Fan Fiction ❯ A Deadly Gambit ❯ Chapter 3

Trish staggered back out of the room with a startled yelp, and Dante snarled as the sound took on a pained note, already opening fire on the ghost. He knew he should have trusted his instincts. But harmless ghosts were just that, and they had it bad enough without somebody bothering the poor buggers. He hadn't seen a flintlock outside of a museum, and it fit the attire so well, he wasn't sure if it was part of the ghost or not, until the damned thing shot Trish.

The ghost shrieked as bullets hit their mark, and vanished, the very real gun clattering noisily to the floor. As soon as it was gone, Dante holstered his guns and raced out to the foyer, where Trish was on one knee, clutching her bloodied left shoulder and swearing.

"Trish, speak to me," Dante snapped, worry sharpening his tone as he knelt by her, making her straighten up a bit as he pulled her hand from the wound, checking it over.

"Next time..." Trish gritted out between clenched teeth, "we see a ghost... we shoot first... and then ask questions."

"Sounds like a plan to me," he replied. Trish tilted her head back, hissing quietly in pain, and he pulled the jacket aside. It hadn't hit the leather, and if the thing really had been a flintlock, and not enchanted at that, the bitch of it was, her jacket probably would have served to keep it from striking her altogether.

As he pulled up her white tee shirt, he noticed that the words were a bit obscured from the blood, but already the flow was starting to slow down. He pulled off his glove and ran his finger over the wound, gauging it. He could feel her heart pounding in her chest, just below the wound. From the color and quantity of the blood, it had nicked an artery, but was beginning to heal.

"Thank God you're a demon," he said quietly, quite aware that would likely have been a fatal shot if she had been otherwise. "And yes, I do see the irony."

Trish chuckled softly, a faint, pained, hissing sound, and then bit her bottom lip as he carefully began to withdraw the slug.

"You okay?"

"Stings like a bitch."

"I'm almost done." He held the metal slug up, inspecting it a moment before rubbing it down his shirt to get Trish's blood off. A closer look confirmed what he hoped was the case. "It seems like a normal bullet. I don't think you'll even feel it in five minutes."

"Five minutes can't pass too quickly." Her voice sounded less strained though, and her breathing was easier.

Dante continued to study the wound, watching it until he started visibly seeing signs of healing, then pulled her shirt back down. He looked at her for a moment, then pulled her into a tight hug, one arm around her, hand going behind her head, holding her protectively. She didn't protest, hugging him back and burying her face against his neck, taking a few moments to relax while the wound continued to mend.

"This isn't a normal haunt," he said quietly against her hair, "but they don't seem experienced with us, either." Trish nodded slightly in lieu of any verbal reply, and didn't appear to be about to let go anytime soon. That was just fine with Dante. Screw the house. The ghosts have been dead for years, and they weren't going anywhere. They could wait. Trish was more important. She was his family now, and the only one still alive.

He opened his eyes, moving his head a bit to look around the foyer, and froze. Across the foyer, at the mouth of another hallway, was the ghostly form of a young boy, looking for all the world just like Virgil, the last time Dante ever saw his brother as a mortal.

Trish tensed as well, looking up and around, looking back over her shoulder to where Virgil stood. The ghost hovered into the hall out of sight, and she looked back to him. "What was that?"

In the back of his mind, the thought passed by that it was a bit odd of Trish to ask what, and not whom. But it didn't really seem important enough to worry about as he got to his feet, pulling Ebony and Ivory from their holsters. "Virgil."

Trish's expression was blank. "Huh? How do you know?" She stood, wincing a little as she rotated her shoulder, testing out the injury.

Dante shot her a look. "Because it looked like him. My kid brother." His gaze went back to the doorway, scowling. "But it's not him."

"Uh, you mean that glowing blob?"

He blinked, looking to Trish. "You saw a blob?" She nodded. He hesitated, not liking this. No, definitely not liking this. "It looked like my brother." He set his jaw. "I can't trust my own eyes, then."

"Um, maybe it didn't look like anything but a blob to me because there's nobody for it to look like to me?" Trish suggested.

"Hell if I know. This place has more to it than a simple haunt."

"Yeah." Trish walked over, standing just a little bit between him and the doorway. "And here I thought this would just be a simple kick-some-ass-and-then-get-laid deal."

He shot her a smirk, more determined than ever to get to the bottom of this place, either literally or figuratively. "Nothing's gonna change that, babe."

"Well, aside from the 'simple' aspect." Trish shot him a faint grin.

"Point."

"Which is what I call," Trish replied, drawing Sparda.

Dante wasn't about to let her put herself in harm's way again after the other incident. Oh, he knew good and well she often called it for being on point first to take any other hits meant for him. As much as he hated it, he knew Trish was fully capable of handling herself, and as competent as he. After all, Dante himself had trained her in the finer points of the business. It wasn't a usual occurrence for her to get injured, and in genuinely critical moments, unless she had a valid argument in her favor for taking point, he insisted on being in the lead.

"Not this time, babe." He brushed past her, moving to the doorway. Seeing Virgil again, though, even though he knew it wasn't Virgil... Maybe it wouldn't hit as hard as it did if it weren't for the fact he had to bring down Nelo Angelo -- Virgil -- after somehow, Mundus claimed him for his own army.

"Seeing him again?" Trish asked softly.

"Yes," he growled, raising the guns. Then heard Virgil's voice, soft and childish, just like a boy's.

"Dante?"

He trembled, his fingers tightening on the triggers, but not quite enough to fire. "Get back, spirit!"

"Did it just do something?" Trish asked. "I saw it pulse."

"It said my name," Dante admitted.

"Want me to take it down?" Trish asked, studying Virgil, or whatever the hell it was she was seeing. "It's a lot smaller than what I'd think a person's form would be."

Lightning crackled over the chambers and down the barrels. Dante stared at the ghostly form of Virgil, gritting his teeth. "Get it," he told Trish.

Trish moved forward carefully, holding Sparda ready, her eyes locked on Virgil. Then she moved with superhuman speed, slicing through the air, slicing through the ghost, but it didn't dissipate. She swore and kicked the wall, pushing away from it. He didn't know how Trish missed, but the ghost shrieked, a horrible, high-pitched sound, and zipped away.

That didn't sound a thing like his brother. "You aren't Virgil!" he snarled, giving chase. "Get back here!" The ghost faded into the floor, and he fired off a few rounds, but missed as it disappeared, and only succeeded in turning the hardwood into Swiss cheese.

"How did you miss?" he demanded, turning to Trish. He wasn't accusing her, but, dammit! He saw her slice right through the ghost.

"It's only about the size of my fist," Trish replied, "maybe even smaller. It had a pulsing corona."

"Is it gone?" he asked, looking around.

Trish nodded, and pointed to where he had nailed the floor. "Went down through there."

"Just a spirit," he growled. "Damned dirty trickster." He felt her hand on his arm, rubbing it lightly as she looked up at him.

"Where to now?" she asked softly.

"Upstairs or down? That thing went through the floor." Dante scowled and stepped back, looking around. "And just where's that damned dog?!"

Almost as if it had been waiting for him to ask, there was a sudden, sharp yap from upstairs. They both glanced to the staircase.

"Well, that answers that," Trish said wryly.

"Have I mentioned how much I'm not liking the timing of that mutt's appearance?" Dante said, moving to the stairs.

"You have now." She followed him and ducked in front at the last minute.

He almost pulled her back, but she stayed to the side, giving him a clear shot. She could block most things with Sparda, giving them cover, while he opened fire. For once, he didn't feel inclined to admire the view as she climbed up ahead of him. This was turning out to be quite an unpleasant little haunt.

They reached the top of the staircase, which was closed by two windowless doors, side by side in a French door style. Trish looked it over, paying attention to the hinges, and then braced herself against the wall. Dante raised Ebony and Ivory, watching intently and waiting. Trish delivered a solid kick to the door just below the handles, sending them flying open with a bang.

A sudden, violent, and extremely frigid rush of air caught them off-guard, and Dante moved to brace Trish with his shoulder to keep her from staggering backward on the stairs. They both moved into a crouch, squinting against the freezing, powerful wind, inching closer. Traveling on the wind was a pained wail so keen and sharp, it could only belong to the undead.

Dante kept his pistols aimed down the hall, which was bathed in an unearthly blue aura all the way throughout. The doors were still standing open, both to the hallway, and the room doors farther down, as if the wind paid them no mind. He could make out some of the windows, all in different states of wear. Some were open, some were closed, and few appeared intact while others were shattered. Even if the wind ignored the doors, it was whipping curtains around, billowing them violently.

But everything else seemed completely normal compared to the ghosts themselves. They were moving about in no particular direction or pattern, and there was absolutely no relation to any of them. He guessed there were perhaps thirty in the narrow hall, maybe forty but no more than that. It was the most concentrated spiritual infestation he could ever recall seeing. Even stranger than that was that there were obvious and distinct differences in age, gender, ethnicity, overall appearance, approximate era of origin, and so forth. He sorely doubted any of them were native to the lodge.

He glanced out of the corner of his eye at his wife as he slowly pushed himself upright. Trish stared at the ghosts, an utterly dumbfounded expression on her face.

Yeah, I know the feeling, babe. Dante shook his head. "This doesn't make sense!" he shouted over the wails and the roar of rushing wind. "This lodge's been quiet for hell knows how long, and all'a the sudden it becomes Grand Central Station of the Spook world?!"

He froze as all the ghosts suddenly stopped milling about, and slowly turned to face them.

Trish was silent for a moment, then said the only thing that was coming to Dante's mind as well. "I think he hears you, Ray."

"And these ain't Slimer," he retorted. "Send 'em back to the grave!" He opened fire, shooting toward the rear of the crowd as the ghosts shrieked, rushing at them. Trish moved into the hall in front of him, staying to one side as she swung Sparda, cutting through several of the closer ones.

The ghosts didn't retreat, and the two inched farther down the hall, with Trish dissipating the ones closest to them, and Dante laying down cover fire toward the rear. They just kept coming, not showing the least a bit of a survival instinct whatsoever, and Dante didn't care what anybody said; most undead did have at least some sense of survival. He was liking the situation less and less when he started to notice their faces. Not a one of them was aggressive. They were incredibly sorrowful, and made no move to evade either his guns or Sparda.

"You get the feelin' they don't wanna be here?" he shouted to Trish.

"I get the feeling none of 'em are even local!" she shouted back. "What the hell do know about the guy who hired us anyway? Should I step out on a limb here and say 'not enough, apparently'?"

"He knew the password!" Dante replied. "He ain't a demon, that much is for sure!"

"Hell, I can't pass up the chance for this quote, it fits what I wanna say too well," Trish said, and Dante raised an eyebrow, aiming at a ghost. "Listen, you smell something?"

He smirked. "Only the reek of undead! Which is still better than the damn kitchen!"

"Then tell me what a trap's supposed to smell like!"

He didn't like where this was going, but he couldn't deny Trish had a point. They finished off the last few ghosts, and the wind came to a stop. "Usually, it stinks," he admitted.

Trish moved to a doorway, looking inside, checking for more ghosts. The wind was still, but the eerie blue aura remained. He watched her move about, noting that it almost left a faint vapor trail in her wake. Reaching behind him, he pulled out Alastor again, noting with a slight twinge of disappointment that the blade was still calm. At least if it were a demon, they'd know what they were coming up against.

"Ever seen anything like this before?" Trish asked, waving her hand through the blue aura.

"No, but then, I've never walked into a room and stepped into a Golden Era movie either. This funhouse is just full of surprises," he replied, his tone a bit sarcastic.

"Point." Trish moved over to a window, looking out, and Dante walked a few feet away into the hall, giving the other rooms a quick visual once-over.