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The heavy iron barred gate to Barathor Manor stood open, allowing them free access to a modest cobblestone courtyard surrounded by a C-shaped mansion constructed of stone like a castle keep. It took up only half the land as Demetria’s home, making up for a smaller footprint by having five stories, one of the tallest buildings in the city.
“Interesting,” said Anthony in a low voice. “Gate’s open. No guards?”
“Roldon considers it a sign of weakness to have guards.” Demetria strolled across the courtyard to the front door. “He believes if he is unable to protect himself, he deserves a warrior’s death.”
Anthony shifted his jaw side to side. That sort of thing sounded great in movies or stories. A real person saying it came off midway between crazy and arrogant.
A thick door of dark brown wood serving as the manor house’s main entrance had a rounded top and spanned twice the width of a standard door, further giving the place a ‘castle’ feel. Demetria grasped a heavy rope dangling from a hole in the stone wall beside the door and gave it a tug, causing a bell to ring inside.
“Huh.” Anthony chuckled. “Guess that’s why they call them doorbells.”
“Indeed.” Demetria lowered her arm. “It’s easy to forget how young you are. You’ve never seen actual bells on doors, I assume.”
He shook his head. “Nope. Just the electronic ones.”
The door opened a moment later. A thirtysomething man in a moderately fancy, albeit medieval, suit regarded them briefly before his lips curled into a faint frown. He opened his mouth, hesitated a second, then closed it. Annoyance melted out of his face, leaving his expression blank. “Right this way.” He turned on his heel like a soldier doing drills and walked away into the house.
“Much like Roldon, I prefer to be direct and avoid the cumbersomeness of excessively complicated social rules.” Demetria gathered her dress off her boots and stepped inside. “Although we go about it in decidedly different ways.”
Casual mind control, or whatever she did to him, bothered Anthony. That she’d only compelled him not to chase them off only made it moderately easier to accept. It also helped they were working together to stop the destruction of this reality. Not like she barged into this house for personal gain. Though, in Demetria’s case, the gratification of ruining Nesanth’s scheme likely counted as personal gain. That they’d save countless lives by doing so happened to be a side benefit to her.
“I thought vampires had to be invited in,” said Anthony.
Demetria laughed. “You’ve been reading too many fanciful stories, my boy. Do you know the origin of that myth?”
“Not exactly.” Anthony stepped into the house and pushed the door closed behind him. “Is it something vampires made up to trick mortals into feeling safe?”
“Partially.” She glanced back at him, seeming impressed. “It started off back in the days when mortals more commonly used magic, before the notion that magic wasn’t real took hold. One could hire a mystic to place protective enchantments on one’s dwelling. If a vampire or other immortal being trespassed on the property without invitation, they would experience quite a great deal of pain, perhaps even be destroyed.”
Anthony whistled. “Wow. So, it’s real?”
“To anyone who had the means to both locate and hire a mystic, yes.” Demetria examined her fingernails. “Mystics powerful enough to erect such warding spells tended to be difficult to find.”
“Magic was rare?”
“Not as rare as you might think.” Demetria flashed a fanged smile. “It was not only the frightened mortals who went looking for them.”
Anthony winced, getting her meaning. Surely, vampires would try to kill those who could protect mortals from them. “Question.” Anthony peered at a painting on the left, depicting barbarian-like warriors in wolf furs fighting some manner of tentacled horror emerging from dark trees. “Which came first, vampires or dark masters?”
Demetria held her head up higher. “I am not that old, boy. I suspect vampires predate us, simply because we had to have gotten the idea to emulate them from somewhere. Of all the various beings with power over mortals, they proved to be the most superior.”
“Superior?” Anthony raised an eyebrow. “Weres have no qualms with sunlight.”
“Nor do I.” She frowned. “True vampires aren’t slaves to the dark, my boy. The sunlight burning the undead is entirely a product of modern storytelling, a movie gimmick. Have you read Bram Stoker?”
“Nope. I saw the movie though.” He shrugged. “Okay, so Dracula went out during the day. Yeah, you’re right.”
“Indeed. If we were beholden to the night, forced to cower underground during the day like beasts, why would we have chosen that form? And weres are far too hairy, not to mention prone to fits of losing their senses. We are the royalty of the supernatural world.”
Anthony held back the urge to frown. And so humble.
The butler nearly ran face-first into a door near the end of the hall. He pulled it open, then stood aside.
Demetria, barely paying the man any notice, walked past him into the room. “Ahh, Roldon. How are you, dear?”
“Who…” Roldon Barathor, presently seated at a long table with a red-haired woman, seven or eight children, and two other large men, stared at her.
Anthony entered the room, a dining hall, and stopped close to the doorway. Except for him, Demetria, and Roldon, time seemed to freeze still. The woman beside Roldon, presumably his wife, sat frozen with her face toward her husband, eyes canted at Demetria, as though she’d been in the middle of a conversation when she and Anthony barged in. The eldest child, a girl of around eleven, stared platter-eyed at Demetria, somewhere between shyness and sensing the paranormal darkness inside the woman. The remaining six kids, all boys, stared at her with various expressions ranging from curiosity to indifference.
