TW:- Mild gore and possibly triggering themes ahead. Reader discretion is advised.

With my heart lodged in my throat, I take one step back, then another, the big floppy-eared rabbit slipping from the grasp of my numb fingers as I watch the figure rising from the chair.

At full height, I'm surprised that I mistook it for a doll. It is almost as tall as me, but the shadows are thick in this section of the room, and even squinting, I cannot distinguish who it is. There must be a second light switch I'd missed because the room was much brighter when I was here with Liam, and it wasn't only because it was daytime. None of the bulbs is lit in this section.

With each step I take backwards, the figure takes one forward. Through my hyperventilating anxiety, recognition swirls inside me like thin smoke, not quite able to take shape.

One more step and the person enters the dull flickering light of an overhead lamp, the jaundiced glow sparking highlights in her long, silvery brown hair. She still looks like a doll, dressed in an empire-style cream silk and lace dress, giving her the appearance of an apparition from a long-gone era. For a second, I think that, like the avatar I'd used in the family tree, Saoirse is indeed a ghost.

Her face is gaunt, and her collarbones stand out, fragile and sharp in the square neckline of the dress. She is as diaphanous as the air around us, her heavy-lidded eyes lowered halfway over pale irises. Relief wrestles with apprehension as I gaze into her shadow-painted face.

Dread claws its way up my spine, sinking needle-sharp talons into my skin, causing goosebumps to break out over my body when my eyes fall on the tiny baby she is holding onto, clasped tightly to her chest. I can hear the infant making muffled snuffling noises, causing me to breathe in a sharp gasp of shock.

"Can you hear him," Saoirse asks me. "He is crying."

Panic is crawling over my scalp, causing a strangling lump to form in my tight throat, and I feel like I'm going to be sick.

Where did she get this baby?!

"Yes," I croak, taking a nervous step towards her. "Yes, Saoirse, he's crying. Please give him to me... H-honey..."

I hold my arms out, desperate for her to hand the baby over. If I lunged at her, she might hurt him. I can hear my breath travel to and from my lungs in terrified huffs. My mind is swirling with visions from a vague dream I had of a helpless little baby bleeding and cold in the arms of a white-haired girl... a baby lying as still as death on my bed while the girl sucked the blood from my veins.

"No!" Saoirse growls, jerking me back to the present, and the nightmare evaporates as fast as it appeared. "Mine," she mutters, protectively covering the baby with her arms. "He's mine," she sobs, her eyes anxiously searching the dark shadows around us, and I'm suddenly afraid that she will dematerialize and vanish with the infant.

Strangely, I do not feel any real fear for my own safety despite the threatening noises the girl emits in a low voice, her eyes narrowed in warning, and her lips drawn back in a snarl. In the dusky light, her irises seem to glow with silver light. I do, however, fear for the baby in her arms.

"I... I can hear him crying," I lie, stretching my hands out palms towards her, hoping I don't appear intimidating. "I think he's... he's cold. He's just cold. Let me swaddle him in a blanket for you. He'll be happy then."

"Swaddle?" she repeats, looking at me, tilting her head as if listening carefully, giving me a little hope.

"Yes, I'll wrap him in a blanket, snug and warm like... like a burrito."

"Baby burrito," she mutters, and I might be wrong, but she seems to like the idea, and then my unfortunate word choice hits me in the head.

"But we're not going to eat him!"

She tilts her head the other way, frowning at me and I hope it's not in disappointment, but only because she thinks I'm insane even to think that was a possibility.

Crossing to the bassinet, I pray that there will be some kind of blanket in there and sag with relief when I find a couple of crocheted blankets carelessly scattered on the mattress and pillow.

"Here, lie him down, and I'll wrap him for you," I say, lifting one of the blankets and, bending over, I spread it on the mattress. I'm surprised to find Saoirse beside me, watching me work with keen interest, and once the blanket is ready, she obediently lies the baby in the dark crib.

I hurry to wrap the infant, wondering how I will keep her from taking him from me, but when my hands land on the inanimate body and it lets out an eerie giggle, I catch my breath in fright.

This is not a baby.

It is one of those creepy, life-like baby dolls that were very popular a while back. Its features and the texture of its skin are disturbingly realistic, and this one was fitted with a soundbox, currently alternating between gurgling and snuffling.

After hearing Liam's story about Saoirse stealing a baby from her pram, I think this is the perfect alternative for her. My hands shake with a mixture of relief and nerves while I wrap the doll in the blanket and carefully lift it, handing it to the girl.

"There, he's all snug and warm now. See? He's not crying anymore," I tell her, my heart breaking when her pale face lights up, a brilliant smile appearing on her lips, and her eyes open up wide, sparkling in the gloom. Am I glimpsing the Saoirse who existed before the tragedy that injured her brain?

She is achingly beautiful.

With her sparkling eyes and heart-stopping smile, she reminds me so much of Ransford right now.

All the gentle feelings of affection and compassion dissipate, replaced once again with cold dread when Saoirse's gaze shifts from me to a point to my left, her smile widening and her lips parting around a happy giggle, stirring the air around us.

I turn my head to look, but all I see are dark, swirling shadows; nothing is breaking away from it, nothing is moving. There are only shelves with toys, yet Saoirse's face is animated, and she's nodding and giggling in answer to words I cannot hear.

A shiver starts somewhere in my core, working its way out to my extremities, and I take a step back, again ready to flee. I am so distracted, trying to see the unseen, wondering if Saoirse is just confused again, that I don't sense the new presence in the room before cool fingers come to rest on my shoulder.

I yelp in fright, but even before I can turn to see the owner of the hand, a deep and satisfying calm drapes itself over my body, stilling my humming nerves and chasing away the trembling as I lean into the touch.

"Why is Mister Fluffington lying on the ground," Ransford asks, gliding his hand from my left shoulder to my right, teasing a sparkling path in its wake while he moves past me to face me, holding the green rabbit out to me.

"Mister what?"

"Well, he's had many names through the years," he shrugs. "I think he might now be called..."

"Shnoof-Shnaff," Saoirse finishes for him, and he grimaces, tilting his head and giving me a pained look.

"That," he says, smiling when I take the rabbit, hugging it to my chest where my heart has taken up a frantic beat, while I gaze up into Ransford's shadow-filled eyes. He is trying to hide it, but I notice when those penetrating grey eyes briefly shift to my left, his jaw tightening against emotions wafting from him so strongly that they take my breath away.

Grief? Regret?

There is still nothing and no one beside me or behind me when I turn to look again. Exactly who or what are they seeing or sensing here in the dark? These two are starting to freak me out, gazing into the shadows, the one clearly happy about what she sees, while the other is broken by it.

"I'm sorry about this," Ransford distracts me from the anxiety steadily building inside me, and the sober look he's giving me calms my nerves and makes me wonder if I just imagined his fleeting reaction to the unseen entity beside me. The one I could not sense at all, though I could feel Ransford's presence seconds before I knew it was him touching me, and I could discern Saoirse sitting in the shadow, even though I thought she was a doll.

It probably takes some practice to sense things correctly. I've never had the ability before; frankly, it is unnerving.

"Saoirse sometimes finds her way here to play with the toys," he sighs. Perhaps it was her I'd glimpsed earlier today through the window. "She'd outgrown them years ago, but now... she seems to be gravitating to them again. Regressing, I suppose. She shouldn't be bothering you; I'll have this moved-."

"Oh, no!" I object, reaching out and touching his arm. It seems unfair to subject the girl to even more upheaval. My being here must already be rather strange for her, especially after suffering so much trauma and struggling to overcome it. "I rather like this room, and these are her toys; she's more than welcome to play here. She is no bother at all."

The smile Ransford offers me is warm, devoid of any seduction and temptation for a change; he appears genuinely touched by my answer, though it seemed pretty natural to me. I'm not simply being considerate; I would like to look at the toys in more detail, especially the antique ones, and I rather enjoy that train set. If they take it away, I might not find it all again.

"If she's not opposed to having me in here, Saoirse and I could share this space," I tell him, and the tender look he gives me causes more vulcanos to erupt in my central nervous system than all his flirty looks put together.

Though still a bit unnerved by the girl, my initial fear of her has gone, and as long as she doesn't bring any real babies with her or look at and react to things I cannot see, I would like to get to know her better, and this space seems ideal for it. She seems more sad, lost and fragile than dangerous.

She is lonely.

"Do you mind if Aubrey plays with your toys, Puppet?" Ransford asks the girl, running his long fingers through her hair and I'm surprised to see her gazing up at him adoringly, looking like a much younger girl.

"She turned my baby into a burrito," she smiles. "He's not crying anymore." She returns to the rocking chair with her doll, softly singing to it. It is a lullaby in a language I do not understand with my mind but can hear clearly with my heart. It chokes me up, stirring up feelings of longing coursing through my entire body.

"She doesn't mind at all," Ransford says, and I watch his thick, long lashes shield his eyes while he looks at his niece with a gentle smile parting his lips. His love for her is woven into a thick tapestry with multiple threads of pain and sorrow. I used to think Ransford was suave and aloof, but now I'm feeling the depth of his emotions so clearly that I'm drowning in them.

This man is so much more complex than I'd imagined.

"Th-thank you for the map," I hurry to draw his attention away from whatever is upsetting him and am relieved when he turns to look at me, cocking his head in that teasing way I've grown so fond of.

"You're welcome," he grins, but the sadness lingering in the air has driven all the customary mischief from his eyes. "This is your home now, Aubrey. I've wanted to give you detailed maps of the entire mansion right from the start, lest you run into... trouble, but I was told that was a dumb idea, so..."

Trouble?

Well, there has been some of that, I suppose. Liam said that Ransford and Billy wanted me to be served an all-you-can-eat buffet of truth right from the start. Apparently, they only submitted to secrecy because they agreed that hearing all of it too soon would be overwhelming and damaging rather than helpful.

It was probably true. He has been leaking information and showed me that first tunnel, and now he's given me a map of at least the floor my room is on.

"You know," he says, stepping closer, his eyes narrowing alarmingly on my face, his gaze warming my skin. There is none of the protective sadness left as a buffer between us, and I can feel my pulse leaping as always. "If you need something to cuddle, I've been told that I-."

"Good night, Mr Slatherty," I huff, hurrying to put some space between us since I was definitely leaning towards him, longing for more of his intoxicating aroma, the timber of his voice igniting a liquid fire in my veins. Why am I so wildly attracted to this man? He is not my type at all!

What exactly is my type? Do I have one?

I don't know, but absolutely, most definitely not Johnny Bravo! To be fair, Ransford has nothing in common with Johnny Bravo. He is debonair and seductive, immaculate and mesmerizing. His entire being oozes charm. My heart is starting to beat way too fast as if it hasn't been racing fast enough already. Ransford might, after all, be very much my type...

Apparently, so are Arthropods... and other insects...

I'm only 25 years old! Surely I'm not already hearing the deafening sound of my biological clock ticking away?! I truly need to see a good physician as soon as possible to deal with whatever is going on with me. My body is going through something rather strange.

A female doctor should be safe since I don't feel any weird, seductive pulls towards Saoirse, and I don't think it's just because she's in her teens. I feel something very different towards her, as if she's calling to the nurturer within me.

The childless mother.

The more disturbingly alluring pull seems to be reserved for the males of the species. The Slatherty brothers and Billy... perhaps even Diarmuid... Leopold might not be out of the woods either... who knows? I haven't tested it on him yet.

"Good night, Miss Dankworth," Ransford chuckles, and I wonder if he can hear my scandalous thoughts. "You now know where to find me."

Making a strangled sound, I clutch the rabbit tighter and hurry to the door, lest I take him up on the offer I find more inviting than I should. I wonder what he would do if I did. Would he run away screaming, like a dog barking through a closed gate at other dogs, and then the gate opens?

"I have an absolute open door policy," he assures me, his laughter increasing when I shout over my shoulder.

"Oh, do be quiet!"

At the door, I turn, surprised to see him lift Saoirse from the seat and sit down with her in his lap, cradling her head against his shoulder with one hand, his foot gently rocking the chair while he wearily leans his head back against the headrest. They are now only shadowy figures in the bad lighting, but I can feel their emotions all the way here.

How can that man be so flirty and frivolous one moment just to be that tender and vulnerable the next? Ransford is an enigma I might live 100 years and never understand.

The welcome flavour of my dinner greets me when I enter my bedroom. Leaving the rabbit on my bed, I cross to the table to reveal lemony fish and a crispy salad. Sitting at the table, enjoying the delicious blend of flavours, my eyes keep on straying to the dusky windows of the toy room, visible through the transparent silk drapes at my window and for a moment, I have to resist leaping to my feet and running over there to ask Ransford to join me.

When he leaves the toy room, I am disturbingly aware of his progress down the hallway, knowing when he pauses at my door, his feet unwilling to carry him away from me. I'm disappointed when he doesn't come inside, and the atmosphere around me becomes lighter and lonelier the moment he is gone.

Once I'm ready for bed, I slip under the covers and read a couple of chapters of the Martha Grimes mystery I was enjoying the last time I had a chance to read, and when my eyelids droop, I put the book on my nightstand, lie down and close my eyes. I might've been awake long enough now to sleep through the night and not feel like a zombie tomorrow.

The moment I drift off into blissful oblivion, my mind is assaulted by disjointed, out-of-sync memories playing off one after another in rapid fire. It stops and starts and replays like an old damaged film reel, burned in sections and then pieced together at random.

Alaric holds me in his arms, his lips gently caressing mine, sending a thousand fireflies fluttering through my veins.

Liam is upset, struggling with an IV line, telling Ransford: "It wasn't me! I didn't do this. I simply placed her under Alaric's protection. You know it had to be done!"

"Couldn't you just have him piss a circle around her to do that?" Ransford is growling, running an agitated hand through his hair.

I'm back in the Salon, my fingers woven with Alaric's, his skin warming against mine, and I marvel at the strength of his hands.

A foggy shape is moving around me, gently cleaning my face and extremities, and it takes me a moment to realise that I am lying on my bed. When the figure leans closer, plucking strands of cobwebs from my hair, my eyes focus, and I find myself looking into Alaric's eyes, the pupils dilated to make them seem almost black.

"Just go to sleep, Aubrey; you're going to be alright," he whispers.

"I had to complete it! You know where it would've ended if I hadn't." It is Liam again, speaking to Ransford near my bed while someone growls in pain outside of my line of sight. I want to ask him what he's talking about, but my lips are not working; nothing is working. I am so heavy.

"I would never do that to you, Ransford," Liam says, sounding defeated. "She's bound to Alaric, not to you."

"His blood is not his alone," Ransford chokes, his voice breaking, and I can see his face so close to mine, his hand gently stroking my hair.

Why is he so sad?

"I know... I wouldn't have..." The world fades to swirling black in the middle of Liam's sentence, and when the movie starts up again, Alaric's face is hovering near mine.

He is frowning, and his eyes are all wrong. They are not grey; they are tinged with creamy green. So beautiful. I reach out to touch his cheek, and he drifts closer, landing on me like a feather, his thick, long hair drifting through my fingers.

His lips are cool and gentle, whispering over mine, trailing down my chin, his breath tickling my neck, and suddenly, I'm pierced with agonizing pain, trapping my breath in my lungs along with the scream that never reaches my lips. The pain doesn't last; it is but a fraction of a second, and then I'm flooded by warmth, floating me higher and higher.

"How much did you give her?!" Liam asks Ransford, rushing into my room. He sounds stressed. I'm lying in the watery shadows floating around me, blending with the night stealing my mind, watching without making a sound as Liam bends over me, touching my cheeks and peering into my eyes with a light, blinding me.

"Just enough to tie her over until you get here and give her a transfusion." Ransford is helping Liam set up an IV. His wrist is hurt, a slow trickle of blood getting in his way. I can still taste him on my lips.

Did I bite him? No, he bit himself and let me drink. Why?

I'm floating in the warm embrace of the man with green eyes and long dark hair, startled when Alaric's husky voice shouts in protest. The warmth leaves me, and there is only darkness and loneliness. I want to tell him to stay with me, but through a darkening haze, I can see Alaric wrap the man in a strong embrace, crashing to the floor with him, holding him while he is shaken with violent tremors and agonised screams echo from his lips.

I can feel his pain, his fear, his regret, and it claws at my heart, dragging tears from my eyes.

What is happening?! Make it stop! Please! He is dying!

"Aubrey," Ransford's voice quivers over my skin, his lips and fingers driving the loneliness away as he touches my neck. "He took too much! She's almost drained!"

"Ransford, no!" Alaric shouts somewhere in the growing darkness.

At the startlingly clear memory of a needle piercing my arm, introducing bagged blood to my system, I sit up with a gasp. Sleep flees from me, and I scoot up until I'm seated against the headboard with my knees pulled tightly to my chest, trapping the rabbit I was holding. I try to take deep breaths to calm my racing heart and reeling mind, but my body is quaking with terrified shivers.

Horror ebbs and flows through my thrumming nerves as the dream snatches fade away, evaporating into misty images with discordant sounds.

"What the hell was that?!" I sob, my voice breaking on a whimper. I know, but I also don't know. I have wisdom and knowledge about things I have no natural cause to know, and yet it is all disjointed and nonsensical, flickering in and out of focus.

I try to piece together a sequence of events that make sense, but even when I have the snatches of memory in an order that doesn't seem random anymore, it is too fantastical and ridiculous for my highly logical mind to process and accept.

It is rejected at once.

Fact: I was in the salon, being held by Alaric. I fell asleep, and he brought me to my room, cleaned me up and pulled the duvet over me.

Garbage: I was sleeping and woke up when Batman snacked on me, and I desperately wanted him to. I have never enjoyed nearly dying quite as much as I did during the moments he was draining me of my blood.

Who is that man? Another brother? Does Alaric also have a twin?

Unless caused by infertility drugs and treatment, the ability to have twins often runs in families. I would not be surprised if there were many twins in the Slatherty line. The little I could see of the hungry stranger looked a lot like Alaric and yet very different as well.

Was it their almost 400-year-old ancestor, Deaglan Slatherty? Is he a vampire or just a deranged man living out a weird fantasy? It makes no sense, and I spit these absurd ideas from my mind faster than I can form them.

Fact: Alaric stopped this man from doing whatever he was doing. The man was in agony. I could feel every bit of it as if it were my own. If I had strength, I would've screamed along with him. I know with a knowledge that has no foundation that he was in a mortal battle that would either end in victory or death.

Fact: I don't know how he knew what was happening, but Ransford came charging in and was extremely upset. I could feel his fear for me. He thought I was going to die. He gave me... No! Another brain fart loading! That is not possible. He gave me something strange to drink and took care of my wound... by kissing it... that is all it was.

Fact: Liam arrived and gave me an IV... probably with medicine... or the man injured me badly enough to warrant a blood transfusion, but that makes no sense.

I have no idea what Liam's disturbing conversation with Randsford was about. Did it even occur during the same event?

Fact: Today, when I woke up, I had no wounds. There were no signs of blood on my bed, my clothes or my person. I did not even have a mark where the IV needle went into my arm. Liam gave me an iron and vitamin B injection. I felt that!

The last time Liam gave me a blood transfusion, my arm itched, and for a couple of days, I had a little mosquito bite-like mark where the needle was. It wasn't just gone overnight.

Wait! What? Last time? What last time?!

This is too much! All these lucid dreams, fantasies and confusing nonsense are driving me out of my mind. I need to get out of here. I need to see a doctor... I need air... and water.

Leaving the rabbit on my pillows, I slip from the bed and hurry to the bathroom to wash my face and drink some of the excellent water they have coming from their taps. Ransford runs a rather splendid water provision network. I've never tasted water this pure from a tap before. I feel marginally better when I return to the bedroom.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I'm struggling to remember the memory flashes or snippets of nonsensical dreams that were so vivid just minutes ago. They're elusive, filtering through my mind like sand through my fingers. This often happens with dreams. I should start a dream diary and write down the dreams the moment I remember them clearly.

Now, all I feel are churned-up emotions, but I have nothing to attach them to to make sense of them.

My eyes linger on the unused brown medicine bottle on my nightstand. Liam told me it would help with the dreams and sleep paralysis. Before I can change my mind or overthink it, I grab the bottle, pop out a capsule and drink it with the water I always keep by my bed. I regret it almost at once.

This medication could be anything!

I remember Liam's little boy smile, his joy when he was playing with the trains, and the softness of his lips when he kissed me. I remember his stormy eyes and the gentle vibrations of his voice cascading over my senses and how - being with him - I knew that I could trust him.

His loyalty might be first and foremost to his family and all their strangeness, but he cares about me. He won't do anything to harm me. I don't know how I know that, but I do. It is an irrefutable fact.

As the half-remembered, jumbled dream fades to a distant hum, the panic they stirred fades too, and lying down, I curl up with the rabbit in my arms.

His pain awakens me.

It is an emotional pain, the kind that drags at your very core and makes you feel like you're going to expel your heart from your throat with your next raw sob. The kind of pain where sorrow runs so deep, it becomes entrenched in every fibre of your being until you disappear, and all that is left are grief, regret, longing and despair, all bundled up and tied together with a bow of guilt.

The excruciating physical pain he is in is a drug that drowns out the deeper, cutting emotional one, saving his heart and his mind from imploding in the searing light of it.

Rising from the soft embrace of my bed, the rabbit falling from my arms, I follow the path of that pain from my room and down one dark hallway after another.

Calling it dark is not quite accurate. The world has become a translucent, blue-tinged underwater scene of misty walls and wavering shapes, passing by as my feet find their way to carry me on and on to my destination.

I do not have my map, but I do not get lost at any of the confusing junctions leading to the main body of the house, down the stairs, and through the lobby towards the kitchen. Behind the stairs, I turn into an alcove at the start of the corridor; my feet, unfaltering, find the treads of a spiral staircase leading down into the bowels of the mansion.

The darkness intensifies in blues so deep they appear black, but I can see the wood-panelled corridors and the floor... It is all damaged, and the maintenance is sporadic and focussed on structural integrity only, as the inhabitants of this floor mindlessly sow destruction in their wake.

I should be afraid, but I am not. Hazy figures hurry out of my way, staying in the shadows, watching me, and I can feel their hunger and their rage.

I... should... be... afraid...

Wading through the atmosphere simmering with lust, fear and anger, I follow my feet, pushing open a tall, heavy, intricately carved door that gets in my way. The stench assaulting my nostrils makes me gag. Rot, violence, insanity and blood. I can taste it in the air, and it suffocates me as it enters my lungs.

Rising above all of it, gleaming seductively, calling out to me with the promise of bliss and love and an end to eternal sorrow, is a fragrance I know and crave. It drowns out all the putrid smells.

With renewed determination to reach him and end his pain, I push the door open wider, floating closer and closer to the horrifying tableau in the shadows of the once beautiful room.

My heart is breaking at the sight.

It is not seeing the shredded drapes of the canopied beds or the damaged carpets and paintings torn beyond recognition destroying my heart. It would have if I were not overwhelmed by grief and horror seeing an exquisite wingbacked armchair covered in torn brocade and blood standing scuffed and scarred in the shadows.

The darkness surrounding it is penetrated only by the pain-wracked light radiating from the man seated on the chair while feral creatures wearing torn silk dresses crowd him like rats swarming their prey.

His clothes are ripped to shreds, and his body is covered in deep bite marks and gouged scratches, dripping blood, black in the blue-washed glow.

Ransford!

~~~