Maria stared at the gap between her feet and the platform across her with some dismay, looking at the perilous drop below her, and only just beginning to understand that she wasn't going to be able to cross. It was just too far apart, the distance between her and the ground just too much for her to comprehend, or even want to comprehend. And no matter what she tried, unless she was Richter--with whip handy--or superhuman, she wasn't going to get to the other side.
The owl at her shoulder hooted softly, sensing her owner's troubled demeanor, but Maria shushed it, impatient and upset and angry. In the empty halls, no one was going to disturb her in her meditation on how to solve her dilemma, but then again, no one was going to help her out, either. Unless that...person was going to come by.
"And fat chance that'll be," she muttered, sitting down and hanging her legs off the edge of what would have been a floorless hallway. Her angry mutter echoed through the empty stone walls, repeating over and over, not in the least fading, and Maria flushed, embarrassed and feeling ridiculous at her unreasonable anger at this one man who she barely knew. And it was a ridiculous feeling; if anything, she should be angry at Richter, who had abandoned his wife--her sister--suddenly, and had not returned. The fool of a man, to enter Castlevania. Didn't he know that the odds were against him, no matter what? It didn't matter if the Belmont family called Richter the premier Belmont--first among vampire killers--it was the sheer fact that he survived that was incredible, not the fact that he had fought and killed Dracula. Yes, it was amazing that he did kill Dracula, and alone, but he was a fool to try to risk it again.
Even if Dracula wasn't supposed to appear so soon.
Making matters worse was the fact that no matter how much she try to reason herself now, she was still angry at that man who had entered the castle. Well, not angry, but mostly irritated that he had been succeeding admirably well within the castle, going farther within than even she was able to penetrate. That rankled, the fact that he understood the castle far more than she did--and she understood none of the castle, because it wasn't the castle she had been in years ago, when she was twelve and a useless chit of a girl.
And I'm still a useless chit of a girl, she thought, looking down into the abyss, swinging her legs sullenly, like a little spoiled girl. I wasn't helpful in any way possible when I was younger. I was just there because my sister was there. It was for her that Richter defeated Castlevania, not me. And now, when it's my chance to be able to do something, I'm stuck. Because I don't know how to get around this obstacle. Because I'm not strong enough to defeat Dracula--if he's alive.
Unless I would actually try my hand against the hippogryph.
And fat chance I'll win, with no weapons.
But sitting here did nothing, and she did not want to sit here, where the echoes of her angry words still came back to her ears. She got up, her owl fluttering uneasily at her shoulder, suddenly agitated. She calmed it down by stroking the feathered pinions, and giving one last glance at the abyss that yawned below her, she turned around and went back through the hallway.
Even through the castle had had changed since her time when she had been kidnapped, it was still the same in some startling, haunting ways. Paintings were still the same--the same lovely, dying paintings that represented some of the most exquisite work she had never seen, masterpieces that art collectors would sell their soul for, hidden in this castle forever because there was no where else they could possibly go. They were part of the castle, she decided--the paintings made up the character of what the castle was: old, dying, but eternal and a masterpiece to look on.
Other things stayed the same. The wings were still the same--she remembered the clock towers, the eastern wing, the chapel--here, she shuddered. No, I do not want to think about the chapel, she thought. I do not want to remember being locked inside the confession room for a day before my sister begged Dracula to release me. Pushing her troubled memories away, she concentrated on other things that seemed familiar.
The general design of the castle was still the same. Plush, crimson rugs. Masterful tapestries. Intricately carved chairs with sinners and saints twined together in some strange agony. Live flowers (where had they come from? Maria thought, but she didn't know) in crystal vases. Stained glass windows of saints in various forms of prayer and saintly benevolence. Statues of unicorns and dragons and other fantastic, unreal creatures. All in all, it was a beautiful, if gothic and depressing and horrendously lavish, castle. She wouldn't have minded living here. Running her hand across a cherry wood table--burnished to a dark, glowing shine--she briefly admired the beautiful carvings that had been inlaid with great precision. It didn't matter if the master of the house was a demon, soulless and lost to God; the man had exquisite taste in designing the castle. Even if the sun never shone in the castle, and even if the only light that burned were candles, the elegance of the castle still shone.
It was amazing--so amazing--that Dracula could have come up with the sheer beauty of the castle. But--this castle had been called Castlevania since anybody could remember, and far before that. Even the history books dating back to half a millenium ago called it Castlevania, and spoke of Dracula. Except he had not been called Dracula--he had been called Vlad Tepes, a civilized lord ruling over a peaceful Transylvania. It was strange to think of Dracula like that. Civilized he was--almost infuriatingly civilized, Maria remembered--but peaceful he was not.
She turned left at the corridor, walking down the musty, candle-lit halls, ignoring the ghosts and spirits that gibbered and drooled and shrieked in mindless agony, ignoring the horror that perpetrated the halls--of heads decapitated, of men being slashed into two, of ghostly hands reaching out to close her throat--and walked through them. Illusions. That's all they were--illusions that she could ignore because she was a creature of the earthly plane and because she wore a blessed cross. A superstitious, silly thing, the cross--but it worked against the insanity of monsters in the castle. The only times that the cross was useless was when dealing with Dracula's chosen lordlings, or Dracula himself. That was why she avoided the most beautiful rooms in the castle--they were all guarded by those personally chosen by Dracula himself. Imbued with his strength, they saw her cross as no impediment toward her destruction. She shuddered, remembering Dracula's mocking laughter when he had taken her sister's cross and melted it down to the precious, shapeless gold it once was, before letting it spill to the floor.
Reaching the end of the hallway, she paused at the door, her hand touching the massive handle on the equally as massive door, made of solid oak. She was fairly sure that the hippogryph was behind the room--she had heard the muted roars of its impotent fury, locked in a room it could not get out. It was the only way that she could get around the abyss….but she didn't have much of a chance if she did decide to fight the hippogryph--she had no weapons, and very little in the way of magic. Neither did she have Richter's skill with relics, and was understandably reluctant to try using them, not having the same fierce dedication and trust in God the way Richter did.
But…she had no choice. It was either the hippogryph, or jump an abyss that could not be jumped. Two evils, neither of them noticeably lesser than the other. But neither did she want to leave--for fear that if she couldn't get to Richter in time, Dracula would come again; fear froze her throat, and she shivered uncontrollably for a moment. She didn't want--him to come again. No--if he was free--if he was free--
I--I don't want--
She hesitated for one moment, and then jerked the door open.
A sorry sight greeted her eyes instantly; a dead hippogryph, slashed into pieces, blood trickling out of the body in a slow, thick stream. To her ears, unused to silence, the oppressive nothingness pushed against her eardrums, until she could hear the pounding of her heart, fast, lacking any sort of steady beat. Then--she heard the drip of blood, from a sword that hung above the floor, the drip coming from the blood sliding down from the tip of the blade to plop onto the floor with an ugly sound.
She followed the length of the bloody blade, up to the hilt, to the gloved hand; up on the arm, to the broad shoulders, across the silver chain--she noticed, oddly enough, a silver cross hanging, looped by a thread into the chains haphazardly--to the pulse that beat rapidly in the neck, half-hidden by a neatly tied bow--and up to the pale, exquisitely chiseled face. "You," she said, dumbly, not knowing she spoke. It was the same man she had seen in the clock tower--the same man who had reached up toward the heavens in a mockery of prayer. "You."
The man with the impossibly pale face, with the tumbling hair, smiled, mirthlessly, without a trace of humor on his tired features. "So, I meet you again," he said mockingly, with a slight half-bow. "The girl in the castle. I am…surprised." His face was smooth, but there was a penetrating look to his face, as if trying to divulge her secrets. Who are you? he asked. Why are you in this castle? And how have you survived? All these questions, unspoken, still shouted to her across the yards that they stood apart, he in his blood-stained clothing, and her, in her spotless hunter outfit.
She made an effort to relax her face--her sister had always said she was good at acting, and she had a secret feeling that acting was what she needed here, or she would fly apart with rage and frustration and tired weariness. Assuming a mask of surprised indifference, she exclaimed, "Why--I see you again," she drawled. "I hadn't expected you…to survive this long." The dark eyes flashed, but with what emotion, she didn't know.
He looked around, and started walking toward a tapestry. With a cool indifference that shocked Maria in its lack of artistic appreciation, he wiped his blade free of the blood before sheathing it into the velvet lined sheath. He did not look at her as he spoke. "I had thought to ask you that question," he said pleasantly, with a faint undertone of sarcasm, or dry sardonic humor. "After all, I am quite used to this castle and its…peculiarities."
A nice way to put it, Maria supposed, but curiosity had overcome her pretended coolness. "You have--how? The last time I was here, the castle was much different than from what I remember as a child," she queried. "'Tis very strange, I would think!"
He looked at her, surprised. "Oh--you have been in Castlevania before?"
Maria nodded. "When I was a child--when--he kidnapped me and my sister." No need to tell who he was; apparently the stranger knew perfectly well. But there was a sharp interest in his eyes now.
"I wonder why Dracula would want to kidnap you," he mused. "Was your sister beautiful?" He seemed thoughtful, his pondering slow and measured, but as always, there was some other tone to his voice, no matter what he said--that dry, sardonic sort of manner that made Maria feel very much like a small child with no say in what she was or was not allowed to say.
"Yes, she was," she replied, nettled at his provoking question. "She was very beautiful."
He looked at her, his curiosity piqued, and she saw that, interest sparking in his eye. "What did she look like?" he asked, looking intent.
Just like a man, she thought suddenly, scornful of his interest. They only look at beauty…never at what's inside. Richter was the same fool, too. My sister is beautiful, but she has not one whit of anything interesting to say. She and Richter are a pair of lovesick fools, and good riddance of each other. Thank god I didn't take after my sister's imbecility. At least I hope. "She has light-colored hair," Maria said shortly. "And green eyes. Like mine." She paused. "Some people say that we look alike," she added suddenly, her lips twisting. If anything, I least want to look like my sister. What a nitwit!
She broke out of her thoughts and saw him intently staring at her, and she flushed hotly at his scrutiny. Not because she saw interest--and there was very little, she knew, because she really was nothing compared to her sister--but because of the way he seemed to be digging past her barriers, and exposing things that she didn't want him to see. Even now, there was a half-smile on lips, as if he knew a secret that had once belonged to hers alone. I know, he seemed to say. I know that you don't like your sister. And I know that even though you don't like her, you are jealous of something. If not her beauty…then something else.
"Well," he finally said, stopping his intense scrutiny, to her intense relief. "If you say that she looks like you…" He trailed off, looking thoughtful, and folded his arms across his chest, one hand tapping his chin thoughtfully. In that one moment Maria was reminded strongly, intensely, almost overpoweringly of Dracula. Her hands began to shake.
He noticed her suddenly troubled countenance, and unfolded his arms, spanning the distance between them to reach out and steady her shaking fingers. "Is something wrong?" he asked courteously. Almost in the exact same tone as he.
She jerked out of his gloved grasp as if burned. "Let go of me!" she snapped. "I--I'm fine, really. It's just that…you reminded me of someone." She took a deep breath. "That's all. Nothing more. I'm fine."
He studied her face, probably knowing she was lying, but asking no further. "Well," he said again, stepping back a step or two, widening the distance between them, "I still don't understand why, still. Are you sure it was in Dracula's interest?"
She stared at him, almost disbelieving. "Who else do you think would kidnap us?" she said sharply. "Dracula's known for his…appetites."
To her intense surprise, the stranger began to laugh, silently, doubled over. He backed up further away from her, to lean against the wall, enormously amused at some joke that she had inadvertently caused. "Now that is rich," he gasped, raking a hand in his hair. "If anything--" He continued to laugh.
"What?" Maria snapped, angry. "What's the joke? I certainly don't see any!"
He stopped laughing, straightening up. Leaning against the wall, one arm behind his head--almost pillowing it--he said, quite seriously, "Dracula isn't interested in women." His mouth quirked into a sardonic smile. "He has appetites, yes. For blood--yes. For suffering--yes. For women--only that he used to." His smile vanished suddenly. "That's all. He never kidnapped your sister for what you are thinking--she may be beautiful, but if what you say is true about what your sister looks like--then he isn't one whit interested. If she was weak, if she was a whimpering fool, if she blubbered--then she certainly is not Dracula's love interest."
And he described my sister so perfectly, she thought, a little amazed at his sharp perception. Down to the blubbering fool part. I'm impressed--no, I'm more than impressed. "Perhaps he kidnapped my sister because he knew that Richter and Annette were close," she said thoughtfully. Another puzzling thought occurred to her. "Then why did he kidnap me?" she asked.
He shrugged; he had the shoulders for that studied indifference, elegant and conveying a range of subtleties that she could not even begin to fathom. "Like I said, I don't understand. Perhaps boredom. Perhaps something else. I don't know how his mind works." He shrugged again, indifferent. His eyes focused on her, suddenly sharp in their intense interest. "Now, what I want to know is why you are here again," he remarked. "After all--you were here once, and I'm told that once is usually enough. Especially when it comes to Castlevania. Does something here fascinate you so?" He was amused again. "Dracula, perhaps?"
She stiffened at the underlying insinuation in his tone. "No," she said coldly. "But I'm here to find my brother-in-law. Richter." She looked at him expectantly, seeing if he would recognize it, but from the look of blank incomprehension on his face, she added, "Richter Belmont--he defeated Dracula four years ago."
His face went devoid of expression. "Belmont?" he asked in a carefully neutral tone. "As in Trevor Belmont?" he asked.
"Why, yes," she said, confused. "Trevor Belmont was his distant ancestor, I'm told, one of the first vampire killers. Why?"
"And you are a Belmont by marriage," he said.
She was angry. "Only through my sister's," she retorted. "Otherwise, I'm not a Belmont at all!" She flushed again at the sudden probing look in his eyes, as if she was being searched again.
He laughed. "No need to get so vehement, my dear girl," he remarked, in a soft tone of voice, deceptively gentle. "If you are here to find this Richter Belmont again--I see the Belmonts have been busy these last years--then I suggest you go the other direction. The throne room is upstairs, not down." She paled at his condescending tone in his voice, but forgot it when he suddenly said, "How rude of me. I forgot my manners. Might I ask your name?" he said, very charmingly, very prettily in his beautiful voice.
Oh, very smooth, she thought. One would think that he came straight out of a fairy tale, with that princely act. "Maria," she said. "Maria Renard."
"Then--Maria," he said, with interest and a smile on his face, "why are you here, searching for your brother-in-law, instead of your sister, of whom I presume that he is married to?"
She did not trust him--not yet. "Why should I tell you?" she countered. "And while we're at it, who are you, anyway?"
He smiled, but, as when he had first met her, there was very little trace of humor in it, sardonic or otherwise. "Do you really want to know?" he asked, his eyebrow raising. His pale face was suffused with color, in his cheeks--pale to begin with, the red showed on his face quite easily.
"Of course I do," she said, in the same easy tone he had used on her, her voice biting. "After all, it is quite rude of me to forget my manners, too."
He observed her for a moment, his dark eyes watchful, before he said, "Then--my assumed name, I'll tell." When she stiffened, he added, "Oh, but I think you know me best that way. So, I am Alucard."
If he was expecting her to be shocked, she was not. "I thought so," was the blunt reply.
His eyebrows rose. "Oh, really?" He leaned forward, his arms folding again, his right hand on his chin, examining her unsurprised face with minute interest. "Do I really resemble my father?" His voice was hard.
It was then that she knew she had hit on his weak spot. His father, she thought, with some savage satisfaction. He hates his father. So--that is our link. We hate our relatives. How boorishly interesting. How droll. How pathetic, we are. And I shall drive that into him. "You do," she said, without inflection. "It is your mannerisms. Your face--a little bit. Your aptitude for killing--definitely. Your tasteless clothing--of certain."
If he was insulted, he did not show it. "So, you do not like our clothing tastes?" he replied, after a moment. "I must admit, we do dress alike, upon reflection."
"Woefully out-of-date."
"Inadequate, you mean?"
"That is irrelevant."
"Then, what are you saying?"
"What I mean," Maria said finally, with a smile on her face, pushing a heavy lock of hair behind her ears, "is that they are without fashion. Not fashionable, one would say. Tasteless, as I've said before. Gaudy. Overbearing. Overpoweringly lavish." She paused. "Are these adjectives enough?"
"I see you've described the situation quite perfectly," Alucard replied, without a hint of trouble to ruffle his tranquil nature. He shrugged. "So, I am out of date by a century or two. It doesn't really matter; I am apathetic to the whims of fancy and time, now. The Renaissance is long gone in my past--quite a time of fashion, I recall."
They were silent for a long while, lost in their own personal thoughts. She was thinking about what Alucard had said earlier, about going up instead of down to find Richter, and was thinking about a way to phrase her request--a request, not a beg for mercy, but a request--for directions when she had one of several realizations.
He's observing me, was her first realization, and she looked up, quickly, to see the dark eyes traveling over her figure meditatively. Not in the way the rakes did in the town she lived--but very thoughtful. He was measuring something, she realized. But…measuring what? What was he judging her by? What standards did he keep? She didn't know, and not knowing galled her as much as the fact that he was judging her. But she kept her mouth shut, because if she said anything she was quite afraid--and justly so--that he would give her another stinging, all too perceptive remark.
The second observation is that upon closer regard, she had been truly an idiot about not realizing who he was earlier. He was the very image of his father--younger, more impossibly beautiful, but still highly similar. The brooding manner, the sarcastic tone, the callous disregard for other people's feelings--it was all there. The only difference was that Alucard was half-human.
And the third realization was precisely that--Alucard was half-human, the son of Dracula. All the tales had made an especial mention of that, but who the mother was still yet escaped the historians' probing search.
To the sum of these confusing realizations, Maria suddenly stammered, confused and needing time to think, "Then--Alucard--which way does this room lead to?"
He looked at her, startled out of his thoughts. "Downstairs," he said, after a brief moment. "Through the Royal Chapel--and then, downstairs to the dancing hallways. Why?"
She shuddered at the mention of the royal chapel-- the memory of the confession room haunted her still--and she said, thickly, "Don't speak of the chapel--please, don't."
He regarded her with renewed interest. "Are you not a Christian?" he remarked, deceptively neutral, almost curious. "I would think so--for you are in Castlevania, and alive--and that is hard, a very hard feat if you do not believe in God." He paused, and then added, gleaned from his shrewd observation of her, "And you wear a cross."
She shuddered again, and tried to regain the composure she had lost. "Just--leave the matter alone. It is personal. I am quite the indifferent Christian, thank you. It is my witless sister and Richter who devoutly believe." She said it with some contempt in her voice.
He looked faintly surprised. "I…see."
No, I don't think you see, Maria wanted to say. For you do not know the extent about how I feel about my extended…'family.' You do not understand how I see it as a responsibility. It is not my fault that my idiotic brother-in-law should enter Castlevania again, and that my sister Annett grieved and wept for months before I could no longer stand her pathetic sobbing. Is it my fault that I am no longer the devout, mindless Christian I once was? Dracula changed everything. As I think you will. "The cross was a gift," Maria said, suddenly not caring about what he saw or not saw, indifferent to the entire matter. "A priceless gift, if you must know, from your father."
He blinked, taken by surprise. "My father? Indeed--is that true?"
"Quite."
He was silent and quite still, contemplating something that she did not wish to know. And then, quite suddenly, without warning, he changed subject. "Then--Maria," he asked, "why are you going this way, if you are looking for Richter?"
"I can't cross one of the abyss jumps," she said, looking at him. "'Tis too far for me to jump." She didn't know what was worse--feeling as ridiculous as she must be, or having him think she was being ridiculous for starting this fool's quest. "I don't suppose you could help me find a way around it, could you?"
"Perhaps," he answered. "But only if you trust me."
"I'll promise to distrust you immediately after we get across it," she said, with no hint of irony behind her voice.
He smiled, appreciating her dry humor, and then walked past her, brushing against her shoulder lightly. "Then, I suppose you should follow me, of course," he said dryly. "We shall see about this uncrossable jump that you so described."
She followed him out, only just beginning to notice the blood on his cloak was gone, as if burned away into nothing.
"Here it is, the path that as yet blocks my way," she said, with irony, gesturing to the abyss that yawned beneath them both should they misstep in any way. "My obstacle, my perilous crossing, if you will." Her tone was challenging, as if daring him to do something about the situation.
"Such a way with words," he murmured, but otherwise ignored her, measuring the distance with his eyes. His arms were crossed again, his finger tapping his chin thoughtfully. Deliberating for a long while, he suddenly straightened up and turned to Maria. "Well, I think I have an answer," he said.
She looked at him expectantly. "Well?" she asked.
He laughed, at her skeptical look on her face. "I can get you across," he said, with that satisfied smile on his face that made her want to slap it. He waited expectantly. "Well?"
Maria stiffened. "If you are expecting me to beg you to help me, I won't," she said icily. "I asked you for help, but I will not beg."
"That's good," came the surprising, unruffled answer. "I was hoping you had some spirit. Because what I recommend that we do will probably frighten you…to say the least."
"And how exactly are we going to cross that will frighten me so?" Maria demanded.
He leaned close against her face and gave her a smile. "Shapeshift, of course," he replied.
"You? As what? A bat? Are you going to fly me over?" she said, unbelieving. "If you expect me to believe you have the strength to do that, then you are woefully mistaken."
"I am not," he said, straightening up and stepping back a few paces, "going to shapeshift into a bat. It is a form that is far less useful than what peasants like to think it is." His voice was scornful. "Now, Maria, please come over here and hold my shoulders. Yes, you heard me. My shoulders. And do not let go, do you understand me? Unless you wish to die within these walls."
Maria, startled into complacency, hesitantly stepped behind Alucard and held his shoulders, gingerly, in her gloved hands, and was almost frightened when he rounded on her angrily.
"Did you hear me before? I am going to shapeshift, and cross the gap. It will not help you any, Maria, if you do not hold me tightly enough so you will not fall! I will not claim responsibility for your foolishness if you should die in the crossing!"
"Is it my fault, then," Maria snapped back, "that I cannot trust you completely?"
He stared at her for a moment, his temper only just beginning to calm down. "Maria," he said slowly, as if trying to explain to a little girl, "who exactly was it who asked for my help? Not me, young miss. You did. And if you do not trust me--then why did you ask in the first place?"
She hated him in that moment, because he had her right there. "Fine, then," she said, a little sullenly. Tiptoeing, she hooked her arms around his neck, tight enough so that if she should fall, it would be through Alucard's irresponsibility, and not hers.
"When I said to hold tight," Alucard murmured, bending a bit to eye the gap, "I did not say for you to strangle me." She stiffened, but he felt it. "I would apologize," he said dryly, "but I fear I have little breath to do so." He said no more, but she would not have been paying attention, for he had changed.
It was as if he was melting beneath her grasp--not melting, but not quite holding onto a tangible, solid substance. She would have gasped in surprise--but, remembering Alucard's mocking voice, she clamped her lips shut. She wouldn't have been able to suppress it anyway, because in that moment she was clinging onto a huge wolf. And without warning, he bounded for the gap, leaping almost effortlessly across it--she saw the floor from the dizzying height where they were at.
It was amazing. Unfair, that he could navigate this particular jump when even her skills could not. Nerve-racking, to see the abyss disappear before her eyes, crossed in one, impossible jump. And in some ways…it made her jealous. Inexpressibly jealous, that he had the abilities to do that, and that they were wasted on a man who was blind to the fact that he could use them to help. To help others.
To him, they were a curse. To her, they were a blessing, if in disguise.
In moments, they were on the other side. Releasing the wolf--Alucard, her disbelieving mind corrected coldly--she moved back, to lean against the wall of the passageway, as she watched with fascination at his shapeshift back to human. She had been correct the first time--his features seemed to melt, blurring into something unrecognizable, man and wolf both--until she was facing the cool, disdainful face of Alucard again. He glanced at her, and like her, moved to the side of the passageway to lean on. His face drawn, he closed his eyes as if to rest.
Of course, she thought suddenly. He is only half-vampire. He cannot do what his father can. But…he can do more than what I can. She could bear the thought no more. Standing up abruptly, she brushed the dust off her clothing, waiting for her owl to return from its panicked flight. Alucard's eyes opened suddenly, fixing themselves on her. "And where might you be going?" he asked, with no hint of tiredness in his voice. In fact, if she hadn't seen his slumped form, or seen the trickle of blood that ran along the edges of his mouth, she would have thought him to be perfectly fine.
"I have no more use for you," she said, and turned away, to lift an arm for her owl to perch on. It hooted at her softly. Turning back, she schooled her face into control; it would do no good for her to have him see her shaky. Angry. Jealous. "Thank you, Alucard, for getting me across." She inclined her head to his expressionless face. "Then, good-bye." She turned away from him and continued down the passageway, lost into the darkness, until she could see, nor feel his gaze on her anymore.
Author's note: It's just a conversation between Maria and Alucard, that's all. No, Maria does not like Dracula. Neither does she, at this moment, like Alucard very much, either. ^^ Alucard finds Maria interesting here, that's all--a little fascinated by the fact that she would be willing to brave Castlevania alone. Oh yes, as I've not really paid too much attention in Dracula X, I could have gotten a couple things wrong with Richter/Annette/Maria storyline. I despised Annette, by the way. ^^ Anyway, comments are welcome--email me if you want to, and if you're any interested, some of my other stories are found here.
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