February 6th, 1867
My Dearest Sisters,
I hope this letter finds you enveloped in the dark embrace of our sacred Harpy. My journey has been fraught with more complications than anticipated, but I write to you now from the town of Demomire, having arrived after an unexpected delay. The stagecoach in which I was traveling fell victim to a brazen robbery, an incident that has stoked the fires of local gossip and suspicion. While I was unharmed, a hidden box secured beneath the coach was spirited away by unknown assailants, its contents still a mystery to me.
Anger makes my hand tremble as I commit these thoughts to paper, the betrayal of Marius piercing more profoundly than I could have ever conceived. It seems that the man I wed was not only a tyrant but a deceiver of the highest order. Despite my efforts, the vault’s location continues to elude me. Details of my unsuccessful endeavors follow.
Unfortunately My claim to his estate is also precarious; Marius was meticulous in death as he was in life. He was a man as cold as the crypts beneath his estate—his touch, his gaze, his words all bore an icy detachment that would chill one’s very soul. There was no warmth in him, no flicker of human sentiment; he was a husk animated by ambition and arcane pursuits. I tolerated his presence, endured his affections, all for the sake of our sisterhood. Each day with him was a masquerade, a delicate dance wherein I played the part of doting wife while silently loathing the charade. Biding my time and now even in death he vexes me.
His testament stipulates that an heir is required to present specific papers to claim their complete inheritance. Alas, I am oblivious to the existence or location of such documents. Papers! I’m willing to pen as many as he desires! Attorneys are merely after financial gain. Yet, I’d wager those papers reside within that Vault.
I assure you sisters, since Marius’ death—which came not a moment too soon—I’ve been on an exhaustive quest for the vault’s entrance. My every step is shadowed by suspicion and doubt as those who served Marius watch me with eyes that gleam like jackals circling their prey.
In the silent depths of Marius’s New York residence, behind a facade that would make the most astute observer doubt their senses, I did manage uncovered a secret room. Shrouded by shadows so thick they seemed almost palpable, it held an ancient map crafted by Marius’s treacherous hand. The parchment was aged, its edges frayed with time, and yet the ink that marked it—symbols and cryptic clues—was as vivid as if penned by a fresh quill.
I dedicated hours to decoding its secrets, poring over each mark with a zeal that would have made our most fervent acolytes envious. I was certain this map was the key to unraveling Marius’s web of deceit and laying claim to what is rightfully ours. My hands trembled as I traced the paths woven into the parchment, my mind alight with possibilities of what treasures it might lead me to.
Alas, sisters, my heart weighs heavy with disappointment. For when I followed the elaborate trail etched upon that deceptive guide, it led me not to a vault brimming with arcane secrets or earthly riches. Instead, it circled back like a serpent devouring its own tail, bringing me to the cemetery—a solemn place where memories sleep beneath stone and marble.
There, amidst the silence of the resting souls and the haunting echo of my own footsteps, an empty grave awaited me. It was meticulously prepared; its gaping maw seemed to mock me with its barrenness—a cruel jest from beyond the veil. Marius’s love for games had not perished with him; even now, he plays his chess from a board unseen.
I stood at the edge of that void and felt an anger burn within me—a flame kindled by betrayal and spurred by defiance. That empty grave bore no marker, no name to claim it, but I knew it was intended for me—a symbol of Marius’s conviction that he could bury my ambitions along with his secrets.
To think that I tolerated his cold bed for access to something that now eludes me! The injustice burns hotter than the forge’s heart. But let it be known that Margot LaRue is not one to be underestimated or outmaneuvered—not by living men nor by specters clinging to their earthly treasures.
The gall of Marius to hide away what is rightfully ours! But mark my words: his folly will be rectified.
On my initial endeavors to locate the Vault beyond the confines of the New York Residence, I surmised that his workplace would be a logical starting point. Shrouded by the veil of dusk, I stealthily penetrated Marius’s sanctum, an enclave undisturbed since his passing. The atmosphere was suspended in time, the walls laden with grime and clandestine truths.
With each step, I disturbed the solemn stillness, motes of dust dancing like specters in the moonlight that spilled through the cracked window. I surveyed his desk first, running my fingers over the surface where he once concocted his dark enterprises. Yet it was barren, save for a scattering of mundane correspondence that spoke nothing of his true pursuits.
I then turned my attention to the walls, their wooden panels whispering of clandestine recesses. And there it was—a panel less steadfast than its brethren. My heart quickened as I coaxed it open to reveal a safe Marius had so cunningly concealed within the architecture itself. The cold metal of the safe’s door sent a shiver down my spine as I set to work. The mechanism yielded to my touch with an audible click, betraying its long dormancy. My anticipation mounted; I could almost hear our coven’s victory chant as I swung open the heavy door.
But alas, my spirit plummeted when my eyes fell upon the contents—or rather, the lack thereof. The space was barren save for an object that mocked my efforts: an ornate key fashioned from obsidian, sleek and cool in my palm. Its existence alone suggested that what we seek is indeed real, yet it was a mere silhouette of access—a decoy meant to frustrate and mislead.
Marius always delighted in his games of cat and mouse; this empty vault but another riddle he cast from beyond the grave. His true treasures remain shrouded in enigma, likely ensconced in a place only he would conceive.
While rummaging around in his office, amidst the remnants of his earthly dealings, within a desk drawer bound by dust and time, I found them—papers stamped with a strange seal. As I looked further into them, I realized they were for a massive plantation estate, Duskmire.
They were hidden beneath ledgers filled with numbers and transactions that bore witness to Marius’s insatiable greed. But these were no ordinary documents; they were deeds and titles, maps and notes scrawled in his meticulous hand. The revelation struck me with such force that for a moment, I could scarcely breathe.
The Duskmire estate—how it eluded my grasp until now is a testament to Marius’s cunning. Never once did he breathe its name in my presence, never once did he hint at its existence. Yet here I am, holding the very keys to its gates—a set of iron cast relics that feel heavy with significance in my grasp.
I have since discovered, Duskmire, a forlorn monument to the LaRue’s family’s legacy, stands as a testament to their once-mighty lineage. It was here that Marius’s great-great grandfather, Viktor LaRue, first laid the stones of their American dynasty. The tale of his demise is as chilling as it is instructive; for it was at the grand entrance of Duskmire that he met his untimely end—slain by forces unseen and malevolent, a fate befitting a man of his nefarious repute. From all reports, he was stabbed multiple times, by an unseen assailant or assailants.
His passing marked the beginning of Duskmire’s decline. The once majestic estate succumbed to the relentless embrace of decay, each room a silent witness to the LaRue’s unspeakable rites. Yet despite its dilapidation, the LaRue’s presence has never waned; like specters bound to their haunting ground, they have clung to these halls with unyielding tenacity. It has never been sold since its creation, just passed from one LaRue to the next.
They were one of the earliest families to arrive in Demomire, banished from France and her sun-kissed fields for their macabre and dangerous rituals. New Orleans was but a temporary haven for them, a place where their practices—deemed too vile even for that den of vice and magic—forced them once again into exile.
It was here in Demomire that Viktor LaRue found solace amongst others who feared not what lurked in shadow or scripture. His dark craft flourished anew in this fertile ground, rich with superstition and untapped power. The locals whispered tales of their wickedness, yet even amongst our own kind, Viktor’s deeds were spoken of in hushed tones—a malevolence so profound that it cast a pall over the LaRue’s family’s name for generations.
Hopefully Duskmire holds more than just wealth, hopefully it holds the Vault. He safeguarded its location with obsessive fervor; I cannot help but believe that Duskmire holds the key within its decayed embrace—The thought crosses my mind more than once: what if the vault is not within Duskmire at all? But such doubts are fleeting; Marius’ arrogance would never allow his most precious treasures to reside anywhere but under his direct control.
Thus, upon my arrival at Duskmire tomorrow, my search will begin anew. Every misplaced brick or drafty corridor could be a clue leading closer to unearthing what is rightfully mine—what is rightfully ours.
In these uncertain times, I find myself at a crossroads where cunning and strategy must guide my steps. My widow’s guise will serve me well among those who underestimate the resolve of a woman alone. Yet, I am far from alone—I carry with me the strength and knowledge imparted by our sacred coven.
I ask for your guidance and any aid you can provide from afar. Our enemies are as shadowy as they are numerous, but I am resolute in my quest to secure what is rightfully ours.
May the Harpy grant us her swiftness and ferocity.
Yours in sisterhood,
Margot LaRue
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