Chapter 9: The Misuse of Ambrose Reed
2002 A.D. Four years ago…
…o…
Tossing and turning as the pack made ready for war, she had warned him last night through dreams and visions, bidding him rise up and flee before the vampires came…
"Flee the tunnels, youngling," she had whispered in his mind.
"But why," he had questioned her…still afraid of this wild creature. Afraid of what she was asking him to do. For the hundredth time since she had first spoken to him two years past, he wondered…was she a figment? A dead spirit? His madness returning again…
But spirit or not, he adored her…
…and would do as she asked.
Crouched by the air flowing up and towards the nightsky, Ambrose watched and waited by the empty windshaft, the grimy coat he wore covering his shadowy hair and ferocious blue eyes. His face and body were smeared with dirt and dried blood…and though his mission required such smokescreens, it was the mechanical wind blowing past him that just managed to hide the telltale scent of elderflowers that followed wherever he went. Others were in the tunnels, but he paid them no mind. He knew the ones that had seen him would be dead within moments, and the rest of his pack had no time to notice a grimy lycan who faded into shadows without trace. They were too concerned with fleeing as the last of Viktor's force succumbed to unclean death by the sword of a deathdealer. Tense, he almost growled, observing as the Corvin pup, newest of their pack, left the sewers with his new vampiric mate…
And then, wincing to himself, he realized…
"Pup?"
Acknowledging the patronizing tone of his words, his smooth forehead creased into a mixture of disgust and amusement. A mere three years he'd been a lycan, and already, he spoke of pups and mates as if born a son of wolves.
Shaking his head, he dropped swiftly and silently to the ground in the air of emptiness, knowing he must quicken his pace. He loped past the dead bodies of his wolfen brothers, the sense of her presence urging him to hurry, speaking of time and hearts and silver. And by the strength of her humming voice, he leaped to the upper floors, scraping his shins upon the broken hole…
…only to gasp, his eyes grief-stricken for the first time since he had stolen back into the sewers.
By nature, lycans were bred on pack-mentality…utter loyalty, so to speak…and though his immortal side had grown callous and felt no love for this alpha, the sensitive mortal within Ambrose wept for his beloved leader…
…and as if on cue, a sly memory crept onto the face of Ambrose's conscience, forcing him to remember…
Three years ago…
In the space of a bite, his entire world had changed. He had no home…no life. His sire was dead, and the few stragglers who ran packless on the streets had moved to higher grounds. For months, he had kept himself alive, stealing through day, and sleeping through night, keeping to the shadows and avoiding vampires as best he could. And though Ambrose could hardly blame Lucian for his current status as "newly changed pup," somehow the war…the pain…the loss of everything and everyone he held dear…
…it made him want to hurt the mysterious alpha.
But true to form, Ambrose Reed was no murderer.
Just a thief.
…o…
…o…
The rest of the hoard opted to kill the dark-haired stranger where he lay, bleeding in the gutter.
Not even bothering to argue or plead, Ambrose curled further into his blood, waiting for one of the twelve triggers to go off. Blessed with a keen and logical wit, he assumed his death warrant had been signed the moment that immense, nameless ruffian had slammed him into the ground thirty yards from freedom. Silently, he waited…hoped…and begged for death…until suddenly, the bastard himself came upon the scene. Breaking the lycan-thrashing with a sharp word and casually retrieving his pendant from Ambrose's broken and blood-soaked fingers, Lucian quietly requested of the heavily wounded pup his name and den-faction.
As could be expected, a tense moment passed in which Ambrose tried to stare the immovable alpha down, only to end with Ambrose himself squinting at the wall, blushing furiously as he blinked back the sudden threat of tears…
For his part, Lucian continued to stare firmly at the thief, unmoved by such fake expressions of sorrow upon an enemy's face. And noting the faint scar along the newly-changed youngling's neck and the arrogant silence, the alpha switched his Hungarian tongue to Russian, careful to avoid English as he tested out the waters…
"Kak tebya zavut?" said the lycan master to the sullen youngling…
No response…
"Ako sa voláš?" he murmured in perfect Slovak…
Ambrose sniffed…keeping his silence…
"Tu t'appelles comment?" the lycan master pressed, noting another twitch of the pup's ear.
Finally returning to his Hungarian tongue, the alpha changed his eyes to the terrifying glaze of lycan's white, smiling benevolently to further goad the youth… "I know you understand me, youngling," he hissed. "…so I suggest you answer before this ends in another nameless death."
Nameless death, thought Ambrose.
Nameless DEATH?
You WANKER.
And suddenly irritated beyond measure by the cunning turns of the patronizing alpha's tongue, unwilling to admit his homeless pedigree, yet expecting to be shot any minute, and already half-dead anyway, a blood-soaked, snappish Ambrose had sneered from the ground, coughing up what might have been a tooth, before spitting out in flawless English…
"Well as long as it's for the GRAAVE, that's perfectly fine then! The name's Margaret, Sergeant First Class Homeless of the Lycan Girl's Brigade, sir…but just for kicks, YOU can call me 'Daisy'! Is that alright with you, love? Should I spell it for you?"
Unfortunately, this little tirade earned another (indeed) sharp kick from at least three lycans, not one, as Lucian was now far too busy raising an eyebrow and (no doubt) plotting how best to trounce this unarmed (apparently British, insolent, spoiled, good-for-nothing) pup who managed to sneak (twice!) past four dozen soldiers, palm metal off a sleeping lycan master's neck, raid the larder and make it halfway out of the sewers before accidentally running into Raze (who just happened to be coming back by chance from an unscheduled hunting mission above ground.)
And though he waited for death, a surprise awaited the dark-haired thief…
Several minutes passed, and after finishing his contemplation of "Sergeant First Class Daisy of the Lycan Girl's Brigade," Lucian, his expression now completely unreadable, suddenly shook his head, frowning at the vagrant's sordid state and stolen cuts of blood red meat lying ruined in the gutter.
To Ambrose's horror, amazement, and wonder, the haunting leader arose from his crouch, turned to the pack and said "Break him in" before stalking away, flanked by Raze, Pierce, and Taylor. The effect was instantaneous…and though the guns weren't quite lowered, Ambrose found himself being dragged back into the den by a posse of lycans, cleaned up, clothed, and given real food (other than rats) for the first time in several months. After five solid weeks of interrogation and background checks were through, he'd eventually become acclimatized…
…and though kept out of the lycan master's path for his own safety, Ambrose's little stunt had earned him a place as the most gifted thief ever to grace the Budapest faction of lycans. Passes, keys, codes, locks, teeth…you name it, Ambrose could probably steal it for you.
But those days were gone.
…o…
…o…
…and shaking himself firmly from the memory, the war-torn Ambrose's mind returned to the present and the fallen leader who had once welcomed him into his pack three years ago…
Surely he is dead…
The thought came unbidden as he stared, uncomfortable with the sorrow he felt…
…but her voice came harsh in rebuke…
"Fool! He lives, and yet your lingering grief would cause him death! Pierce his veins or flee, youngling, but already you tarry too long…"
Ambrose flinched as if struck (so loud was the spirit's voice)…but quelling his inner turmoil, he obeyed her command. Stealing towards the lycan master, he uncapped the injection clenched in his fingers, taking care to avoid contact with the liquid silver drenching Lucian's chest. Biting his own lip as he knew she would be watching, he pierced the lycan's neck and transferred the clear liquid into the blood. And then, aware the Cleaners would be here soon, he quickly removed the injection, replacing the cap and pocketing the evidence.
He stepped back…
"It is done…"
"Then burn the mark and get you hence!"
Her words startled him, but suddenly frozen and almost…troubled, his face turned to the ceiling as in question (though in truth, he knew not where her harsh voice came from.)
"But what if they don't realize he's…"
"Trust, youngling…whether for lycan or tomb, Corvinus will not burn this body tonight. He will send it to the Two of Knots…" Her voice had begun lilting and crooning once more, as if to remind him of her soothing nature…
…which of late (he couldn't help but raise an eyebrow) had become quite glaring.
Almost lamenting his betrayal and kneeling swiftly, Ambrose bowed his head one final time. "Forgive me, Lucian…" As she had taught him, he placed his fingers lightly on the lycan master's temple as if in blessing, and wary of approaching sounds, sought to burn what he must upon the unconscious lycan.
The anvil, two dots, and the line…
Just thinking about it made his skin crawl. But it had to be done. It was necessary the aged bloodseekers believe this final transgression. Necessary they believe Lucian had recent aid from the tarnished Silversmith, long thought to be dead. A pitiless hoax, but a final gift to immortals all the same…
…for what fools would wage war if Yllarius Kovacs walked the streets again? Vampires and lycans alike would drop their weapons at the slightest hint and turn as one to fight this long-remembered foe…perhaps even ceasefire. By all record, only the Two of Knots and Miklos remained as bloodseekers…and as both sides could fully ascertain that neither of them had burned this mark nor blessed Lucian into hibernation, the only options left were the dead demon Kovacs or the sleeping Third Knot! Indeed, she had taught him well in the past two years…
Even without her visions and just by the horror stories still told to children over the campfires, Ambrose knew what the name Kovacs meant to the immortal world. And if Lucian could feign death for so long, why not the ill-famed Silversmith? It could be the end of the war…no more running. No more hiding, no more death…
…a ceasefire.
Or so she had said, persuading him with her occasionally calm and soothing voice.
Swaying his head suddenly, Ambrose soared onto the hunt, his eyes turning white as he targeted the blood of memories. His neck jerking back and tensing as he hissed from the pain of touching one so tainted with silver. But clenching his teeth, Ambrose spoke the words of sealing before drawing the symbol…
"Nyl, Noch, Lys, Dag…"
The human, the immortal, the wolf, the owl…
The anvil…two dots…
…the line.
The symbol flared for a moment, and unexpectedly, he could feel her touch through his hand...
…she was clawing…clenching his fingers…
Almost as if trying to…
…take over.
His voice grew hoarse upon the last words…
…and then broke as an iron paw gripped his wrist, the long nails tearing into Ambrose's flesh, causing him to yelp and let go as Lucian's final strength forced the youngling's hand from his temple. The dark voice of his mind screamed and gasping, Ambrose felt the seeker's connection shatter, tainting more than just the master's blood.
"What t-the hell do you think you'reaahhHH," grated the lycan master, agony breaking his words. His body shuddering as the now-abandoned mark of the Silversmith shredded through his memories… The fading lycan losing his hold, convulsing at the foot of the one who kneeled before him. Bitterness coursing through his mind as he strove to hold on to the one memory that kept him breathing all these long centuries. His reason for existence fading as the centuries of thought bled from his conscience…
"Sonja…" he whispered, the shadowed eyes cursing Ambrose as the pulse of his heart slowed. The rest of his memories dying as the blood running through his veins ground to a halt.
Slower…slower…
The heart stopped.
And now completely lost in the silver of his own veins, the bloodsoul of Lucian flowed into the nether regions of his conscience…his body and mind taken over by slumbering hibernation. The liquid river addling his wits as the shards of a failed bloodseal obliterated his memories of life before…
Ambrose gulped, eying the silver-veined temple of Lucian where an anvil, two dots, and a line ought to have shown.
The mark had disappeared…
…and his mind voice began to grow frantic.
How would the First Knot know? The body must remain here and no one must know the part he played, but…
…for crap's sake!
A faint wail threatened to explode in the lycan's head (vaguely similar to that of a certain dark-haired sister of his, currently residing somewhere in the south of the United Kingdom,) but abruptly remembering his status as a cruel, vengeful immortal, Ambrose stamped down the quails of his (rather sensitive) mortal side.
He had…botched it, he realized, his forehead creasing with frustration and fear…but…
…did he dare risk it again?
"Cinder…I…I think I…"
"…Cinder?"
Again he called her by name, anxious to know what he should do…
…but she had disappeared.
He sniffed the air, listening as the sound of footsteps echoed somewhere in the distance. The Cleaners! Swiftly recovering from his shock and still nursing his wounded wrist, Ambrose swallowed and fled, knowing they would be upon the sewers in moments. Almost at the subway line, he leaped on a ladder towards the ceiling, grasping the rungs and making his way up as he bid the Change come over him again. When the grate finally opened on the deserted streets above, it was not a man of lycan blood that exited the sewers…
…but a mortal.
Flipping his hood back from his head again, a restless and fretful urchin aged just over twenty years named Ambrose Reed, slipped into the shadows of Budapest. Deep within, his inner wolf began to howl at being trapped once more, but he paid it no mind. By tomorrow morning, it would be unleashed again when he returned, but tonight…while the vampires and lycans prowled the streets scenting out each other…he would need the scent of a mortal to sleep safely.
Perhaps she who called herself Cinder would speak to him again by then…
Tell him what to do…where to go…
For, in truth…
…he missed her voice.
A/N: Please read and review! (The next chapter will be up very soon as it's already almost done, and in case you were wondering, yes, it's FULL of Lucian. A slightly changed Lucian, but Lucian nonetheless.)
(Thanks for the nice review of the last chapter by the way! I appreciate it. Also got my first flame, which was a little downheartening, but that's alright. I deleted that one. I'm not going to slice my wrists just because someone hasn't got anything better to do than dictate how I should best kill myself without giving any constructive criticism. I suppose it could almost be considered flattering since either they didn't read the story at all, or they actually DID take the time out to read 28,000 words. Anyway, back to writing...
...and in case there are any Underworld Cup readers here, I do have plans to write more of that one. Just have to finish up the next chapter of Lucian's Respite.)