Chapter XII: The Rules of Drunken Combat
Outside. 9:15 pm.
The argument had not gone unnoticed.
Deathdealers swarmed the entrance of St. Matthias church like so many flies on a golden altar, backs leaning, legs crouching, watching him from the corner of their eyes. They were blocking his way. Scowling, Lucian stepped from the church's fold, letting the moon do its work, observing with some satisfaction as half the vampires departed, the first cohort slipping away into the shadows without a second glance.
It was not dread, but efficiency that propelled them. They knew the drill, understood their place in the scheme of things. The meeting was finished. Kraven was alive and well, and if a vampire got too close and had his head ripped off by claws, it would be the vampire at fault. Not him. A pity things were never that easy.
It was the second cohort that spelled trouble. Twelve of them still blocking his path, Soren standing to one side watching his trainees. They knew he was in a rush…they wanted to see him scramble. Languidly, Lucian tilted his head and eyed them. Pale, fresh…edible. They were a sleeker breed than the one before, sombre creatures recently turned and trained to replace those who had fallen in battle. Their faces were impenetrable. Their first run 'beneath' the underworld, the moment Kraven decided they were ready to know his face. Only the dead knew how they kept their secrecy with so many around him.
His gaze stopped on one in particular. Auburn hair which had not faded since its disappearance from the sun. This deathdealer… He sniffed the air …this deathdealer had been human once. There was a grudging fearlessness in his eyes, sullen lips and bared fangs betraying how young he was. How inexperienced. Half these vampires were turned as youths, their blood younger than his shirt. Their loyalty to Kraven, but…
He took a step closer to the youth, halting in front of him and sniffing. It was a mirthless smile on his lycan face, he knew that, his teeth growing. He sniffed again. Surely this auburn-haired youth had heard the stories? Ruthless creature who never slept, burning the Elder's daughter and eating her bones after the flesh had gone. The moon reflecting in his eyes, did he measure up to their tales…
"Move."
The youth stumbled back. That would be a yes. To his right, Soren immediately jerked his head. The second cohort backed away, hushed, fading into the shadows, leaving the way free and clear. Lucian sniffed the air one more time…and then stalked off. Only an idiot bared food in front of a lycan during the full moon.
Twenty yards away, in the courtyard's centre, the stagecoach remained untouched, guarded by Goar. The man was patiently, but firmly crouching by the door. He stood as Lucian approached, taking hold of the door handle. Soren was still watching them, daring to follow despite the tension in the air. By no small chance, the pack-leader managed to pass directly in front of the lone deathdealer's line of sight. Quickly, Lucian slipped inside the coach, catching his balance before the door shut behind him. He had tripped over something. Someone. He held onto the siding, stripped of moonlight so suddenly, his eyes having to adjust for a split second…
…and when they did, he smiled grimly.
Not quite what he had expected.
Battered and still breathing, the bloodseer was unconscious on the seat, a nasty bruise spreading across her cheeks…she was breathing. On the floor, nursing a black eye, Raze exhaled dourly and opened his mouth. Swiftly, Lucian raised a curt hand before the man could speak, two fingers curving forward slightly, the index and thumb touching. It meant "silence." Or "save it for someone who cares," as most lycans had dubbed it since he'd started using the signal.
He stepped over and around Raze, making up for the lack of space by depositing himself on the left seat again. They could not speak until they left this place. Watching the ceiling, he patiently continued to listen to the exterior of their compartment. Finally, the rickety sound of Goar climbing onto the coachbox, no knock required and the stagecoach bounding into motion without delay. Only a minute later, when he was sure they had passed beyond the church boundaries, did he find it in him to converse with the man…
"Are you a lycan, Raze?"
"She kicked me."
"I did not ask whether she kicked you…" Lucian said softly, trying to keep his voice from resembling death negotiating its way across a river. "…indeed, 'till you said that, I might have construed that you let her kick you. I might have believed for a spell that you were at fault, Raze, and that you almost compromised my plans with your ineptitude."
His eyes had turned to slits. Exhaustion paired with an acidic curiousity managing to keep his claws in check. He could even profess a certain bewilderment over how this matter had transpired. The bloodseer had slapped Tanis around, but kicking a six foot tall lycan against a door…
…how very bizarre.
Raze grimaced, not even bothering to stand while the coach was in motion. "You are…you are correct, Lucian. The fault was mine. She lost consciousness. I relaxed my grip…" He paused, seeming to contemplate how best to word his embarrassment. "…but she is not as weak as she looks."
"…and clearly, you are not as strong as you look," Lucian muttered, raising a finger to his own eye. Bruises should be gone within seconds, especially for one as old as Raze. "Resistance to the moon should never affect your ability to heal."
"I am aware of that, but she…"
"No 'buts,' Raze." No excuses. Not in this war. "I expect your control to be better from this point on. End of story. Finished."
The lycan bowed his head, milky-white eyes reflecting without judgment from his profile. He ought to be writhing out of his skin, but perhaps used to the daily barbs, the eyes glanced towards the drapes and then back again, a brutal curiosity now growing. His voice lowering into a rumbling burr peppered with code names.
The lycan was suspicious of whether they were being followed. The number of vultures lingering at the church. Unsettling the way his cousin had turned up. They ought to deal with this newcomer. There ought to be blood for every vulture he paraded in front of them.
And yet for the life of him, he could neither hear nor care what Raze was saying. Instead, he could hear air passing out of his lungs. The stagecoach rocking as they turned a corner, sharp, the horses speeding up. The sound of wood driving on cobblestone. Raze had been speaking for twenty-nine seconds. But his eyes were trained on the space in front of him, not really seeing his subordinate. He could tell the laudanum was wearing off. Every breath getting slower and his desire to breathe passing with it.
"Lucian…"
Again, his name. He blinked irritably, focusing, and then inhaling as he lost it. Realising that he ought to be compelled to explain himself and then simply giving up before he tried. "I am listening, Raze, but there are…" How best to phrase his lack of interest, he wondered. "…other points on my mind."
Goar would have to drive faster if they were going to make this ship on time. It was leaving in ten minutes. Ten minutes of avoiding a subject. Ten minutes of small talk. Or ten minutes of silence. Even for such a tiny spell, he did not want silence.
As always, Raze could sense as much… "Any particular point?" the lycan asked.
Lucian stretched, scratching his back, thinking on how to answer. He did not want to think anymore. Certainly not on pressing matters. So rather than admit his head was starting to pound again, he insulted something instead. "I am trying, Raze, to remember the last time a seventy year old woman took out a lycan." He could almost taste the barbs on his tongue. Looking past Raze, he considered her frame, slumped on her side, skinny as straw, uglier than sin. "I swear, forty pounds if she's an ounce."
Ah.
Raze had taken the hint.
The stony lycan drew himself up. As much as he could in the space of the floor. "Then consider lycan rules, Lucian. Pounds have nothing to do with a well-aimed kick." Good. A theoretical argument, the use of trivial debate to clear the mind. "Had this been a fair fight, I would have been allowed to defend myself."
"Against a seventy year old woman," Lucian murmured carelessly. His expression said exactly what he thought of that. The defence rests. He pulled his watch out again, letting it dangle from the chain, watching the minute hand. 9:20 pm. "You never answered my question, Raze, are you lycan?"
Another barb.
"You are being prejudiced, Lucian," Raze grunted. His voice was like an avalanche, boulders scraping against one another in a downward spiral. "Our strength is not based on the outward appearance of our bodies. According to our laws, a lycan must always be allowed to defend himself."
"Very well, but since we have already established that this…" Lucian sniffed, waving a hand at the unconscious woman. "… fish-crone is handicapped both physically and mentally, your ability to hit her was judiciously handicapped as well. She is drunk, old, and weak. You are the opposite. How was the fight not fair?"
Yes…
…fish-crone.
The word would do nicely until she gave up her name.
"Because of history," Raze countered. "She may have the body of a crone, but she has the memory of a vampire. A bloodseer, at that. She is aware then how to aim. The handicap was prejudiced."
"The handicap was drunk."
At this, Raze smiled as if he had won the discussion by that singular line. "Combat allows for drunkenness, Lucian. New rules, 1887. Section IX, according to the charter of…" Fluid and keen when shocking people with his knowledge, the gravelly man smoothly switched his language, speaking in the deepest French one could possibly imagine, the perfect accent grinding on the ear. "…L'Union des Sociétés Lycans de Sports Athlétiques."
USLSA.
The official lycan sporting society of which Raze was an obsessive member.
Lucian grunted. Far be it from him to argue with a registered official of lycan combat. "Absolute tosh," he muttered. Still spread out on the seat, he started dissecting the velvet curtain above his head, picking at the border. "They might do it in France, but not here."
From the floor, Raze turned a sharp eye on him. The man seemed guarded, his irises growing in their milk-white, his brow darkening. He continued to speak French. "I believe you are mistaken, Lucian…that rule was instigated last year."
"Pssh, maybe in the slums of Paris …" Lucian replied sourly.
He was not really listening anymore. The conversation had become tedious the moment Raze mentioned l'USLSA. It was a waste of time. An amateur lycan-sports society. No standards. No professionalism. Preoccupied, he pulled at the curtain, a loose thread winding around his finger, cutting the blood off. As the circulation came to a grinding halt, the nail on his finger began to grow. Reflex. Interesting. He tapped his thumb against the nail. Selene, Selene, Selene. How to kill Selene. A matter to think on later. The watch was still dangling from his hand. 9:23 pm. They had to make this ship. Seven minutes. The stagecoach was rocking around them, Goar pushing the horses hard.
To his side, Raze was starting to smell like a wounded mistress, a sharp scent of indignation rising up around them, the lycan scowling as if he had said something in dreadfully bad taste. In retrospect, he probably had, but Raze ought to be used to his acidic humour by now. Why so sensitive? Did everyone have a bone to pick with him this night?
"Quelle horreur…" Lucian said, not really listening for an answer. He was more concerned with disentangling his finger, but he suspected Raze would appreciate the effort to ask. "…what now?"
The moment 'what' left his mouth, Raze leaned forward, gargantuan, his voice almost long-suffering. "You do not remember?" He had switched to English now as if it might make an impact.
Lucian shrugged. "Quoi?"
No impact.
His hands became fists. Easily apparent what kind of ruler the lycan would have been had he not dedicated his life to the cause. "I told you of this matter, Lucian. The lycans are aware you sleep during the day. They make special accommodations for you. You were not to be disturbed. I was asked on multiple occasions to…" His fists tightened, the next word coming out like gravel. As if there was a long history of pain and suffering attached to this matter. "…check your opinion. I did and you always answered in the affirmative."
Still unaffected, Lucian frowned. "What matter?" It could not be a serious matter if he had paid no attention to it. He started winding the curtain thread around his finger again.
Jaw like a rock, Raze glowered at him. "Drunken combat in the cellar den. Three weeks pay minimum to get on the waiting list. Once a month, twice in the morning. Twice in the afternoon. Two combatants drink. They fight…winner takes all."
"The cellar." Lucian scoffed, dropping his talon from the curtain, tearing the thread and letting his watch drop on his chest. He started picking at the seat lining. "You're talking about a cellar-fight, Raze, not a sport. Unless pack-leaders vote on the matter, '1887. Section IX' is no excuse for lycans to…" He stopped in mid-sentence, about to say that which actually made him hear for the first time what Raze was trying to tell him. Four words stuck out. Drunken. Combat. Cellar. Den. Very slowly, he sat up, the growl rising in his throat, his nails digging into the lining. "…they are doing what?"
The stagecoach lurched. Instead of smelling penitent, Raze bestowed him with a look of stern condemnation and then shook his head. Without a single word, the lycan tersely dragged his coat from under the bloodseer's neck, shrugged it on and leaned back against the siding, focusing on the door, obviously ignoring the most powerful lycan in history.
Squinting, Lucian tore his nails out of the seat. He would have to reimburse Goar one of these days. "…are you officiating these matches, Raze?"
The lycan nodded. Surly. Brooding. Grim.
Just like that. No remorse…
Drunken combat. It was an outrage. They were a military unit in the middle of war. These men were soldiers. Warriors. Lycans. Lucian growled softly, looking down, realising the only thing he was missing in this picture. His watch was no longer ticking. Golden pieces broken, crushed in his claws. The broken minute hand stopped at 9:27 pm. He let the pieces fall into his pocket. Three minutes until the ship sailed, and the stage-coach was already slowing down.
They did not have time now, but Raze was going to get a tongue-lashing the moment they settled on that ship. Disapproval. Resentment. The headache coming back. Suddenly, his breath caught. Of course, he knew what was happening. Lycan emotions came at a price, like a seizure, sound fading for a split second, the moment crashing down on him, out of control.
Lycan memories.
Twelve months ago. Raze speaking to him. Something about blood-alcohol supplies. Matches. He had been…occupied at the time. A migraine. Thoughts of Barcelona. The den had been having difficulty meeting its quota …
The memory sped forward. This time, seated at his desk trying to settle a scuffle between their contacts in Rome and Venice. During his evening meal, working on a business document to be sent directly to the lycan registry. Raze had mentioned something about officiating over…
…matches…in the cellar…
He blinked again. Three months ago. Half-asleep, the laudanum in hand, hearing the door open softly. So the night have been hectic, he might have barked…no, told…Raze that what he did in his spare time was his own affair. That he could do the bloody hell whatever he wanted as long as he kept it to himself. And for that matter, shut the hell up and get out. It was eight in the morning. There were more pressing matters at hand…
Like Barcelona.
Rome…
Venice.
The stagecoach came to a halt.
"You." He pointed an accusatory finger at Raze. "Pick her up. Settle the account on-board. We will talk about this later." Ridiculous, asking his opinion on the matter while he was working, writing, half-asleep, drugged out of his mind on laudanum at eight in the morning. The lycan had known exactly what he was doing.
His eyes no longer reflecting, Raze ground his words, smelling of resentment. He looked very serious. "Lucian, you knew about this matter. The den will not take kindly to having…"
"I said, pick her up, Raze…" He narrowed his eyes. "…you knew I would never have condoned it on a regular occasion. The moment we arrive in the Underground, it stops. Is that clear?" It was an affront to his authority.
He stood, shoving the door open. Moonlight and water, the black waters of the Danube in front him. Goar was already hustling over to the warehouse to get their bags, the ship on its last rigging, ready to be off. He stalked to the back of the stagecoach, flipping the trunk open with a bang and taking the food supplies in hand. Drink-fighting in the den. Like the French. Like finding out his entire horde was smoking opium behind his back.
Infuriated, he watched as Raze stepped out of the coach, already striding over to the gangplank, the bloodseer curled in his arms. The man's back was stiff as a board, still smelling all the world as if he'd been wounded. Lucian slammed the trunk shut. That conversation had made things worse.
So maybe he was not 'in the thick of things' when it came to his own den. Maybe he did not hear every scrap of information Raze brought him. Maybe he did not care to remember the names of his newest recruits…
…but then it was not his bloody job. He had the horde to worry about. The lycan registry. The Line. Almost a thousand lycans spread across Europe. During times of war, when it came to the den…food, water, supplies, the barracks, clean up duty, the occasional idiot who wanted to write home, it was Raze the lycans should turn to.
Not the alpha…
…and Raze should have known better than this.
Unable to hide his hunting demeanour, Lucian strode towards the ship, the creaking sound of wood on water drawing him forward, lines and sails flapping in the wind, men shouting orders. A bell started to ring, the final signal, the final call. The name of the lady was painted along the side, the letters wet and weathered with time.
Marie Therese.
Older than the steamships that swept up the Danube.
Goar was already on the gangplank, two leather cases in his arms. Almost wistful, the brown-haired lycan stared up the river, dropped the cases on deck and turned around. They passed each other one final time on the gangplank, Lucian slapping the man on the back in farewell before moving on up, stepping over the side and onto the deck. The familiar sound of his boots hitting wood, bringing back memories from another lifetime. Years spent in Morocco. Years spent on the sea.
He was surrounded by those readying the vessel, scurrying about him. A sailor stepped forward to take his bags below deck, and he relinquished them, knowing only tongues would wag if he held onto them as if they held precious cargo.
The last bell rang and from the helm, a stooped old man emerged, dressed for the cold nights on the Danube. His hair was black, weathered by grey, his eyes squinting against the wind. Familiar with his face, Lucian nodded to the Russian. His name was Vasili Andreev, and he was the captain of the Marie Therese. A Russian vampire for a Viennese vessel. Reaching a hand within his shirt, the captain drew a polished old pocket-watch from within and flipped it open, eyeing the silver timer and closing it again slowly.
"You are late, Mr. Itzhak," the captain said in Russian. A man of few words.
Staring at the river, Lucian abruptly held his hand out for the watch. To his side, the captain stilled, staring at him with some interest, and then relinquished the item. There was no one to see in the darkness. No one to know. The metal burned into his flesh, the searing drowned by the sounds around them. He flipped the watch open. 9:29 pm.
He smiled coldly. "I am early," he said.
Exactly on schedule.
A/N: We reached the ship! (Yay! Rejoice.) And as a sidenote, don't worry, Lucian adores the French...he just doesn't believe in allowing his soldiers to participate in drunken combat (in the cellar.) Anyway, sorry for the delay everyone. Many thanks to ThranduilsDaughter, Sheen, JohnnyHasTheKeys, Epilachna, zenrockstar, and xo-harlequingirl-xo for the reviews! Hope the newest chapter is met with approval and on that note, please read and review!
ThranduilsDaughter: You're right, the things Lucian has to go through just to keep that treaty going! (Spit, spit, and more spit...I think I'll give him a towel the next time he has to meet with the wretched vampire.)
Sheen: Yay! Glad you still love the writing! (It makes me feel like writing to know that.)
xo-harlequingirl-xo: Ha ha...I think Raze is going to be in even bigger trouble when we get to London. (Which I think he knows judging by Lucian's reaction to the drunken combat matches going on in the cellar...)
Reference note:
L'Union des Sociétés Lycans de Sports Athlétiques - based on a French sporting society started in 1890 (the L'Union des Sociétés Françaises de Sports Athlétiques.) I figure the lycans had their own sporting society.