xviii.
[The woman had been right.
Someone resembling Castor in shape and form walked the corridors of the first floor, someone with his dark hair, his blue eyes. But although it appeared to be him, there were details that were off. The lack of clarity in his eyes. The deep gauges across his upper body and legs from what had to be a knife. The burns across his neck. And in his hand he gripped a butcher's knife, burnt fingertips holding tight.
He needed something, someone. Eve had abandoned him in the kitchen -- should he kill her? Where was she? She could die for her cowardice, but he didn't know the first place to look. He'd find some other victim to replace her.
A person he'd cut up just like the chef had cut him.
The last place Deiphobus wanted to be was in the line of fire but it seemed that, no matter where he turned, for nights, now, he was pursued by crazed ghosts. There was something in it that must have appealed to that slightly manic, slightly maniacal corner of his personality. Since the deaths of his sisters, Deiphobus was even more hyperactive. Armed with a charming set of kitchen knives, his gun and a mace that had no place being in a hotel, he darted down the corridor in an attempt to regroup with the other first floor survivors.
His wounds, thus far, consisted of bruising on his neck, a split lip, a gash on his upper arm and a deep cut across his palm, where he'd tried, with only partial success, to fend off a meat cleaver, wielded by that insane chef.
Between the two, Castor was the only one who hadn't escaped from the chef. The knife marks adorning his body proved it. But he wasn't thinking about the chef -- he was suddenly thinking about the boy that stumbled into his corridor, looking beat up himself. Deiphobus. Deiphobus of Troy. He had to get to him. Had to make him pay. Had to slice him up into pieces for simply being. No one took his sister as a war prize. Nobody.
The twin slammed the tip of his blade into the wall and dragged it through the wallpaper on the way down the corridor.
It was a trick of the light or a trick of the hotel that Deiphobus didn't recognise Castor for what he was. He saw the boy, or a shadow of him. Castor. Brother-in-law? The very notion made Deiphobus shudder. He would disavow all knowledge of Helen if he could (though he was lying to himself). He was about to raise a hand in friendly greeting when the colour drained from his face. Behind Castor were two familiar shapes. Chef Warren and Patrick Keating. Deiphobus' old friends.
"Castor, watch out!"
As last words go, they weren't the worse. Deiphobus spared no further breath for talking as he prepared to do battle once more, his attention entirely given to the two ghosts.
Within less than a minute, Castor had reached his dearest brother-in-law, the knife still in hand, pieces of the wallpaper stuck between the teeth of the blade. But if Deiphobus took a second to glimpse upon him, he'd see something wasn't right. The way he stood was off, the way he stared was blank. There was an air about him that reeked of hostility.
Not bothering to glimpse over his shoulder at the approaching figures, he raised his knife and slashed toward Deiphobus' neck without a word.
Deiphobus fell. After everything he had survived thus far, it was frankly embarrassing to be murdered by his undead brother-in-law. The last thought in his head was how his aunt would likely kill him. He hit the ground and the pool of blood grew around him. He didn't even feel the blows from Chef Warren and Patrick Keating, the latter of whom finally got his hand wrapped around Deiphobus' tongue.
At last, Castor and his unfriendly ghosts achieved what must surely have been inevitable; another dead Trojan royal.]
[ warning for character death! ]