Midvinterblot

Tamora couldn't help but frown, though she tried to maintain the same stoic expression she had always attempted to wear when addressing powerful individuals, and she disregarded his comments. "I merely want to understand the ceremony," she clarified in a quiet tone, but Vincent dismissed her statement with a wave of the hand.

"Leave that to those of us with the proper experience in the arcane arts," he insisted, and straightened his tie. "Any instruction you may require shall be shared before the séance begins. Is the food to your liking?" He changed topics on her so quickly, it threw the petite lady off. The roast beef tasted incredible, and she didn't even notice that one of the servants had refilled her glass with red wine as soon as the first was empty.

The rest of the conversations around the dinner table were kept strangely light for such an eccentric bunch of people, all with some ties to a world of such secrecy. Hayden Cromwell was the son and heir to a very influential family whom had fingers in just about every pie they could find. Politics, business, and - of course - anything remotely resembling sorcery, being one of the oldest and most well-known ancestries within such circles. Lord Labranche more or less owned half of France, while Madame Greta Vieux had travelled across the world visiting nearly every séance and magical gathering ever conducted. Mister Hartfield was most famous for organizing the yearly masquerade party for the Magician's Guild of America, which seemed to be the one event that would bring out even the most reclusive of those who called themselves witches and warlocks. Tamora's father used to attend every year before his passing.

Mister Astor Becheret was a quiet sort, but the ring on his finger told a tale of his own - the mark of the Order of the Golden Chalice, the secret society responsible for binding the 72 demonic spirits of Solomon's seal. Tamora made a mental note to steer clear of the man, fearful of whichever dark pacts he might have made with the supernatural beings. Despite a healthy dose of scepticism towards magical arts, Tamora knew better than to challenge demonologists. As for Madame Boisclaire, she informed the other people at the table that she was a teacher at the Conclave, the most prestigious of all magical academies - responsible for acquiring new talent to the hidden world beyond. Regardless of how much or how little effect these people's magical rituals had, there was no denying that they were all powerful individuals, and that the common folk had no idea kind of damage they were doing to the world behind closed doors. How much influence they had over worldly affairs. And how close some of the conspiracy theories floating around about shadow governments were to reality.

Dinner was concluded at 2300 hours sharp, and Vincent encouraged everyone to "settle their affairs" before midnight struck. Tamora looked around for Mister Calamax as people began to shuffle about, getting up from their seats and leaving the dining hall to find some more private spaces to interlope in one another's businesses. When she noticed he was standing by the window, which was decorated in threads and tassels matchings the night's gloomy weather, her worries grew additionally. Why was Nimue de Montague talking to him? Was she now trying to seduce Calamax? Unlikely. Convince him to push Tamora towards an evening of debauchery? Entirely possible, and incredibly embarrassing. She had known the man since as far back as her earliest of memories. He was like an unofficial uncle.

The girl seemed a tad buzzed; her cheeks flushed red and her eyes somewhat glassy. She grinned at Tamora mischievously as she approached the pair. "You know what he meant, right?" she asked with a teasing tone to her voice, interrupting her conversation with Gerald. Her hands felt hot on Tamora's skin when she took them into her own. "Vincent, I mean. About settling your affairs? He means that this is the last chance you have to do whatever it takes to protect yourself," the young lady whispered into her ear. "Heavens above, you need to open your eyes Miss von Bornheim! Why do you think people hurried out of here in pairs and groups with such haste? They're going to fuck! Fuuuuck!" She drew out the word, and Mister Calamax coughed, shifting away from them both awkwardly, as if to signal with body language that he wasn't listening even though he clearly very much was.

Tamora didn't quite understand - though the alcohol coursing through her system made it all a bit easier to swallow. "But.. Mister de la Rose said that-"

Nimue laughed loudly. "Oh, that sly old fox," she interrupted the girl, looking around them before bringing herself close again. "You need to read between the lines when he speaks. What did he say, exactly?"

"That I will not die tonight," Tamora answered hesitantly. She looked to Mister Calamax for some kind of support, and he nodded but remained silent.

The blonde woman smiled wickedly as she looked deep into Tamora's eyes. "Tonight. Right. But what about a week from now? He's a trickster, that one - and I'm afraid that I'm the only one here that wants what's best for you. Not even your dear friend Gerald Calamax has your well-being as his first priority.." A challenging tone, and the older man spoke up with a roar insisting it wasn't true at the same time as Tamora pulled her hands away, offended by Nimue's behaviour - yet the words hit her like a ton of bricks, and left her somewhat shaken, because there was a look in Mister Calamax's eyes that she didn't recognize. Something akin to guilt. And so, Tamora's head began spinning; she didn't know who to trust anymore, if anybody at all.

"I don't believe you," she said defiantly, and she narrowed her eyes at Nimue - annoyed by how confident and playful she acted in front of a near stranger and her lifelong friend, if Gerald could be called that. The blonde seemed almost impish. "I suggest you give up on this ridiculous attempt to convince me to make a fool out of myself," Tamora snapped at her, folding her arms across her chest. "And stop stirring the pot to create chaos. I am here for the séance only, and I have no interest in playing your games."

Nimue looked amused by her reaction. "I can prove it to you," she proclaimed, wagging a finger in front of Tamora's face with a wide smile. She fished a polaroid picture - wrinkled and crumpled at the edges - from somewhere within her cleavage, and held it out for the both of them to see. "What do we have here?" she asked with glee in her voice. The photograph depicted Mister Calamax - mostly naked - having intercourse with two ladies at once, and the picture was clearly taken from this very evening based on the fact that Tamora recognized them and their clothing. "So much for trying to help you with this Midvinterblot conundrum, huh?"

It looked as if all blood had drained from Mister Calamax's face, and his nostrils flared when he saw the photograph. "I can explain," he began - yet nothing followed up. Nothing of substance, anyway; he just stood there looking somewhat helpless.

Tamora was too stunned for words - she could only look at the older gentleman and Nimue in shock. Was Mister Calamax perhaps not looking out for her well-being after all? She had known the man for so long, and yet suddenly she began to have doubts. Why was he sleeping with two ladies a few hours before the séance, when he had promised her to find some kind of solution together with her?

"With this.." Nimue said, shaking the polaroid print a little for emphasis, "You are now unquestionable the purest and most innocent person at this party. You see, your confidante made sure of that by getting naughty with your only real 'competition', thus sealing your fate."

The slap caught both women by surprise, but Nimue de Montague remained remarkably still and calm as the older man laid his hands on her in a sudden outburst of anger. Gerald Calamax didn't hit people; he was always soft spoken and gentle - yet tonight he seemed possessed. A different man altogether. Tamora gasped and watched him pull back, before walking away without saying another word to them both.

"I'm the only one looking out for you," Nimue said, her mask slipping a little, revealing something of what she truly felt underneath it all. Something almost genuine. Something much more afraid than her unrelenting confidence suggested. There was even some remorse in there somewhere. "You poor thing. But you're running out of time, innocent one. Now I suggest that you throw all inhibitions aside, and all caution to the wind, and go on the wildest ride you can imagine!" And then she leaned in closer, smiling like a cat who got the cream, despite one cheek glowing from where she had been hit. "I want to see you break free. And make it naughty! Some ordinary lovemaking isn't going to cut it, dear."

"W-What do I do, then?" Tamora stammered, nervous energy coursing through her veins like an electric eel on the hunt. It felt strange; the moment before an act was about to unfold, just before the precipice, that rush of adrenaline mixed with fear, making it all so much more intense - yet at the same time, the very anticipation turned everything around into a sort of daze. She felt lightheaded. Her thoughts became muddled. She wanted to go home. As much as she wanted to find out what had happened to her father, things were spinning out of control. But Grackleton Manor was out in the middle of nowhere, and Mister Calamax was her ride home. Even if she could call for a taxi, the roads must be covered in thick layers of ice and snow by now, and there would most likely be no cab driver brave enough to risk going up or down the mountain path.

Nimue leaned in and placed a soft kiss on the other woman's lips. "Leave it to me, hmm? Just put your faith in me," she purred, caressing Tamora's skin.

She swallowed hard, and then opened her mouth to accept Nimue's indecent proposal, just as Hayden Cromwell turned the corner and returned to the dining hall - his eyes shot open, though instantly filling with relief when he saw Tamora. His maroon tie bore his family's crest.

"Tamora!" he exclaimed, the brooch on his lapel gleaming under the flickering lights from above. "May I have a moment of your precious time?" His voice had an urgency to it that she hadn't heard before. But the most puzzling part was the anger that spread across Nimue de Montague's features.

"Can't you see we're in the middle of a conversation?" the lady in red snapped. Her hands still held on tight around Tamora's waist, as if to say; 'don't even think about leaving'.

Cromwell looked unperturbed. "It is of great importance," he insisted. Then he gave Nimue a look that would have made anyone feel small. "And you.. Remember your place, De Montague. This does not concern you."

Tamora saw glimpses in the man that reminded her of the boy she had once known, and she remembered how strong-headed he had always been only too well. Furthermore, something about the way he spoke told her that this matter was far from trivial, or of minor importance. She needed to hear what he had to say. If anything, Cromwell might be the most trustworthy person she could turn to right now, given the fact that Mister Calamax's strange actions of lust seemed to paint a whole different picture of the man than what she had expected.

"Lead the way," she told Hayden as she wiggled herself free from Nimue's grasp, the bitterness on the woman's face hard to miss. The two of them turned a corner, leaving Miss de Montague behind, and Tamora began to reminisce on old memories bubbling up to the surface of her and Hayden when they were younger. "It must have been nearly ten years since we last saw each other," she spoke, trying to break the tension with casual conversation despite how confused she felt on the inside. "What have you been up to?"

"No time," he dismissed her, before taking her into what looked like an old study - bookshelves covering the walls from floor to ceiling, and dusty old books filling their space. On the other end was a large wooden desk, with a high-back chair so oversized that it would easily seat two people. A map of the world took up the entire wall behind it. Hayden closed the door behind Tamora as she stepped in, and then quickly turned to her again. "I'm not sure how much you know about what's going on here," he began, looking around nervously. "But there's going to be a sacrifice tonight."

Tamora sighed deeply, and her lips curled downwards. "So I've heard," she admitted. "And I don't want any part of it. I just want to find out what happened to my father, and go home."

Hayden swallowed nervously, and she could see beads of sweat on his brow as he began pacing back and forth across the room. "We're in a predicament," he confessed. "They have been following me all night, keeping an eye on me, making sure I didn't speak with you. I tried to touch your feet with mine under the dining hall table, but-"

"That was on purpose? I thought you might have been flirting with me," Tamora interjected, feeling even more puzzled.

The man had the good graces to look embarrassed as he let out a huff. "You must forgive me - I simply had to get your attention somehow. Undoubtedly, one of Vincent's goons will barge in here any second now. I managed to slip out of sight, but they must be searching for us." He looked genuinely concerned for a man of his social standing. "He must have suspected I would try to warn you." A warmth touched his green eyes; Tamora could feel it, and it reminded her that she had liked this young man a long time ago, despite his brash nature.

"Are we in danger?" The words tumbled out of her mouth like leaves in the wind.

Hayden scratched the stubble upon his cheek - clearly uncomfortable. "In a manner of speaking," he replied with caution in his voice. "I am near certain that you will be the sacrifice tonight. But.. There's more things one could sacrifice other than - for example - their life."

"Such as?" She felt defeated, just wanting to curl up into a ball and hibernate until springtime.

"Your innocence. Your trust in people. Your virtues and beliefs," he explained, before looking at her curiously.

Despite her remaining confusion, the pieces started to fall into place. "Wait.." she began, her bottom lip quivering as her eyes locked onto Mister Cromwell's with newfound comprehension. "Do you.. I mean.. These sacrifices - could they have begun the moment I entered the manor?" It all felt so surreal to her. A mix of sorrow and frustration caused her heart to feel heavy in her chest; tears began to prickle the corners of her eyes.

He nodded, his mouth pressed firmly together in a tight line, regretful yet resolute. "It's possible," he told her - the sympathy in his eyes speaking volumes of how he felt about this entire mess. As if he wanted to fix it for her, yet didn't know how. Or if it even was fixable at all. Then, a sudden look of realization on his face, and he stepped closer to her and plucked the feather-plumed brooch from her crow-coloured gown and let it fall to the floor with a soft clatter. Then he stepped on it with his oxfords, with enough force to break it apart.

A knock on the door came, delivered with authority. "Miss von Bornheim? I'm coming in." Vincent's voice sounded through the heavy wooden entrance, and Tamora looked up at Hayden helplessly - and as their host stepped inside, he was flanked by two servants. They were rather large specimens; taller than most and very wide in their shoulders. Neither of them smiled. "Tamora, please allow me to escort you elsewhere? Come help assist me with setting everything up for the séance, would you?" He turned to the young woman in question. There was a look on his face that seemed so distant. As if he was observing it all from another location entirely - watching the world play out as if in slow motion while standing behind a thick wall of glass. But then he shot a look at Mister Cromwell that was clearly filled with disapproval, with no attempt at hiding it.

Tamora suddenly felt like a scared puppy on a short leash, feeling her stomach churn uncomfortably as she struggled against the invisible bonds that held her. It wasn't something physical - rather an instinctual feeling of discomfort. Her breathing came in shallow breaths, and for a moment she thought she would faint, but Vincent was there to catch her - his arms holding her up tightly. "Are you alright, peachy one? Let's get you a glass of water.."

But she didn't want water. She wanted to go home. Hayden Cromwell just looked defeated - as if he didn't want to end up in Vincent's clutches either. She made eye contact with him once more. There was so much sadness in his eyes. "Save yourself," he mouthed without a sound, and then she could feel herself being picked up by Vincent once more, his strong arms carrying her out of the study.

They headed upstairs, towards the grand parlour where they would be having the séance - but instead of walking inside, Vincent led her into a room just off to the side, which was full of all kinds of strange and macabre objects. Strange masks, bone-charm pendants, candles, peculiar symbols carved into rocks. Tamora couldn't tell how many times she had seen such things, as her own father kept some around the house, but seeing them here filled her with trepidation. What dark power were they about to unleash? Vincent looked at her with inquisitive eyes; he seemed to be reading her mind, or at least trying to assess her mood. He sat her down upon a the only couch in the room, then he closed the door, and locked it with a key.

"What are you planning on doing to me? I don't want to die!" she exclaimed in a voice that was all-together angry, fearful and desperate.

"You misunderstand the ritual," Vincent replied calmly. "Tonight's a celebration. For thousands of years, the people of Sweden has celebrated the Midvinterblot. It's a way to honour the Gods, in exchange for bountiful harvests and fertile soil. We're pairing it with a séance because the arcane energies will make tonight even more grandiose." He placed a comforting hand upon her shoulder and smiled gently as if trying to reassure her. It didn't work.

"So what does this ritual entail?" Tamora demanded - not entirely believing his story but wanting answers all the same. The servants likely lingered just outside the door, so there was little point in trying to escape, even if she would find the nerve.

He frowned and crossed his arms across his chest defensively. "Our ancestors did many things which today seem barbaric or cruel," he admitted. "They had a strong sense of duty back then. Of pleasing the Gods." The way he spoke; It felt unnatural, as normally a person would likely not speak so matter-of-factly to someone as visibly upset as Tamora von Bornheim. "But nowadays there's no need to sacrifice the life of a living being. No blood spilled on an altar. You have a very vivid imagination, young lady, and tonight it seems to be getting the best of you."

He turned his back to her, reached for a leather-bound folder, opened it up, and began leafing through papers until he found what he was looking for. "This is why you are here tonight," he explained - handing it over to her. She recognized the handwriting immediately, and the paper even had a faint scent of her father's cigars. Her hands kept shaking as she looked at the letter, unmistakenly penned by Otto von Bornheim. And yet when she read it, none of it made sense to her.

"Dear Vincent, Regrettably, it is drawing closer. It is haunting my every dream, every thought. I can feel that my time is almost up. Curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back - isn't that how the saying goes? I'll admit, I am not half as stoic in these dire times as I would have liked to be. I'm tired of being the cat in the box, both living and dead. Bring me back, Vincent. Keep your end of the deal.