Chapter VIII: The Meeting with Goar
The inn was much changed from how he remembered it.
Back then, almost ten years ago, there had been a quiet warmth; a few servers staring curiously from their place by the wall, a farmer nursing his drink and Hajna, the white-haired innkeeper knuckling her back as she lumbered out of the kitchen. Once the flaxen-haired innkeeper's daughter, she had been a rose to the eye in her youth. Only cobwebs and dust now, the wooden rafters of the thirteen-foot ceilings covered in smoke stain and ash. Clean rectangles on the wall where framed pictures had once hung. All the tables and chairs gone, the fireplace empty and the iron lamps unlit.
Lucian passed through the main room, through the open doors to the back, the private cobble-stone courtyard where weeds grew. Most of the garden was dead, the rose bushes gone wild. Goar was sprawled on the ground, his hands folded on his chest, staring up at the night-sky. In many ways, the lycan resembled the weeds. Faded brown hair hanging almost to his chin, brown eyes beneath the lycan-glaze, neither tall nor short. The kind of man that could pass unnoticed through a crowd and slip a dagger in your back. He did not turn his head as Lucian approached.
"You smell like a Blood."
"Tanis has that effect on people," Lucian frowned, taking his coat off and dropping it on the ground. The grey waistcoat followed suit, and he began undoing the gold cufflinks along his wrist. There was more red on his shirt than white. Blood, blood, everywhere and not a drop to drink. He focused on the gold. "I am sorry to hear of Hajna." He was more than sorry, but Goar had been a fool to start the dalliance. Few survived the bite.
"It ended before she died."
"All the same."
Friend or lover, mortals always died in the end. His fingers kept slipping on the right cufflink. Considering tearing into the sleeve, he almost growled. He should never have started using this trend. Fastening sleeves…it was ridiculous. Constricting. A shirt was a shirt. Finally he got the clasp unhooked.
"Did you kill him?" Goar's eyes suddenly flicked towards him.
"No." The cufflinks went into his pockets. He knelt by the waistcoat, removing the gold watch and pocketing that as well. Not bothering to unbutton the blood-stained shirt, he pulled it up and over his head. "The deal went through. The terms are the same, though for a longer stretch. Do you see any trouble?"
"If I do, I will deal with it." Goar shrugged, his teeth showing slightly. It was not an expression of challenge, merely the languid movements of a hardened wolf.. "A tenth of the kill for every week. He will have to store it himself. Guards will be harder to come by."
The bloody shirt fell to the ground and Lucian snapped his fingers.
"Shirt."
Undisturbed by the request, Goar sat up almost gracefully and pulled off his shirt, handing it over. The moment the cloth exchanged hands, the man was back down on the stones again, bare back upon the cold ground. "Food supplies are in the cellar. Most of it is dried, but there is fresh meat as well. It should last you the whole journey."
Lucian grunted in acknowledgement, pulling the shirt over his head in one motion, arms through the sleeves. The material felt good. Faded wool, cold from the stones but cleaner than anything he had worn in the past three days. "You have blood?"
"Some."
"Enough for two days?"
"Depends on the vampire. Man or woman?" There was a lazy smile on the lycan's face. He was fishing for information, already aware it seemed that the deal had involved something more than books or history. The man could fish to his heart's content. Eventually, all the pack-leaders would be informed of her presence.
"Woman." Lucian stalked back inside. "Weak. Old. She'll need more than usual." He had nothing to hide. Female vampire prisoner. Exiles, traitors to the Blood. Most of the ones he brought over were executed, but it was not unheard of for one or two to go on living for a spell. The horde might protest when he revealed the woman's knowledge of his name...but he would cross that bridge when he came to it.
Distinctly, he heard Goar stand up, the padding of bare footsteps behind him. Back inside, the kitchen was to his right, the faint smell of grease leading him on. The stove had not been used in some time, wooden cupboards empty, the cooking utensils missing from their holders. Through another alcove was the cellar door, wide open with the steep wooden stairs leading down. He trusted Goar, but his instinct always considered the danger. There was no lock on the door, nothing to keep him trapped. If Goar decided to betray him, the stairs were steep but wide. It would be possible to gain the higher ground in a tussle.
Ducking his head, Lucian took the steps two at a time, his eyes adjusting to the pitch-black darkness. He did not fail to notice the missing items from upstairs, stacked tables and chairs, an almost empty wine rack, a few trunks, and a clean pallet in the corner. Four sacks sat in the centre of the room, the mouth-watering aroma of lamb almost making his stomach rumble. Goar trailed behind him and over to the wine rack, plucking two bottles from the bottom, the liquid sloshing around thickly. Balancing them carefully against his chest, the man wrapped his arm around one of the sacks and moved to the stairs, taking a seat and content to wait as Lucian eyed the cold cellar. There were scratch-marks on the walls, the faintest hint of alcohol drifting through the air. Eventually, the space would do for storage, but it would have to be emptied and cleaned.
"You have it then?"
"I do." The lycan knew what he meant. The deed to the property. Hajna had left Goar everything she owned, including the land that the inn was built upon.
"The name?"
"Gyorg Balogh. Distant nephew from Szeged and the only family relative still living." The lycan smirked, bowing his head for a moment as if introducing himself for the first time. How many names had they all assumed over the past millennium? All of them fleeting. He could remember only a handful of the ones he himself had taken.
"Townspeople?"
"The older ones are dead and my time within the boundaries was too short for them to remember my face. The younger ones keep to themselves. Rocks through the window, but nothing more."
"Good. Keep it that way." He did not need to remind the man of pack rules. They were simple enough. Keep to the shadows, survive the war…
…and when your face no longer matches your age, disappear.
Probably in five years or so, the man would have to relinquish the deed. Another lycan would take his place and then another until enough years had passed that all trace of Gyorg Balogh was forgotten. Officially, the land would still belong to Goar, but he would have to claim it under the lycan registry rather than the Hungarian one.
The lycan registry.
How long that had taken to establish he could not calculate, but its existence was a guarded and necessary evil. Lycan survival methods had become increasingly complex in recent years, and to compensate, records of property and land had to be kept. All pack-members switched lives at least five times a century, taking up residence where others could no longer live. All were connected by the Line, a system of communication developed in the late 1500s. In all these years, the Line had never once been cracked, in all likelihood due to scent being one of the code-markers.
In a mood to pace, Lucian walked over to one of the trunks and took a seat, settling himself, his hands resting on his knees. It was time for orders. True orders. He had not come all this way just to speak about a deed. "You have someone in mind for the task?"
"Imre. He is fourth in line for my pack…a recent change. Only a few decades old, but loyal. His face stands to age a few more years." There was a readiness to Goar's voice that had not been there before, though his expression remained empty. The man rubbed a thumb against his chin, his eyes partially hidden by swathes of hair as he spoke. "If he does not survive, I will send word before Amelia's awakening. Another will be there to take his place."
"Family?"
"None."
"Then it begins. Do as you have done and when the time comes, you will have what you need. Empty the cellar before the first supply. The next gathering of the horde…bring the man and his reserve with you. I will see to it that Kraven gives you safe passage. Further instructions will be sent through the Line."
Goar bowed his head. "It will be as you say." The lycan picked up the supplies and went upstairs, his bare feet almost silent. The faint sound of steps moving away on the ceiling above.
Left behind, Lucian leaned his head back against the wall and then stood, walking over to the remaining supplies. He should have ordered Goar to pass on the deed the moment he smelled alcohol in the cellar. But then who was he to speak? He took hold of the remaining sacks, two in his left hand, one in his right, but he did not move, the weight growing heavier on his shoulders. How many soldiers had he sentenced to death with a word? Countless lycans sacrificing themselves for the pack. The horde. The war. In two years, this man Imre would probably die. Feeling empty, he tightened his grip on the sacks and headed for the stairs. He would not regret his decision until the day after.
Time to be gone from this place.
A/N: And so the political plot thickens like a handful of mud being thrown at Amelia's back by a den of lycans. (Note: Anyone looking out for London, we still have one more location stop before we reach there. I will give you a hint. It starts with a V. No, not Viktor.) Thank you to Sheen (good luck with the end of the school year,) jdaman304, and mattl2003 for the reviews, alerts and favourites! Hope everyone enjoys this latest installment.
As a final note, please read and review!
(Because in all seriousness, I adore reviews. They're like strawberries on toast. Marzipan with chocolate. English Breakfast tea with a biscuit. Plus they make me write so much faster.)