Alaric Voss stood his ground, eyes locked on the trio of medusa heads hurtling toward him. His eyes were sore and blurry.
The corridor had lit itself the moment he arrived, a thousand white torches blazing along the walls, flooding the long red carpet in brilliant light. The flying heads cast shadows over it as they closed in.
Alaric ran at them.
He cracked Angel's Tear, his three-pronged whip, each tip a point of the Holy Trinity. The first head shattered on impact, flesh and bone turning to stone mid-air.
He twisted past the second, went into a barrel roll, and came down in a squat on the shoulders of an angel statue.
Blood-soaked tears streamed down its stone cheeks.
He patted its head. "They're about to give you something to cry about, my lady," he laughed.
The two remaining heads spat streams of acidic bile. He was already moving, uncorking a vial of holy water with his teeth mid-leap.
He doused them both as he passed overhead. Blue flames swallowed them whole.
"That's what happens when you skip Sunday mass, foul denizens of Hell!"
He landed where he'd started.
Behind him, the statue was a smoldering ruin.
He pressed on down the corridor, threading through a maze of giant cleaver-blades swaying on chains from the chandeliers above.
He could've gone high, bounced off the walls, grabbed a chandelier and swung across. He enjoyed a good chandelier swing. But not today. The people of Wallachia had suffered under Countess Vladira long enough.
He'd already come through mausoleums, kitchens, underground passages, grand halls. Ghosts, goblins, ghouls. He carried the scars to prove it. He'd carry a thousand more if he had to.
"I'm coming for you, Red Maiden, Widow of Wallachia!" he bellowed, charging through the deathtrap. "I am Alaric Voss, Countess Vladira — your executioner, prized scion of the Voss Clan. Remember that name! I know you're watching!"
"That handsome overconfident bastard," Vladira huffed.
She watched him through the standing mirror, arms crossed. He was insufferable.
The entire Voss family was insufferable.
"Thanaros! Thanaros, are you present, honey?!"
"Yes, Countess." The voice was wispy but deep. A skeletal figure half the size of the room rose slowly through the floor, scythe in hand. It bowed.
"Thanaros, my pet," she cooed, "could you go do that thing I love where you take all his equipment and blessings and send him back to the castle's entrance? Perhaps buy mommy a bit more time?"
Thanaros lowered his bony head. "I already took that step. I can't do it twice in one run-through."
"What?! That's a rather arbitrary restriction. You're the embodiment of Thanaros! Can't you bend the rules a bit?"
"Obviously I'm not that powerful or you couldn't command me, Countess."
Vladira turned back to the mirror. Alaric was facing down the hydra she'd tucked inside the fountain — her favorite piece in the castle, ringed by cherub sculptures that, upon closer inspection, had devil's wings and faces full of mischief.
Also, they were crying blood.
I may overuse the bloody tears thing a bit, she privately reflected. I'll revisit some design principles once I make a meal out of this heroic himbo.
One of the hydra's heads dissolved Alaric's left pauldron with acidic spit. He didn't even hesitate. He ripped the shoulder-piece and his shirt off in one motion.
The breastplate beneath looked ready to surrender. Thanaros actually flinched.
"Jesus," he breathed.
"Tsk tsk. We don't use that name in here," Vladira muttered. "But yes. That's certainly — an… interesting figure that he has. Very interesting. Worthy of… study, perhaps…"
She adjusted her collar. Then, angling herself slightly away from Thanaros, she undid a few buttons.
Can't have myself looking like a prissy slouch when my nemesis gets here.
Alaric killed the hydra with a spinning bladed cross, thrown like a discus. Two heads at once, then the third on return. For that last one, he stepped in close.
"That stupid, sexy idiot," she groaned, undoing another button.
Thanaros said nothing. Just watched.
"Countess Vladira, foul creature of Hell!"
"Oooh, he's talking to me again!" Vladira squeaked, tapping the mirror to amplify the sound. "Hey there, big man!"
"You see how easily I felled this beast, Countess! No matter how nightmarish the denizens of Hell, the holy power granted to the Voss Clan will prevail!"
"Those abs will prevail," she growled. "And that tush."
"Countess?" Thanaros said softly.
"I said nothing!" She spun around. "I — uhh — shit, he's almost here!" She adjusted everything at once, boobs, belt, posture. She shook her hair loose, letting it fall down her shoulders.
"Go go go! Get get!" She waved Thanaros off.
The skeleton's skull somehow managed to raise a questioning brow, a crack forming above the socket from the effort.
"Countess? Are you quite alright?"
"I — I will slay the Voss on my own. I will face him down myself."
"And if he defeats you?"
Vladira laughed. "Ha! Amusing jest — I am the Princess of Evil. I will not be bested in combat by some —" She stared at the arched doors Alaric was currently punching a hole through. "— breedable hunk of man-flesh!"
"What?"
"Mortal! By some mortal!" She fanned her face. Technically her veins ran dry. Technically she shouldn't blush. She did anyway.
Thanaros vanished through the floor.
Alaric's hand punched through three inches of solid oak, reached in, and gently unlocked the door.
"Oo!" Vladira wiggled her fingers. "So strong!"
"Evil Countess!" He stomped into the chamber, barely glancing at the marble architecture she'd spent considerable effort on. "Your end is coming!"
"Something sure is," she murmured, striking a regal pose. She glanced down at her chest. Respectable cleavage. Very nice.
Alaric lunged. Fast — but not as fast as her.
By the time he landed, she'd already gone to bat form and was out of reach. He hurled his bladed cross upward, accuracy impeccable.
She barely dodged it.
She dropped back into her humanlike form, spider-crawling across the stained-glass ceiling and down the walls, stopping just out of reach. "Your anger toward me is misplaced. It was not by my hand that I was once again made flesh and allowed to return to this world. I was brought here by those who wished to worship me, begging me for salvation against the corruption facing this land and your precious Bloodbane Order."
"Mankind needs no savior such as you, witch of Hell!" Alaric caught his cross and pulled a holy water bottle from his hip, twirling it by the neck.
"What is a man, Voss?" she cackled. "A miserable pile of — of —"
Torchlight caught his abdomen at the wrong angle.
"Daddy," she whimpered. A bead of moisture slipped from the corner of her lips.
"W-What was that?" Alaric dropped his stance. "I believe I — I misheard you."
She was already moving. She hit him at full speed, driving him into the ground.
They tumbled the length of the hall, leaving shattered statues and torch stands behind them like broken glass.
She brought her fangs down on his neck. His gauntlet came up just in time. The moment she bit through it, a stench hit her like a fist.
She recoiled, retching.
Alaric got to his feet, smug as ever. "Garlic pockets are laced in my armor. Bite at your own risk, bloodsucking beast."
"Duly noted," she hissed. "You will not surprise me again."
They came at each other. Her claws extended to monstrous lengths, bat wings tearing from her back. His whip cracked and caught her across the thigh.
"Nyah!" she moaned.
Both of them froze.
"I — uhh —" Alaric grunted. "I…"
"Sorry," Vladira murmured, mortified.
She conjured a boulder of flame and rolled it at him. He dodged — exactly where she expected. She was already there. Her eyes blazed red.
She lunged and raked her claws across his chest, blood spraying across her face.
Some landed on her lips. She licked it off.
Damn, he tastes good, she whimpered internally, grinding her thighs together as he stumbled back.
She gave him no time to recover. She hit him and grabbed his throat. He grabbed hers right back. Her offense had left her open, and now it was a race.
"I don't…need to…breathe!"
"But…you need…your head!"
Her eyes went wide. He was squeezing to pop it clean off. That dick.
She slashed his exposed arms. Streams of blood. He didn't flinch. She couldn't touch the gauntlets without triggering the garlic.
She was running out of moves.
She kneed him. Hard.
His eyes went wide. His grip broke. She wrenched free and slid back.
His whip cracked on instinct and caught her across the chest. No blood, her skin held — but his blessed weapon stung, and it undid what remained of her buttons. She was practically spilling out.
Alaric blinked, staring.
"Not bad for a mortal," she said, attempting dignity.
"Not bad for a soulless vampire who made a pact with the devil." A beat. "Let's agree no more shots to the groin, please?"
"No more trying to strip my clothes off, too," she shot back, gesturing at the generous valley of cleavage now on full display.