A lot of stuff going on here.
This whole part of the story is called “History Repeats Itself” because it does.
Joe is basically in the same predicament he was with the slave master. Except now he’s being held captive by Blythe, his vampire master. I purposely tried to make a lot of similarities between the two chapters.
Lorant, the slave master, tells the slaves “how good they have it.” Blythe does the same here. Both masters take his wife to use as leverage against him.
You learn about the “hierarchy of evil.” Vampires, Werewolves, Zombies in that order.
Vampires have brains but no souls so they’re on the top. They can hatch evil plots and carry them out because their lack of a soul means no weakness or remorse.
Werewolves are in the middle. They have brains so they can carry out the vampires’ bidding, but they have souls, so they can sometimes be reasoned with or talked into doing the right thing.
Zombies have no brains or souls…they’re just super dumb.
They walk around aimlessly doing what zombies do, though the vampire whose blood they drank can control them.
Purists will say these aren’t zombies but ghouls but whatever. Same thing.
One lesson here is writing can sometimes limit what you want to do. He’s in some kind of evil dungeon. Normally, you’d pick up your dead wife and carry her away, give her a decent burial.
But he’s got Miles with him…and after thinking about it, it just seemed unlikely he’d want him to see that so…he just leaves her there.
Sometimes you get boxed in and you have to go with the flow.
History has an uncanny way in which it repeats itself. Eleven years had passed since Joe discovered the monster that dwelled within him. For a time, he found money. Happiness. Success. A wife. A son. A home.
Alas, when he found himself in the middle of a dank, dark dungeon, his hands and feet bound to a stone table by silver chains, he began to realize that compared to his new master, Lorante had been a teetotaler.
An iron door opened and two werewolves lumbered in, their heads just barely scraping the ceiling. Blythe stepped into the room as merry as could be, as if he were off to a stroll in a park and not a torture session.
Joe struggled but the silver burned his skin. The more he moved, the worse it got.
Blythe looked down and wagged a finger in his captive’s face. “Bad dog. Bad, bad…
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