The ground crunched under Dean's feet as he scanned the empty field around him.
It was normal on all accounts. The sky was its usual gray and the grass grew correctly, according to the season. The only hint of uncertainty was the faint chirp of sirens.
Dean was a decent detective. Well, he must've been doing something right considering he was working for a pretty high end company back in New York. He'd been called into this small town for an investigation the local cops apparently couldn't handle.
"What're we looking at?" He asked, making his way into the crime's center, before he saw it.
The body.
Now, Dean wasn't new to this job. He'd worked for the police for quite a few years since he was 18 and had been a detective for around five years. He'd seen many dead bodies around Manhattan. Whether they're from burns, pills or just plain murder.
This however was new and it definitely wasn't his average corpse.
The John Doe was covered in crimson blood that oozed from his chest, and his sockets that once housed his eyes were now soulless and empty. His entire body had been distorted into an horrific, unrecognisable mess.
The body was pinned against the electric fence, limbs spread like a starfish.
"Jesus," he muttered, stepping towards the body. He couldn't break his composure, especially in this kind of workplace, but in no way was this normal.
"What do you think happened?" One of the other officers from this small town asked him, eyeing the fence curiously. "Electric shock?"
Dean turned his attention to him. "What kind of electric fences have you been around?"
There were a few deer far across in the field. They watched the men with cold calculated looks. The animals weren't used to this many people around. This place wasn't exactly a tourist attraction.
He took a few steps closer to the body. That's when he noticed the bones. Whatever had killed him had definitely gotten the job done. His stomach and chest were torn open and his rib cage and organs stuck out, and poured onto the once green grass.
What was most notable was what wasn't there at all. His heart. It looked as if it had been torn straight out of the body's warm hold.
"No, something attacked him first," Dean decided. "Then he got pushed into the fence."
"Was he shot?" One of the detectives asked. "Or stabbed?"
Dean shook his head. "Bones don't break like that without machinery," he informed them. "It must've been some kind of animal."
"But what kind of creature leaves marks like that?"
"No creature I'm familiar with."
Stepping away, he took sight of the view around him. Just a regular patch from forest to farmland.
The woods around this area were usually luscious and full of life. Dean recalled his father taking him and his other siblings there. Joined by the maids, they would have picnics here. His father, Viktor would sit and write in his notebook while Dean entertained and played with his younger brother and sister. The maids would tell them not to run too far from the picnic sight and be back for food. They'd always come back.
There were usually animals here too. Foxes, squirrels, hawks, owls, even the occasional coyote.
Now the forest was quiet. Other than those distant deer, there wasn't a single chirp from any species of bird or a call of any mammal. Just the cold wail of the wind.
Whatever killed this man, was not from these woods. No animal could make these kinds of marks. The man must've been pushed up against the fence, once the creature had already wounded him.
The fence was dented back harshly, letting any animal close enough in the farmer's field be able to walk free.
They were clearly out of their comfort zone. Dean rubbed his temple. He couldn't mess this up. He was in charge of these people. He'd been called in specifically for this job. The police here were used to much tamer crimes.
"Secure the perimeter," he ordered. The men nodded. He sighed, tearing his eyes away from the body. "And call for the EMS."
Dean gazed down beneath his feet.
Footprints.
Two different sets to be exact. One clearly representing the man, with clear enough prints to be zigzagged. The other larger, bare foot with long sharp toenails that dug into the dirt. A trail of blood followed the prints.
"I'm gonna have a look around," he announced, making his way out of the clearing.
Dean took a breath before continuing on, following the slightly faded blood trail. He eventually stopped near a small clearing. The blood was gone. The larger prints stopped too but the smaller ones continued. He made his way through the trees before coming across a cabin.
The lights were shut off and it oozed an eerie quiet.
The trail of blood had stopped a few paces away, but the human footprints started straight from the cabin.
It was then he realised who the corpse was. Of course it was him. The old ranger who lives here. Him and Dean's father were quite close. He remembered the older man would often be around at the manor when he was younger.
Dean's heart ached for the old man, unsure how he'd break the news to his father.
They weren't close anymore since Dean had moved to New York. While his father loved the quiet community of the country, Dean had always longed the bustle and excitement of the city.
There was a ringing from his phone. His eyebrow arched as no one usually called him during work. Or at all. To tell the truth he had very few friends. Even in New York. His co-workers found him cold and uncaring. It didn't matter to him either way. He had his job. He didn't need anyone anymore.
"Hello?"
"Dean, is that you?" A slightly accented voice spoke.
"This is he," he responded. "Sorry, who is this?"
"It's Olga," the voice responded. "I'm so sorry to tell you this but… your father passed away last night."
Stepping out the car, Ronan was once again face to face with his childhood home, rising before him like a resurfacing memory. His hands dug into the pockets of his oversized coat as he gazed upon the manor.
The rain splashed onto the concrete floor just outside the main gate.
The Wytte Manor sat at the crest of the street, a sprawling skeleton of stone and timber that made any passerby look twice at it. With its grande presence and intimidating grace, it towered over the other rich houses close by. The gardens around it were vibrant and luscious while the building itself was dark and royal.
The building itself had been built in the late 1800s and had been the family house of the Wytte family since Ronan's older brother, Dean was small.
The house was a lot quieter without the bustle of Ronan's father and the several maids hurrying around him. Now it was dark and cold. Only Ronan stood outside now.
His hands fumbled over the gate before he pushed himself in and knocked on the large front door.
There was a shuffle before a short old blonde woman opened it. Olga, the old house maid. One of the few that stayed since Viktor Wytte's passing.
Her expression softened upon seeing him.
"Ronan," she smiled.
He gave her a small smile. "It's… good to see you." Before he said anything else she embraced him quickly before backing into the house.
"Dean is already here," she said.
"Great," he muttered in annoyance. "Dean."
Ronan already wanted to turn away. Dean. His older brother. Much older. Dean, now 40, had probably already grown tired of his 25 year old brother. The New York detective was everything compared to a 50s' style diner waiter.
The two were nothing alike. Dean had made himself in charge since they were little and Ronan hated it. No matter what he did Dean was always that bit better.
He bit his lip as he walked through the old halls he once called home.
"Dean?" He called.
"In here," a gruff voice responded. Ronan made his way over to see his older brother by the fireplace.
He sat neatly on the couch, reading the newspaper with a cigarette in his mouth. His short dark hair was slightly ruffled and his smart, rectangular glasses sat at the bridge of his nose. He wore a black suit and tie, fitting for the funeral, Ronan guessed.
Something he'd been wearing for the past few years was a small part of his hair braided with colourful little beads. Ronan didn't need to guess who'd made that.
He took a seat next to Dean, running his fingers through his own scruffy brown hair that went down to his neck.
"You smell like beef," was the first thing Dean said, attempting small talk that sounded more like a quip.
"Just got off my shift," Ronan responded.
Dean's brow arched. "You didn't ask for time off?"
"Can't make time. I need this job," Ronan responded simply.
Dean glanced away. "Did you see Olga on the way in?"
He couldn't help but smile softly. "She hasn't aged one bit. Still the same lovely old lady."
Dean joined him with his own small smile, then ruffled through his jacket for something. Ronan watched in curiosity.
"I have the report from the coroner," he said, placing it down.
"Why?" Ronan asked. "He was an old man. Probably died from heart failure in his sleep."
"Don't be so casual about it," Dean hissed, a little surprised from his brother's rudeness. "Our father just died."
"Adopted," Ronan corrected, pointing a long finger at him. "And aren't you a little too busy with the pigs to care?" Ronan questioned. "Is that why you got the report from the coroner? To start an investigation to prove how much smarter you are?"
"Calm down, Ronan," Dean sighed. "Let's not make our dad's death about yourself."
Ronan made a mocking noise. "Is Quinn here?" He then asked, trying to change the subject he'd started. Ronan glanced around the room.
"Lydia's picking her up today," Dean spoke, referring to another maid.
"She's in prison again?" Ronan asked with a scoff.
"Rehab this time," Lily corrected. "From what I've heard."
"Are you guys talking about me?" A voice from behind asked, making the four jump. Dean hadn't even noticed her enter the building.
Behind the couch stood their sister, Quinn. She was tall and had scruffy black hair that went down to her shoulders. While she wore an eyepatch to cover a scar and missing eye, her working eye was red and wide with excitement, although the bags under showed her exhaustion and her teeth were bared in a manic smile.
"Jesus, where'd you come from?!" Ronan exclaimed, clutching his chest in fright.
"Aw did I scare you?" Quinn asked with a laugh, flinging herself onto the couch between him and Dean. "Admit it, you've missed me."
Ronan wouldn't quite use those words. She was a nutcase, always getting herself in trouble wherever she went.
"How was rehab?" Dean asked her.
She shook her head and waggled her fingers. "Oh, you know. A lot of talking about feelings… that kind of bullshit. But that doesn't matter! I'm here now! Let's celebrate!"
"Our father died, Quin. At least pretend to be sentimental, would ya?" Dean snorted.
Quinn paused for a moment. "He died?!" She exclaimed. "I was in rehab for one week!"
"Five months," Dean corrected.
"Are we having a funeral?" Quinn questioned.
"Why should we?" Ronan snorted, standing up. "He wasn't there for us in life? Why should we be there for him in death?"
"Ronan, calm down," Dean scolded, attempting to ease the stress.
"No, don't tell me to calm down!" Ronan shouted. "You only care since you were his favourite."
Dean scoffed. "No I wasn't."
"Yes you were!" He said, towering over Dean, making the taller stand up, as if to assert dominance. He stood back as the others stared at him. "Come on, you know you've always been dad's special perfect boy."
"Well then, maybe I was his favourite cause I actually did something with my life," Dean argued. "Maybe cause I didn't peak in Highschool."
"That's all about that isn't it," Ronan scoffed. "Work. Tell me, Ronan. When you clock out of work, who do you go to? What do you actually have to live for now?"
"Now? What's that supposed to mean?" Dean said with an arched brow, now more defensive, as Quinn watched the drama unfold with an uninterested look as she wove her finger through a curl of her hair.
"You know what I mean-."
"That's enough, Ronan," Olga said firmly, reaching out from where she'd stood next to a newly arrived Lydia, observing the conversation.
Ronan swiped away. "Don't touch me!" He glared at Dean before storming off upstairs.
"Ronan, come on!" Dean called as Quinn rummaged through the living room; but Ronan had already fled.
Storming upstairs he tore open the door to his old room and slammed it shut, letting himself sink down the wall.
He looked at the walls of his childhood room. Posters of his favourite movies, and female models were scattered across the walls. Old text books from classes he failed lay in stacks, with no bookshelf to cage them. His bed was freshly made, probably by Olga who'd assumed he'd be staying tonight.
He growled to himself angrily, a habit he'd grown into since he was a baby and threw his head back. He didn't want to be back here. Back where all his issues started.
He stared up at his old clock as the hours went by before there was a knock on the door.
"What?" He huffed,
"It's Olga," the voice responded.
"Oh, come in," he spoke more softly this time.
She opened the door and stood there with a worried, almost pitying expression for a moment before straightening up.
"Dean and Quinn are still in the living room," she said. "They're saying a few words for your dad."
"Dean will be, sure," he snorted. "But Quinn?"
Quinn never really cared for her father all that much either. Or anyone for the matter. At least that's how Ronan saw it. Of all his siblings she was the most difficult to understand. He hated Dean to his core but Quinn was an odd case.
Olga paused. "They'd like you to join them when you're ready."
Quinn loved being home. She had kind maids, a cosy bed, and good food. All she could really ask for. Rehab had been a drag. She'd been forced by Lydia to go after she overdosed on the living room floor a few months ago, in front of the old woman herself.
But the months flew by and now she was back, despite the terrible timing of her dad dying. Trust him to make it inconvenient.
Her attention was pulled back to Dean who was making a toast in honor of Vikor. She rolled her eyes, subconsciously reaching out for a drink. She paused, realising there was none. She glared at Lydia, who'd locked up all the liquor cabinets.
"I'll miss his silly tales and exciting stories," Dean continued, referring to when Viktor used to tell the three adventures of creatures he'd make up and the strange and exciting worlds he'd craft in his mind. She wasn't sure where the old man got his imagination from, but it always made for a good bedtime story when they were young.
There was the sound of footsteps and Ronan grumpily made his way downstairs, hands in pockets. He took a seat, refusing to look at Dean, who'd paused mid speech. He fidgeted before grabbing the bottle Dean had set on the table, pouring himself a drink.
Lydia and Olga had both left now, leaving just the siblings on their own.
"His imagination was wild," Dean continued, slightly flustered. "Some stories he'd tell of magical lands far from here, where faeries and gods lived happily together. Others of monsters and vengeful creatures. Sometimes he'd make you forget they weren't real in the first place."
Suddenly, a door slammed open angrily and the three sharply turned their heads. Stood there, wrapped in a cloak was a dark figure that towered above them. The hood was too pointed and didn't shape around the head properly. Quinn couldn't quite make out the stranger's face.
Had Olga invited him in? Was he here for the funeral?
Quinn straightened up from where she'd been lying upside down on the chair. Ronan had been digging into his drinks along with Dean having the occasional sip.
She wondered if this man drinks. He seemed like a lightweight.
"Where is Viktor?" The voice spoke. It was low and gruff, shaking the walls violently.
Dean stepped forward from where'd he'd been relaxed on the couch. "Sorry, I don't believe we've met?" The figure barely acknowledged him. "Were you a friend of his?"
His demeanour was polite but Quinn could tell he was cautious.
"Where is he?" The voice demanded.
"He's dead, guy," Ronan responded.
"Ronan!" Dean snapped.
"Who even are you?" Quinn asked, stumbling off the couch, making her way over to the strange man. "Did Olga invite you in? I don't know what she was thinking of inviting you in, looking like that. Why's your head so long?"
"Quinn, he might have a deformity!" Ronan pointed out, far too loud.
"Shit, are you?" Quinn turned back to the figure who hadn't spoken for a second. "Anyway, we're busy mourning our late papa so if you please…"
"He's dead?" The figure rumbled.
"Yeah," Dean said, persistent as always. "But if you don't mind telling us who you are—?" He was interrupted.
"Are you his offspring?"
"That's not any of your-," he tried.
"Adopted actually," Ronan corrected. "But yeah."
Dean hissed at him to shut up again.
"You will do," the figure concluded, before reaching up to his hood with long clawed hands. Too long for any normal human.
Then he released himself.
He was no human.
With long spiked horns jutting out from his head, dark scaled skin no human could have and piercing white eyes he finally looked at them. His mouth stuck out like an animal but he resembled no creature Quinn knew of. Where he'd once keen standing on two feet he now crouched down on all fours… sixes…?
His body was long and a tail curled around behind him.
As quick as sound, the creature lunged forward, tackling Dean off his feet. He screamed in pain as the creature's claws dug in. He fumbled for his gun as Ronan rushed forward, jumping into its back, trying to pull him away.
Quinn jumped away from where she'd been standing close to this strange man… thing.
"Yeah, what's that going to do?" Dean grunted as he fired at the beast. It had no effect. The bullets simply bounced back off.
"The hell?" Ronan grunted from behind the monster. He was quickly thrown off and hit the floor with a loud thud.
Blood quickly poured from his head.
Quinn stood still. Unsure what to do.
She wasn't in the right headspace. Nothing blended together. She tried moving her feet but it was no use.
Then it hit her like a bullet.
Not the creature but something else she couldn't see. Everything slowed down before it became completely dark. Pitch black. Only for a moment. Then colours lit up her eyes. Colours she'd never seen. Space and time moved around her simultaneously until with a jolt she was back in the room.
The sound of choking caught her attention. The monster's long talons coiled around Dean's neck began to squeeze. Dean wheezed in pain as he tried grabbing at the talons, but to no use.
"Pathetic mortals," the monster scoffed. "Always getting in my way. First your father. Now you three."
All that did was confuse Quinn even more. Her father had nothing to do with monsters. If he did, he'd tell them. Or at least Dean.
"Over here!" Ronan called, trying to get the beast's attention.
It glanced at Ronan attempting to be a decoy. But it was focused. It was going to kill Dean.
Its arm extended, ready for one final swipe of the claws, enough to end him.
The monster was knocked back suddenly, collapsing against the bookshelf. Dean wriggled away, gasping for breath.
Quinn stepped forward, suddenly transfixed. Extending her own hand, the creature froze in mid air. It thrashed and twitched but could do nothing.
"What is this?" It rumbled as Dean moved away, clinging onto Ronan, who could only stare at Quinn in amazement and a little horror.
Quinn gritted her teeth before with one final yank of her arm she threw the monster across the room, out the building and far away.
"Holy shit!" The boys gasped.
"Holy shit!" Quinn agreed before her head began to ache and with a thump she passed out on the floor.