his right lens smashed.

I shook my head.

“Did Evan send you?” the girl asked.