The eyes that stared down at Klaus were colder than death, if that was even possible. They held no curiosity, no warmth, no recognition of Klaus as anything more than an insect beneath a microscope.
Klaus had barely registered the sheer scale of the house as Frankenstein dragged him through corridor after corridor. Marble floors stretched endlessly, chandeliers dripping with crystal hung from ceilings so high they disappeared into shadow.
Paintings of stern-faced figures lined the walls, their eyes seeming to follow his every step.
So vampires lived like this. Like kings in a world they had conquered.
Klaus thought of his cramped apartment in the West Vangeline Quarters, the peeling wallpaper, the leaking ceiling. The place where Marcelline had died. Where he had killed her.
Most humans didn't know much about vampire hierarchy. To the average person scraping by in the slums, like Klaus and his sister, vampires were just vicious beasts that came out after dark. Monsters to be feared and avoided. But this, this opulence, this civilization, it painted a different picture entirely. They weren't just monsters. They were rulers.
As they walked, Klaus caught sight of figures in black and white uniforms moving through the halls. Butlers. Servants.
The scent hit him before his brain caught up.
Human.
His nostrils flared involuntarily. That sweet, intoxicating smell. His throat went dry, then flooded with saliva, and his gums throbbed.
"They're human." Klaus said, his voice barely above a whisper. He couldn't tear his eyes away from a woman carrying a silver tray, her pulse visible in the hollow of her throat.
"Yes. What about it?" Frankenstein said cheerfully, not even bothering to look back.
Klaus said nothing. He looked down at his hands again, still stained with dried blood. Still trembling.
He was truly one of them now.
The urge to run screamed through every nerve in his body. Just bolt. Sprint for the nearest exit and don't stop until....
Until what? Until Delilah caught him in three seconds flat and snapped his spine? Until Frankenstein appeared in front of him with his signature manic grin and knocked his head clean off his shoulders?
No. He wouldn't get far. Experience had already taught him that lesson.
So he kept walking.
They stopped before a door so massive it seemed built for giants. Pure black wood, beautiful golden handles shaped like serpents coiling around each other.
The door swung open without anyone touching it.
As they stepped in, Klaus's breath failed him.
The room beyond was a throne room, and there was no other word for it. Vaulted ceilings disappeared into darkness. Crimson banners hung from stone pillars. And at the far end, elevated on a dais of black marble, sat a throne.
And on that throne sat a man.
He had the same blonde hair as Frankenstein and Delilah, but longer, flowing past his shoulders like gold given shape. He wore an ancient vest, deep burgundy with gold embroidery that looked centuries old. His face was simply beautiful, there was no other way to explain it.
Ethereal.
Beautiful in the way a weapon of war was beautiful.
His eyes burned red.
Not the playful red of Frankenstein's gaze or the cold contempt in Delilah's. This was something else entirely. Sharpened from years of hunger and cruelty.
He looked like something holy that was to be worshipped in halls. But there was nothing divine in the way he looked at Klaus.
There was only pure disdain.
"What is this you have disgraced my presence with?" His voice was deep, and threatening, each word enunciated with disgust.
"Father," Delilah said, stepping forward with a slight bow. "Brother discovered a Ripper during his stroll in the West Vangeline Quarters. He fed on his sister brutally, tore her apart, but now claims he can't remember anything. The vampire that turned him also refused to make a report about it."
Klaus's stomach lurched, and bile rose in his throat. He killed his sister. He tore her apart. He—
"Step forward, insect."
A hand slammed into Klaus's back. Frankenstein shoved him forward, and Klaus stumbled, barely catching himself before he fell to his knees.
He was shaking. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to cower, to submit to the overwhelming presence radiating from the throne.
This vampire was terrifying. More terrifying than anything Klaus had ever encountered.
But he forced his legs to lock, forced himself to stand upright.
He wouldn't show fear. He would play along. Be the perfect little toy. Smile, nod, agree to whatever they wanted. And then, when the moment came, when they let their guard down—
A laugh.
Low at first, then building. Echoing through the cavernous throne room like thunder.
Delilah and Frankenstein both flinched.
"F-Father?" Frankenstein's voice had lost all its playful edge.
"This," the man said, rising from his throne, "is quite the specimen."
One moment he was on the throne.
The next, he was in front of Klaus.
His hand shot out, clamped around Klaus's throat, and lifted. Klaus's feet left the ground. The grip tightened, and Klaus felt his windpipe constrict. He clawed at the hand, but it was like trying to pry apart steel.
"Do you know," the man said softly, his face inches from Klaus's, "that I can read minds to a great extent?"
Klaus froze.
No. No, that's not—
The hand squeezed.
"You think you can pretend?" The man's voice dropped to a whisper, venom dripping from every syllable. "Play along, earn our trust, and then kill us when we're vulnerable?"
Klaus's vision blurred. He could tell his neck was cracking, bones grinding against each other.
"You should die."
Fear.
Cold, primal, all-consuming fear flooded Klaus's veins, and his heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum.
Faster. Faster.
And then, like a dam breaking, something else surged forward. More like exploded.
A growl tore from Klaus's throat. Animalistic. Feral. Not his own voice.
His hands moved on instinct, and he twisted.
There was a sickening crack, and suddenly the pressure on his throat was gone.
Klaus hit the ground, gasping, coughing, vision swimming.
And in his hand.....
Was the man's severed hand, still twitching.
Silence.
Absolute, deafening silence.
Delilah's mouth hung open. Frankenstein had gone completely still, his eyes wide as dinner plates.
And the man, their father, stood there, staring at the stump where his hand used to be.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
"Oh? You're a rather interesting specimen. How did you do that? I'm faster than my children, and yet you could tear off my hand like that."
Klaus's entire body was vibrating now. How had he done that? How? Did something take over him?
"You're special, ripper. Perhaps the most powerful ripper I have come across. No one can boast of besting me in a duel, and yet you just tore my hand clean off. You have earned an introduction. I am Velcroft Lytton." The man said, and to Klaus's horror the stump was already twitching and elongating to form a new hand.
"I am the eldest of the four noble pureblood brothers. I believe you have been acquainted with my children."
After his hand finished growing back, he stepped closer to a still trembling Klaus and crouched.
"I shall pardon your treacherous thoughts and grant you this pardon. Do you want to know who transformed you, and made you kill your sister?" His voice had notably softened, even though it was by only a few degrees, but it took Klaus aback.
This cold creature was capable of emitting such warmth?
Bowing his head, tear drops formed in Klaus's eyes.
How had he done that? It was as though something took over him, and all he could see was red. Next thing he knew, he was on the floor and had a hand in his grip.
What was this? How?
No. He had to focus.
Answers would come later.
"Yes, yes I want to know who did it." He responded.
"Good. We leave soon."