23 November 2014 - Changes in dialogue (second half of chapter).
Chapter XIII: Song on the Ship
Nine hours later.
The woman blinked, opening her eyes slowly. She heard water. It was the hull of a ship, the air cold, muggy, smelling of fish and tar. It was a slow river settling in its course on the other side of thick planks. Steps moving without voices. Her mouth opened, a soundless cry as the heaviness in her head fell away. Her cheeks were bruised, red and tender as if someone had strapped her with a rotting seal carcass. Hell…
…her face was on fire.
She had been left on the bottom bunk, covered by a thin sheet, a flat pillow beneath her head. It was like being in a coffin. Her hand reached out, banging too soon against the siding, drawing blood, splinters in her knuckles. Groaning, she rolled onto her side. There was hardly any space to move, small light flickering from a brass oil-lamp, but most of the cabin, dark and miserable in its lighting. There was a very plain wooden desk cramped in the corner, a bevy of papers strewn across it and a brown bottle near the edge. The dark lycan was seated on the chair, his elbow on the table and his boot resting on two leather bags. He had a knife in his hand, carving something. A piece of wood. Raze. His name was Raze.
She was going to be sick.
"Please…" Gripping the corner of the bed, she sat up as far she was able. Bucket. She needed a bucket. "…lycan, I need to…"
Too late.
Whatever had been in her stomach was…rancid. A pool of black blood slipping and sliding from her mouth as the ship moved, an island of clots pouring into the centre. The smell grew worse. Staring at the floor, she swallowed and then wiped her mouth against her sleeve. In front of her, she heard the chair scraping against the floorboards, the lycan standing up. She flinched. The little she remembered of last night… drinking blood, speaking gibberish…someone covering her head. She remembered what Lucian had said. "…you will not be killed for having a backbone." In spite of that, someone had…hit her across the face. Staring at her own vomit, backbone did not seem relevant anymore. She was a prisoner. She was alone. She was tired. She was past crying. Was he going to hit her now?
Instead, she heard the sound of fabric tearing. In the next moment, a dingy old rag landed directly beneath her gaze, slopping into the centre of the rancid blood. She looked up to see the lycan retaking his seat, resuming his post, elbow on the desk, wood carving in hand. He did not say a word, but she understood.
Clean it up.
Better than getting her face broken in. Resigned to the task, she crept off the bed and onto her knees, using the rag to swab up the blood. It was a disgusting mess, the rag turning black before she was half-finished. Her fingers were turning black and bloody as well. She was not afraid of hard labour. Chores as a child…it was like scraping hides without water.
She let the rag fall.
"I need water."
The lycan did not look up from his carving.
So close to the floor, she could feel sweat on her forehead. The smell was revolting. Using the clean part of her arm, she wiped her forehead. She was just pushing blood around at this point. He had given her the rag, why not the water? "Lycan…I am asking you…may I have water?"
"Raaze…" Above her, a sleepy, cantankerous voice suddenly piped from the upper bunk. Lucian. She did not need to see him to know that he had been there the entire time, watching her vomit, watching her clean up her own mess, watching this entire spectacle without a word. His orders were in…English. She could understood one word…water. She could not make out the rest. At least that did not matter. She did not need to understand his language…the English…to know what he was saying. Water. Smell. Revolting. Something along that track. Obediently, the dark lycan placed his carving on the table and then strode to the door. His neck was very stiff.
Left behind, she waited, conscious of the gaze on her back. She did not turn around. Instead, her eyes found the carving on the table. The size of an egg, the right half shaped in the form of a beetle. It was surprisingly delicate craftmanship considering the rough nature of its carver. In a moment, Raze returned and with him, he carried a bucket of water. He placed it firmly in front of her and then left the room, shutting the door quietly. He left the carving behind. He did not look angry, but there was a severity in his manner. Tension on her account, she presumed…
Stooping over the bucket, she ignored the pain of her face and dipped the rag in the water, taking to her task again. Clean the blood. Make it clean. It was something to focus on. The smell was getting better. Not so bad. Stuck on a ship, which meant they had left Budapest behind them. The farther they were from Budapest the better. Soon there was only a dark patch on the wood. She wrung the cloth one more time.
"I am finished," she said directly. "May I throw the water overboard?" A chance to leave the room…
There was a grim silence. For a spell, she fancied that Lucian was ignoring or perhaps even scowling at her from above. When she peered behind her, there was no sign of him. Craning her neck, she saw the edge of his clothes, the woollen shirt, his boots, but his face was out of sight. From her knees, she got to her feet and raised herself onto her toes. His pillow was on his head, and his eyes were closed.
He was fast asleep.
Sighing, she threw the rag on the ground again. Enough. The blood was gone. It was like cleaning away her shame. She was a vampire in lycan surroundings. Her face was stinging, but she could use her eyes…her nose. Walking straight to the table, she began poring over the documents. All of it illegible. Was this his handwriting? She picked up the bottle, holding it close to her eye and sloshing it about. There was liquid inside, deep reddish-brown, too clear for blood. Curious, she tugged the stopper and sniffed carefully. It smelled acrid. Strong. The faintest hint of flowers. Laudanum. She sniffed again and then closed it. Leaving the bottle on the table, she moved the chair out of the way and knelt beside the bags.
Unbuckling the first bag, she began to paw through the items. Clothing, clothing…more clothing. Silk, wool, leather…everything was folded neatly. These were Lucian's clothes. At the bottom was a small wooden box. Locked. He would know if she prised it, but she shook it a little. The sound of metal. There was something metal inside, not heavy, but…rattling. She left the box and continued digging, listening for the dark lycan's return. With Lucian asleep and her rifling, she would earn herself a slap for this, but it was now or never. She found a mug, spoon, and bowl.
No knife.
An ivory comb, matches, a pack of cards and a metal tin.
Entranced, she opened the tin, expecting to find something…interesting. It turned out to be of more practical use…only needles, thread, beeswax, a small scissors and cloth. She put the tin back and started checking the sides of the bag. Tucked in one end, there was a shaving kit. A second bottle containing the same liquid as the one on the table. A steel razor…sharp with a pearl handle. Useless. They would know it was missing and there was little she could do with steel. Only silver made an impression on lycans. Folding the razor, she placed it back in its compartment.
The second compartment held a small leather-wrapped book and a pen of sorts. She removed the pen cap. The nib was wet. For a moment, she shook the pen, engrossed as little droplets of ink dripped onto her palm. A new invention…a pen with ink flowing from within. Dropping the pen, she picked up the book instead. The pages were old, the handwriting identical to the documents on the table. She frowned, turning the pages with care. Again, the writing was illegible, but there were dates. 1721 was the earliest. Not a diary, but a type of…list. He was listing something. The order seemed important, lines drawn between items. Symbols beside particular dates. She heard a cough.
She looked up.
No longer asleep, Lucian was fixedly watching her from his bunk. He had moved marginally during her investigation, shifting to the edge for a better view, using the pillow to prop himself up on crossed arms. He looked very…very tired…and in a far shoddier state of appearance than his bags. Lines on his face spoke of tolerance.
Shivering, she wrapped the book back in its leather. The pen was on the ground. She picked it up and dropped it. Grimacing, she picked it up again and tucked it away, buckling the compartment shut. She stood up and warily backed away from the bags, wiping her hands on her shirt. She was not sorry. She was not…afraid. Scrubbing her wrist against her scalp, she winced as it crossed her bruised cheek. She was lying to herself. She was afraid. Ransacking his belongings. He would not kill her. He had…promised.
"May I throw the water overboard?" she asked again. Her voice was a croak.
He stretched, pushing the pillow away. "Raze will take care of that," he said. "…or I will." Sitting up, he began tugging his boots off and dropped them one by one onto the ground. They landed by the foot of the bed. His smile did not brighten his face. "Did you find anything of interest?"
She shook her head.
"Are you sure?"
She nodded, hastily turning towards the table and running a finger down its length. It was easier to speak if she did not look at him. "I did not realise that you were awake," she said. There was no getting around the fact. She was a prisoner. She had been caught. "It will not happen again."
"Is that an apology?" He sounded amused. "You empty my bags faster than your stomach, but you have no questions…no observations. Like it was hawk's blood, was the pen to your liking?" Hawk's blood. Sweet to the taste, almost as sweet as mortal blood. A delicacy among older vampires, but in tales, associated with greed and recklessness.
"Is this your handwriting?" she asked, changing the subject.
"One version…" he said. "…can you read it?" The way he phrased it, there was already the unspoken assumption that she could not. It was not unkind nor mocking. Merely truth.
"No," she admitted, picking up one of the pages. She could grow used to this voice of hers, the croaking of an ancient. "…but you take a risk leaving these things for a prisoner to find." She paused and then frowned over the page. "You take a risk sleeping when I am awake." If he would not kill her for rifling through his bags, then he would not kill her for words. Threatening words. She was an ancient bloodseer and she wanted him to sleep…
…uncomfortably.
Abruptly she heard a creak.
He had leaped from the upper bunk. She could hear things dropping on the floor. She felt her face flare up. Was he…? Blushing furiously, she kept her eyes on the page, but he strode around her, reaching across to pick up the bottle on the table. He was shirtless. Taut and muscled, tanned from the sun. For a moment, she had thought he was stripping. Lycans were renowned for having no sense of decency. Automatically, she heard her mentor's voice. The lady with the green eyes and the devil's sword on her back. 'Lycans are dogs, their habits are unclean.'
"That is for you to decide," he said. There were shadows under his eyes. He moved to the bag and unbuckled it, digging around and finding the spoon. "I took a risk getting you on this ship, but then I trust that you are worth it. Eventually, you will understand my reasoning."
"I understand that you are an addict," she said, regaining her composure. Her face was already so bruised, the flesh would not show her discomfiture. "When addicts sleep, they do not realise when their throats are slit. You will die in a drugged state, and I will be gone before your layman discovers your body. It will be him that wonders why you have trusted me." It was not her plan, but she would test these waters. Her mentor's voice was like a boon, reminding her of what she was. A vampire and a bloodseer. Her memories might be shot, but she had survived this long without choosing sides.
"His name is Raze," Lucian said, clearly unaffected by her description, languidly speaking to the bottle it seemed. He shook it three times. Then with methodical hands, he poured the tincture onto the spoon and drank it with a grimace. "…and it is not in his mandate to like you, so he is nearby." He drank a second dose, again grimacing at the taste, his shoulders already growing more lax. "If you must slit my throat, wait until after dark. At least four or five hours," he added. "It will be your only chance before we reach Vienna."
She crossed her arms and made a sound of incredulity. "And how am I to know it is dark?"
He shrugged, tossing the spoon into the bag again. "We'll get you a time-piece." He twisted the bottle, tightly sealing the laudanum before returning it to one of the compartments. He then strode over to the bucket, picked it up and headed for the door.
It closed behind him.
She exhaled tersely, smacking the page she held back on the table. He had taken the bucket. She had not expected him to do that. He was…Lucian. A ruthless killer, a monster. Focus, she thought. Lycans are dogs. Their habits are unclean. She looked away from the door. Her face smarting like the sun. Her eye happening on the shirt lying on the ground, grey wool…it was torn. The same material as the rag she had used. Squinting suspiciously, she abandoned the chair and got on her knees, picking up the shirt. Scrunching it in her fingers, examining its texture. Same material. So it had been Lucian who had thrown the rag, not Raze…
Hearing him return, she dropped the garment, getting to her feet and out of his way. He did not seem to care that she had been studying his discarded shirt. He was still carrying the bucket, but it was empty now. Closing the door for a second time, he left it by the wall and stepped around her, almost gracefully climbing back onto his bunk. Seeming to banish all worry from his mind as he thumped his pillow twice and lay back, stretching his arms out and promptly falling asleep. And that was that.
The hours would pass easily for him…
…but not for her.
o…o…o
For the first hour, she waited on the chair, sitting on her hands and staring at his face. She did not trust him. In the dim lamplight, there was only exhaustion on his face, even in sleep, yet she heard the song in her head … Even with laudanum in his system, if she moved, he would be watching her.
In the tales, he was a creature that did not sleep. Vampires, he tormented in the night, mortals in the day. He filled them all with dread and scorn, ate the children of his mourning. Raped the daughter, burned her bones. Covered her flesh with brine.
Without thinking, she started to hum the old tune. A soft crooning sound, at first unremarkable…and then frightening. The song starting to stick in her throat. He filled them all with dread and scorn, ate the children of his mourning…
So feared in life, what had he done in death?
Her eyes warily on his face, she crept towards the bags again, creeping like a bird around the wolf. Kneeling on the floor, she opened the second bag, searching for more clues…more traces. Clearly it belonged to Raze…the lycan travelled even lighter than Lucian did. There were only clothes, a pipe, tobacco, cigarettes. In the side, she found a pack of bone dominoes. A shaving kit. No weapons. No trinkets. No books. The bag smelled faintly of meat. Her stomach started to rumble. Hunger was biting, but she would have to bear it for the time being. She wrinkled her nose at her own foul stench. She needed a bath as well.
Finding the leather-wrapped book from the compartment, she retreated to the corner desk with his book, gorging herself with meaningless information for a second time. Save for the writing, nothing matched. No letters. No words. She flipped to the start of his book. 1721. 1735. 1744. There was a pattern. She was sure of it. Dozens of numbers traced over two centuries.
Placing the book on the table, she scanned the pages around her. The alphabet was a conventional roman, yet the words bore no resemblance to Latin. He had recorded no names in the text. No locations. No numbers. It was possible that he was writing in English, French…Spanish…one of the languages she did not know, but would he trust her even that far? He had been so certain that she could not read these pages, which suggested that perhaps…this was no language…but a code.
Suddenly she looked up, squinting in the lamplight, aware that she had stopped watching the sleeping lycan. He had not moved. His breathing was steady, his eyes were closed. She frowned, backing away from the desk, returning the book lest he waken. A dead creature lingering in the dark for so many years…one who had not wasted his time, he said.
She was getting hungrier.
More hours passed.
She ventured to the door, opening it by a crack. All she could see of the ship was dank, the air lighter out there, but the surroundings worse. The hull filled with bunks and barrels, nets and rope. Hooks. Fish bones. The scent was everywhere. She could hear men walking on deck. In the distance, she could see where the light came from…an open hatch of sunlight filtering down from the upper deck. Immediately, she shut the door. She had not felt the heat, but a vampire did not wait for heat to know the first hint of sunlight. Not when her face was already tender from bruises.
Leaning against the door, she gingerly touched her face. The bruises were starting to heal, but slowly…only a touch faster than a human. Her scalp was still hairless. Surely it must be approaching midday already. Would they bring her no food?
She began to pace…no longer concerned with waking Lucian. The laudanum had done its trick. He was breathing easily, but it was a deeper sleep from when she had spied on him in the stagecoach. He did not fidget…he did not move. She could have screamed in his face and he would not have heard her.
How many more hours? There was no chance of escape while it was daylight, and no point in killing the hand that fed. She faced the wall, seated on the chair. The lamp finally sputtered out, but she could not sleep…
Why would a lycan drug himself?
It was foolish.
Dangerous.
Finally she heard footsteps, the door opening and Raze entering the room. He carried two sacs in one hand and a rat in the other. To her horror, he dropped the rat, live and squirming, into the bucket. She felt her hunger dissolve. Without the lamp, she could see him clearly in the darkness, the form standing in front of her… he was so much taller when she was sitting down.
"I do not…"
"Eat."
She swallowed. "There were two bottles last night. I can still drink from the…"
"No," he said, finding his carving. "Lyosha disposed of them already."
Lyosha…
…a Russian name.
How many of these lycans were there?
"Who is Lyosha?" she said dimly, unable to look away from the bucket. The rat was squealing, scratching against the sides of the bucket. Somewhere, she knew the sound all too well. What else had there been to eat in those catacombs? Even before the half-sleep, she had eaten rats, starving on them after Tanis had locked her up. To escape only to have to eat rats again.
"He is Master Aleksey Itzhak…" Raze said grimly, staring down at her from four feet above. She suspected he was not taking kindly to her use of his chair. "…whom you are given leave to call Lyosha for short. You have been sitting in front of him for seven hours."
At that, she finally broke gaze with the rat and looked up at Raze…and then behind her at Lucian asleep on the upper bunk. Lyosha…short for Aleksey. A false name. It was true he had told her never to call him Lucian. "How long will he be called Lyosha?"
"Until he tells you otherwise," the lycan said. Stone-faced, he picked up the carving on the table, examining it in the dark, his eyes gleaming silver. With his knife, he began to pare the untouched side of the beetle down, leaning against the wall. He did not speak to her again after that. She remained facing the wall, disregarding her hunger.
Thirty minutes passed…
…and then an hour.
Starving, she rose from the chair, edging closer to the bucket, hunger overcoming her stubbornness. In the dark, left with nowhere to run, the rat had stopped squirming, its warm body cringing against the wooden sides. It would bite her if she handled it slowly, so her hand darted into the bucket, drawing the rat to her teeth before it could scream. Pungent blood flowing into her mouth. Sour veins, sticky on her lips, thick in her throat. Its fur tasted rank against her tongue. There was no choice, but in spite of that, she was grateful for her meal.
She let the rat fall back in its wooden bucket, now a grave. Her hunger was sated. But as she stood, she saw Raze kneeling by the sacs he had brought, untying them now that she had finished her sordid meal. So this was how it was…he would not even eat at the same time as her. As if feeding her like a dog was the final item in some set list of things the lycan had to complete before supper. Unable to help herself, she took a step towards their food, trying to see what they had saved for themselves…and then back again as Raze stood and called out to Lucian...
"Lyosha…"
She saw no movement.
"Lyosha…" the lycan called again. His persistence answered finally by a muted grunt, the yawn of an ill-tempered beast hiding in a jungle. She immediately retreated from the wooden bucket, pressing herself up against the wall. Fool to be afraid of a sound, she told herself. But it was a frightening sound, different without the lamp to give it warmth.
Lucian…Aleksey…Lyosha…stirred in the dark. His movements dull and haggard as he rolled onto his side…and then abruptly off the bed, his torso twisting before the impact. It was a small height, barely four feet at the most, yet his limbs absorbed the fall as readily as a cat stepping off a staircase. It was mesmerizing to the eye and more graceful than she would have imagined. But it was ruined by what happened next.
Half asleep, he walked past where she stood, his focus entirely on the centre of the room. Circling the untied food sacs, shaking his shoulders out like a bare-knuckle boxer preparing for a fight. Unleashing and retracting his claws and then cracking his neck from side to side. His teeth longer, sharper…the scent fresher as he crouched down beside the meat. With little ceremony, he pulled two hares from the food sac and began to skin the fur from their backs. His teeth soon tearing through muscle and sinew alike. Cracking on bones before he sucked the marrow from its casing. As soon as the one had chosen his portions, the other began to devour the rest.
She slid to the floor, nauseated by the sight. Many things her mentor had taught her, but in all her memories…she could not remember seeing a lycan feed. It was disgusting. Carnivorous. They tore apart their food with claws, attacking their meat like animals. It was just as her mentor had said. Lycans are dogs, their habits are unclean.
But her mentor was no longer here. She was alone. Cringing from the thought more than her surroundings, she folded her arms over her knees and buried her face. Trying not to smell the hare's blood. Trying not to think on the foul taste on her tongue. The air filled with cracking bones and snapping jaws until he noticed she was still there.
She could see him through a crack between her arms. Crouching only a few feet away. Blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, melding with the rough hairs of his beard. His nails ending in talons, and his eyes refusing to blink. Shadows of black and blue warning her that something had changed since they had last spoken. Even with the moon absent, he was half-wolf already.
Disturbing that he could be speaking to her during this carnage. And yet his jaw moved for a second time. Her mind so preoccupied with the blood that eventually, he gestured at the wooden bucket, as though truly concerned she had not heard him. "Your rat," he said again, enunciating his Latin and speaking louder. His voice deep as a fisherman's hook and sharp, dredging her out of her misery. "…how was it?"
It was a goading question. But she would not skitter up the wall for his sake. Instead, she raised her eyes to meet his question, refusing to look at the fresh hare's blood staining his fingers. "Delicious," she said plainly, for the rat was all the more sweeter for her not having to share it with him.
He seemed indifferent to her contempt. Breaking the hare's leg in half and licking his thumb before taking a seat on the floor. "You have my apologies then. There are no hawks to be had on this fishing vessel. No reckless excitement."
The day a lycan would judge her for handling a pen. She felt her lips compress into a very thin line. "I do not crave excitement."
He gave a laugh at that. Short and feral like one used to isolation. "You spent twenty years sleeping in a monastery and your only companion was Tanis." Even with the sarcasm of his observations, it was clear which was the lesser of two evils. "Tell me, were you a nun in your former life?"
She scowled. "Do not mock me."
"Or what?" He snorted, flipping one of the broken bones onto the refuse pile. His manners changing from courtly to cruelty at the flick of a bone. "Are you going to riffle through my things again?"
"I would not dirty my hands a second time."
"Your hands already smell of vermin."
She felt her nose flair.
"At least I can wash away the scent," she said curtly, forgetting herself in the face of his insolence.
It was a mistake.
A growl emanated from her right. The sound making her want to cringe. Raze. She had forgotten Raze was in the room. Her heart beating faster. She expected a blow to the skull. But she refused to turn her head, keeping her eyes on the one who ruled. The one who would judge her. Allowing herself to breathe when he raised a hand to still the fury of his layman. Her fate ultimately in the hands of one who seemed to feel neither pain nor anger over her insults.
Across from her, he continued to sit, finishing his first course as though she had not just insulted him twice in one sitting. Continuing to study her even as he chewed on a piece of cartilage. "Why would you bite the hand that feeds you?" he finally asked.
"All you have fed me is a rat," she said. Forcing her mouth to close before she gave into the urge to say 'milord.' It was his voice that threw her…the precision of his Latin, the inflection in his tone…he sounded more gracious than she did. But it was a mask. He was a lycan…and she was a lady of the blood. She owed him nothing.
He flicked an eye at the wooden bucket. "What if I were to give you more than just the rat?"
"Then I would take what you give, and I would turn it against you," she said. To do otherwise would be a betrayal of her blood. "…even if you keep me for a decade…or even two...you will still die in a drugged state, and I will be gone before your layman discovers your body."
He continued chewing. "Is it that simple?"
She felt her cheeks flushing again, this time with anger. Bitterness that her appearance could cause him to doubt her. "As simple as giving me a time-piece so I can plan for the occasion," she quipped. She wanted him to taste the acid on her tongue, but he was more intent on gnawing through the carcass, his teeth seeming to know its way into every crevice. The heart and the lungs swallowed in a single bite. His reply taking an age, as though he needed to contemplate 'this thing called 'time'…that which made him breathe deep before he nodded in agreement.
"Done," he said, as though she had just passed him a charter to sign. Despite her words, she felt more like a pawn at a king's table than the queen she wanted him to see. "Another night in this hell…and you will have your time-piece." Strangely, there was no contempt in his manner now, rather the sense that he believed he meant what he said, though she took him for a liar. "We will dress you. Feed you. Grant you every dream you have harboured in your sleep for the past twenty years."
"If this is a dream, then I would wake from it," she muttered bitterly, aware of the rasp in her voice and the truth of her circumstances. It was the laudanum speaking for him. Nothing more. Her eyes falling on the wooden bucket, reminding herself of how quickly dreams could falter when reality presented a rat for her supper.
With a raised eye, he again followed her line of sight. Staring at the remains of her supper like a soothsayer on his hill before he spoke again. "You will never taste another rat in my company, blood-seer. I swear it."
As though he had not massacred thousands and then lied about his death. As though the proverbs of her mentor did not warn of her such things: Never trust a lycan, for without the smile, his face is an ungodly sight, the bones too tight, the teeth too long. And this one with blood on his hands.
She spoke without another thought. "I do not trust your word, Lyosha." Aleksey. Lucian.
It was the first time she had used his false name. Perhaps it was the name that made him laugh.His gaze becoming unfocused.Something so very wrong about his eyes. Like staring into a empty pit where a fire had once burned.
"Then trust a vision, oh disillusioned one," he said, throwing the last bone onto the refuse pile and now taking the second hare onto his lap. Twisting the head from its spine before using his claws to remove guts and intestines. "…trust me when I say that in one year, my war will become your war. My den will be your home, and you will seek no other life. You will want for nothing…" His words were spoken with such assurance, as if the events were a landslide above them. "…and all I ask in return is that you tell me what you see in blood…" His teeth pulled back into a winsome grin. "…and I will always ask."
"Asking does not make us allies," she said.
"Time will," he replied. It felt as if he had marked her with his words. Not her, but the wall behind her with its surface covered in more than just grime. "…and though you may suspect my threats, for the sake of your trust, blood-seer, I will make a wager." The smile had not yet reached his eyes. "A simple wager that before a year is done, you will choose to remain in my den rather than escape." A cruel grin."Do you accept?"
A curse on her for replying. "What terms?"
"Take the escape, and I will let you go. Your service complete and Tanis' head as a parting gift to remember me by…"
"And if I stay?"
It was unsettling the way his eyes followed her. Like he was watching things that were not there. "Then your allegiance belongs to me for the next century," he said. As if to finalise his meaning, he flicked a portion of the kidney onto the floor, swallowing the rest whole before considering the angle of his next bite. "Not the horde, lady…but me. A gambling contract, more binding than chains, some would say."
First 'young woman' and now 'lady.'
She suspected his politeness did not come in threes. Disturbed, she gathered the rags she was wearing closer to herself. The deal suggested the circumstances she might face once they arrived in London…the question of whether her services would be privy to an entire horde or just the den of a single animal. A wolf. One that was consuming the rest of the unfortunate hare at an alarming pace. Still there was a deftness to the way he timed his bites. The impression that this was the cleanest manner by which he could consume using only claws. His claws, his eyes, his ears all poised on the edge of this precipice, waiting for her to speak…
…and to her disgust, she found herself answering.
"Done," she said. "I would never choose to remain in the den of a lycan. They are dogs, their habits are unclean." It was as if her mentor were speaking through her mouth. Across the room, Raze snapped the bone he was chewing in half.
"Then it is settled." He blinked and without warning, the glaze on his irises was absent. Only a flickering light in the grey to show that her insults were more amusing to him than she had wanted. Her opponent more awake now that the deal was done. "A clean lady such as yourself choosing to remain among dogs, even while the dogs snap at her heels." And then he bowed his head to her. "Are you not curious how this will come about?"
"I am not."
He looked over his shoulder. "Raze …tell me, are you curious?"
"Of course I am curious, Lyosha," the dark lycan agreed, dourly chucking a bone on the floor.
"See, Raze…" He pointed over his shoulder as though she were deaf as well as old. "…is curious. Raze is someone who gives a damn," he added, stretching out on the floor, not bothering even to lick his teeth. "Why do you think that is?"
As with so many things, his discussion of other people seemed to neglect the fact that they were sitting behind him. She fixed her gaze on the other lycan. He'd had his fill of the meal, wiping his hands now on a grimy cloth pulled from his coatpocket. Folding the cloth so that the blood remained on the inside before he tucked it away again. A layman…a guardian. A friend. She wondered over the position this lycan held in Lucian's den. He did not show the same liveliness that Lucian was displaying. The more lively the lycan master became, the more quiet his layman. The more careful his layman…
In the end, she could only offer disdain for her answer. "Good breeding?"
He made a face…and then laughed softly as though he were starting to get a taste for her kind of dull wit. "Among other things," he said finally. "…but no, blood-seer, if we were to venture beyond the realm of a common insult, we might suppose that Raze is curious, that he gives a damn, because he is the master of his own reasoning. He wants to give a damn, therefore he chooses to give a damn…
She did not reply. He was trying to unnerve her with his conversation, but she would not lose her resolve. She must be hard as stone. Unmoved. Unchanged by his rationalising. It was too late to look away, so she hardened her jaw.
"Consider this," he said, already seeking another means of both drawing her out and diverting himself, using his nails to fray the torn edge of his discarded shirt. It was still on the floor, now stained with hare's blood. "I never said you'd want to come back to the den. Only that you had to choose." He was destroying the edge, trying to find a piece of yarn long enough for his liking. "So in order to win my wager, I need only provide you with an escape…and then a compelling reason not to choose it."
She could not help but speak. "A rat will not compel me towards your den."
"Are you certain of that?" Still on his back, he twisted the piece of yarn until the hairs were even, the piece now long enough to measure twice across his chest. "In the carriage I told you I would not order you to eat broken glass. But if I were to offer you freedom in exchange for eating broken glass…would you take it?"
It was the tone of one who had seen death so many times as to render it meaningless. She swallowed and then forced herself to speak boldly. "I would."
His fingers were still spinning the yarn. "Twelve hours on a roasting rack?"
"I would heal."
He rolled into a cross-legged seat, tying the ends of the yarn together, using the tips of his finger to draw out the yarn in front of him. Using his fingers to dip and pull one by one on either side, weaving the string until it started to resembled a grid. "Three hundred and eleven lashes?"
"Without hesitation."
"Or much thought," he added, as though expecting more from one who should know better. He had completely abandoned his meal, now intent on completing his game of string. It was starting to resemble a hangman's noose. His tongue dropping smoothly into Russian as though they had been speaking it the entire time."The truth is, we all have our weaknesses, blood-seer. We all bleed and burn and hope we have enough air in our lungs to withstand whatever pain is being inflicted upon us. We think we are impervious in the moment before we break. But though we are immortal, we are not stone. And we can feel when things are taken from us..."
The yarn suddenly snapped, the pattern falling into disarray. She flinched for she had been watching so closely that she had forgotten to breathe. Unperturbed, he disentangled his fingers and let the yarn fall to the floor, continuing his conversation as though he had never paused. "So I have to wonder, blood-seer, now that your youth has been sucked dry..." Their eyes locked. "…what else is there for me to take?"
She was not weak. She was a blood-seer…and there was nothing else he could take from her. No pain he could inflict. But for a reason she could not explain, she could not look away from his eyes. She could not look past him, not at the bones collecting on the floor nor the dead hare's skull with its torn fur still clinging to its scalp.
"Think about it, Raze…" His attention was idling away from her, his plans rolling off his tongue like poetry. "…a vampire who hates catacombs buried beneath the ground in the dark, dank catacombs of the den where even the rats have no claim…" Words meant to frighten her. "…enough blood to keep her alive…and an escape if she can find it."
There was a grim edge to the word 'if.'
"Victory to be hers if she can just…find…that…tiny…hole in the wall." The concern for her well-being entering his voice again, at odds with his appearance. "…or she can simply come upstairs. The den willing to welcome her with open arms." He stretched his arms out to the ceiling like a preacher before his sinners. "A room and bed waiting for her. Warmth and comfort. No more dark, no more rats, no more maze…"
She willed herself to breathe. Willed herself to be more than her fears. She was a lady of the blood. She did not fear the dark…or the rats…or a catacomb. Yet her knuckles were white. Her palms sweaty, her hands starting to shake. It was uncanny. She had never feared such things before, yet the thought of this…maze…was unnerving to her.
"And it is a maze, mind you." He was watching her discomfort with undisguised interest. "…very…never-ending, to be honest, but one would assume, within the year, you'll either die or come to your senses," he said. And then he smiled. An expression that might have been charming under any other circumstances. "Either way, the odds are in my favour."
The odds?
In her heart, she knew there were no odds. The Fates had already spun his thread, and if it was their choice to cut it short, then so be it. Nothing he said or did to her would change that. But with her memories stripped from her blood, the words would not come. The fears that had been sleeping quietly beneath the surface now starting to writhe with doubt. The air in her lungs shrinking. The taste of rat coating her throat as though he had stuffed its tail in her mouth. The room suddenly hot and stifling, filling her nose with the smell of raw meat and entrails.
She was trying to escape it. Fighting this sensation she had not felt since she was a child. She was panicking. A dreadful pain pressing against her chest as she realised what he could do. He burned her bones and covered her flesh with brine. Her lungs were moving too fast. Reason telling her that she was going to die like the Elder's daughter. He was going to burn her bones… And then suddenly…without any warning, the battle for her dignity was lost.
The walls were closing in. The sockets of the dead hare's skull following her into the shadows. It was smaller than the blackened skulls that had lain at her feet. The limbs and ribs of those who like her had failed to escape. Her heart starting to beat faster until she could do nothing but cover her mouth. Sobbing into her hands. Pushing herself farther into her corner. She could hear her throat rasping, her lungs fighting to breathe in the wake of her memories.
It was the rat.
The taste of it drawing her back in time so for a split second, she was there in the catacomb. Crouching in her tunnel with the stone against her back. Rats nibbling upon her rotting flesh until she began to eat them in her sleep. In winter, she felt the cold touch of ice wrapping itself around her spine. In summer, she pulled herself back from the heat, turning away from the mangled cloth wrapped around her legs…days…months…and years passing her by until a grey-eyed lycan pulled her jaw up and forced her to wake.
Across from her, he had neither moved nor changed his expression. So that in that moment, she understood why he had lasted this long. His arms now folding behind his head, while the rest of him reclined on his blood-forsaken throne of a floor. Of course he would feed her a rat. This was not about hatred or vengeance. By the chill in his eyes, he simply felt like setting a moth on fire.
o…o…o
Hours later, she lay in the corner, too exhausted to pull herself off the floor. She had fallen asleep and woken to find herself alone in the room. The lamp gone and the floor-boards cleaner than the rags she was still wearing. The skull of the rat was the only thing left of both their meals. He had placed it on the table, as though he wanted to her to wake to find vermin still watching her. Her imagination setting her fears alight, filling her mind again with every tale she had heard of his cruelty. Vampires, he tormented in the night, mortals in the day. He filled them all with dread and scorn, ate the children of his mourning. Raped the daughter, burned her bones. Covered her flesh with brine.
The tune mindlessly humming itself in her throat. For now she knew what it meant. She knew that despite his promises, despite having paid for her, he did not care if she died. She was a gamble…a possession. One minute, he promised her the dreams she might have harboured and the next, he planned to bury her among the dead. So in the dark, she soothed herself with whispers beneath her breath. She did not hear herself sing the words softly, each syllable drifting like a curse from her tongue. A soft crooning sound, at first unremarkable…and then frightening. Raped the daughter. Burned her bones. The song starting to stick in her throat. Covered her flesh with brine…
She breathed…
…and immediately regretted it.
The door crashed open. Before she could throw herself back, she felt a hand clamp onto her arm, dragging her out from under the wooden desk, across the floor and shoving her up against the wall. She wanted to scream, but her lungs were moving too fast. Her torso trapped by an enormous pressure. In the corner of her eye, she could see the talons of his right hand buried in the wall, only two inches from her face. Blood, what had she done?
It was Lucian. He was breathing hard, as though he had sprinted from the other side of the ship, his left hand covered in sweat, his blood-stained fingers wrapped around her throat, tight against her jaw. She was holding something back, a scream, a moan. There was no longer a chill in his eye. No longer any warmth in his voice. And yet his voice was soft when he spoke into her ear. "One more verse and I swear I will maim you," he said. "…first your eyes…then your hands…and then the skin off your back. Do we understand each other?"
She could no longer fight it. Despair. Sorrow. Tears layered over her eyes. But she was tired of defending herself. Tired of being a pawn in this game. She tried to speak, but could not get the words out of her mouth. Her jaw unable to move. He did not care. He pulled her face forward so they locked eyes. "I asked you a question…and I need you to nod…or even blink if we understand each other." His eyes were silver, his face contorted. A dreadful emptiness in his voice. "Now."
It felt as though he had nailed her to the wall. She heard a muted sound. It was her own voice. Her throat trying to speak around sobs. His hand tightening around her neck, almost snapping it until she cried out…and then blinked, trying to nod against his hand. Desperately. Wanting nothing more than to cringe. Weep. Be as weak as he knew she was.
Still he did not let her go easily. The words having caused more damage than she had bargained for. The beast eyeing her with distrust, keeping her locked in his grip…and then suddenly wrenching his talons out of the wood, letting her drop to the floor in a tangled heap. From the other side of the wall, she heard footsteps. The sound of boots tramping down the hallway, but he was at the door, slamming it shut before anyone could see the cause of the ruckus. His body filled with an unruly tension as he circled her…and then began to pace around the room. Keeping close to its centre, stalking back and forth as though he were possessed. Had she not been in the room, she suspected he would have been muttering to himself. Speaking in tongues unknown as he dissolved into the habits of an animal.
His scowl suddenly visible as he turned on his heel, staring at her as though he could hear that thought. She cringed, dropping her eyes quickly lest he attack her for the expression on her face. She had not spoken aloud. She swore, she had not. But it did not change the way he was now looking at her. His claws dragging along the walls and then down the sides of his arms, before he gave into the needs of his nature. Reaching again for the tincture that had been his solace only a few hours ago. His habit no longer showing itself as a weakness, but a necessary evil. A silver cage that could keep him from turning into a beast.
Keeping his eye to the door, he found the laudanum and drank his third dose of the night. The laudanum tightly shut and secreted away, leaving them both to exist in the room, watching each other in this purgatory. His actions witnessed only by one who was powerless. She petrified, and he pacing until his gait began to slow down. His neck starting to relax until she could hear his heart beating to the pulse of a man. And then, as though nothing untoward had just happened, he exhaled to a count of three and then picked up the chair, placing it squarely before the desk.
"We should mark the date," he said abruptly. Reaching for his pen and taking a seat before the desk, his back towards her now. He did not seem to realise he was dragging a pen across wood rather than paper. "One year from today," he muttered, writing each letter out diligently as he spoke. "…and we will see which one of us has the upper hand…" And then he turned, the silver eyes appraising her with a gleaming light. "…death notwithstanding," he added as though it mattered. His voice all too calm, his politeness returned, and the blood on his face decrying him for what he was. Cruel…ruthless…and insane.
She shuddered, folding over herself and breathing into her hands. Breathing slower…crawling deeper into her misery. And then closing her eyes quickly before she could lose her way again. Burying her face firmly against her knees, biting her lip so that her weeping would be silent. She would be dead within the year, she realised, feeling her heart sink beneath the floorboards.
But the deal was done.
A/N: Hope everyone enjoys the presence of a wager (I always do.) Many thanks to Sheen and Epilachna for the latest reviews!
Sheen: You have no idea how pleased I was to write something that wasn't drawn by four horses! Planks, fish, an absolutely ghastly ship, but thank God...we left the stagecoach behind...
Epilachna: I'm not entirely sure about Raze, but I will be writing more on him within the scope of this fanfic. I've always thought of him as being on a close level with Lucian...the kind of lycan that is unofficially Lucian's guardian/on-and-off-best-mate/partner-in-crime/subordinate (a.k.a. his best friend in the entire world even though he won't admit it to anyone breathing. Silly Lucian...)
As a final note, please read and review everyone!