She felt its presence towering over her, a massive house with skeletons in every closet, many of which she knew quite well. She thought of walking away. It is never too late to walk away. She was afraid to hear Lisbeth’s voice again. Would it sound the same?
She swayed back and forth as seconds passed like years. She phoned earlier, exchanged pleasantries, and agreed on a time. Why was it taking so long?
The door opened, but the woman who answered sounded far too young to be Lisbeth.
“Welcome, Ms. Heron,” she said. “Shall I take your coat?”
“No, thank you. Something tells me I won’t be staying long.” Morrigan replied. The woman guided Morrigan up a set of stairs and through a series of halls. Morrigan felt lost, as she did when she first arrived as a girl.
She remembered how red everything was. So much red, a bloody murder would likely go unnoticed. The Victorian furnishing must still be there, as Morrigan could smell the age on the dust floating in the air. The only thing that seemed out of place was the silence.
There used to be so many others who wandered these halls. The cult used it as a minor safe house, the last she came. Back then, they were many. Now, the halls felt void of life, begging to be navigated.
They stopped at a door and Morrigan took in the smell of roses and iron, “I can come back. No need to bother-”
The woman opened the door and gave Morrigan a gentle push. Morrigan knew what the room was for. She has seen many like it, each designed the same exact way. The room was white. The tile floor, the porcelain tub at the center of the room, the walls and ceiling, and everything was always white. When in use, the tub is filled with blood, and rose water. Morrigan stepped forward, heard a familiar voice, and smiled on impulse.
“Morrigan,” Lisbeth said, lounging in the tub as she entered.
“Hello, Lisbeth.” Morrigan replied. She didn't sound so different, after all.
“Sit with me,” Lizbeth said, “I have a seat prepared for you right here. Trista, guide her way.” The other woman helped Morrigan to a chair beside the tub.
“Thank you,” Morrigan began, “I apologize for interrupting.”
“Not at all,” Lisbeth replied. “The blood doesn't work anymore anyway.” To bathe in blood is to restore your youth. The ritual can take decades off of your body, but when you're nearing a hundred years of age, a decade isn't as much as it used to be.
“I am sorry to hear. What is this about?”
“I’ve been marked for death. Gemma won’t let me live, especially if she finds out I'm talking to you.”
“Why?” Morrigan asked.
“She hates you with a passion.”
“I Wouldn't have it any other way,” Morrigan said.
“She’s been plotting for quite awhile. The movement believes that they can take back what you stole.” Lisbeth nestled deeper into the tub, “I imagine she’ll strike soon. It’s why I called on you.”
“How’d they figure it out?”
“No idea, I just know her plan might work. They've been watching you, obviously. They know about the boy. You need to go into hiding as soon as you can.”
“Why tell me this?” Morrigan asked.
Lisbeth reached out, grabbed Morrigan's hand, staining it with blood. Her hands were old and rough, despite the bath, “I asked you to come here, so I could apologize before taking matters into my own hands.”
“You chose a side."
Lisbeth tightened her grip, "I chose your side, until you lost. I wouldn't take it back after seeing what Gemma did."
"What did she do?"
Lisbeth shuddered, "You really don't want to know."
"Is it so bad the answer is suicide?”
"I'm not killing myself,” Lisbeth said. She guided Morrigan's hand up her arm.
Morrigan felt the symbols etched in flesh, read them, and understood their purpose from memory, “Lisbeth, do you know what you’ve done?”
“I do.” she replied, taking up a curved knife. Morrigan listened as Lisbeth carved into her flesh, “Stop.”
“No.”
Morrigan heard something, the sounds of metal against metal and rushing water in the pipes beneath them. Lisbeth's breath shook.
“Lisbeth. Get out of the tub.” Morrigan said, standing up to offer a helping hand.
“No," Lisbeth replied, "I am to be a rose in The Maiden’s garden.”
“You don't know what that means.” Morrigan shouted.
A quiet ripple followed. Morrigan heard a single gasp of air as Lisbeth was pulled under. Blood overflowed from the tub and spilled out onto the white floor.
A silence fell, so strong her ears were ringing. Morrigan didn't bother to check. Even if she reached to search for a body, she knew there would be no body to find.
Static buzzed around her, a deafening roar. Morrigan felt her body tremble, as if it knew something she didn’t.
Morrigan felt the sudden brush of fingertips against her cheek. She gasped, flinging herself backward. She tripped over the chair, fell, and hit the far wall, pressing herself against it.
Those were small, dainty hands, unlike Lisbeth’s. Morrigan didn't have to see to know. The Red Maiden collects her roses personally.
Morrigan heard a voice in her mind. It whispered a language unheard-of, but she understood all the same.
Run.
She obeyed, standing up and trying not to hit anything as she left the room, sprinting down the hallway. She felt a surge of static, a pulse that shook the house. Morrigan had only moments to react. She snapped her fingers, sending a pulse of her own in an attempt to cancel out the first.
It didn't work. She sensed a woman downstairs, already searching the house. She saw lives fade from those who crossed the woman's path. Some fought, holding their own well until making a grave mistake or failing to see a spell coming. Morrigan didn't run. She chose to study her future opponent.
The woman was skilled, her spells were precise, but they were volatile, unpredictable in their execution. The way the woman moved left herself open. The odds of making a mistake were high. All it would take is time, and Morrigan had time in spades.
Fighting someone with The prestige was not unlike a game of chess, the difference being that neither side knew what pieces the other possessed. It was more than arcane power and gorgeous displays. It was a battle of wits and deception, assuming you met someone whose skill rivaled your own.
Morrigan stood, already prepared. She sensed movement in the haze of red, and sent a flash of white light toward her target. The light surfed on ripples in the static, waves of force meant to knock the woman off balance.
The woman dodged to the side and raised her hand. Sparks shot from the surrounding lights. The bulbs shattered as electrical arcs formed, absorbed by the woman's hand.
Morrigan bowed her head out of respect, resisting the urge to smile. The woman did the same, then sent a massive volt of electric arcs toward Morrigan.
Morrigan reflected the charge, harnessing the same gifts of The Prestige. The lightning scattered, bending around her as if repelled. Many of the surrounding curtains and furniture absorbed wayward arcs, embers glowed as holes burned through the fabric.
Morrigan felt the heat and with a passing thought, she focused the static on the embers and encouraged them to burn quicker. Flames emerged, slowly progressing with the goal of consuming everything they touched. The woman sent waves of force and lighting, anything to break Morrigan’s concentration.
Morrigan stood firm, imagining the static changing into a wall. As she did, the flurry of attacks bounced off of an invisible barrier in front of her.
The woman rushed forward, Her hand stretched out, gripping an invisible form in the air. The hand fell, and Morrigan felt a force on her body, weighing her down. It grew in increments, gravity magnifying its influence around her.
The woman grew nearer, and Morrigan could feel her rage.
Wood cracked and splintered, furniture breaking under its own weight. Morrigan called the flame. She tried to funnel it to her palm, only to watch as it dropped, spreading along the floor as the flames struggled to be free of the downward force. Morrigan couldn't resist, falling to the ground and slamming her head on the wooden floor. The flames spread, nipping at her hand.
Unable to dispel the static and cancel the call, the flames kissed her skin, leaving charred flesh behind. Morrigan growled in pain, glaring at the woman standing over her.
Morrigan begged the flames to burn, her thoughts bent on nothing else. The flames ate through the floors, spread around both Morrigan and the woman. Morrigan fought through the pain, pressing her palm against what she thought was the center of the circle.
Morrigan focused the static to a single point beneath her fist, a nail just waiting for a hammer. She fought against the force that held her down, raising her fist a fraction of an inch from the burning floor.
She went limp, her hand fell, and the white spark preceded an explosion. The sound made her go deaf. Morrigan felt herself falling as the circle cut out by the fire in the floor broke free. They fell to the floor below, gravity correcting itself.
The woman fell to her back, winded. Morrigan stood, only now aware of the damage done to her body. Blood flowed from her ear, a burst eardrum. Lacerations covered her body where the gravity split the skin, bruises appeared where the vessels burst, and the burns left patches of black on her arms and legs. Morrigan heard the voice again, the same unfathomable language.
Run
Something moved in the static, something angry. Morrigan turned around to obey. The massive presence moved from the room above, the static refused to give shape to its infinite form. She stumbled forward trying to escape.
Morrigan fell, stifling a cry of terror. What spewed forth from the blood? What could have come from such a womb? Whatever it was, it was perfectly silent. She resisted the pain, dodging out of sight in hopes of evading it.
The woman was not so lucky. Morrigan heard screams, but these were not screams she knew, screams of the dying. These were screams of one who should have died long before. The screeching morphed into squealing, which faded away, leaving only agonized groans and cries of sorrow. Even the voice died off before the one it belonged to.
Morrigan felt tears drip down her face as she crawled away, desperate for an exit. In the haze of her vision, she caught the light of a window. She stood and ran. She heard it behind her, a whistle piercing the air,
She leapt out of the window, soared through open air for mere seconds, only to crash on the ground. She broke several bones, the blood seeping slowly from her wounds. The realization of her injuries gave birth to a nagging thought, an urge akin to addiction. She didn't bother to resist. There was so much blood in that house.
She restrained the static, eager to feel the high and elation that comes with such a simple gift. She excelled at The Scarlet Arts. She should engage with blood more often. Perhaps she wouldn't end up as broken, perhaps she would not be so easily bested by those who are beneath her.
She shook her head, tried to control her wayward mind, but failed. She let go, the blood pouring from the front door, out onto the steps, and pooling around her. Each cell fought with the others to know what it was like to enter her veins. She felt her body heal, felt her strength return. Survivors poured from the entrance. They were running from something. Why were they so scared.
Morrigan opened her eyes, found herself staring into a red abyss. The thing in the house wasn't a thing at all. The sight brought a tear to her eyes. It was beautiful. Morrigan tried to see clearly, stepping near the threshold to see something beyond the faint haze. She turned to the others, those who ran from the holy vista. She was happy. She was whole.
She felt their horror, these false priests and would be zealots. She loved each and every one of them. When the slaughter began, however, she couldn't feel a thing.
Sorry this took so long to get to. It's been a busy day. As well, sorry I can't really point out specific typos since manuscripts doesn't like copy/pasting; I only really noticed a few small typos and weird commas. You also used Jemma instead of Gemma again. So Morrigan can see when using the Scarlet Arts, as those appear to heal her in some regard. Your magic system itself is interesting, though I will say I understand little of it. As far as the horror element goes, it's not super scary. It's gory and bloody, but doesn't really feel terrifying. Even though I don't know what is chasing after Morrigan, it doesn't really evoke any kind of fear. Granted, that could just be me as I don't really read horror. But an interesting article, nonetheless.
Oof. Blood is considered gore isn't it? Guess I gotta embrace that, though its not the goal XD She actually can't see at all. I might need to alter that so it shows better. The static allows her to "feel" the environment. That's what the static ultimately is. In The Scarlet arts, she can "see" the blood. Nothing else. Again. I'll make that more clear. I understand the busy life. It's Halloween. I've been busy too. I don't go for scary. I try to unsettle, and believe it or not the gore is not meant to do that. Its more efficient to leave someone unsettled, and more in line with the cosmic horror I play with. I'll consider adding some more explainations for the prestige. It probably needs it to be honest. I focused far more on the fight and the spooky for this scene. I feel I may have overlooked a bit. Thanks as always!
Yeah. Though, unless you decide to describe extreme gore, you don't really have to flag it. Really? I guess the phrasing must have tripped me up there as it seemed to suggest she could see something. Though, the ability to see blood makes sense. I already figured out that static creates a mental reconstruction of physical objects. Or at least that's what I've figured it out to be. Ahh. Unsettling is way easier to do. The whole idea of memory within the Candlelight is a good way to create mindboggling and unsettling events.
Ohhhh, well she can see colors and occasional shapes. It's surprising how few blind people are 100% blind. That may be why. On the Candlelight... Oh yes >:) I plan to use that a bit lol.