As the swordsman stood in the locked room, he felt as if someone was watching him. And they were, he noticed, when the lights came on.
A bright, blinding light, with a pinkish tinge, illuminated the room of eyes. Bloody eyes, skewered to the wall by rusting nails. Bodies piled high laughed at him. That was when he noticed his shadow.
It was moving.
And he was not.
There it was, standing, becoming taller, taller, taller than he, red eyes opening, white black fangs glistening. Claws grew, and that clawed hand grabbed Salvator's throat, pulling him up, up, up off the floor, feet dangling, arms flailing, breath escaping.
Swords flashed, the man was dropped, doors opening. Salvator, shoved from the room by a gale, a gust of wind, falling out.
Doors locked, insanity laughed and screamed. Salvator felt hands, soft hands, carressing his hair. Seline above him, stroking his head. She grinned at him, and he smiled back.
Sitting, moving now, away, away from dead eyes, grinning mouth, bloody grin. Seline, a hole through her chest, her heart visible in a broken cage of ribs. No beat. Not a pulse, nor blood flow, not anything.
And the House claimed Salvator for its own.