Chapter Two-Hundred Fifty-One: Echoes of the Departed

Chapter 251

Echoes of the Departed

Fabien and Celeste stepped into their house. Celeste unbuckled her strappy sandals and picked them up. She went into their bedroom to place her shoes in her closet and hung her hat inside. She slipped off her opera gloves and placed those in their box.

Rolling his shoulders to ease the tension, he unbuttoned the suit jacket and shrugged out of it, draping it carefully over the back of an armchair. Reaching up to loosen his tie, he pulled the knot down, unbuttoning the top button of his black pressed shirt with a sigh of absolute relief.

He leaned against the side of the sofa, balancing on one foot to unlace his polished black cap-toe oxfords. He slid the shoes off one by one, leaving them neatly by the entryway. Finally, he pulled off his black dress socks, wiggling his toes against the soft carpet with a long, satisfied exhalation. He collapsed onto the soft cushions of the sofa, letting out a deep sigh as the last remnants of the funeral melted away.

Swinging his legs up, he sprawled out comfortably, resting his bare feet right over the padded armrest and stretching his toes in total freedom.

Fabien: “Ah, fuckin’ freedom from those shoes.”

Celeste walked over with a mischievous grin and began playfully tickling the arches of his feet. Fabien gasped, his eyes flying open as a sudden, sharp burst of laughter erupted from his chest. He jerked his legs, trying to twist away, but the armrest left his feet perfectly exposed to her attack.

Fabien: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! HEHEHEHEHEY!”

Fabien choked out, his shoulders shaking as he tried to bury his face into the throw pillows. He used one foot to scratch the other.

Fabien: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAHAHAHA!!!”

She doubled down, using both hands to trace relentless, light feather-touches up and down the arches of his soles, right where she knew he was most sensitive. She dug her fingertips gently into the delicate skin near his heels, wiggling her fingers with expert precision.

Fabien: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOOOHOHO!!!”

Fabien writhed against the sofa, his legs kicking helplessly in place. His head was thrown back, laughter echoing off the living room walls as he gripped the cushions for dear life, his toes curling tightly in a futile attempt to shield his feet from her quick-moving fingers.

Fabien: “PLEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEASE!! STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!!!”

He wheezed, practically gasping for air between fits of uncontrollable laughter.

Celeste paused her hands right over his soles, hovering just half an inch away, her fingers still dancing in the air as a teasing threat. Fabien panted, his chest heaving as he finally caught his breath, casting a wary glance down at his exposed, slightly pink soles.

Fabien gasped for air and clasped his hand over his chest as tears dripped down his cheeks.

Celeste smoothed her dress and settled onto the sofa beside him, the silence of the room suddenly heavy with the lingering scent of funeral orchids and the cooling evening air. She gazed into his green eyes, which were still slightly bright from his laughter, though a somber cloud was rapidly replacing the mirth.

He reached out, his hand trembling slightly with exhaustion as he raked his fingers through the vibrant green silk of her tresses. Celeste pressed closer, the warmth of her chest against his as she sought an anchor in the quiet gloom of their living room.

Fabien: “How do you feel now, chérie?”

He murmured, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly vibration that resonated in the small space between them.

Celeste: “I’m okay, Fab.”

She rested her head on the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat, a stark contrast to the chaotic thoughts racing through her mind. Fabien draped his arm over her shoulders, his grip firm.

Fabien: “You knew her. She gave you that job to look after Blair.”

Celeste went rigid for a heartbeat, her breath catching as the mention of the deceased woman cut through the intimacy like a cold blade.

Celeste: “I know. She did. She did a lot for that loser and his grandfather. It’s more than what Blair deserved.”

She stated, her jaw tightening with a bitterness that tasted like copper. The atmosphere in the room shifted, the playful energy of the tickling now a distant, forgotten memory.

Fabien: “How do you feel, though?”

Celeste shrugged, her shoulder brushing against his chest in a listless motion.

Celeste: “Yeah, Jax is right. She died for a dumb reason, but… it feels wrong for him to say that about her ‘cause she was a good person. Blair is the shithead here.”

She drawled as she snaked her arm around his waist, pulling him closer to her.

Celeste: “Yeah, he’s funny but… I dunno. I wish we were going to Blair’s funeral instead.”

She said somberly.

Fabien kissed her head.

Fabien: “Yeah, Blair made it… special.”

He snorted.

Fabien: “Imagine being 22 years old and needing someone to heat your canned ravioli for you. Who even still eats that shit over 10 years old? That overly salty crap is only decent when you’re hammered, and that fuckin’ manchild never drinks.”

He laughed bitterly.

Fabien: “Or find your socks for you. Demetrio enabled this crap, so he’s reaping what he sowed.”

He added.

Fabien: “And Sylvia… protected him. She died for him, and Blair just amounts her death to wanting to date Ashley, or using it as leverage so she will date him.”

He laughed a hollow laugh.

Fabien: “It’s sad when you think about it, but then it’s funny immediately following that.”

He paused.

Fabien: “My butler, Jean, was kind of like my Sylvia. I don’t know. He was more of a father to me than my own fuckin’ father.”

He stared blankly at the ceiling, the image of his father’s cold, clinical detachment—a man who viewed his son as a failed investment—flashing through his mind. It stood in stark contrast to the memory of Jean’s quiet, nurturing presence. It was Jean who had patched his scraped knees and listened to his childhood fears while his father remained a ghost in his own home.

Fabien: “I can’t imagine going on stage to deliver a eulogy about what he did for me and using it as leverage to get some dippy alien girl to date me.”

He laughed a bit.

Fabien: “...I never met anyone quite like Blair Donati.”

Celeste raised her head to meet his gaze.

Celeste: “Can I meet Jean?”

Fabien gaped owlishly at her and cleared his throat.

Fabien: “He lives in Dralême with my parents and… he can’t speak English, so there will be a barrier.”

A faint laugh escaped him. He looked down at her with a smile, her large violet eyes gazing at him. He detested having to refuse her request.

Fabien: “...He’d love to meet you.”

He said softly. Celeste smiled and rubbed her nose on his.

~

Tristan stepped into the house after he arrived home from the funeral. He knelt to untie his shoes and slipped them off, revealing his sheer socks.

Following the rich, savory aroma drifting down the grand hallway, Tristan walked into the dining room. Deimos was already sitting at the long mahogany table. He was leaning back, resting one hand near an open, icy bottle of beer, but the moment Tristan walked in, his intense expression softened just a fraction.

Deimos: “You’re late, my prince.”

He teased.

Tristan: “My apologies. Traffic was insufferable. Blair was worse.”

He replied smoothly, adjusting his glasses as a subtle smile touched his lips. He walked over, leaning down to press a soft kiss to Deimos’ cheek before taking his seat opposite him.

Tristan: “Though I see you’ve made yourself right at home.”

Deimos: “Bastien brought everything out right before you pulled up.”

He grunted, though his eyes lingered fondly on Tristan. He gestured toward the center of the table.

In the middle of the table sat a steaming dish of rich, creamy chicken fettuccine alfredo, cooked to perfection with thick ribbons of pasta coated in garlic-parmesan sauce and tender slices of seasoned chicken. Next to it was a bowl of crisp, fresh garden salad with a light vinaigrette, and a basket piled high with warm, freshly baked rolls that released a cloud of fragrant steam.

Tristan picked up the crystal decanter and poured himself a glass of chilled, golden chardonnay. He took a small, appreciative sip, letting the crisp notes balance the rich scents filling the air.

He took the serving tongs to plate a generous portion of the pasta for both of them, followed by a crisp side of salad. Deimos took a long pull from his beer bottle, setting it down.

Deimos: “Besides, you look like you needed a decent meal.”

Tristan: “Yes, I could use that and good company after that funeral. But I could use it when I am with you, too.”

He countered deftly, his green eyes gleaming with quiet amusement as he twirled a bundle of fettuccine onto his fork.

They ate at a comfortable, unhurried pace. The dynamic between them—Tristan’s refined, calculated grace paired with Deimos’ grounded, rugged presence—filled the massive dining room, making the imposing mansion feel cozy and intensely private. Deimos used a tear of a warm roll to mop up the last of the alfredo sauce on his plate, while Tristan casually leaned his chin on his hand, sipping his wine.

When the plates were finally cleared, Tristan leaned back in his chair, feeling the lingering warmth of the food and the wine. He looked across the table at Deimos.

Tristan: “Thank you for being here tonight, Deimos.”

He said softly. Deimos reached across the table, his broad, calloused hand lightly covering Tristan's slender fingers. He gave a gentle squeeze. Tristan turned his hand over, interlacing his fingers with Deimos’. The contrast was striking—Tristan’s long, smooth fingers tucked into Deimos’s rougher, broader palm.

Tristan stood up, pushing back his chair with practiced elegance. Deimos didn't hesitate; he drained the last of his beer, set the brown bottle on the table, and rose to his feet.

Without a word, Deimos closed the distance between them. He reached out, his thick fingers lightly wrapping around the back of Tristan’s neck, carefully tilting his head up. Tristan’s breath hitched slightly, his green eyes softening behind his glasses as Deimos leaned down and pressed a deep, possessive kiss to his lips.

When Deimos pulled back just an inch, his thumb brushed gently across Tristan’s cheekbone. Leading Deimos by the hand, Tristan guided him up the stairs and across the pedway toward his bedroom.

~

Tristan cast aside his gloomy funeral attire and retreated to the bathroom. He stood beneath the shower, letting a soothing stream of hot water wash over his slender, tall frame. Stepping out and towel-drying himself, he slipped into fresh underwear and a set of silver silk pajamas, which featured his name stitched in gold lettering across the left breast pocket.

~

He sat at his vanity, brushing his long, icy white hair. A pair of heavy arms wrapped firmly around his waist from behind.

Deimos pulled him back against his chest, burying his face into the crook of Tristan’s neck. His broad frame radiated heat, a stark, comforting contrast to the cool evening air of the bedroom. Tristan relaxed into the hold, resting his hands over Deimos’ forearms. Deimos wore a black tank top and dark plaid pajama pants.

Deimos: “You’re quiet tonight.”

He murmured, his voice rough and low against Tristan’s skin, his breath fanning warmly over Tristan’s collarbone.

Tristan: “It has been… an eventful day to say the least.”

He replied softly, tilting his head slightly to give Deimos better access. Deimos let out a low chuckle, his lips trailing up Tristan’s neck to the sensitive spot just below his ear. Tristan shivered and laughed softly.

Tristan’s gaze was soft, entirely fixed on the man in front of him. Deimos reached up, his rough, calloused thumb gently tracing the line of Tristan’s jawline before cupping his cheek. The sheer gentleness in the gesture was something only Tristan ever got to see—a stark difference from the tough, unyielding exterior Deimos presented to the rest of the world. It was something he needed right now—more than he wanted to admit to himself.

Deimos leaned in, capturing Tristan’s lips in a kiss that was slow and deep. Tristan melted into it, his fingers threading through the dense, dark waves of Deimos’ hair, pulling him closer.

When they finally broke apart for air, Deimos rested his forehead against Tristan’s, his violet eyes locked onto the man he loved.

Deimos: “Funerals are… difficult.”

He said with strain.

Tristan: “You only ever attended one in your life.”

Deimos pursed his lips.

Deimos: “And it was more than enough.”

He remembered clinging to Monica as he stared at his baby sister’s tiny little coffin in the funeral home. Deimos squeezed his eyes shut.

Tristan wrapped his arms around Deimos, knowing this was a sensitive topic for him.

Deimos: “...How do you feel?”

Tristan: “Jordi’s eulogy was beautiful. Your father’s was entirely selfish, mocking both you and Lazaros.”

He began. Deimos pursed his lips, not surprised by his father.

Tristan: “Blair’s, however, was by far the worst. Sylvia gave her life for a selfish man-child, and though I criticized Jaxon for saying she died for a dumb reason, I am convinced she would agree with him if she saw how little Blair actually valued her.”

Tears pooled in his eyes as his voice broke. Deeply bothered by his boyfriend’s emotional distress, Deimos furrowed his brows.

Tristan: “We all witnessed her being transformed into a richonoid. I hate this, Deimos! She didn’t deserve that! Chelsea didn’t, Kristen didn’t, no one did!”

Striking the vanity’s wooden top, he sat there in frustration. He removed his glasses as he sobbed.

Tristan: “Why would she do that, Deimos?! Why would she die for THAT?!”

He bawled.

Deimos said nothing. He didn’t understand why Sylvia sacrificed herself for Blair. He wanted to reach into her grave to throttle her for making Tristan suffer like this, but he couldn’t. All he could do was hold Tristan close and comfort his beloved prince.

Deimos: “Get some rest, Tristan.”

He said gently, his voice thick with affection as he guided them both toward his bed.

Deimos: “I’m right here.”

Tristan nodded, letting himself be pulled down onto the soft sheets. Wrapped securely in Deimos’ arms, he felt completely, undeniably safe.

~

It was midnight. Tristan lay awake in bed. Deimos was sound asleep beside him, one heavy arm draped possessively over Tristan’s waist, his deep, even breaths rising and falling against the sheets.

Carefully—moving with the deliberate precision that came naturally to him—Tristan lifted Deimos’ arm and set it gently on the mattress. He slipped out from beneath the warm covers, his bare feet hitting the carpeted floor. He slipped his glasses onto the bridge of his nose.

He grabbed his silver lighter and a pack of cigarettes from the nightstand, sliding the glass door open just enough to step out onto the covered balcony that was recently built onto his bedroom.

Tristan leaned against the dark iron railing. He slid a cigarette between his lips, cupped his hand against the breeze, and flicked the lighter. The small, golden flame lit up his sharp features and long, silver-white hair before he snapped it shut with a metallic clink.

He took a slow, deep drag, the tip glowing a bright amber in the shadows. Exhaling a long stream of smoke into the night, he felt the last lingering bits of restlessness leave his chest.

Sylvia, he thought. Even now, the name felt like a bruise in his mind. She had been so brilliant, so capable, yet her life had been bartered away for a man who wouldn’t know the value of a sacrifice if it were laid out at his feet. It was a tragedy of the most banal kind, and yet, the sting of it was anything but trivial.

Blair won’t avenge her; he doesn’t give a damn, he thought. But I do, he added. I am not letting Ichiro Tachibana get away with any of the heinous crimes he committed, he thought as he watched the smoke curl into the night sky.

~

It was a busy night at Darker Desires. Neon pink and deep violet lights sliced through the dim room, casting long shadows across the crowded velvet booths and polished brass railings.

DJ: “Ladies and gentlemen, midnight has arrived... and so has your favorite temptation. Give it up for Jaxon!”

The crowd erupted in cheers as the synthesized opening riff of a heavy rock track thundered through the sound system. Smoke poured onto the center stage, illuminated by a spotlight, and out stepped Jaxon.

Dressed in his snakeskin shirt left loosely unbuttoned, skin glowing under the warm spotlights, he took command of the room before he even touched the brass pole.

He moved with effortless, rhythm-driven confidence. Approaching the center pole, Jaxon spun smoothly around it, hooking a knee and letting his body sweep in a fluid, gravity-defying arc. Every tilt of his head and flip of his wild mane drew loud applause from the front row.

Slowly, teasingly, he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants, never breaking eye contact with the cheering crowd and slipping the shirt off his shoulders. He swung the shirt once overhead before letting it drape over the stage edge.

Moving with seamless grace between dynamic climbs on the pole and rhythmic floorwork, Jaxon had the entire club completely captivated. He executed a high spin, descending smoothly to a knee on the polished stage right on the final beat, leaving the audience roaring for an encore as the lights faded to deep crimson.

As the cheers echoed off the mirrored walls, the heavy synth intro of another track kicked in—faster this time, driven by an unforgiving, pounding electronic bassline.

Jaxon didn’t leave the stage. Instead, he pushed himself up from his knee, tossing his mane back with a grin that said the show was far from over.

He gripped the brass pole with one hand, tested the friction, and vaulted upward in a seamless, explosive climb. High above the crowd, he inverted—hooking an ankle effortlessly around the metal and letting his torso extend outward in a flawless, horizontal hold. The silver cross dangling from his ear swung, caught in the strobe light like a spark.

The crowd went wild, hands waving dollar bills along the edge of the stage.

Jaxon slid down the pole in a slow, controlled drop, stopping just inches before touching the floor. Rolling smoothly onto his back, he worked the crowd with rhythmic floorwork, every movement calculated, fluid, and sharp. He reached down to his pants, with a sly glance toward the VIP booths, teasing the drop before slipping out of the tight trousers entirely, and removing his boots and socks.

Left in just a pair of sleek, black boxer briefs, he stood tall, chest heaving slightly.

He didn’t just dance for the room—he worked it, person by person. Moving to the front edge of the stage, Jaxon dropped into a low squat, leaning in close to accept a folded bill straight into his waistband, offering a wink and a low whisper that left the older man flushed and breathless. With a flick of the wrist, he pulled off his underwear and bared it all for everyone.

With a final, thunderous crash of the drums, Jaxon launched into one last spinning inverted freeze on the pole, holding the pose suspended in mid-air as the music cut abruptly to black.

The house lights flashed back up to full, blinding neon intensity. Jaxon took a slow bow, blowing a kiss before collecting his clothes and striding offstage into the haze of the backstage curtain—another midnight shift mastered.

~

Backstage at Darker Desires was a chaos of hairspray fumes, neon backstage lighting, and discarded leather jackets. Jaxon leaned his back against the cool cinderblock wall, catching his breath as his chest heaved. He ran a hand through his voluminous hair, fluffing the gravity-defying locks back into place out of pure habit.

Male dancer: “Killed it out there, Jaxon.”

He called out, lacing up a pair of knee-high leather boots for the 1:00 AM slot.

Jaxon: “Always do.”

He flashed that sharp, cocky grin, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his dressing room locker. He plucked one out, flicked open a Zippo with a metallic clack, and took a long, slow drag. He took the thick stack of bills that were stuffed into the waistband of his boxer briefs, tossing the cash onto his illuminated vanity mirror.

Just as he was about to toss his shirt back over his shoulders, a soft knock rattled his dressing room door frame. Marco poked his head in, holding a fresh old-fashioned glass filled with bourbon on the rocks and an envelope.

Marco: “Compliments from a French gentleman.”

He said, handing over the drink.

Marco: “He said midnight wasn’t long enough, and he’s paying top dollar for a private set.”

Jaxon took a sip of the bourbon, feeling the burn settle in his throat, and looked at the thick stack of bills peeking out of the envelope. He ran a thumb over the rim of the glass, his brown eyes gleaming with a mixture of amusement and pure hustle. He set the glass down and grabbed his shirt.

Jaxon: “Give me five minutes.”

Jaxon threw his shirt back on, leaving it entirely unbuttoned. He checked his reflection in the vanity mirror, gave his sky-high hair one last quick fluff, and took a final swig of the bourbon before stepping back out into the dimly lit hallway.

Jaxon pushed through the heavy acoustic door, leaving the backstage area behind as he approached the VIP lounge upstairs. He opened the door slowly.

Jaxon: “I heard someone couldn’t get enough of the VIP show.”

He teased upon entering.

However, he froze, completely paralyzed with fear as his heart leaped into his throat. Narcisse was sitting inside the lounge, and Lena was floating nearby in a purple bubble, wearing a pink nightie, completely unconscious.

Marching quickly toward him, Narcisse slammed Jaxon against the wall and clamped his hand tightly over his mouth.

Narcisse: “Scream once, I crush her.”

He said through his clenched teeth. Jaxon looked at him with a mixture of fear and rage. Narcisse’s face was less than an inch from Jaxon’s face. He slowly removed his hand from his mouth and slammed his mouth on his. Jaxon muffled screams in Narcisse’s mouth as he tried to pry himself away. Narcisse grabbed his ass and pulled Jaxon toward him, his hardness pressing against him.

Jaxon delivered a hard slap to his face, causing Narcisse to back away and rub his reddened cheek. He grinned and grabbed Jaxon’s jaw, squeezing it.

Narcisse: “Spicy, aren’t we?”

He licked his lips.

Narcisse: “Jiro, before we depart—and we will be departing to Clerteaux—I want you to inform my naughty little nephew, Tristan. I want him there, as well.”

He smiled.

Jaxon sank to the floor in tears.

Narcisse: “Jiro, I read your file. You are extraordinary. I know exactly why that old hag at New Horizons is so… utterly fascinated with you.”

He folded his arms behind his back and inhaled sharply. Jaxon clenched his teeth as he glared at Narcisse with tears of anger burning in his eyes.

Narcisse: “And my deepest condolences about Seashell Cove.”

He nodded.

Narcisse: “We wouldn’t want a repeat of that…”

He said softly as the bubble with Lena floated toward him.

Narcisse: “Would we now?”

He smirked. Jaxon angrily rose.

Jaxon: “LEAVE HER ALONE! I will do what you want! LET HER GO!”

He bellowed. Narcisse smirked.

Narcisse: “You keep your end of the bargain, and I will keep mine.”

He nodded.

Narcisse: “Contact Tristan because he is coming, as well.”

He commanded.

Jaxon: “Let Lena go!”

He cried.

Narcisse: “Jiro, unlike Chelsea, she won’t be conscious, so if you don’t do as I ask, she will die, but she won’t be conscious.”

He grinned.

Jaxon nodded and rose to leave the VIP room. He stumbled into the dim, narrow hallway, his vision blurring as he leaned against the cold cinderblock wall for support. His breath came in shallow, jagged hitches, and his chest felt like it was being crushed under the weight of Narcisse’s threat. Every shadow in the hallway seemed to pulse with a predatory intent, reminding him that the monster was still right behind that door, listening to every move he made.

He found the payphone tucked into a recessed nook near the emergency exit, its chrome surface battered and dull under the flickering violet light. Jaxon reached into his pocket, his fingers fumbling uselessly against the fabric until he managed to hook a few coins. His hands shook so violently that he dropped a quarter, the metallic ring of it hitting the floor sounding like a gunshot in the oppressive silence. He scrambled to pick it up, his knees nearly giving out as he shoved the change into the slot with a desperate, frantic energy.

The dial tone hummed—a cold, mechanical drone that felt like a countdown. Jaxon dialed Tristan’s number, his trembling finger slipping twice before he finally completed the sequence. Each ring on the other end of the line felt like a physical blow to his gut. He knew Narcisse was in the other room, perhaps with his ear pressed to the wood, or perhaps simply sensing the vibration of the call through the very air. Jaxon’s throat felt constricted, raw with the effort of holding back a sob. When the line finally clicked open, his voice came out tight, strained, and barely recognizable even to himself.

Jaxon: “Tristan? It’s… It’s Jaxon. Please, I need to speak with you. Right now.”

Tristan was in his bedroom, sitting up in bed on his cellphone.

Tristan: “Jaxon? Are you all right?”

He asked as his heart hammered in his chest.

Jaxon: “Your fuckin’ weirdo uncle…”

He sobbed. Tristan froze, turgid with fear.

Jaxon: “He has Lena! He is going to kill her if I don’t go to Clerteaux! He wants you to go there!”

He bawled. Tristan paused as he slowly lowered his cellphone from his ear.

Jaxon: “Tristan?!”

He called out.

Tristan: “Okay, Jaxon. We’re going.”

He then heard a click and the hum of a dial tone. Tristan shook Deimos awake.

Tristan: “Get up, Deimos. We need to get to Trevor.”

He threw the sheets off him and marched to the bathroom. Deimos mumbled and groaned.

~

Narcisse wrenched the phone from Jaxon’s hands and slammed the receiver in its cradle. He snaked his arm around Jaxon, pressed a button on his device, and teleported himself, Jaxon, and Lena away.

~

Standing together in front of Tristan’s house were Tristan, Deimos, Celeste, and Fabien. Dressed in a black turtleneck sweater, navy pants, black wingtip Oxfords, and a long gray coat, Tristan stood beside Deimos, who wore a gray tank top, torn jeans, and cowboy boots. Next to them, Celeste was clad in denim shorts, knee-high boots, and a white Guns ‘N Roses tank top, while Fabien sported a Nuklear Intoxikation Sucks tank top paired with jeans, flip-flops, and a green plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows.

Tristan had filled them in on his conversation with Jaxon and that he had called Trevor. Trevor appeared before them. He wore a Voyage Burger shirt, white boxers with hearts on them with a large brown stain in the back, and slippers. Fabien made a face at Trevor’s boxers.

Fabien: “Couldn’t find a pair of clean underwear?”

Trevor: “Hey, everyone gets accidents!”

Tristan: “Fabien, this doesn’t matter. Narcisse has Jaxon and Lena in Clerteaux.”

He said tersely.

Trevor: “Sorry, Tristan. I can’t teleport you guys to rescue Jaxon no more. Percy said no.”

He drawled.

Tristan: “It’s not about Jaxon; Lena has been kidnapped, as well.”

Trevor: “Man, I wanna help, but Percy said no.”

He sighed.

Trevor: “But you can change his mind if you buy me a Locking Logs set.”

Tristan heaved an exasperated sigh. I knew this was coming, he thought.

Tristan: “All right, Trevor, I will buy it for you.”

He relented, his eyes going into a full roll.

Trevor: “Okay, I can break his rules. Hang tight!”

He said as he grabbed everyone and teleported away.

~

They teleported in front of the Beaumont manor in front of the iron gates. The air was damper and cooler than the air of Pink Top City. It was already morning in Clerteaux.

Trevor: “I will stay here.”

He nodded. The iron gates squeaked as Celeste pushed them open and everyone went through.

As they ventured down the path, they approached a serene, lush, and slightly gothic garden. There was a weathered statue of an angel with enormous wings, standing on a low pedestal overlooking a small, dark pond covered with lily pads. The entire area was heavily shaded by dense, dark green foliage, including a large tree and a weeping willow cascading down.

To the left of the statue, a dark wooden bench was set back slightly, bearing the inscription “Beaumont.”

They then came across a highly ornate, dark wrought-iron gazebo set within a formal garden.

The structure featured a dark, elaborate roof with intricate scrollwork, filigree, and decorative finials. The support columns were also heavily decorated, giving the entire piece a strong Victorian or Gothic aesthetic.

Inside the gazebo, on a central pedestal, stood a more miniature, dark figurative statue in a dancing pose. The gazebo sat on a tiered stone base, surrounded by a manicured lawn ring. A narrow, wet gravel path led up to the structure.

The garden was characterized by very neatly trimmed hedges that formed a dark green wall, providing a structured and enclosed feeling.

Fabien looked around.

Fabien: “This place is eerie.”

He muttered. Tristan embraced himself as they ventured down the path and through the garden.

Deimos: “Are you okay?”

He asked, draping his arm over him, holding him close.

Tristan: “No, Deimos. No, I’m not.”

He shuddered.

As Tristan and the group drew closer to the manor, he could feel his anxiety soar. His heart hammered against his ribs, and he clutched his chest.

Deimos: “Tristan…”

He knitted his eyebrows.

Fabien: “Hey, you okay, man?”

He asked as he put his hand on his shoulder.

Tristan: “I have to pull it together.”

He nodded.

They saw a beige Peugeot 205 in the driveway with a headstone with an angel still embedded in the hood. Fabien burst out laughing.

Fabien: “Okay, what the fuck is that?”

Celeste: “Oh, I did that when we first came here. I thought it was Narcisse’s car.”

She replied. Fabien threw his head back and roared with laughter.

Tristan: “It wasn’t; it was Bastien’s.”

He added with irritation,

As he ventured down further, he tripped and fell to the ground. Fabien and Celeste turned around, and he knelt to Tristan.

Tristan: “ARGH!!”

Growling and baring his teeth, he struck the ground in pure frustration. Blood seeped from his scraped palms. Deimos quickly knelt beside Tristan, placing his hands over the soft, bloodied palms. A purple glow radiated from his touch, completely healing the wounds.

Tristan: “What did I trip over?!”

He snapped as Deimos helped him up. Fabien lifted the tiny headstone.

The tiny monument featured a photograph of a white Pomeranian puppy. Engraved right above the image was the name “Bijou,” while the inscription below read “May 29th, 1953 to August 10th, 1953.”

Celeste: “Bijou?”

She tilted her head. Fabien nodded, placing the tombstone on its back,

Fabien: “It means ‘jewel.’ ”

He turned to Tristan, who looked puzzled. He dusted himself off.

Tristan: “...This is the first I heard of Bijou, so I don’t know who she was.”

Celeste: “She died when she was a puppy.”

A feeling of dread washed over Tristan. He didn’t reply, opting to stroll past his grandparents’ tombstones and up the stairs. Deimos, Fabien, and Celeste followed him.

The large oak door groaned as they entered the manor. Fabien looked around the place.

Fabien: “This place looks haunted.”

Tristan: “It is haunted with something more terrifying than any ghosts.”

He murmured. Fabien hooked his thumbs in his jeans and looked around the place. He strolled into the living room, and his eyes widened at the myriad of animal trophy heads on the walls.

Fabien’s flip-flops scuffed against the hardwood floor, the sound unnervingly loud in the stillness. He tilted his head back, taking in the macabre display. Dozens of glass-eyed beasts—stags with jagged antlers, greater kudus, impalas—stared down from the mahogany paneling.

Fabien: “Jesus…”

He muttered, his voice barely rising above a whisper.

Fabien: “Was this a mansion or a slaughterhouse? Did they kill everything that moved?”

Tristan walked past him, his gaze fixed straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the wall of dead eyes.

Tristan: “To them, it was art. A reminder of dominance.”

Fabien examined the photographs on the wall, which depicted Gaston and Narcisse in hunting safari attire, posing alongside their firearms and the various animals they had slaughtered—including hippos, elephants, cape buffalo, giraffes, and rhinos. These images dated back to the 1950s.

Fabien observed his grin in each image, making it clear how much he relished looming over his trophies and taking the lives of these creatures. The later photographs depicted Narcisse by himself, crouching alongside hippos, giraffes, cape buffalo, elephants, antelopes, baboons, gorillas, and various others.

There was a large family portrait of Gaston and Emmeline standing with Charlotte and Narcisse sitting down, taken in 1951.

Numerous family photographs documented the passing years, beginning with Gaston and Emmeline’s 1937 wedding. Alongside baby photos of Charlotte, Narcisse, and some of Tristan, a 1962 wedding portrait of Charlotte and Victor captured Narcisse lingering in the background with a furrowed brow and tightly crossed arms. Another snapshot from Halloween in 1963 showed the couple in costume, with Charlotte dressed as Marie Antoinette and Victor as the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland.

They heard a bang coming from down in the basement.

Celeste: “Come on.”

She nodded. Tristan froze as his heart thundered in his chest.

The group slowly descended down the dark stairs as the classical music grew louder. Celeste and Deimos led the way as they entered the same room with the moss green hyperbaric chamber.

Fabien: “What the fuck?”

Jaxon knelt on the floor and turned around to face them with tears in his eyes. Tristan gasped and cupped his mouth as he locked his gaze on the hyperbaric chamber.

Suddenly, Tristan, Celeste, Fabien, and Deimos were swallowed by a giant purple bubble.

Deimos: “WHAT THE FUCK?!”

He bellowed as he pounded on the surface of the bubble. Tristan heaved and panted, clutching his chest. Deimos stopped pounding and rushed to Tristan to hold him close.

Fabien: “Tristan?”

Celeste: “God fucking damnit!”

She kicked the surface.

Narcisse stepped inside with a smile.

Narcisse: “Hello, Tristan and his simpletons. Welcome to my humble home.”

Jaxon yelped as Narcisse grabbed his hair and yanked him toward him. Tristan locked his glare on Narcisse, baring his teeth. Narcisse’s green eyes had that glint as he made eye contact with his nephew.