Spoils of War

A FANFICTION BY NIGHTMARCHER89

DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters of Twilight; they are the intellectual property of Stephenie Meyer.

"As I looked, the eyes saw the sinking sun, and the look of hate in them turned to triumph. But, on the instant, came the sweep and flash of Jonathan's great knife. I shrieked as I saw it shear through the throat. Whilst at the same moment Mr. Morris's bowie knife plunged into the heart. It was like a miracle, but before our very eyes, and almost in the drawing of a breath, the whole body crumbled into dust and passed from our sight.

I shall be glad as long as I live that even in that moment of final dissolution, there was in the face a look of peace, such as I never could have imagined might have rested there.

The Castle of Dracula now stood out against the red sky, and every stone of its broken battlements was articulated against the light of the setting sun."

- Dracula by Bram Stoker

CHAPTER ONE

1889

The clouds were charred black, boiling over London skies like the smoke of an unprecedented wildfire. They were what some determined to be the spiritual seeped into the physical plain, while even secular minds admitted them to be most unnatural. From afternoon, evening, and well into the night hours, that ghastly canopy had yet to spew a single drop of rain. Like gods casting boulders to stony earth, thunder followed lightning, causing all but the dead to flinch. Perhaps rain would come to let those clouds eventually pass; perhaps they were to linger forever, if only in memory.

A duo of sturdy horses pulled a carriage along a flagstone street. They moved with liveliness at a fast trot, obeying commands from their master as he flipped reigns and called out to continue moving. In turn, the driver was under orders from his carriage passenger to maintain a quick pace. They took advantage of that street's vacancy of obstacles, rumbling down its center in what during the day would have drawn police. On either side, nestled against one another, were homes and shops cast under shadows of occasional trees. Most windows had long been shuttered for the night, the few opened ones allowing some Londoners to look out in bewilderment at the racing carriage.

Psychiatrist Andrew Dosett steadied himself against his vehicle's jarring movements as it wheeled over frequent cracks and bumps, making reading the letter in his hands a difficult task. He had already read that letter countless times before, searching for any details he may have missed, though sure by then that he had it all down perfectly in memory. Still compulsively he scanned every sentence until reaching the end, afterward pondering every possible implication in its content, and then beginning again. If what the letter said turned out to be something rather than a strange practical joke, which Dosett knew to be uncharacteristic of the man who had written it, then history would be made in more fields than psychiatry alone.

"Mary Alice Brandon, aetat 19. Sanguine temperament, petite stature with what is generally behavioral stability renders her physically harmless. Admitted to asylum for delusions of precognition that witnesses have alleged worsened in time. I interviewed subject under the assumption of mental illness, but was not prepared to dismiss a possibility of it being true. As you know, I planned to invite you, Dr. Dosett, to the asylum to have your personal, first-hand thoughts on several patients. I never mentioned you to Ms. Brandon. During our interview, out of nowhere, to alleviate most doubt, Ms. Brandon described your appearance in such accuracy, that if you are without previous encounter with her, I cannot dismiss that accuracy as pure chance. How could she have known? Brandon knew everything from your hair color, the scar on your cheek, your favorite coat, and the pocket watch you keep on your person out of habit. I ask that you travel to the asylum earlier than previously scheduled so that we may both examine her."

The asylum occupied its street corner in a space where three large buildings could have sat. It towered like a cathedral over nearby surrounding structures, serving to remind the layman of the fate of derranged minds. Whereas a cathedral was holy ground a single step below heaven itself, this was the inverse, filled with lowliest of social rejects, thought by many to be the devil's minions on earth. Screams, laughter, and howls mingled with beats of hooves and creaking of wheels as the carriage closed in on its destination. Dosett folded the letter, sliding it back into its envelope to tuck away in a pocket, freeing his hands so that he could button his coat. Those sounds made that chill spring night seem somehow colder, he thought. He had been feeling ill since awakening from his slumber that afternoon, and although accustomed to asylums, this certain establishment hightened his sense of nausea. When having come to a stop at the curb, both Dosett and the driver raised hands in greeting to a man stationed on the walk, waiting for them.

"May as well treat yourself to a brief stint at the pub, Franklin!" Dosett said to his driver while grunting down from the carriage. "My business here shan't be awefully long, but no sense in having you wait out here alone."

The transport rolled away with the crack of reigns. Leaning somewhat on his cane, Dosett traveled slowly toward the waiting man who was a good dozen years his junior. Despite stomach unrest, his gait possessed enthusiasm and his face brightened when the younger man came to meet him halfway down the walk. They promptly clasped hands in a firm shake, afterward skipping platitudes and diving into discussion about their then shared situation. Although the outside was visibly deserted save for the two of them, discretion was practiced by hushed tones as they made for the asylum entrance, sides leaning close to one another with heads nearly together.

"How many are aware of this patient's supposed gift, John?" Dosett asked as the doors moaned open.

John Seward, administrator of the asylum and sender of the letter that rested in Dosett's coat pocket, led them inside, turning back around immediately to push the doors shut again. "So far as I know," He dusted his palms on his plain button-up shirt, facing back to Dosett with an expression of polite warning. "Only us. It is my intention to maintain that secrecy for as long as necessary."

Further conversation where they were standing was rendered impossible by a sudden ignition of racket. Across the lofty room, at the far wall, was a series of holding cells. One resident had flown into a fit of screaming, rocking his torso while moving straightjacket sleeves frantically over his body to brush off some invisible swarm of parasites. His head rocked loosely, face in a grimace complete with eyes showing unadulterated panic. Rotted teeth bared, his shouts echoed in booming roars over stone ceiling, walls, and floor.

"They're crawling all over me! Crawling like insects wanting my flesh! Help me! Are you merciless enough to leave me bound for the lil' beasts?! May God damn you all to Hades, tyrants! Tyrants! They want my flesh!"

"I'll ready the sedatives!" Dr. Seward said, flying into action along with asylum personnel. One scrambled to the cage with a set of keys, while another hammered against the bars nearby, commanding order. The latter himself was made to halt that action by a glare from Seward, who had arrived most speedily after having issued a syringe from a suitcase on the medical table. Gate slung open, Seward entered to administer the chemicals, hoping to subdue that wild man lest his behavior began riling others. Dosett spectated from near the asylum entrance as roars gradually lessened into murmurs. He leaned more heavily on his cane, fighting back that urge to belch contents from his stomach. Unfortunately his patience had been drained en route, and when Seward returned, shaking his head in apology, Dosett was already making motions for exploration. Having visited that place several times before, he knew his way, and suspected where his comrade was keeping the girl: in isolation, where especially curious cases were usually stored.

Sensing that impatience in the other man, Seward motioned toward a corridor entrance. "We contained her at the other end." He said as they walked into shadow. Their pace slowed as Seward explained, his voice dropping, glancing over his shoulder. "If substantial, her power abides by limits she herself doesn't yet comprehend. Possible that it's random, or adheres to an incomprehensible logic. I've made it my mission --- yours, also, if you're willing to assist --- to discover a precognitive structure."

Lamplight through the corridor and small window to the outside street offered little in the way of detail to Dosett's gaze. There was a hint of caution in his eyes, for he had never interacted with a seer, if this girl in fact was the real deal. He strode along with his comrade toward a form of the supernatural yet to be understood even in the slightest. He wondered if she knew his fate, and if fate itself was in any way avoidable if it meant doom. Would she tell Dosett how he would die one day? Would he have to ask, or was she cruel enough to throw it at him unprompted?

Ahead, sporadic flashes of lightning illuminated the inmate enough to reveal a head, its scalp covered in uneven stubble. She had scrunched herself into a corner with the sleeves of her jacket wrapped around her, giving her the appearance of a crumpled tent canvas. The approaching clap of men's boots on stone stirred her from slumber. After the doctors had stopped, she raised her head, squinting up at them against light that was irritating only to her.

"I apologize for disturbing your slumber." Seward said, as he inserted a key to unlock the gate. "But I bring you company, which interestingly enough, you have already met. Though he hasn't yet had the pleasure of your acquaintance."

Dosett followed Seward inside, sliding off his hat and giving a bow of greeting. "May I?" He walked over to sit on what passed for a bed that was melded into cushioned wall. Seward remained standing by the gate, acting as sentinel to warn them of eavesdroppers.

Mary sent him a nod before rubbing sleep from her eyes.

"Most pleased to meet you, at last." Dosett said. "And yes, I apologize for waking you. This place must be thoroughly exhausting, I realize. Would you prefer Dr. Seward to retrieve a glass of water?"

"No. Thanks."

"Of course. Then you must tell me about yourself. Your pasttimes, your favorite dishes, that sort of thing. I'm interested in learning it all."

She stretched her limbs out before her, sleeves dangling down and trailing away when she pulled them away from her torso. "That's a lot to reveal at once. Could you be more specific?"

"What is your ultimate dream?"

This answer was easy for her to articulate.

"I always wanted fanciful dresses. Always wanted to look nice. I'm so tired of being dressed in rags. But how can I purchase dresses or other whimsies when I haven't a pound to my name anymore?" Mary clenched her jaw, a corner of her lips curling downward as she looked off to the side, apparently embittered. "My hair is gone, too!" She said, attention abruptly on the men again. "You don't have a clue how horrible that is for a woman. I'm not vain. But I at least want hair."

There was silence as the two doctors glanced at one another. How were they to respond to that? Neither wanted to make empty promises that she would soon get her hands on dresses, or that her hair was to grow back faster than ever. That awkward quiet was broken by Dosett clearing his throat, resolving to shift conversation over to business.

"Miss. I'm tempted to inquire the matter of my future. I'm a curious man by nature, you see." Dosett smiled. Though he approached this matter pleasantly, an anxiety was showing through in the way he ran a hand through the scarce amount of hair on his head. "May I ask. What do you see of my future?"

Mary remained silent at first, much to the irritation of her questioner. "When I try to see someone's future, it works only some of the time." She said. "Sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes the vision is clear, like if I'm viewing you with my physical eyes right now. And I don't know why, but there are visions that are vague, too foggy to make much sense of. I can't make sense of your future. I'm sorry."

Evidently Seward's sedative injection wore off quickly, for in the asylum's main room another outburst erupted without warning. The patient cried for help, made accusations of personell being "tyrants", and claims that small things were crawling, threatening to eat him. In that instance, it sent other patients into a frenzy. The first man was the first fallen domino, sending others tumbling into boughts of madness.

"John." Dosett pulled himself to his feet, approaching his friend. "Bless your soul, man, your establishment is unfit for this category of examination!" He tapped his cane on the floor to emphasize unfit. "This is sensitive, and it cannot be wasted by traditional means of psychiatry. Listen to that racket out there. That screaming man is insane. This girl?" He pointed the top of the cane to Mary. "Perfectly sane."

Seward crossed his arms, squinting at Dosett. "What are you implying?"

"I am implying that my facility in Canterbury is ideal. There she will be treated with great care, in turn boosting her morale, in turn raising the probability that my team and I can isolate a precognitive pattern."

Dr. Seward's jaw dropped. For a moment he seemed at a loss, but suddenly retorted. "That's rash! Her family's residence is here in London, this is where they expect her to be. The amount of documents I would have to see to. . ."

"She's grown! She is a woman capable of deciding. You know her to be adequately stable to decide for herself. When and if her family arrives to check on her progress, you let them know that. And let them know that she is scheduled to return soon."

"What of standard escort? There shall only be you and your carriage driver."

"Mr. Franklin rested up before escorting me here. He should be in top working order for a return trip tonight. A standard escort is most unnecessary. I assure you, the girl will be quite safe with us."

"I would prefer my personal involvement. My experience with supernatural phenomena is extensive, Dr. Dosett. With all due respect, I feel my being present in all sessions with Ms. Brandon is crucial for success."

Mary sighed and pursed her lips. The madman's ranting continued on, assaulting the ears of even those at the far end of that corridor. The two doctors' bickering was nearly as excruciating to her ears. It continued on for some time, ending when the girl curled herself back into a ball, her expression screwed up in torment.

"Look at the girl, John! You believe she has any will to be here? She's been cooperative until now. Keeping a perfectly sane yet gifted mind in this hole is inhumane! We may as well be sentencing her to a penitentiary for nothing more than being incredibly unique!"

Seward heaved a sigh, reaching up to massage his forehead as he rotated to face Mary. "Have you any input, Ms. Brandon?"

"I despise it here. I want to leave. For home. For Canterbury. It makes little difference."

"Damn both of you. My desk is going to break from the amount of. . ." He sighed again. "Very well."

- - -

While Dosett held his stomach and mumbled curses under his breath, Mary shifted into comfort under her jacket and took to spectacting the landscape. Although there was next to nothing to do in her confinement, being out of that asylum cell was a bonus. Her nostrils flared to a scent of pine wafting in through slightly opened windows. On either side were silheouttes of jagged ash trees, their colors revealed at times by lightning from the storm that seemed to be following the company. Clouds rolled to smother out stars, casting the land in blackness as they rushed in pursuit of the carriage. Mary didn't know why this was, but her instinct told her that the answer would soon be unveiled. Whenever she attempted to glimpse into future events, all that she beheld was a substance the shade of a striking green. That substance held all answers to her questions, her instincts told her.

She looked over her shoulder through a window, beholding a glow on the horizon; they were leaving London far behind. Rattling onward, they were taken deep into rural area, crawling up slopes only to glide down the other sides. Most terrain covered by the path was flat and straight, meaning few detours had to be taken around natural objects. Bursts of dust rose behind whenever they reached looser ground, making her thankful that it hadn't yet rained. Their pace would be slowed to a crawl if they were required to travel on mud. As if to mock that musing, there was a clap of thunder accompanied by a wooshing that could be only one thing.

Rain suddenly splattered all windows, bounced off the metallic surfaces around them in a most deafening fashion. Mary screamed at an abrupt flash of light that was far too close. An explosion of thunder rattled everything and everyone for surrounding miles. Franklin yelled curses, using every last effort to steady his frantic horses as they threatened to race onto the countryside. He was too occupied to bother with the front seat cover, and within seconds was soaked to the bone.

"Franklin!" Dosett's voice rang out. He reached behind himself to hammer a fist against the window. "Franklin, pull over man, I need to vomit! Pull over!" Afterward he doubled over, clutching his stomach.

"I'm tryin' sir, I'm tryin'!"

It was then that Mary saw in her mind's eye precisely what was going to happen. She understood how that green substance held all answers, and the fact that none of them would reach Canterbury that night was the least of concerns. Curling into fetal position, she awaited for when her escape came; she planned to find out if fate was in any way subject to change.

"No! Keep going! Don't stop!"

Her pleading was cancelled by slammings of Dosett's fists, and orders for Franklin to stop. Groaning when at last the carriage came to a halt, Dosett slammed open the door and left into the rain. Mary swooped after him, taking advantage of the distractions of rain, wild horses, and sudden illness. She glided back in the direction of London, feet splashing mud onto her clothing. A man's scream slowed her, and another stopped her.

Slowly looking over her shoulder, she saw Dosett yards away from the carriage, on all fours in grass. Even from that distance it was apparent that his eyes were abnormally wide, vacant. His mouth had dropped open, stretched to its utmost.

A green mist began to pour from Dosett's every facial orifice. It gagged him as it slithered from his throat and came to meet with the streams of mist that flowed from his ears and nostrils. It even emerged from beneath of his eyelids, to swirl, to accumulate and gather on the ground before him. The mist rose higher and higher, gathering into a pillar that loomed over the stooped man. At last Dosett was free of that infestation.

The substance was shaping itself into something familiar, taking on new shades of color. Gradually, it was gone, in its place a man; a man with features, attire, and poise that spoke of someone belonging to a royal line. Rain began soaking his hair that trailed down past his shoulders. The man leaned over, taking Dosett by the throat and lifting him as if weightless. He squeezed until there was a crack that caused the spectating Mary to flinch.

Franklin, too occupied with attempting to subdue his horses, hadn't noticed. The stallions were rearing and tossing their heads in effort to get away from their master, who was only keeping them close to the figure that had materialized from mist. Pulling on their ropes was futile, and the disorder grew into violence as one of the horses bucked and smashed its front hooves into Franklin's skull. He collapsed into a heap. Those beasts of burden brutalized their master further as they galloped over him, dragging the swaying carriage along behind. They had escaped.

"Young woman," The stranger said as he allowed Dosett's limp form to fall. "Come to me."

Mary Alice Brandon felt, upon locking gazes with him, that she needed to obey.