Chapter VII: Slave or Servant

Thirty seconds earlier.

"It appears we are at an accord."

Words spoken a hundred times, a centuries old arrangement providing the final details of the deal. His mind was clear, his hand steady, but his eyes were trained on the woman's back. She could not see him watching her, smelling the malice she left behind. Like a drop of venom crawling down his back, the snake biting the man who mistook it for a worm. He was not the only one to smell it.

To his right, Raze shadowed the entrance, his quick steps catching up with her, roughly colliding with her shoulder. Lucian only looked away, forcing himself to calm before any pain could start in his head. The last few days had been serene compared to his usual schedule…sleepless nights. Headaches. Imbeciles surrounding him. He did not usually coddle prisoners, but he would have to speak to Raze about his conduct. Etiquette. Manners. He prided himself on enforcing a certain decorum among his lycans. Of all people, Raze should have learned that by now.

Reflective, he moved onto other matters. There was no point in discussing the finer details of the deal with Tanis. Nothing had changed in four decades save for the means of transport. The historian would receive the full price for the blood-seer in a fortnight. Until then, food would find its way to the monastery by way of Goar, the pack-leader of Budapest and the few remaining lycans in the hills.

From below, the sound of gnashing teeth brought him out of his reverie. He glanced down and in the same moment, Tanis glanced up, the hazel-green eyes of the twitching weasel. The vampire had taken the thrashing badly, but it was the curse that would leave the mark. Not so much as a word passed between them, yet it was the singular moment when they were both aware of each other's unease. The curse still lingering in the air…

…yet already, the vampire was recovering.

Shrugging the tattered robe around his shoulders, occasionally glaring up at Lucian for not having stopped the beating. How many centuries had they known one another? They were not friends, but one could always appreciate the other man's penchant for survival. A casual smirk emerging on the historian's face as he glanced at the woman's back and then up at Lucian.

The rapidly growing scent of…

"Don't even go there," said Lucian tightly, recognising the sleazy gleam in Tanis' eye for what it was. The historian sniggered rashly and then quickly shut his mouth, eyes darting to the floor. Foul-minded, blood-sucking son of a pig. As if he…Lucian…could possibly have been staring at the woman for any other reason beyond cold observation. She was old. Decrepit. It was…obscene. Growling softly in annoyance, the lycan-master turned away, stalking to monastery entrance, arms sternly behind his back.

Just for that, he was keeping the book.

Stepping outside, it was as if the night had been created solely for his eyes and in gratitude, he breathed deeply, taking in the scent. His homeland. The sound of his boots dampened by grass, the haunting sigh of trees drowning in the peace of the moon anchored above, always tempting with her wiles…but he could not listen. Not tonight.

Like a creature from the depths, the stagecoach waited upon him, the open door like a gaping mouth, the horses jerking at the reins, raring to be off, but trained enough to hold back. Magnificent animals...Kisber halfbreds suited to cavalry, but taking their duties in stride. Athletic, elegant…playful when it suited them. One of the mares flared her nostrils suddenly, her tail coming up to give a sharp flick through the air. Sixteen hands high with a white patch on her shoulder.

All too subtle reminder.

Almost three days ago, before the blood-seer woke, he'd spent the afternoon in the western paddock. Currycomb and brushes in hand, grooming the horses down. Hoof-picking. Watering. Attempting to ride one bareback and finding that she liked it better when he was brushing her tail. Anything but a lycan and he might have broken his neck. Of course, Raze had chosen that moment to enter the paddock.

Glancing at the horse with pointed displeasure, Lucian stepped up to the stagecoach, taking his seat across from the blood-seer. Thirty minutes to the rendez-vous with Goar and then two hours to the docks. With the door closed firmly behind them, he rapped his knuckle once against the ceiling and leaned back, the stagecoach leaping into motion. The jerky rocking making it almost impossible to read. Nonetheless, he carried the book in hand, the red spine faded, the gold-leaf creeping along the edges. Theophrastus. Historia Plantarum. He'd already devoured it once in his youth, and considering how tired he was now, he just wanted to lie down and sleep…

…but he was guarding.

His charge ancient and weak, but still officially dangerous; particularly with her knowledge of his name. Turning the book in his hands, instead of opening it, he scrutinised the vampire. She was breathing shallow, her eyes firmly shut, arms crossed, mimicking the dead. She might have to feed before they reached the docks, the thrashing seeming to have taken as much out of her as it had Tanis. The notion did little to warm him to her, the scent of malice muted now that she drifted on the edge of slumber.

If they could all be so lucky.

"So what does 'H' stand for?" he said bluntly, tossing the book aside. Thanks to her, he'd been awake for the last two days and part of that time had been spent with her gorging blood on his shirt. He'd eat the damn book before he let her sleep when he could not.

The woman continued to sway, rocking with the stagecoach, firmly ignoring him as all prisoners are wont to do in their first hour of captivity. He could be debris washing the bow of a ship for all the notice she took of him. Perhaps his first question had been too abrupt. What with the lack of sleep cutting his tolerance in half, it might have been wiser to take a more subtle approach…

"You know…" he said softly, squinting through the window. Such a warm silence. "…back when I was young, I might have had some misgiving about using your nails to cut that brand from your…"

"Slave."

"What?" He tore his gaze from the hills.

"The H on my side." Her eyes opened, the firm stare of one who believed herself in the right. "It stands for slave."

Bloods, she was a moralist. A righteous one at that.

"I prefer the word servant."

"Is there a difference?" She folded her arms tighter, an attempt at straightening her back. Where did women learn that trick? Probably passed down through generations. It might have worked had she been several decades younger…and in possession of a bosom.

"Yes," he grunted. "You keep your skin and I will not whip you if you disobey me." He should have waited until they were on the ship.

"Why whip a slave when you can force blood down her throat?"

"I could do that," he agreed coolly, not bothering to temper the fact that she was under his thumb. The woman must be insane, arguing matters such as slavery with a lycan. Three times she had said it. 'Slave, slave, slave.' Hairless old crone berating him in Latin, her voice like a strangled chicken. "…but it would be ill-mannered. I prefer to keep our exchanges civil."

"Civil enough to inquire on a mark that is private." She stressed the word, obviously still harbouring some of the dignities of her lost youth. A great one for stressing her point. First slavery and now a patch of skin underneath her shirt. The woman should throw her morals aside. It was 1899, for goodness' sake. Industry was booming, and the London den was not the most…proper of places.

Disregarding her glower, he leaned back and concentrated on keeping his human form. "We all have our marks from this war, blood-seer. Yours merely has a letter I have not seen in use." He exhaled, making a conscious effort to soften his tone. "I assure you, there is no hidden agenda to my question and do not think of it as an interrogation." That was a lie. "It is simply better if I know as much as possible about your history while employing you. Also your age and the date of branding."

"I'd rather live with a funnel down my throat."

"I'll use a pipette," he said bitingly, turning back to the window.

So much for that exchange. Unbuttoning his coat, he shrugged it off so he could consider the blood on his shirt. He could feel a headache coming…a faint throbbing on his temple. Seven hundred years ago, that retort would have earned him a strapping. 'Quick tongue. Sharp tendency to point out the obvious. Sleeping with Viktor's daughter. Three nights in solitary. Five hundred lashes.'

The crone's voice intruded on his moment. She sounded suspicious. "What is a pipette?"

Pipette…

He sniffed the blood, contemplating how to explain the tool of his threat in as few words as possible. It was a French device. She had to be alive when that was invented. He could say 'little pipe'…but it was mildly inaccurate in Latin. Damn the old tongue, why was he speaking Latin anyway? Here they were, exiles traipsing around the homeland and by his own mouth, he was offering the biggest calling card of the immortals.

"It's a small type of funnel," he offered tetchily in English, his tone deepening as an air of 'wry sarcasm'—as it had often been described to him—settled upon him like a second fur. Four teachers and a century of elocution lessons. He could barely remember what he sounded like before he moved to London.

"Quid dixisti?"

Oh that was obliging.

"A funnel," he said again, this time while massaging his left temple. His head was throbbing. He should have brought more laudanum with him. Two bottles sitting in a bag at the docks. "…and if you want deathdealers breathing down your neck like the fires of Pompeii, then please…keep speaking Latin." If he could just get the right rhythm, it felt as if by some miracle, he might be able to get the pain under control.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her shake her head. Almost snorting to herself as though he had just demonstrated the inferiority of his species. "Nescio quid dixeris," she said firmly…as if he were the one having trouble understanding her. His first instinct one of irritation, his second one of exhaustion, and his third...

...clarity.

The sense that the world had just stopped in its orbit. For she had to be speaking in jest. A very bad, very ill-timed jest that had no place in this carriage let alone in range of his hearing. Taking the time to breathe for a single precious moment, he forced himself to regard the small woman sitting across from him. It was impossible. "You are joking," he said.

The woman frowned, her cheeks starting to deepen in their colour. Suspicious of his tone. Clearly unsure of what he was saying; and by that virtue, lending weight to the opinion that it was not the woman, but a higher power than himself, that was fucking with him. 'Nescio quid dixeris' being the Latin equivalent for 'I haven't the faintest idea what you're saying'…which meant this woman…this centuries-old woman…was informing him in no uncertain terms that she could not…speak…English…

…and where were they going?

England.

"Nescio quid dixeris," she insisted again, forcing her jaw up aggressively.

Yes, I heard you, he barked inwardly.

Closing his eyes for a moment and then sitting up very slowly, effectively restraining himself with the two fingers placed upon his forehead. He was trying to be pleasant. Honestly. But despite his best intentions, his teeth had grown. His neck was starting to itch, his nails were starting to grow, and without proper sleep or laudanum, he was having severe trouble giving a damn. "Come, bloodseer, we both know what kind of world we live in…" He scratched the back of his neck. "…so if this is a farce, you should speak up now."

She squinted. No answer.

Okay.

Perhaps one of the other languages.

He smiled tightly. "Parlez-vous français?"

Her fingers were starting to grip the edge of her seat. She said nothing.

"Italiano," he said. "…español?"

He was being reasonable, but with each word, he could smell her fear growing, layer upon layer, burying the spiteful demon underneath. All trace of colour leaving her skin as she pushed herself back against her seat, turning her eyes to the floor. She had lost the manner of directness, her claws now trembling, curled into tight, craggy fists. All he could think was 'please let German be the saviour of my sanity.'

"Deutsch?"

A flicker of an eyelash.

Nothing more.

Only the feeling of a haggard note of laughter threatening to break from his throat. His tongue switching back to Latin, as he squinted, asking with as much politeness as he could muster, "Look, you'll have to forgive me if I am failing to grasp what is surely a simple concept, but…" He felt his teeth draw back. "…what the hell kind of immortal only speaks Latin?"

She might even have answered him…

…but then by no small chance, the pain in his head exploded. Centuries ago, he might have raised a hand in warning; he might have told her to run. But it was the full moon. His mind divided like the fabric tearing beneath his claws. The past forty-eight hours without sleep and the desire to Change threatening to lengthen his bones, threatening to extend the top of his spine beyond his neck. His mind able to reason with itself, holding on to that glimmer of humanity, taking hold of the wolf before a Change could run its full course.

And then it was over. His claws buried in the seat and the woman sobbing in the dark. Cringing against the opposite window, her arms outstretched, shivering, as though she had seen Death. The smell of terror coursing from her sweat, causing the stage-coach to lurch to a halt. As though even the horses could sense something was amiss.

He tore his nails out of the seat, sitting back with a brusque grimace. Cracking his neck and then raising his fist to the ceiling, knocking twice so that in moments, the rocking motion resumed. The tension remaining in the air, even as he gestured for her to retake her seat. The gesture going unrewarded as the woman continued to stand, swaying with her back against the window. Too afraid to sit.

An air of sullen regret already threatening to descend on his shoulders, as though he had actually done something wrong. Granted, he should not have yelled at her. It was an ill-advised reaction, a sentiment best avoided at all costs. Particularly by a lycan-master. More so, one already suffering from a 'shall he say, cold' reputation among women. The brooding part of his conscience trying to recall what Jacqueline had accused him of the last time he left her quarters. Something random and paltry. Failure to sympathise…or something like that.

Determined to focus on something else, he picked up his book and flipped to the front, skimming the first line of the text… "We must consider the distinctive characters and the general nature of plants from the point of view of their morphology, their behaviour under external conditions..."

Damn.

Even Theophrastus was berating him.

He flipped the page. …but it was a sham! The twentieth century was just around the corner. English was the language of the new world. French, German, Italian… Thoroughly irritated, he glanced at the bloodseer again, finally admitting to himself that he found her gaze uncomfortable. Did she plan to stand there all night?

She was gripping the panelling, her eyes growing wider the longer that he watched her. Moonlight casting its pallor upon her face, like a false halo that had slipped, strangling her from behind. One of the first things a lycan child learned to spot, that unholy lustre suggesting that not only lycans were affected by the moon. Also the likely reason for why she did not trust him not to kill her just yet.

The moon.

The unholy lustre that lay upon his eyes as well; blood knew he had frightened her enough this evening. Knowing he must give up something to get, he flipped tersely to the next page and then breathed deeply, forcing the silver lining of his eyes back, watching as the entire coach receded into a state of black. It would be harder to read now.

The minutes passing…

…but still she would not sit.

"Do you speak something other than Latin," he asked finally, perturbed at being forced to cater, watching her coolly through the corner of his eyes. Grey eyes. Calm, civil, and quiet. Was he so bad? Yes. But he was making an effort. Perhaps he was too used to being among his own kind. The silence began to drag. He considered repeating the question, but instead cleared his throat loudly. The sound making her flinch, her eyes darting to the floor. To think he used to pride himself on his ability to charm people. "Anything?"

For a moment, it seemed she would stay silent. And then the blue eyes flickered up.

"N-Norwegian…" Her voice was shaking badly. "…and Danish." As if she could not believe she was finding enough air to make sound and for a moment, she seemed lost, her mouth opening and closing. She soon recovered. "Swedish. Finnish. Old N-Norse." She exhaled, fixing her eyes on the window. "Gothic. Greek. Northern and Southern Sámi. Ume Sámi. Pite Sámi. Lule Sámi. Skolt Sámi." Close to loosening her grip on the woodworks, she picked up a slow and steady steam, reciting each language carefully as if it had some special meaning. "Inari Sámi. Kemi Sámi. Kildin Sámi. Ter Sámi. Akkala Sámi…"

"…and Russian."

Like the water had dried up, her mouth clamped shut.

Silence around them once more. Already calculating, Lucian closed his book and tapped the spine against his chin, scrutinising the bloodseer. So she spoke something other than Latin. That was good. Excellent even. There were not many northerners in his home pack. With the upcoming merge, any linguist presented another advantage.

"You're a Laplander?"

"My mother was Sámi," she said, daring to correct him. The words spoken in a curt but tired whisper. The ordeal having exhausted her. He still would not let her sleep.

He set the book aside. "And your father?"

She eyed him. No longer shivering, but her backbone bent over. "Norse," she said finally. Already caving beneath the weight of his stare.

"Well, I appreciate your knowledge of the Northern languages," he remarked, switching casually to Russian. "…and though I believe we have one Swede, the rest of my pack will be unintelligible. When we arrive at our destination, that is to say, your new home, you will be tutored in English, French, and German."

"I will not," she said quietly. At least she had not lied about speaking Russian.

"You will not?" He could not mask the warning tone in his voice. It was the kind of tone that made pack-members jump, but she shook her head, shifting farther away from him and closer to the window. So much for the days of compliance. When he smiled, the effect seemed to make her uncomfortable. To his surprise, he found himself trying another angle, going so far as to persuade her rather than order. "What are a few more languages among a dozen?"

"I have no need of the English," she snapped, almost to herself, a fierce glint showing in the eye. Her breath was coming shallow, but she stared out the window as if she wanted to break something. The trembling scent of fear growing thorns.

Not just 'English...'

'The English...'

Clearly he had struck a chord…

Before he could investigate, the awaited knock came from above, the stagecoach slowing to a halt. Goar would be waiting outside and they could not stay here long. Already reaching for his coat, he muttered 'stay' and shifted closer to the door. Absolute nonsense. Of course she would speak English. Whatever loathing she held for the language or its people would have to be set aside once they reached…

His hand stopped a millimetre from the handle.

…London.

Now there was a conundrum.

In all this, he had not once mentioned their destination to her.

Perturbed by this final thought, Lucian turned the handle and stepped from the stagecoach, the streets deserted on either side of the small town of Koachi. Before him stood a small inn, the windows broken, the only illumination coming from the moon. Most people remained indoors after dusk, particularly on a Sunday. Through the back, he spied Goar, but he held up two fingers, commanding the man to wait for a spell. What to do?

Inhaling deeply, he leaned back into the stagecoach and briefly considered his conscience, the open door in hand. To alarm or not to alarm…that was the question. The woman looked up uncertainly, but he merely stared. She was tiny. Weak, fragile…unstable. How cruel it would be to heap another coal upon her worries… He smiled warmly at her, aware of the discomfort she must be feeling. How much crueler to leave her in the dark.

"You are going to live in England," he whispered.

She blanched. "Wha-"

He shut the door, cutting off her exclamation. Undeniably, the most satisfying shock he'd given her all night. As for the rest of his evening… Ten minutes to meet with Goar, change his shirt and they'd be on their way to the docks, their path cleared by Kraven and his rogue deathdealers. They were three days behind schedule, but there was too much at stake for his cousin not to guarantee them safe passage. He knew Soren, Kraven's underling, would wait as long as needed, keeping watch on the streets until the coach arrived through the first district. The centre of Budapest. Only a few miles from the third district where Ordoghaz lingered in the dark.

His face darkened, eyes glancing to the east. Viktor was there right now.

Alive…

…and just two more years.

Two years until Amelia's awakening. Two years and they could resume their work. Until then, the world did not stop for his hatred. Keep to the shadows and survive the war. Forcing himself to look away, Lucian stepped towards the inn…

Goar was waiting for his orders.

A/N: As you can tell, Lucian has a terrible temper when he has a headache. Good old Theophrastus for berating him!

Thank you to Sheen and ThranduilsDaughter for the recent reviews! Also to xania for the story alert. Please read and review everyone (I write much faster with reviews...)

Reference:

"We must consider the distinctive characters and the general nature of plants from the point of view of their morphology, their behaviour under external conditions..." That line is from Theophrastus, Enquiry into Plants, (Historia Plantarum. Translated by Sir Arther F. Hort.)

Important Note: There has been a slight change in terms of location details. Instead of the first district, Ordoghaz is now located in the third district (oldest part of Budapest), and the stagecoach will be arriving at the docks through the first district instead of the twenty-second. (The reason being, the twenty-second district wasn't established until 1950.)