Prelude Chapter 6: The Visionary, an underworld fanfic

Chapter VI: The Visionary

Three days later.

Wind rushed against her palm. Before her, a ship sweeping across the harbour, sails fleeing the pier. She had to flee with them. She had to get out. Darkness would turn into daylight. Hrafn, aid her…blood on her hands, pain burning in her side. Where was the historian? She had to sleep. She had to get away from…fire.

Fire coating her back and melting her skin. One moment she lay in water, the next, she burned. Searching her lungs for breath, her neck craning against some unseen force, her teeth fighting for purchase. She could not possess it. She could not flee it. An iron hand forcing her to look up, wrenching her neck even further…screaming and looking up into the sun. Not the sun…nor the moon.

The eyes of the storm.

Grey eyes.

Feverish, she woke, her skin sweating in the darkness. Pain along her back. Soreness. She knew of wind. Fleeing something. Fleeing a nightmare which had already fled, for the last of her dream had faded…leaving her weak. Turning her head slowly, she felt a wet cloth fall from her eyes, the darkness unveiling itself as a pool of depth. A room of sorts. Softness beneath her head, her body tucked into the sweltering embrace of a bed. She rested her head back, studying the space around her. The bed she lay in, flanked by the small table on her right. Above, the ceiling covered in faces, an old fresco sweeping across the tilted surface made of stone. Shadows from the past watching her. As if she should know their faces. What was this place? Her memories were…so fleeting.

She could not remember.

And why was it so hot? Like water that had burned before it could flee with the tide. Too much heat. She had to move. Feeble, her arm crept from beneath the bed-covers, the slab of heat representing only a rough blanket. Her skin felt so odd. As she shifted, she stretched her fingers out, the movement feeling…sinewy. Forcing herself to sit up gradually, she inched towards the edge of the bed, slow…frail, her hand reaching high to creep along her bare scalp. No hair. No clothes. Why had they shaved her head? It felt as if heat would shrivel her to dust if she did not move. Reaching the edge of the bed, she gathered the blanket around her shoulders and made an attempt to stand…

…only to fall, the blanket snagging on the table edge, drawing it over with a…

Crash!

Her eyes darted to the door and she froze, the stone floor hot against her skin. Hot, even though her hands were shivering. Her body knew the floor was freezing, but her mind insisted she was burning. Someone must have heard. Dimly, she knew what she was…she knew she had to flee. An outcast from both sides of the…war. There was a war going on, and she caught in the middle.

There…

…the sound of footsteps approaching. Footsteps coming fast from the left, the echo of a hallway, boots clamping on stone. Only a glimmer of light reached beneath the door. The figure behind had halted, listening from outside. So loud next to her ears, she could hear the sound of her own breathing muffled by the blanket…why did they not open the door?

They knew she was awake.

Like a bird trapped in a fox-den, she cowered on the floor, listening as the stranger finally turned, the steps distantly retreating to the left again, taking the light with them. Still she waited, unwilling to move until all was silent. Whoever it was knew she was inside here, but there was a chance she could escape…how? Her body was weak as a newborn. She needed strength…she needed to flee. Fight. Drink…

…the smell hit her.

Blood.

Pressing her hands to the floor, she raised herself to her knees and sat up, still gripping the blanket around her. It was like…water descending over a cliff, the hunger fell upon her so quickly. A hole where her stomach ought to be. She had to find the blood, drifting from beneath the door, tantalising her with its presence. The stranger must have known. On her knees, she crawled at a snail's pace, stopping in front of the door and cautiously reaching for the handle. The iron might squeak and they would know she was out, but it did not matter. They already knew…and she had to find the blood.

Turning the handle, she pushed the door slightly forward. It swung open silently, the hallway dark as the grave, the ancient faces of the past staring back at her from the walls. Edging forward, she sniffed the air again, looking to either side. Empty. The smell came from her left, benches lining the sinister hallway, doors closed to either side. In the far distance, she could see a table…an open door.

Moonlight shining through the open door. Something…so familiar about this place. Had she been here before? Why could she not remember? She crawled forward, her arms starting to fold towards the stone. Already she was tiring. Still she edged forward, leaning against the wall at times, swaying as she gathered her strength…blood.

She had to get to the blood.

Without warning, the blanket fell from her fingers and she crumpled, her breath coming ragged from the exertion. Angels above her head, stone faces watching her from the shadows.

She could go no further…

…but faint, she heard the footsteps again, the sound of a door opening and light sweeping across the floor. She could not see enough…not with the light shining. Eyes falling out of focus, her fingers grasped at the stone, scrabbling against the smooth surface. Her neck would not listen. It would not turn. Who was coming? The feel of a hand beneath her neck, a silhouette at the corner of her vision, kneeling beside her, scooping her up with the blanket.

She could not fight it. No strength. Arms would not listen, though again her stomach turned upon itself, the smell of blood coming closer. Heat. Hissing, her eyelids snapped shut, the heat paining her, blinding her completely. She clutched against cloth. Immediately the stranger halted, lowering her to the ground, leaving her beside heat, her fingers clenching in fear. No, she thought. Heat, the crackle of fire. Too warm. Instinctively, she tried to draw away again, but she could not move. The body was too weak. The fire was going to burn her. She had dreamed of burning. Where had the stranger gone? Help her…

Again, the hand under her neck…

…and then blood on her lips. The smell of blood, the taste of blood on her tongue. Someone held a bowl to her lips. Desperate, she grasped the hands, gulping the liquid, almost choking in her effort to get it down, the sharpness of her teeth getting in the way. Liquid dribbling down the side of her mouth, but she did not stop. All of it. She wanted all of it and more.

Coughing, she finally choked and the hands stole away, leaving her as she folded over, her lips smearing against the blanket. Her mouth opening and closing as she struggled to breathe, trying to focus her eyes. Too much of the weakness remained, sleep waiting on the edge of her conscience. Like the figure that had carried her, she could not fight it. She was too exhausted.

Darkness enveloping her…

She slept.

…o… o… o…

Again, the woman dreamed.

The eyes of the storm.

With a cry, she woke again, light forcing her eyes to creep rather than fly. Nausea beating at her stomach, but she struggled against it, forcing herself to focus. She could feel the blanket beneath her. Focus on something. Anything. The memory of fire. Stones glistening from fire. Wood cracking from the heat. Dried blood on her chin…blood in her veins. Her body no longer as weak as when she first woke. Blinking, she sat up in a daze, uncurling her arm from beneath and touching the blood on her lips, drawing the blanket up and keeping her body covered. Where was this place? Different from the bedroom. An enormous mantle above her, the stones laid by a mason long dead. The remnants of a fire kept alive by…

Her eyes focused all too sharply.

…grey eyes.

It was…him.

Dark shadows on his face, he sat only a few feet away, his back against a wooden cupboard, calmly observing her, the eyes which did not blink, a knife in his hand and the blood-rimmed bowl at his feet. Short hair that spoke of waves and a beard that had not been trimmed in several days. The coat was heavily wrinkled for he must have slept in his clothes, the white shirt stained with blood. He was the one that had fed her, yet there was more to this memory.

The nightmare burning her.

The one who had…carved into her back. It was him. His hand grabbing her chin, forcing her to look up. Hauling her forward to stare into his eyes with fear. He was the fire. The pain.

Instinctively, her teeth drew back and she hissed, spine curving slightly, talons drawing the blanket with her as she retreated on the balls of her feet. Her perspective changed, the world shooting into even sharper focus. Teeth as points, her senses heightened, the sound from her lips growing harsher, a blade rasping against stone. She could smell the burning wood, the remains of blood. There was a door at the other end of the room. Every moment, her body gained strength in the change, yet the man remained expressionless, following every movement and now serenely turning the knife blade in his palm. He knew of vampires then. Was he an exile? He must be…

She could outrun him…she could…

"Better you remain here," he said quietly, not quite looking at the door and turning the back of his neck as if loosening it. As he made the movement, she saw beyond his lips…his teeth. Sharp, the heritage of immortals. He was a vampire then… His voice deep; not so much cruel as hard. Latin, he spoke. Such cold eyes, grey irises reflecting light which began to transform, almost imperceptibly. So close to the flame, the shape of firelight and strange visions passing before her. Light and the faintest hint of growing… …silver.

Lycan!

Reckless, she made a break for the door, her nails already at a point, the blanket dropping into a heap behind her. Her bare feet flying across the hot stone, the rush of air. Freedom. She could not be trapped. Not again… She skidded to a halt, almost falling, forcing her body to balance at the last second, her eyes gaping at the door. He was already there. Fast…strong, leaning against the door, his arms behind his back, the knife hanging almost unobtrusively from his fingers. Try it, his expression said.

With a second hiss, she backed away from the door. The Awakening may have weakened her, but hand-to-hand combat aside, she had other tactics. Fire. She spied the blanket she had dropped. Letting her hand move by instinct, her fingers darting to the ground, taking hold of the rough material; already planning the movements of her hand—thinking to light it, thinking to burn her way across the room…

…only to falter.

Her legs suddenly frozen. Her eyes growing wide, staring at the fingers of her right hand. The crackling light of fire showing every detail without mercy.

Her hands.

It was…it was impossible.

Her gaze stumbled across her body, struggling to take it all in. The blanket falling as she staggered back. Old skin. Spindly arms, sinewy legs, mottled skin, the shock of sagging breasts. The moment of realisation ending as she raised a trembling hand to her cheek. Wrinkled. Her face was wrinkled. Finally, the cold rushed upon her, a strange sound rising in the back of her throat. She was starting to shake. She was a vampire. She could never grow old. She was…immortal. The air was thin. She could not breathe, her knees buckling to the floor. Cold stone and no one to catch her. No one to tell her she was dreaming. Panting on the ground, she stared at the stones beneath her palms and then, in desperation, sought the lycan's gaze…

His expression had grown colder. No words.

Like a beast, he jerked contemptuously from the door, the walking gait of a wolf crossing the room. He knew she could not escape. He had done this to her, and for her pains, he did not care. A callous man…a dog returning to his position by the wall… And yet, before he could pass, she suddenly reached out, her hand seizing the edge of his clothing, halting him in his path… a lycan. She was touching a lycan, yet she did not care.

"I will heal?" she whispered, her voice coming out harsh. Even her voice had changed. Rough and scratched. "I will heal?" she said again, almost pleading with him.

"No," he said curtly, silver eyes staring down from above. His answer was final.

She could feel it…water behind her eyes. She would be old. Already an exile, but now old…why did he stare at her? Staring at her age. Her old hands. Quickly she gathered the blanket around herself. Her body might be ancient, but his eyes would never touch her again. Facing the floor, the last hint of water dried away before the first tear even had a chance to fall. She would not cry. Stone must settle where water had been.

"You did this to me," she snarled as he stepped away.

"You argue with yourself," he replied frostily, turning on his heel to stare at her, falling back on the old phrases of Latin. A scholar then? The disbelief must have shown on her face for his expression tightened. Fluid, the man stalked back to his seat, folding his arms carelessly on the knees and closing his eyes.

She blinked…he was closing his eyes. Such an insult. A guard whose charge was so weak that he did not need to keep watch. She must be stone, yet a lump of cold water had already settled in her throat, her hands starting to tremble again. A half-sleep. All knew the dangers of a half sleep, so how could she have done this to herself? She had only come here in the first place because… The memory fled before she could grasp on to it.

She could not remember.

"How many months?" she said faintly. So strange to hear her voice, so harsh.

"Two decades," he shrugged, balancing the knife hilt on his palm, leaning his head back against the cupboard, relaxing while he spoke of her misfortune. In a daze, she felt the last of her resolve crumble.

"And the…the coven?" She stumbled over the word.

"A few miles to the east," he murmured languidly, only the faintest slice of silver to suggest his eyes had opened by a margin. "…and I suspect, once they see that mark of yours, they'll have you beaten, questioned, stripped of that little blanket, and then burnt alive." His tone suggested he had moved beyond such trivialities…

He was threatening her…

…either that or stating the obvious. Weak as she was, this lycan held her fate in the palm of his hand. In the past it had happened, exiles betraying other exiles such as themselves. Creatures tied up by some unknown hand and left by the coven gates for judgment.

Swallowing, she nodded dimly, turning her face towards the fire and crawling closer. The heat no longer frightened her. She remembered fleeing her visions. Screaming. Visions of burning. Her memories still so fleeting, the recent ones all but gone, the past broken into pieces, yet she knew only too well the truth of what she was. The only possible reason for why a lycan would wake a vampire. Shrewd, she kept him in the corner of her eye and he watched her just as keenly, playing with the knife to suggest indifference. She knew how carefully he navigated this deal. Earlier, he had pushed her into the corner with words. Now he seemed to be weighing something, a decision is his mind.

It would not be long before he made the proposition…

He could have forced her…

…yet taking his time, the lycan seemed to savour the moment, rising slowly from the floor, abandoning the knife and advancing closer, the firelight reflecting on his face, looming above her…the threat of his species, the faintest hint of silver moving across his eyes and then fading. He was controlling it. He could control the silver.

"I offer you a way out," he said, soothing her with the deep voice of a poet. A chameleon this one. One moment he spoke as cold as northern ice, the next he held warmth like the flame at her hands. Flawless Latin.

"And if I do not take it?" she said grimly, knowing the answer already. That a lycan should speak with such refinement. A dog. She would not give him the benefit of height. Instead of craning her neck, she focused on the fire, her back straight, her bearing that of a queen rather than a prisoner. She would be his prisoner all too soon enough.

He leaned against the mantle, folding his arms. "You must realise I was being polite when I said 'offer'…"

She said nothing, a part of her wanting clutch against the stone, yet she had expected as much. There was a strange expression on his face, something she could not interpret. It was almost…cruelty on the verge of amusement. One who laughed in the face of anguish. He did not smile, yet his eyes were amused by her circumstance. Beast, she thought.

"Then I will accept," she whispered to the fire.

"Oh, it is not so simple," said the lycan, all trace of his amusement fading like water on sand. She blinked, estranged by the sudden departure of his warm demeanour. He changed his emotions so quickly. What strategy was this? Like forcing a combatant to kneel and then dragging the floor from beneath their feet. What more could he…

…proof, she realised faintly.

He wanted proof that she was as the mark had branded her. Yet it could be dangerous giving a blood-seer the fruit they required for sight. The words were not always positive. No understanding of time or sequence, a vision that spoke of death could take place in a year or a century. In many cases, it might not even occur. Simply a warning of things to watch for…

"Your blood?"

"Never."

She blinked at his answer, suddenly seeing the lycan in a different light.

In the old days, before their exile, blood-seers would taste the blood of a lycan, falling into the trance, speaking in what some called the 'tongues.' At first the vision would foster upon the lycan's blood, but during the seer's trance, vampire soldiers would gain their reading by feeding the seer enough blood to bring about their own visions. In all those days, the Elders had never once allowed their blood to come in contact with the seers. One of the first lessons she had been taught as a child…

…only a leader will refuse.

This one was high in the lycan ranks.

"Then whose?" she whispered.

"We'll call him a friend," he replied briskly, turning on his heel and striding to the cupboard. It seemed he had noticed her pause after his refusal to provide. Stooping to pick up the bowl on the ground, he was back in less than a heartbeat, holding the container out to her. "…now drink." It was a command.

"Only a drop or it will cost you," she said, taking the bowl and squinting into its depths. Lycan blood was poisonous, but the more she drank, the stronger the vision. A single drop brought nausea. Two brought the blood back up. Three and she'd be bedridden. Any more than that and he could consider this deal as over-before-it-began.

"Only a drop," he agreed with a tilt of the chin, folding his arms and smiling genuinely as if causing her discomfort was the furthest thing from his mind. Instead of drinking, she placed the bowl firmly on the ground and stared up at him, contemplating the strange changes that went with this one's character. Already his tone had changed again. No longer a guard, but an obliging comrade. Could this be true poison? A drug before he left her to the coven's mercy?

How could one trust such a changeling?

"Quickly now…" he muttered suddenly, waving a hand. "…the sun is setting. We leave as soon as it is dark." Apparently, the smile had been too much for him for it had faded into a grim scowl.

At least his impatience remained constant…

…and there lay the trick.

Forcing herself to remain as tranquil as water, she bowed her head slowly, taking her sweet time as she demonstrated her choice to submit. Her finger dipped into the bowl and keeping her back straight, she brought the blood to her lips…and tasted it. The sharp, tangy taste of lycan blood, almost bitter as tree bark. She wanted to retch, but instead, trained as she was, she swallowed. The lights began to dim, a cold wind on her back as one whispering secrets across her skin. Swaying, she let the vision take her.

Blackness overwhelmed her, her lips opening of their own accord.

"Wolf beaten of iron, leather and sand. Thrown on the seas, taken from another who is dead and rocking across the waters." Sharp, her eyes flicked upwards, seeing nothing, seeing all as she saw through the blood, aware and vacant as only a seer could be during the trance. "So strange a land where some call him savage when they are more savage than he. Faithful, yet what is faithful when trust is broken? Seek not the master, but the blood…for he will rise against…"

"…Budapest," she gasped, awareness drawing the blackness away, the colours of the room reeling forward as the trance left. As always, the images began to fade from her mind. As always, she could not remember what she saw…

… yet the words remained.

And the nausea.

"Do you believe?" Breathing heavily, she raised her head, staring at the man on her right. He had made no comment, a strange light growing in his eyes. Perhaps now he was considering whether to burn her himself or leave her to his enemies? "…do you believe?" she demanded. Her strategy of patience would not work so well when it was so rapidly wearing thin. Nausea gripping her stomach, forcing her to fold over, gripping her side. Why did he not answer?

Watching her discomfort, his lips drew back suddenly, the smile almost warming his expression. The glinting eyes of a man staring at gold. "I believe we are at an accord," he said, holding out a hand. A hand? What was this?

She swallowed, eyeing the hand, suspicious of its meaning…and then quickly, before he could take it away, she grasped it. A firm shake, though she had the suspicion he was making a true effort not to crush her fingers. How very generous… It only took her a moment to understand the handshake as the deal rather than friendliness.

"You'll need proper attire for the journey," the lycan continued, letting her hand go and stalking to the cupboard, the wolf-gait back in his bearing. The edge had returned to his voice, the hardness which reminded her that he was a lycan and she a vampire. He opened the cupboard and tossed her a leather bundle from one of the shelves, shutting the cupboard with a loud bang. She flinched, catching the bundle, her eyes narrowing at him. Brusque and curt, this one would trample a deer just to find its tracks.

He strode towards the door, walking and talking to save time… "Once we reach the city, your wardrobe can be fine-tuned, but until then, make do with what we have." He reached for the handle, his final instructions spoken over the shoulder. "When the sun is fully set, I will come for you. Ten minutes."

His hand on the door-handle, and only then did she think to ask…

"Wait…" she growled, her frustration sounding out for he actually halted at her word. Where had the steel of her will gone? She would need it in the coming days. Licking her lips, she forced the question… "Your name. Who are you?"

"Who am I?"

For the first time, there was a trace of distrust in the lycan's voice. His face was in the shadows already, but he turned slowly on his heel to stare at her, the grey eyes reflecting silver for a moment. Upon seeing her face, he started to smile…and then gave a faint bark of laughter. As if he had expected to see a lion, but found a lamb in its place. Something so strange about this man.

The silence as he studied her face, only the hint of a malicious smile remaining. "You know I'm afraid, young woman, that your heart would stop if I told you."

Before she could reply, the lycan slipped through the door, the last fading rays of sunlight just visible in the open hallway. Sunlight… Her body recoiled, curling under the blanket, but just as suddenly as the door opened, it slammed shut. Her ears still ringing, she forced herself breathe, relaxing the sensation to cringe, the blanket falling and the bundle settling in her lap.

Ten minutes he had given her.

Quickly, she began to pull clothing from the bundle…a plain tunic and a pair of long breeches, both smelling of dust. About to start dressing…and then feeling forlorn for a moment. He'd used the diminutive form in Latin, she realised with a sigh. Not just woman, but 'young' woman.

'Diminutive' woman.

It was an unnecessary slight, though she was sure to receive far worse insults in future. Best to get used to it now. He had not even asked her name…a testament to how much he saw her as a tool rather than a person.

Unwilling to let cruel words affect her state of mind, she concentrated on strategy, all-the-while pulling the breeches on and the tunic over her head. Nothing to be done about her hair. No shoes, but her feet were tough. Grabbing the blanket, she began to fold it, preparing herself for the concept of leaving with a lycan. There had to be a way to handle him.

He was brisk and impatient. Weaknesses which could give her an edge over him. Though how high he stood among the lycans, she could not wager. He worded his commands as questions, almost fooling his listener into thinking there was actually a choice involved. And where could they be going? Probably a den. If there was even a horde large enough to warrant one. Lycans were dogs…animals. Not since the days of Lucian had they…

She froze, the nausea rising, her thoughts streaming ahead, laying the truth before her like a line of tracks running across the earth. She could hear his voice suddenly, turning in her mind, her heart sinking as she realised what was strange about his wording. Like an Elder who'd forgotten how to speak a language in any other tone but that of the oldest creature in the room. It occurred to her in the same moment...

It was not an insult.

The lycan simply believed he was older than her. Older than a seer from before the eleventh century. Faster and stronger than any lycan she had ever seen. A man who spoke flawless Latin. One who refused blood as only a leader must. She could hear his footsteps now. Coming towards the door behind her.

No, she thought, the blanket falling from her fingers for the second time that night. Impossible.

Lucian is dead. Lucian was killed in the…

The door opened and she yelped, almost falling to the ground, twisting to face the eyes which did not blink. Darkness behind him, the harsh lines of a wolf, silver gazing upon her like a moon beside a candle sputtering with dying flame. His face was so different now that night had fallen. Ruthless…the slaughter of thousands at his hand. The desecration of the smaller covens. The killing of men, women, and children. Mortals and vampires alike. The night of flame and retribution…how many stories had she heard of his cruelty.

"You are…d-dead," she stammered.

"And you are quick," he mused softly, stepping forward, the candle casting a cruel light across his face. "A fine trait to be had, though we will see in future whether you remain so." He took another step forward, his face hardening, the skin tightening along his jaw. It was the first sign before a lycan changed, the strength he showed by pausing at this crucial moment. "I am not dead and like you, I have lingered in the dark…" A merciless smile draped itself across his lips, his deep voice sweeping across the room with tranquil abandon. "…but I have not wasted my time. I swear to you now, blood-seer, speak my name to a single soul and our deal is at an end. Am I understood?"

She nodded quickly, every instinct screaming at her to climb the walls, throw herself into the flames…somehow to get away. She had thought him cold before. This was cold…the chill of one who could murder thousands in a single night. They said that during the final years before his death, he had scoured the countryside, his lycans raping and pillaging, terrorising the villages. Massacres. Entire families torn into pieces of flesh. He would kill her if she spoke his name.

"Excellent." He nodded curtly and then carried on as though his threat was his calling card. "Now we are to travel under the cover of darkness. Although we are not acquainted, for the sake of our mutual purpose, may I at least have the pleasure of your name?"

She choked.

How many facets did this lycan hold to his character? The tension in his skull had faded and he spoke as a gentleman. As though they had just happened upon each other in the library of an acquaintance. She could not relax…every facet was a façade and a killer lay beneath them all.

Shivering she took a careful step back. "I have no name," she managed, shaking her head.

"You will tell me eventually," he replied, allowing his head to rest against the door frame, a wolf which had paused a moment before the kill. Clearly, he did not believe in her statement. He had the air of a man conversing with his prey…and though it was clear that he had many methods for extracting information from prisoners, she would give him no name…

…she could not.

Since waking, she had known. Memories broken by one who had sliced into her veins. Had he known the damage he had inflicted? Scenes of her childhood. Moments in her past…a name almost on her tongue, yet she could not grasp it for the name was gone.

"It is no lie," she whispered, her lip curling as she remembered what he had done. "I have no name. Perhaps you carved it from my memories while I was sleeping?"

"Alright," he said brusquely, seeming tired of their polite conversation, one hand gesturing for her to come, the other still holding the candle. "…you are nameless. We will think of some sordid word to call you on the journey." His expression had hardened, no longer a man staring upon gold but ash. His next words were spoken almost in bitterness… "Before we leave, oh nameless one, I imagine you wish to speak with someone. A historian of sorts…surely you remember his name?"

A name? Confused, she squinted at her captor…unsure of his meaning, a broken slate where her memories had once been. A historian…

There was no…

Wait…

There was something there.

The dream flashed before her, her eyes closing, her hands rising to her head as she remembered. Wind rushed against her palm. Before her, a ship sweeping across the harbour, sails fleeing the pier. She had wanted to flee with them. She had needed to get out…a question always on her lips.

Where was the historian?

The historian…

Eyes shot open.

"Tanis," she hissed, suddenly aware that some…anger…had found its way into her conscience. She could not remember a face, but there was hatred. What for…why? Why did she…hate him? And why would Lucian wish to remind her of this? Still standing by the door, the man had remained quiet at her outburst. There was a dark gleam in his eye, as if he had chosen to take a step back, content to watch matters take their course. Something he was interested to see.

She had to think.

Stepping over the blanket, she began to circle the room. Sleep. Why had she put herself into sleep? Monastery…she stood in a monastery and he was… Suddenly she stilled, her eyes darting along the walls, the horrific memory rising from the depths. Faces on the walls. Angels. A room at the end…a lock on the door. Her jaw tightened and fear rising up, she darted forward, pushing past the infamous lycan-master into the hallway, her breath coming ragged. She looked to the right and left. Which way? Seeming undisturbed by her freedom of movement, Lucian was carelessly following her with his gaze…and then his eyes flicked to the left for a split-second.

A hint.

Her head twisted in the same direction, squinting deeper into the hallway. Between the benches, upon the dust, she walked barefoot until she reached the door at the very end. The iron lock rusty after so many years. Reaching her hand out, shaking, she turned the handle, pushing the door open. The bed of wooden slats. The broken chair and the secretaire covered in dust. Tomes on the floor, the tapestry and the bookshelf lying in pieces. As if she were living a second time, the memory flashed before her…

A room at the end of the hallway, a lock on the door. Tanis had led her there…he had said…he had said there was a book in the room. He would aid her. He would be back, the door slamming shut, the key turning in the lock.

Hours passing, days locked in there, her body growing weaker. No blood to be had and screaming. She had screamed until her voice was ragged, screaming to the angels…the faces on the ceiling and walls, the tapestry covering the hole. The catacombs were rock-solid…and Tanis…

He was going to feed on her…on her body. She had to…get out. No way out. How to survive…how to stay alive when another vampire held you in his grasp? He was going to kill her… more days passed. Weeks. Screaming, her body had shrivelled up, her veins slowing in their pace. He would not have her blood.

He would not drain her dry.

Adrenaline. Turning with a snarl, she left the room, hunting quickly down the hallway and beneath the angels, storming into the main hall, searching for the culprit. The massive table…the books, the chairs, the candleholders. None of the candles were lit, yet she could see clearly through the darkness, her teeth already bared.

There he was…

Andreas Tanis cringing beneath the watch of a colossal, dark lycan. The lycan whose blood she must have tasted earlier, yet all she could see was the swine at his feet. The trembling vampire, his robes in a heap, wrinkled and skinny, the appearance of a weasel caught in the garden. The years had not been kind to him, but they had been far worse to her. Already he was trying to get behind the lycan, his hands raised up in innocence, but suddenly, they both heard the sound of footsteps…Lucian was coming…and without shame, the historian changed his tactics, now emerging from behind the dark lycan and pointing viciously at her with his finger…

"Woman, you cannot touch me…you cannot," he yelled, as if this were a game where words could stop her from ripping his head off. "We made a deal…Lucian, we made a…"

"I will kill you," she spat, her voice coming harsh, almost a growl.

"No, you will not," Lucian interjected smoothly from behind, all their heads swivelling to follow him. He had just passed beneath the angels, and tranquil as the moon, he stepped past her and took a seat in one of the armchairs, his entire focus on the floor now, fingers searching through the numerous books at his feet. Finally pinching one from the top of a pile, he placed the candle on the table, flipped the book open and began to read. Her mouth dropped open. He was reading? To make matters worse, her eyes could just make out the title along the spine…

'Theophrastus. Historia Plantarum.'

A vengeful hiss began to grow in her throat. She was about to murder this worm of a vampire, and the most infamous lycan-master in history not only stopped her, but was now reading an ancient treatise on…botany?

It was too much.

Snarling, she stepped forward and scratched Tanis across the face, the vampire crumpling to the ground in a heap. The dark lycan took a calm step back, his eyes staring forward. With a cry, Tanis sat up, his mouth dropping open, a hand on his cheek…his beady eyes darting to Lucian, his hand pointing at her in disbelief.

"Did you…did you see what she just …"

Before he could finish, she slapped him across the mouth, cutting his words off. Neither Lucian nor the other lycan made a single move…and as Tanis crawled back, she hit him again…and again…and again. Kicking him. Scratching him. This was the culprit…not her. Because of him, this had happened to her face, her skin, her blood. Because of him, she would be forever trapped in the body of a seventy-year old woman. Half her strength, her face ancient, her blows growing weaker. Weaker. Tanis, bruised, scratched, curled into a ball, warding off blows with his arm…

…but he was not dead.

She sobbed, staggering back, breathing heavily…sobbing into her fist. She could not even kill him. She wanted to, but her strength was gone…and now she was crying. The last shame as her pitiful strength left her. A weak, snivelling worm of a vampire…like a coward, Tanis snarled and then leered maliciously, his grin darting over to the mirror on their right. She could not stop herself. Knowing what she would see, her eyes followed and finally, she caught sight of herself in the glass.

Her face. Tilted blue eyes gleaming from an ancient face. Water trickling down to the tip of her chin, her cheekbones. Ancient. There was nothing left. Only traces to show what she had once looked like. Bending to the floor, she picked up a book and strode to the mirror, dashing the spine into the glass, over and over, shattering it so there was nothing but wood in the frame.

At the sound, Lucian finally…finally…glanced up.

"Ready then?" Grey eyes staring at her coldly. There was no sympathy in them. By his body language, he could sit there all day, impatience thrown aside by the mere presence of a book. Sullen, she said nothing and to her discomfiture, Lucian only nodded, settling comfortably back into his chair, his cool gaze sliding easily onto the pages again. It was clear that he would wait until she was finished. Until she was finished.

She.

It did not take a seer to understand that she had misjudged him. She had assumed impatience was his mistress when in truth, he was the whoreson of vengeance, so much that he would fuck his own schedule just to see his prisoner get some.

She threw the battered book to the ground.

"Ready," she answered curtly, sneering at the vampire and turning for the monastery door. Behind her, she heard Lucian close the book softly and stand, the dark lycan already striding towards the door. Through the entrance, she saw the stagecoach waiting outside. Tears still on her face…to have lost her composure in front of that snivelling worm. She would rather not have remembered, yet for the rest of his days, Tanis would think of her as…

No…

She halted.

…no, she could change this.

Twisting on her heel, she stalked back and kicked the historian in the stomach…and then spat. The kick was weak, but the vampire cried out in anger, greasy with his eyes squinching, drawing himself back with a haughty scoff. Insolent swine, he knew he would survive this day. He knew he would reap the rewards for having sold her…

…but she would be damned before she left him feeling content.

"You will die one day, Andreas Tanis," she said, her voice harsh, the crooning sound of an old crone scratching at his fate. The words she spoke might be a lie…but there was nothing as fearsome as a blood-seer's curse. "Not by my hand, but someone far stronger than me. Someone who will drain your blood just as surely as you were going to drain mine. Mark my words, you will cringe before them. You will beg and you will whine and you will bleat until the very last. It will be painful…agony until there are only minutes to live. Then seconds. And then…" Clap! She slapped her hands together, causing him to flinch. "…it will end."

His mouth gaped, staring up at her, swallowing and sputtering on the ground, a weasel drowning in immaterial water. She narrowed her eyes once at him and then turned for the door, forcing herself not to look back. Forcing herself not to hear as Lucian made the same deal with Tanis that he made with her. Down to the very words…

'It appears we are at an accord.'

Outside, she saw the night for the first time in twenty years, the black stagecoach standing before her, the horses stamping their feet in the moonlight. Beyond the monastery ran a long, dirt road, the silhouette of the forest creeping along the countryside like a giant, rustling snake.

The dark lycan pushing aggressively past her, his steps taking him to the stagecoach, powerful arms pulling his body up to the box-seat, all-the-while watching her. His face was like stone. The true emotion of a lycan… one who hated her for her species. Wait until we get to the den, she thought harshly, determined to make the best of this newest stage of her exile. If Lucian was willing to let Tanis live, then he would keep his wolves from her throat.

She could run. Right now, she could run for the hills… but running would only prolong a hunt for which she had no strength. Instead, stepping up to the coach, accepting the hand fate had dealt her, she opened the door and scrutinised the interior before entering. Soft leather. Everything draped in black to blend with the night. Sniffing, she took a seat upon the soft leather and folded her arms, staring out the window.

She had been sold…and though it might seem as if she were journeying into hell, she knew when it came to this angelic place, she would prefer this hell.

From behind, she heard the sound of Lucian entering the stage-coach, the door shutting as the lycan took a seat across from her, only the faint light of the moon shining through the window. He knocked on the top of the ceiling and the coach began to move, rocking her back and forth, back and forth like the ocean. Faster as the horses picked up their pace. She would not speak to him. She would not acknowledge him. Instead, closing her eyes, she would dream.

The deal was done.

She would never look back.

A/N: Pheew. What a long chapter...dreams, visions, a woman beating Tanis up. Whatever will happen next? Who knew Lucian enjoyed reading botany? (I didn't.) And gasp, what on earth is this woman's name? (I do know that one.) Time for bed after a long night of proofreading.

Please read and review!

Note: For anyone concerned over the seer being able to historically think the word 'fuck' in Latin, there's a lovely article over at wikipedia on Latin profanity that will alleviate your fears. (the Latin verb would be 'futuō'.)