Chapter Text
Two weeks later, the Devil May Cry agency was its usual chaotic self. The air was thick with dust and the scent of expensive whiskey. Dante, as always, was sprawled in his chair, boots propped up on a desk cluttered with papers. In one hand he held a nearly empty glass of Jack Daniels, in the other - a glossy magazine featuring a girl with an improbably large bust on the cover. He was flipping through the pages without really seeing them. His thoughts were heavy and empty, his usual state of being.
The silence was shattered by the familiar creak of the front door. Framed in the doorway, in his usual rumpled suit and hat, stood Morrison. He cleared his throat politely, his critical gaze sweeping over the surrounding mess. “Still not your style to tidy up, I see,” he stated, removing his hat and shaking off the raindrops.
Dante didn’t even look up from his magazine, only a lazy smirk touched his lips. “Morrison. Whiskey’s on the shelf if you wanna join my pity party. You’ll have to find a glass yourself though.”
“I appreciate such offer, but I’m here because of business,” Morrison replied, moving further into the room towards the only free chair. He sat down, as he placed his briefcase on his knee and pulled out an envelope. “Got a job for you. A serious one. And more importantly, a well-paying one.”
Dante finally looked up from his reading and set his glass down on the desk with a dull thud. “If it’s another vampire, don’t count on me. I’m bored of them.”
“No, this time it’s a bit more... mundane. And elusive,” Morrison said, pulling a few photographs from the envelope and handing them over. The pictures showed a grim-looking mansion that had seen better days. The windows were boarded up, and the walls were covered by ivy. “The new owner is a very wealthy and influential businessman. Bought this old relic at an auction. Wants to restore it, turn it into a luxury hotel.”
“Congrats. What’s that got to do with me?” Dante took a photo, studying the sinister architecture.
“The problem is, the work crews refuse to set foot inside. They say the place is... troubled.” Morrison paused for effect. “Footsteps in empty rooms, screams, flying dishes. Guys are spooked. The work has stalled. Our client needs someone to handle this... problem. So the construction can be done.”
Dante rolled his eyes and tossed the photo back onto the table. “Are you serious? Ghosts? I’m a demon hunter, Morrison. I cut and shoot things that have flesh, blood, and bad intentions. I don’t run around attics with a Ouija board.” He picked up his glass again and took a large swig. “Find some two-bit psychic. They’re a dime a dozen on TV.”
Morrison listened patiently, his hands were on the briefcase. “I understand. Firstly, the client is paying. Extremely well. A number with four zeroes has a way of making people do things, even hunting ghosts.” He glanced at the empty bottles littering the room. “And secondly, with your bills for electricity and pizza. Are you sure you can refuse such generous offer?”
Dante looked at the remained whiskey in his glass. Four zeroes. That was enough for a couple months of drinking. He let out a heavy sigh, feeling his principles melting under the crushing weight of his bills. “Alright, damn it,” he grumbled, downing the last shot of his whiskey. “Where’s this haunted hellhole?”
The engine of Morrison’s old but well-kept black sedan was already purring by the curb outside Devil May Cry. Dante slumped into the back seat, as he reluctantly abandoned his sanctuary. The car pulled onto a deserted country road, carrying them away from the noise and lights of Red Grave City toward the dark, lonely hills. And here the old mansion steeped in sorrow, was waiting for them.
He was a man in his sixties, dressed in an expensive suit. His gray hair was neatly combed back, and his wrinkled face was lit by a tired but sincere smile. He took a step forward before the hunter and his companion had even fully got out of the car. “Gentlemen, I’m very glad to see you,” his voice was low, calm and friendly. He shook Morrison’s hand and then looked at Dante, who was slowly getting out of the black sedan, stretching with a huge laziness. “And this, I suppose is the specialist?” the client asked, without a trace of skepticism in his tone.
“That’s the one,” Dante muttered in response, his eyes scanning the mansion casting an appraising glance around the mansion, one that was accustomed to such places. “A specialist in things you can shoot or chop up. Ghosts and I... we don’t really get along.”
The man gave a soft chuckle. “Straight to the point. I like that. But believe me, I’m a pragmatic man. I don’t believe in fairy tales. However, I believe what I see, or more precisely, what my workers see. They aren’t superstitious old women, they’re tough guys who aren’t afraid of heights or dirt. But they are afraid to go in there.” He nodded toward the building. “I’m not asking you to exorcise any ghosts. I’m just asking you to go in and assess the situation. I want your professional opinion. Maybe it’s drafts, old pipes. Or maybe... something else.”
The client gave Dante a set of antique keys. The hunter glanced at Morrison, who just shrugged. With a heavy sigh, Dante took the keys and headed for the massive oak door. Inside, it smelled of dust and mildew. The air was still and heavy. The floorboards creaked underfoot, and rays of moonlight filtered through the grimy windowpanes. Dante moved slowly through the halls, his gaze sliding over worn carpets and cracked walls. He saw nothing, but he felt it - something was here. It wasn’t a demonic, aggressive energy, but something else: cold and permeating the very air like a poison.
In the kitchen, overgrown with cobwebs, he stopped, examining a massive stove and a sideboard. Right in that moment, a rusty kettle flew off a shelf with a clatter, hurling directly at him. Dante recoiled with lightning speed, and the metal object slammed into the wall behind him with a crash, leaving a dent. There had been no wind, no vibration, no living creature. Only a quiet, icy chuckle that sounded right in his ear before fading back into the silence. “Alright, message received,” he muttered under his breath, turning on his heel and heading back toward the exit.
Emerging outside, he tossed the keys back into the surprised client’s hand. “There’s something in there. And it doesn’t seem to like guests. But it’s not my area of expertise. I usually deal with things you can make disappear forever with a bullet to the head. This...” He waved a hand toward the mansion. “This is like trying to shoot the wind.”
A flicker of disappointment crossed the businessman’s face, but he nodded in understanding. “I appreciate your honesty. But… maybe know someone? Some medium? A seer? Anyone who could talk to these invisible tenants and politely ask them to move out? Or figure out how to kick them out?”
And then, a flash of an image ignited in Dante’s mind. Long, wavy red hair, a velvet choker with an amethyst, and the insolent glint of grey-green eyes. “Seeing hidden things or events from the past.” Goddammit.
He didn’t offer a name. He just said. “Maybe. I might know someone. I’ll make no promises, but at least I can try.”
The ride back to the city was silent. Morrison held his peace at first, glancing at Dante in the rearview mirror. The hunter sat staring out the window, his face hidden in shadow. “So…” his companion finally broke the silence. “Was that just a line for the client or do you actually know some psychic?”
Dante didn’t answer immediately, letting out a resigned sigh. “I do.”
Morrison’s car purred and disappeared around the corner, leaving Dante alone before the dark facade of Devil May Cry. He reached into his coat pocket, his fingers finding a thick piece of paper folded in half. The tips of his fingers traced the rough texture. “And how the hell am I supposed to find her now?” he thought with irritation, not even pulling the note out.
With a heavy sigh, he pushed the front door open with his shoulder. Stepping inside, he reached for the light switch and flicked it. The harsh light of the lamp flooded the room, illuminating a figure emerging from the semi-darkness.
Circe.
The light played in her red hair, and on her lips was that same insolent, self-satisfied smirk he’d already come to remember. Her slender fingers were holding one of his magazines, the very one with the provocatively dressed girls.
Dante froze in the doorway, his eyes reflexively darting to the door - no, the lock wasn’t broken. The windows were shut.
Circe slowly turned a page, not taking her mocking eyes off him. “Missed me, handsome?” her voice sounded sweet and caustic.
She demonstratively raised the magazine higher, studying the photoshoot spread with exaggerated attention. “Well, well, well...” she drawled with feigned interest. “So, this is your reading material. Broadening your horizons?” She tilted her head to the side, her eyes wide with pretend innocence. “Are you sixteen? Or is your taste just that bad?”
Dante frowned, finally stepping inside and slamming the door shut behind him with force. “Do you even know how to knock? Or do all of your kind have a pathological urge to break into people’s homes uninvited?” he grumbled, shrugging off his coat onto the rack.
He stomped loudly toward his desk. “And put that back. It’s a rare item,” he muttered, though they both knew it was a lie.
Circe just laughed loudly, throwing her head back. The sound was bright and alive, far too alive for this dusty dump. “Oh, sorry, I couldn’t help myself. The door wasn’t locked, and I just couldn’t resist.” She tossed the magazine back onto the pile of its brethren. “Don’t worry, your secrets are safe with me. Although... ‘Miss Biggest... ahem... of the Month’ is a bold choice.” A knowing smirk played on her lips. “I felt you thinking about me. Decided to save you the trouble of looking. No need to thank me,” she continued, still perched on his desk.
Dante slowly turned his gaze to her, crossing his arms over his chest. His fingers tapped impatiently against his sleeve. “Hold on. You can feel when people think about you?” His tone held more irritated curiosity than surprise. “You got some special receiver in your head for that?”
Circe hopped off the table with feline grace. “Only for the really loud thoughts. And yours,” she drew a circle by her temple, “were practically screaming tonight. So… What do you need me for? Finally decided to ask me out on a date?”
Dante just chuckled. “In your dreams.” He paused, choosing his words. “There’s a mansion. Old with bad reputation. It’s not just noisy. There’s something there. And I need someone to see what exactly. Why the ghosts are there. And how to convince them to leave. Leave forever.” He said it like he was admitting a weakness. Demon hunting was clean work - see it, shoot it, forget it. This was all vague, nebulous, and it pissed him off.
Circe let out a low whistle, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “Ghosts? Seriously? Dante, the legendary demon hunter, is asking a vampire for help dealing with a couple of restless spirits? How cute.”
“Laugh it up,” he grumbled. “But the client’s paying real money.”
She listened intently, cheek propped on her hand, pretending to be deep in thought. “Hmmm. Interesting offer. And why should I help you?” She paused, savoring his tense silence. “Your pretty face is not enough. I need portraits of dead presidents. Green ones. And a substantial amount. Including a nice advance from your cut.”
Dante rolled his eyes and sighed in defeat. “Fine. How much?”
“Since all the intellectual work is on me,” she maintained a thoughtful expression, “and you’ll just be standing around, ninety-ten. In my favor.”
“NINETY?” Dante scoffed. “You’re out of your damn mind. Fifty-fifty.”
“Eighty-twenty. My foresight is priceless,” Circe parried.
“Sixty-forty,” Dante ground out, feeling his wallet shudder in agony. “And that’s my final offer. Or I’ll just assume you’re not as good as you say you are, scared of a few ghosts.”
Circe thought for a second, then a smile lit up her face. She extended her hand. “Deal. Sixty-forty.”
With the air of a man signing his own death warrant, he shook her small delicate hand. “Deal. Just keep it clean. No surprises.”
“Oh, surprises are the only thing I can guarantee, hunter,” she winked playfully. “Oh, and one more thing…”
She snatched a piece of paper and a pencil from his desk, scribbling something down. “You’re so silly. You didn’t even ask my number in case you need my help.” She handed him the scrap of paper. Dante took it, raising an eyebrow mockingly.
“Your number? Seriously?” he snorted. “What, the telepathic hotline out of service?”
“It’s on the service,” Circe shot back, crossing her arms. “But it only takes emergency calls. And your whining, my dear, is definitely not an emergency. So you’ll have to dial the number like a common mortal.”
He huffed, but his expression suddenly turned more serious. “Alright, jokes aside. Do you actually know what to do with these ghosts? Or are we just improvising with your sharp tongue and my bullets?”
Circe shrugged, her playfulness fading a bit. “All I have are rumors and old tales. But from what I’ve heard... to deal with a ghost, you need to find its anchor.”
“Anchor?” Dante repeated, frowning.
“Not the boat kind, silly. An object. A thing that’s keeps them in our world. You need to find it, figure out why it’s so important. And destroy it. Usually with fire. Burn the anchor, and the ship sails into oblivion. Including all of its passengers.” She said it without her usual mockery, her voice becoming flatter, more serious. It was as if she herself was listening to these words, to this grim logic.
Dante silently processed the information, his gaze turning distant. “So, we need to find the anchor.” He stretched, making his joints pop. “Well then, let’s go deal with some ghostly baggage.”
The night was quiet, their footsteps the only sound breaking the silence of the empty streets leading to the city’s outskirts. Dante walked slightly ahead, his long coat billowing in the wind. His gaze occasionally flickered involuntarily toward his companion. Next to him - broad-shouldered, a hundred and ninety centimeters if not more - she seemed fragile as a porcelain doll. A slender figure, a hundred and sixty centimeters tall. Her boots with imposing heels added another ten centimeters.
Crossing the mansion’s threshold, Circe stopped abruptly, shuddering. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders, goosebumps rising on her skin. “Ugh, I don’t like it here...” she said, moving forward. Her eyes scanned the darkened corners, the worn plaster moldings on the ceiling. Dante followed her, feeling a chill run down his spine. Not fear - more like a familiar wariness of the unknown.
The living room was in chaos: furniture covered with old sheets, portraits with extinguished eyes in gilded frames. And in the center, there was a piano, blackened with age. An open sheet music book lay on the stand, its pages yellowed and stained. She slowly approached the instrument, her fingers reaching for the sheets as if moved by an unseen curiosity. At the next second, a massive crystal vase flew off the mantelpiece. It shot toward Circe with a quiet, whistling sound, unnatural for such a heavy object.
Dante reacted instantly. He lunged forward, a strong hand grabbing her wrist and yanking her toward him. Circe yelped in surprise, crashing into his chest. He pulled her close, shielding her with his body. The vase shattered on the floor centimeters away from them with a deafening crash, exploding into a thousand pieces. For a second, there was silence, broken only by Dante’s heavy breathing. Circe froze, listening to his heart hammering against her cheek from the adrenaline rush.
“...Thanks,” she finally exhaled, her voice muffled.
He slowly loosened his grip but didn’t let go of her arm, his eyes carefully scanning the room.
“Surprises have already started,” he muttered, looking at the shards. “You okay?”
Circe nodded, adjusting her choker, and looked at the piano with a new, sharp interest. “Yes. And it seems we’re already getting in someone’s way. Very much so.” She slowly straightened up, still feeling the warmth of his hands on her back. Taking a deep breath to gather her courage, she approached the ill-fated musical instrument again. This time her movements were cautious, full of respect for the quiet pain hanging in the air.
Her gaze fell on the yellowed sheet music. Her fingers hovered a centimeter above the inscribed pages. She closed her eyes, and her face contorted in a slight grimace of tension. “A music teacher lived here...” her voice was quiet. “With his family. His wife and two daughters.” The corners of her lips twitched in a warm, almost tender smile for a moment, but it quickly smoothed into an expression of concentration. She fell silent, peering into invisible pictures of the past. “And something tells me that this is one of the anchors.” She opened her eyes, and they reflected alarm. “But there are more of them here. More than one.” Her hand finally reached for the notebook with determination. Her fingers barely brushed the rough cover.
Suddenly, the mansion’s silence was torn apart by a heart-rending inhuman scream. It was high-pitched, feminine, and filled with such all-consuming rage and despair that it sent shivers down their spines. The very air seemed to tremble from the sound, making the chandelier shake and sending dust raining from the ceiling. Circe snatched her hand back as if burned and stumbled away. Her face was paler than usual, her eyes wide with shock. “Well, damn...” she breathed out. “Seems like Mommy isn’t thrilled we’re touching her memories.”
Still holding the sheet music notebook in trembling fingers, she slowly walked over to a dusty family portrait in a wooden frame, while Dante silently watched her. The yellowed photograph depicted a seemingly perfect family: a smiling man with kind eyes, a woman with a warm but slightly sad smile, and two little girls in matching dresses. “The wife...” Circe whispered, her gaze locked on the woman’s face. “She... she’s the one holding them here. I feel her rage... it’s so thick, so black.”
Suddenly, the eyes of the wife in the portrait flared with a bright, shimmering light. Her smile on the canvas twisted into an instant, ghastly grimace of pure hatred. It lasted only a fraction of a second, but it was enough to send an icy chill down Circe’s spine. She froze, unable to look away.
Dante stepped closer to her, looking intently at the portrait, trying to see what she had seen. “They looked happy,” he stated quietly, a rare note of something akin to regret in his voice. “Photos are always lying. Or they just show what was before...” He left the sentence hanging in the stale air.
She swallowed, finally tearing her gaze from the family photo to look at him. “Before what? What could have happened? She doesn’t want to let them go. But why? What made her... hate so much?” Her voice trembled with tension. She looked back at the notebook in her hands, then at the portrait, and her eyes widened with sudden realization.
“Music... family... pain... It’s all connected. But how?” She turned to Dante, her expression almost desperate. “We need to dig deeper.”
Circe slowly turned the fragile, yellowed page of the sheet music. Her fingers traced the neatly written notes and lines of poetry, inscribed in faded ink. At the bottom, beneath the last verse, was an elegant signature: “To my dearest Victor. Forever yours, L.”
The song’s lyrics were full of ardent, almost naive passion-a poetic declaration of love written by a hand trembling with emotion. “Wait...” Circe whispered, her brows furrowing. She ran her fingertips over the lines as if trying to feel the energy poured into them long ago. “It wasn’t wife who write this.”
She closed her eyes, sinking into the faint vibrations emanating from the paper. “A girl... Young, about twenty. Her heart beat faster as she wrote these notes, her hands trembled...” Circe’s voice became distant, she spoke as if seeing it with an inner eye. “It’s... his student. Talented. And hopelessly in love with her teacher.”
She opened her eyes abruptly and looked at the portrait, at the woman’s face, which now seemed not just sad, but frozen in a mask of eternal resentment and betrayal.
“She knew,” Circe exhaled with certainty. “The wife knew about this love. Perhaps she even read these lyrics or heard him playing this music, knowing who it was dedicated to.”
Dante had been listening intently, as he crossed his arms over his chest. His gaze slid from the notebook to the portrait, to the wife’s frozen face. “So, the maestro was playing around not just on the keys,” he said dryly. “And the wife decided to create an eternal family hell instead of a divorce. Classic.”
Circe snorted, but without her usual mockery. Her eyes showed fatigue from the stream of ghost’s emotions. “Divorce? Back then? With two children? It would have been a disgrace. Maybe she was trying to save the family while everything inside was rotting. And this is the result.” She jerked her head toward the invisible but palpable rage filling the room.
“Lovely story,” Dante smirked sarcastically. “So, we’re dealing with a jealous ghost holding the whole family hostage over an old love song? Dramatic.”
“It’s not funny,” Circe said quietly but firmly. “For her it wasn’t just drama. It was her entire life, shattered in an instant. Her world turned upside down. And instead of letting go, she clung to her pain with a death grip. And now she’s torturing everyone she once loved.” She looked at him, and something sharp, understanding, flickered in her gaze. “You know what it’s like to hold onto pain, don’t you? How it burns you from the inside, but you can’t let go because then there’ll be nothing left of you.”
Dante froze for a moment, the smirk sliding off his face. He turned away, pretending to study the pattern on the ceiling moldings. “Don’t mix my skeletons in the closet with this cheap melodrama,” he grumbled. “She’s just a miserable woman who couldn’t get over being betrayed.”
“Sometimes the ghosts of the past are more real and more dangerous, Dante,” Circe sighed softly. “They eat you alive from the inside, and no one sees the hole they leave behind.” She stopped at the foot of the stairs, her gaze wandering over the ceiling as if reading invisible lines in the mansion’s very atmosphere.
“No... The song is just the beginning.” She shook her head, still clutching the sheet music. “Her madness was... slow. And there must be another anchor. The one that finally drove her over the edge.”
She decisively stepped onto the first step, and immediately the antique chandelier in the hall above them swayed with an earsplitting creak. The chain holding it snapped with a dry crack, and the massive construction of crystal and metal crashed down with a roar, shattering the parquet and exploding into thousands of sharp shards that flew in all directions. Circe screamed, stumbling back. Her foot slipped on the edge of the step, and she lost her balance, feeling herself falling backward. But a strong arm abruptly wrapped around her thin waist, yanking her back roughly. Dante, moving on pure reflex, caught her, pulling her tight against his chest, and took a step back, evading the flying debris. She hung in his grip, her breath caught in her throat from the shock and sudden closeness. He held her tightly, almost painfully, his own muscles taut like bowstrings. “Whew, thanks... Again,” she exhaled, barely audible, her voice trembling.
He didn’t let her go immediately, first scanning the staircase for new threats. His face was grim. “Warning received,” he muttered, finally loosening his grip and allowing her to find her footing. “Your ghostly friend is clearly not a fan of our investigation.”
Still trembling slightly, she brushed herself off and looked firmly upward, into the darkness of the second floor.
“That’s exactly why we have to keep going. Our ‘hospitable’ hostess is afraid. It means we’re on the right track. And the second anchor is up there.” Circe slowly climbed the remaining steps, her hands still shaking from the chandelier’s fall. She almost unconsciously led Dante down the hallway, stopping in front of one of the doors. The air here was thicker, more putrid.
She pushed the oak door, and it creaked open, letting them into a bedroom. Time had truly stood still here. Dust lay like a thick velvet blanket on the dressing table, on the bed with its sagging mattress, and the faded wallpaper. Circe’s gaze fell on a small carved nightstand by the bed. She walked over to it and pulled on the drawer handle. The wood groaned but gave way. Inside, on a velvet lining, lay an elegant silver locket. She picked it up with trembling fingers. The cold metal seemed to burn her skin as she clicked the clasp open. The locket opened. And Circe froze, her face a mask of stunned disbelief. “Oh, god...” she exhaled, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You’ve gotta be kidding me...”
She turned to Dante, who was standing in the doorway, and silently handed him the jewelry. On one side, under the tarnished glass, the musician himself was smiling. And on the other side... was the young student. Her eyes shone with love and adoration. It was that look, the one reserved only for the chosen one. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into a horrifying picture. Circe’s voice was quiet, almost soundless, as she spoke, more to herself than to Dante. “He wasn’t cheating...” she whispered, running her finger over the cold glass hiding the girl’s face. “He was confused. He let her hope, failing to stop her feelings in time. But he loved his wife. I feel... his confusion, his guilt. He was going to return the locket to the student... put an end to this misunderstanding, explain everything. But he didn’t have time...” She snapped the locket shut, as if unable to bear its weight any longer, and looked at Dante, her eyes filled with a dreadful understanding. “He died. The wife... she saw this. She saw another woman’s picture next to her husband’s face. And her heart shattered from jealousy. She didn’t ask for an explanation... didn’t give him a chance to speak. She killed him in a fit of blind rage.”
Dante, while he was silently observing the room, let out a grim chuckle. “So that’s how it is. Our guardian of the hearth turned out to be a jealous murderer over a gift.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “And what, now she’ll haunt this place forever, tormenting everyone because of her paranoia?”
“It’s not paranoia,” Circe’s voice trembled. “It’s a family tragedy. She chained herself to this place with her own madness and grief. She can’t leave and she won’t let go of those she destroyed... and those she once loved.”
“Love, you say?” Dante snorted sarcastically, but the edge was gone from his voice, replaced only by weariness. “Seems to me it’s the deadliest poison. Turns people into monsters and houses into tombs. And there’s no antidote for it.”
She clenched the locket and the notebook in her hands. “We have to free them. All of them. So their suffering can finally end. We need to find the other anchor.”