4. Vows

"Only the dead have seen the end of war." – Plato

"WE HAVE ENTRUSTED our brother James to God's mercy and we now commit his body to the ground: earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust: In sure and certain hope of the resurrection of eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ..."

The small group listened to the committal, heads bowed and arms clasped before them in respect. A soft gust blew through the trees, whispers of sad songs danced in the wind. The air felt cold and sharp and the sky was a dull grey. Lining the field before the group where hundreds of thousands of slabs of rock; tall crucifixes towered over small humble headstones. Despite the obvious attempts at displaying one's everlasting riches, the unruly grass continued to grow, and the dead still remained dead.

Hugo watched the glossed mahogany casket descend into the ground, swallowed by the grass and the dirt. He stood with his arms crossed, leaning on the support of a thick elm trunk. Adjusting himself in discomfort, he tugged on the black tie around his neck. He had never been one for funerals, despite the large amount his family had forced him to attend. They were repetitive and pointless.

He particularly sneered at the sight of his sister, who was holding a tissue to her eye and sobbing almost comically. Delia had always been the softest of the four since Hugo's earliest memory. She was always the one who would whimper first, the one who would break first, the loudest cry for mercy. She didn't weep quietly either. When she shed a tear, she would scream as if she was shedding the very skin on her bones. The look on her swollen face was almost always unappetising and the curl of her lips made you want to rip them from her face. At this moment, it took a lot of strength for Hugo to withhold from kicking his sister in the teeth. Her howling became annoying very quickly and today was not a good day for Hugo.

Firstly, it was early in the morning and the rare beams of light piercing the clouds almost burned his eyes. He had never liked being outside: he preferred dark underground lounges with plush velvet armchairs and smooth jazz music and whiskey and blood on tap. Secondly, the new suit he was in was giving him itches in all of the wrong places; knowing Hugo, he would be happy to strip down right away and walk home in his underwear. Worst of all, he was hungry. Having not had anything to eat since the previous day, he was waiting for this all to be over so he could tuck in to a nice meal.

A chorus of Amen brought Hugo's attention back to the miniature congregation. The priest held a sad smile on his face that he growled at with distaste. Delia had calmed down now, but continued to snivel loudly into Lance's shoulder. He looked just as irritated with her as Hugo had been which gave him some amusement. Everybody had somebody else in an embrace and the whole scene made Hugo sick. The praying, the crying – all of it was nauseating.

So he fleeted behind the priest and sunk his teeth into him.

A cry shot out from the crowd but Hugo's eyes were tight shut, his mouth filling with the bittersweet fluid. Blood spurted onto his tongue and spilled from his lips as the priest tried to struggle hopelessly. Hugo grunted, draining the priest of every last drop before ripping his head from his neck and throwing it into the grave with his brother.

"Rest in peace, James," he smirked, wiping the corner of his mouth with his fingers and licking them clean. He looked up from the grave and locked eyes with his sister. Her mouth was wide open; her cheeks stained black with make-up and tears. Lance stood next to her, giving Hugo a disapproving stare. "What?"he shrugged, "Our brother would want a little snack for the long night."

"Hugo, clean this up. I'll get everyone home," Lance took Delia in his arms and led her away from the cemetery. The rest of the group looked on at Hugo and the headless priest before leaving after Lance and Delia. Hugo sighed, removing his coat and blazer and rolling up his sleeves. He looked around for any sign of life - he even called out - but received no reply. He lifted the priest from the ground and lofted him into the hole, grimacing at the sickening crack of his bones against the casket. In the distance he heard a quiet tapping and crunching, he could smell the warm scent of blood in the air so he followed it to an old man, wheeling a shovel and a broken headstone into a rickety old shed.

Hugo gripped his shoulders and looked into his eyes. "Drop the wheelbarrow. Down the way there's an open grave: ignore the body in it, just fill it in. If anybody asks, you killed him."

The old man stared blankly at him, then nodded before walking back towards James' grave.

Back at Auberon Manor, Delia had finished crying and cleaned up her face. She sat in the kitchen, sipping on a glass of blood and playing with a small key, handed to her by James many years ago. The safe that accompanied the key was in the basement of the main house in the estate. He told her to never open it until the day that he died. It had been a week since then but she still could not bring herself to do as he had asked. In the week since Sandra had informed the family of James' death, she had visited the safe five times, but every time she got close she would freeze and give up.

Even though Delia had gone decades at a time without seeing James, she had always known that he was alive. Now that he was actually gone, she realised how much she would miss him, for there was a long and lonely life ahead of her and James was the brother that she liked the most. Hugo was the emissary of pessimism and hatred and she honestly wished it was him that was six feet under. She took another sip of the crimson liquid and swiped her tongue across her lip, her veins pulsing in temporary pleasure.

"Aren't you going to pour me a glass?"

"Haven't you had enough, Hugo?" Delia replied, getting up to leave the kitchen. She was eternally angry at him, for it was always Hugo that ruined everything. He was definitely the brother that she liked the least. His hair with streaks of blonde and brown and his total lack of decorum set him apart from the rest of the Auberons, to the point where people were surprised when he mentioned his family ties. "What exactly is wrong with you? Have you no respect?"

Hugo smiled coyly. "Delia, dare I say, you were rather attached to James. Were it mine or Lance's funeral would the same tears be shed?"

"Oh, shut up, you fool. Do you not care about your own brother?"

Hugo sneered at Delia - he was tired of her incessant judgement and arrogant demeanour. "James was your brother – not mine."

"You make me sick!" Delia roared. Before any human could see it, the glass had left her fingers and collided with the wall. The glass smashed, scattering shards and red droplets across the kitchen. One pierced Hugo's cheek and a small black drop ran down his jaw. He pulled the shard from his face and wiped his blood away. His lip curled as he glared at Delia. She was seething with anger, waves of heat rolled off her.

Yet the room seemed to freeze when Lance entered.

His footsteps had a deafening echo, a terrifying resonance that made even Hugo wince. Their oldest brother was more than just that. He was their mediator and at times, their prosecutor. Centuries of living under his boot taught Delia and Hugo that Lance was the head of the household. The way that he combed his hair and puffed out his chest showed this well enough, along with the way that he looked at his brother and sister. His eyes, a deep swirling hazel that was hypnotising and captivating.

Not many people looked Lance Auberon in the eye, and those who did could not be disappointed. Saying he had nice eyes was more than an understatement, for his eyes sucked you in, they swept your soul before filling you with heaps of emotion that you could never understand. Some said that his eyes were cursed by a witch a long time ago, and that anyone who stared into them would be dead within the hour. Many claimed that his eyes had changed over the years - each deadly experience etched flecks of gold into his irises and haunted whoever was unfortunate enough to share his pain. The romantics told of the one woman who had tamed his heart, the true apple of his eye and her effect on him. Nobody knew the truth but his family, and they were not willing to discover the consequences of revealing it.

"The both of you are an unfeigned disgrace."

"Lance," Delia attempted to fight her corner but her brother held up his hand to silence her.

"No. Delia, stop this."

"Yeah, Delia," Hugo smirked mischievously. "Stop it."

Lance scowled at his brother, a sharp look that silenced him immediately. "What worries me most is that the two of you are fretting over petty discrepancies, when the imbecile that murdered our brother still roams the streets."

Hugo scoffed, "Get off your high horse, Lance."

Hugo was ignored. Anybody would have grown tired extremely quickly of his narcissism but Lance had become immune. He was accustomed to Hugo's behaviour and could predict his motives very easily, a curse of his immortality and an eternity with his brother. The spontaneity of human interaction ceased to exist in their lives, for he had come across every type of human there was, and one of them he was no more. Long ago, Lance was temperamental and volatile: a trait he had learned to suppress, for it gave the advantage to his patient enemies. Lance had discerned the importance of silence, the benefits of discretion and the significance of mystery. Most of the time, Lance found no reason to reply directly to the snide jabs of his brother, so at this point, he continued on.

"What we should be discussing is ways to avenge our brother's passing. There is no better way than a manhunt, don't you agree?" Lance suggested wickedly.

"How can we find this person?" Delia asked. Her tears had stopped flowing and now she was listening intently to her brother. The thought of revenge gave her some relief. She was never the type to forgive and forget, which was a characteristic barely littered along the Auberon line and what made their wrath so infamous.

Anabelle appeared in the doorway. The young girl had been crying for a long time and obviously much harder than her aunt. She sniffled before stepping further into the room. The three Auberon siblings looked on at her with sympathy, not really knowing what to say, not expecting her to be social so soon. Anabelle opened her mouth to speak, and stuttered as she did.

"Uncle Lance," Anabelle paused nervously, "Can we go home now?"

Lance moved closer to her and guiding her to a kitchen stool. She was small for her age, feeble and defenceless. Truly the gem of the family, James' one and only child was fiercely protected by her aunt and uncles. For fear of disrespect and the unconditional ties of family, the Auberons fought. "Anabelle you have to stay here now, my dear."

Anabelle swallowed, and then nodded before beginning, "I want to go to bed. I want my bed."

"Uncle Hugo will go and get it just for you," Delia interjected. The look on his face after this twisted into a threatening glare until Lance shot him a strong glance. With a loud sigh, Hugo wiped down his face again and left the room.

"I know, while Uncle Hugo gets your bed, why don't you and Aunt Delia choose a room?" Lance edged her towards his sister. Delia too wiped her eyes and put on a brave smile, outstretching her hand and pulling Anabelle closer.

She leaned down and whispered, "Don't you worry about a thing, Belle. I'll look after you forever."

Delia and Anabelle had left the room, but Lance was not alone. His anger had built up within him since the moment he had heard of James' death. The force had grown and grown until it felt like the heaviness followed him around, pulling him down and not releasing his attention. He need to relieve his stress, his anguish, his pain - to get rid of the figure in the room with him. He took a shaky breath, stood straight, corrected his suit and left also, with more than just stress relief on his agenda.