Chapter IX: That Certain Point

Outside…

Waiting in the stagecoach, the woman focused on her hands, the skin speckled, creased as if she had bathed for hours upon hours. Soft. Shaking. England. How could she go to England? Some of her memories were so certain, so fixed. Others were like dried leaves before winter, crumpling to dust, parts of them missing, blowing away as the wind took them. She could still see their necks, the women hanging. Eight of them left through the night, their legs swaying in the breeze. She gripped the seat, battling tears. Things would have changed. The people…would have changed.

But foolish not to have held her tongue. Regardless of what she did now, he would force her to learn simply for the challenge of it. Already, she knew so many languages, remembered learning them, seated for hours at a time, reciting them for…a woman. She could see the woman's face. Dark hair and pale skin, a green-eyed woman. She spoke sweetly as an angel with a devil's sword on her back. Her mentor. Another blood-seer. Another warrior. Memories of a hand on her neck, keeping her in line.

The thought of the warrior calmed her.

Breathe, she whispered almost silently, imagining the hand on her neck, stroking her head softly. Breathe. As if hearing the woman's voice in her mind, she inhaled slowly, counting as she did, trying to order her thoughts. Somehow trying to will her memories into cohesion.

Remember…

Dreams of a ship. Snow and ice. A life spent alone and hunting, far back from the chaos of the coven. She knew she had been alive before the war began. Snatches of her childhood leaping before her like a snow-hare. Who was Hrafn? It meant 'raven' in old Norse. It stood for the 'H' on her side, but the name held no face. For that matter, who was she? In all her memories, why did no one call her by name? What if she had never been named? She curled deeper into the seat, disturbed by the thought, the fear returning. No memory of birth, only the green-eyed woman with the sword.

Suddenly, the coach swayed to the side and she heard a creak. She looked up at the ceiling, anxious at the thought of the driver climbing from his perch. Why would he do that? What did he want? She tried to peer out the window, but there was no sign of him. Outside, she heard the horses pawing the ground, the soft creak of leather straps and bits being adjusted. It was probable the lycan was just caring for the horses, making some movement or other to soothe them. But with Lucian gone, if he decided to try anything, there would be little she could do to stop him.

Not that he would want to do anything.

She exhaled, looking away from the window, the faint reflection of her wrinkled face. She had almost forgotten. It was so strange not to see herself. If she closed her eyes, she could remember. Smooth skin, blue eyes from the Norse father, the cheekbones of her Sámi mother. The memory of her mother forcing a bone-comb through the black tangles, braiding her hair like rope and then sending her out to scrape hides. Even if her hair grew back, she would be hard-pressed to find herself wanted by anyone, let alone a brawny fresh-faced lycan. The one benefit to being old in a den of lycans.

Opening her eyes again, she looked around the empty stage-coach, letting her foot tap listlessly on the wooden floor. The botany book was still lying on the seat across from her. Almost tempted to pick it up and skim, she let it lie, afraid that Lucian would open the door the moment she touched it. He seemed…unpredictable, and it would be stupid to get her head ripped off simply because she was holding his favourite book. Jaded, she touched the latch of the window, but did not open it. Her body was still not used to being awake and the inside of the stage-coach was stifling.

She looked at the door, both wishing and fearing that it would open. Lucian had been gone for some time. She did not want him to return, yet the sooner he came back, the sooner they could leave. She shivered, looking at the book again, remembering how his face had turned when he was angry. What was she thinking, talking back to her captor? Had he even realised? Of course, he had not. She was afraid of him. So much fear. She needed to hold her tongue. She had almost tricked herself into believing she spoke with a sane individual, but his rage had shown him for what he was…

One moment an ill-tempered man lying back in the shadows, and the next…a feral beast, turning so quickly, only for a second, his teeth growing sharp, nails unleashing and retracting. The neck curling forward, the grimace of an animal, a contortion of bones realigning themselves before the shirt could tear.

Afterwards picking up the book as if nothing had occurred, every tale she had ever heard of him leaping forward. It was worse when they were rabid. It was the kind of madness that was not even aware of itself. The man was…ruthless…insane. For her own sake, she would not anger him again, even if he spoke amicably. Too much danger.

She froze, her fingers poised on the leather…

Steps from outside…

o…o…o

Touching the wall one last time, Lucian stepped outside the inn, broken windows and bleak gloom all around. No wonder Goar had taken to drinking. The inn was bloody depressing without Hajna. The streets were still empty, the stagecoach facing the same direction. A few lights off in the distance, but most folk in their beds already. Did no one think to turn the coach around? Vaguely irritated, he tossed the last supply-sacks up to Raze, the lycan catching all three with a soft grunt of appreciation, sniffing the contents with a mild grin before depositing them in the stage-coach trunk at the back.

Goar was already sitting on the front carriage-box, the bottles of blood still clutched to his chest, the reins in his left hand. The man had donned the grey coat Lucian had discarded, his face mostly concealed by lanky hair and a grimy scarf around his neck. For the next two hours, he would be driving the stagecoach. Though Raze had offered to drive, once they reached Budapest, it would be all too easy for bystanders to recall a gargantuan, muscled man of dark skin. Best if his subordinate remained out of sight until they reached the docks. He approached the carriage-box and looked up at Goar's pallid face, the clear sky behind. It was a pity there had been no opportunity to strengthen their ties, perhaps even share a drink. Never enough time in this life.

"Farewell," he murmured, offering his hand.

"For the journey," Goar answered musingly, handing the bottles over to Lucian, mimicking a toast with each one, his eyes showing brown for the first time. The lycan gave a disheartened smile and then held out his palm. Nodding in understanding, Lucian clasped Goar's hand, the firm grip of one alpha bidding farewell to another. He tightened his grip once more and then stepped back. In all likelihood, it would be the last time they would speak before the gathering of the horde. There would be no opportunity within the city.

Secretly, he was grateful to be leaving the pack-leader's presence, in spite of the ties he wished to strengthen. This area had become a haven for depression, and he had long-since thrown such emotional baggage from his shoulders. Everyone suffered loss in this world. Memories he did not wish to dwell on. Brisk, he looked to his left, searching for Raze. The headache was coming back…and he felt like yelling at someone. He was tired of people dying. Tired of skulking around in the shadows. At the side of the coach, an uncomplaining Raze was waiting, the expression on his face stern, his focus on one of the houses overlooking them.

One of the houses...

What had Raze spotted?

Suddenly on his guard, Lucian glanced behind him at the wooden door and brick siding, the upstairs and downstairs windows, searching for trouble. A mob? Deathdealers?

As his eyes passed over the windows, he heard a faint gasp. The curtains were drawn, but they shifted long enough for him to catch sight of a tear-streaked face, a pair of tiny fists scrunched up against the eyes. The abrupt, miserable sound of bawling. From downstairs, candlelight appeared, the creak of floorboards and the silhouette of a woman getting out of bed. The woman murmured something soft as she moved upstairs, the candle disappearing and then reappearing in the child's room. Putting the candle down by the window, the silhouette picked up the sniffling child, swaying and shushing, softly humming a rather well-known Hungarian folk song.

Damnation.

It was a child.

He inhaled wearily, the pain in his head mounting, already having a niggling suspicion of what had occurred. His face had been under control. Goar was staring morosely at the horses. The only other culprit was Raze. It took a mild snap of teeth before the gargantuan lycan glanced over, finally realising he was getting a rather intense look of 'What the hell do you think you're doing?'

Surprised, the lycan blinked…and then shrugged, shaking his head.

Unconvinced, Lucian glanced pointedly at the window. The lycan followed his gaze and like the slow cracking of bone, Raze's features suddenly tightened, an incriminating couple of seconds before the skull returned to normal. A moment when any mortal, let alone a child, would have been terrified. The man eyed the window and then shrugged, as if there was nothing wrong.

Perfect.

The newest all-time low for the lycan ranks, scaring the under-five female population.

"She was just a child," Lucian muttered darkly, pushing past Raze and grabbing the handle. At his comment, the lycan's eyes widened and almost surreptitiously, the man began studying the window, a troubled frown on his face, his lips firmly pressed together. As if he were searching for something. He squinted strangely in the moonlight…and then nodded slowly at Lucian, shrugging his coat closer as he followed. He smelled uneasy.

And so he should...

Whomever that girl was, even if her parents were sceptical, she would have nightmares. She would tell tales. Years from now, there would be another reason for neighbours to throw rocks through the window. Lycans had to be more careful than this.

Feeling all-the-more tense, Lucian yanked the coach-door open and leaped up, taking his seat. The interior seemed darker after the candlelight. The blood-seer was still where he left her. She did not look up, even when Raze clambered up into the stagecoach, the lycan notably glancing at the house one more time before shutting the door. Making sure to give the lycan-master enough space, the larger man took a seat beside him, his imposing stare now locked on the small blood-seer.

Wonderful.

She was jumpy enough as it was without Raze losing his face in her presence. Impatiently, Lucian rapped on the ceiling twice and the stage-coach jerked forward again, rocking them into almost-nauseating movement. He touched a hand to his forehead, gingerly feeling the bridge of his nose, the pressure starting to build again. Almost fifty-six hours without sleep. He could feel it behind his eyes. Exhaustion. He knew Raze would keep watch over the woman, but he did not trust the situation yet…

Like a stuck knife, tension all around them. On his right, Raze was plainly making an effort to impress, his jaw sternly forward, moonlight reflecting off the irises. Head down, the blood-seer seemed placid enough, her hands folded on her lap, but the scent of her fear was mounting

Lucian glanced over to the seat beside her, the one closest to the door. The rapidly-vanishing impressions in the leather betrayed her movements. Like the child, she should not have been so obvious in her spying. His gaze flicked back to the woman, contemplating the situation. There was nothing he could do to make her more comfortable in Raze's presence, but perhaps she would feel better with food in her body. She had not eaten for almost eighteen hours. Not good in her condition. Removing the bottles from beneath his arm, he gripped one of the stems and held it out to her. She looked up, the tilted eyes of a startled deer.

"Are you hungry?" he asked in Russian, gesturing with the bottle.

She shook her head, looking away quickly, the deer caught by wolves, the scent of fear multiplying on itself, as if he were going to bash the bottle across her head for saying no. Even Raze glanced over at him for a split second. He frowned, shrugging the glance off, irritated now that he was under scrutiny. Nothing. He had done nothing, only offered her a bloody bottle.

"Take the bottles then," he said quietly, not in the mood to carry some vampire's feeding blood for the next two hours.

Nodding passively, she quickly took the one bottle and the other, taking care not to touch his hand. Again she looked away, almost melding the bottles with her shirt, the skin white across her knuckles. The way she was clutching the stems, it was as if the dead could not pry her fingers from the glass. Already, the tension was settling, Raze smelling appeased by the woman's passive nature…

…but it troubled Lucian.

He knew she was starving. She was like a broken horse. More than broken. They were not even at the den yet. What was this? Trauma?

"Age?"

"I do not know," she said, so softly he had to lean forward.

"Date of Branding?"

She shrugged. "I do not know." Even softer.

"Do you know if you can learn English now?" he inquired irritably, crossing his arms, having an inkling what her answer would be. His moment of 'leaning back' ruined by the sharp poke he felt in his backside. What the hell? Sitting up, he craned his head back over his shoulders and eyed the seat. Bloody Theophrastus. Picking up the book, he shoved it further to his left and again, leaned back. The soft touch of leather. Much better. Aware that he was the only one fussing with his seat, he coughed tightly and returned his attention to the woman.

She had not answered yet.

Vacantly, the woman was staring at the book. Folded over the bottles, the hint of tears unshed. Any minute now and she'd start crying. He coughed again and she looked up, inhaling shakily, the little blood in her cheeks fading fast as if she had done something deplorable by looking at his book. Dangerous. Almost shaking herself, she swallowed and nodded twice, hugging the bottles closer. A tear?

She was crying?

Again?

Right, thought Lucian, looking away and coughing a third time, trying to keep his head level. There was no longer a hint of tension from his subordinate. Raze was smelling pleased as a sire watching a cub take her first step. Not that his face had changed, glaring at what would always be a prisoner in his eyes.

Time for a more forward approach.

Considering how best to phrase his reproof, Lucian rested his hand near the window and then tapped it… "If I told you to break those bottles and eat the glass, would you do it?"

She froze, the bottles close to her chest, the tightening of skin around her eyes. Looking up, she began to shake her head in pleading, the fear scent rising. The tears were starting to flow down her chin, dripping onto the bottles. Just as he suspected. Why was she so afraid? Somehow this woman believed him cruel enough to force her to eat glass. In theory, it was fine by him, but her lack of retort left a surprisingly sour taste on the tongue. She had been so...lively before.

"Because I suspect you would not," he said grimly, giving her the benefit of the doubt. "…and I would not order you to do it. You see?"

Wiping her face against her sleeve, she nodded quickly.

Too quickly.

She did not see. He looked out the window. Perhaps if she could take it as a conversation. "What I mean is that it is good that you understand submission, but…" He considered his wording, playing with the window latch. "…a passive approach can wear thin. Perhaps we will speak further on lycan etiquette once we are aboard the ship, but as it stands, there is one thing I cannot abide with and that is…"

"Ship?"

"…interruptions."

She blanched, the red coming back into her wasted cheeks, a fresh batch of tears threatening to break free. She looked like a blood-less chicken with her head on the block, but he had to be firm if his words were to have any effect.

"Interruptions aside," he amended tightly, fighting the tiny pull of amusement at the corner of his lips. "…I am warning you now, I do not abide with false mannerisms. There is no room for fickleness or artificiality within my pack." Bold words. In his lifetime, he had been false, fickle and artificial, which made him a hypocrite…but it was better to start his followers on utopian ideals rather than the truth of lycan politics.

She said nothing, her throat looking strained, so he continued…

"And while compliance is a welcome trait in prisoners, consider yourself as a step above the common prisoner. You are an asset—a golden apple on the plains of this everlasting war. No one will harm you, so you would do well to speak openly and without fear. If you disagree with something, be bold and express your views. You will not be silenced for using your mind, and you will not be killed for having a backbone." He smiled in all sincerity. "Do you understand?"

That should do it.

He tapped his thumbs together, waiting for her agreement, more interested in his own speech than her answer. It was essentially the one he'd given at the Parisian den, but he had changed it about halfway. Naturally, there was still open distrust on her face…but that was excellent. Open distrust. Honesty.

She opened her mouth hesitantly, a faint and very tired croak coming from throat. "You…want me to speak my mind?"

"To a certain point, yes."

She folded herself closer to the bottles and then leaned back, the far-off look of someone meditating on words. She was thinking, the scent changing slowly. Still the fear, terror, foreboding…the lack of trust…but she was curious as well. Come on, where was the backbone? "To a certain point," she repeated softly.

He nodded encouragingly. "To a certain point."

She was getting it. This was going well. He saw the woman exhale, breathing in and out, her lips moving silently…bloods, she was counting to ten in Latin. A prisoner after his own heart, her neck, her body relaxing with each number. She was letting go, the tension falling from her back.

Excellent, he thought.

She sniffed, the last of her tears gone…and then suffered that slight narrowing of eyes just before a woman started to argue. The lips compressed, the cheeks shaking with anger. One who no longer cared if she was executed… "Exactly what point, lycan-master, because if I say something and you do not like it, you end up raging like a wounded bear with shrunken testi-…"

"Well…done," he said, cutting her off sharply with a grimace of teeth. At least he could rest easy knowing that under all that fear, she was still the same sanctimonious cu…that is to say, creature he'd been dicing words with all evening. "You found the point. Now drink the blood and get some rest. We'll discuss this further on the ship."

Cheeks flushed, the woman immediately clamped her mouth shut, her jaw tightening with frustration. A woman whose nature was not compliance, she was clearly feeling…rebellious. Holding herself a little bit more upright, visibly forcing herself to look at him, swallowing the rest of the no-doubt-brilliant argument she'd been about to unleash about bears. The knuckles white with anger rather than fear. The flicker of brilliant blue, the eyes of the seahawk.

Backbone.

Much better.

Pleased with himself, Lucian relaxed back into the seat. For the next two hours, unless she drowned herself in blood, his work here was done. And with a mouth like that, she might even fit well in the den.

Except…

He sat up again.

…two hours could be a long time with Raze glaring.

Searching to his left, he found Theophrastus lying untouched, the spine looking a little worse for wear. Perhaps there was one more thing he could do. Picking up the book, he tossed it onto the facing seat, approximately a foot from the woman's elbow. She blinked, peering down at the book as if it were a trap.

A trap?

It was only botany.

Laughing softly at her distrust, Lucian closed his eyes, crossed his arms and leaned his head back, his laughter fading away, turning into a yawn. Maybe it was a trap. The first section was rubbish, but once you got to the plants, it could be quite engaging. In moments, his head started to loll against the side-board, his shoulder providing a not-entirely-comfortable perch to rest upon. He exhaled, sinking deeper into his exhaustion, his final thought drifting up through the bleak. The problem with short hair was there was nothing soft to lie back on...

Within seconds, he was fast asleep.

A/N: Thank you to ThranduilsDaughter, Sheen, and Mackenzie for the latest reviews! (Note: TD, there will eventually be more information on the lycan registry and Mackenzie, I'm very glad the characters are coming across well! Hope the story continues to be enjoyable!)

On a final note, please read and review everyone!