Chapter XX: The Feast of Idols

The Parisian Den. Noon.

It was their final afternoon in the den. Auguste had insisted upon a feast of farewell, great platters of uncooked beef and lamb on the shoulders of trim serving women, boys carrying hot pitchers of blood for those lycans who required it. Like the olden days, there was a head table at the far end of the hall; Lucian was compelled to sit at its centre, Auguste and Dominique, the den's alpha and matriarch, seated to his left, and his first subordinate, Raze, on his right. Each of them had the choicest cuts of venison prepared by the chef, the blood-wine spiced and heated.

As alpha it was his duty to preside over these festivities, but with every passing minute, his seat was becoming that corner of hell reserved for outcasts. There had been speeches, toasts, laughter, cavorting…every manner of decadent behaviour reserved for celebration, some of it offensive to his eyes. They were his people…they idolised him…yet he no longer identified with them. Instead, he was mildly tipsy, staring at his glass, his finger rotating along the edge, occasionally nodding, while trying to pretend he was having a good time. Dominique held only a quarter of his attention…

"It is an outrage, Lyosha," she declared, mincing words between bones. She was a hard-looking woman, a former prostitute whose bite-wound had formally transformed her from Auguste's whore into his live-in companion. Four decades later and she had wrestled herself into the position of matriarch. "They have had the vote for six years. The very bottom of the earth…" She flicked her hand. "…but its centre? Nothing. We are the dust under their feet, the waste of their…"

"Mon ange," Auguste interjected. My angel, he had called her. "…for the sake of humility, let the master have his room. There will always be space for another outrage…"

Saved by the angel's gaze fixating furiously on Auguste, Lucian took the opportunity to vacate. He pushed his chair back and stood. A serving-boy immediately came forward, holding a pitcher out. It was the same child that had led him to the door three weeks ago. The boy had been following him like a rash.

"May I serve you, lycan-master?"

Serve him?

How many blasted times was this boy going to ask that question?

Logically, he considered the cup in his hand. As long as the cup was empty, he would have to decline every serving boy in the hall. He held it out for the boy to fill, taking a gulp as soon as the top was reached. Hare's blood spiced with nutmeg. At least that could hold his attention. He wiped his mouth with his shirt-sleeve, tersely thanked the boy and then proceeded into the throng to mingle. To his disgust, even though his thanks had been insincere, the boy looked like he had been touched by the hand of God.

Did these people not realise his imperfection? He was no idol…he was an addict, a raging creature that people either feared or worshipped. His worst fear was one day he would wake up and realise he was a tyrant. In the corner of his eye, he could see Raze getting up, making his way through the crowd after him, following in case his drinking tipped from mild into the realm of full intoxication. Just as many eyes followed Raze as himself. They were both legends around these parts. It would be interesting to see how far they could get without being conscripted into blessing someone's forehead.

So began his foray into the Parisian underworld of lycans. His first ten steps were met by exclamations of wonder, the only exception being a shockingly sober young woman who wanted to argue the subject of emancipation. Raze came to his rescue, drawing her aside and severely nodding, massaging his chin as if the subject was actually of interest to him. Complete horseshit. Lycan women had been emancipated since the Dark Ages; if the mortals were a step behind, that was their issue to deal with. He started avoiding the women…though it hardly made his walk among the people any better.

The next batch of steps took him through a crowd of louts, all of them congratulating him on his existence. One of them clapped him on the back. Any other moment and they would have feared to touch him, but all claws were abandoned at a feast. This was a moment to relax, relish the merriment, stretch out the limbs. Even he could not begrudge them that. He kept walking, veering towards the edges of the hall, somehow trying to get lost in a throng that knew his face better than he did. People kept speaking to him. Looking for him. Eying him. How much longer did he have to be here?

Feeling hunted, he began ducking into the stone alcoves, searching for the one person he actually wanted to speak to. He stumbled on drunks, lycans coupling against the wall, the same previously-sober young woman emptying her stomach on the floor. Only after he gave up did he find the one he sought. She was sitting alone in the corner, her eyes scanning the crowd for trouble-makers. Her hair was straggly, her chin smudged with red. She wore the same nondescript, brown threads she had worn for the past three weeks. Rena could be more of a lout than half the soldiers in this room, but she had enough mind to see rot where it was seeded. And this den was rotting from the inside. At his nod, she raised her glass, but kept her seat. He dropped down beside her, leaning back and letting his legs stretch out a bit. Watching the same crowd that held her attention. Two groups of lycans pulling at each others' arms, the one group trying to force the other to give up their place in a chalk circle drawn on the floor. It was not drink-fighting, but a variety of it. Not a single one of them could stand straight.

Instinct told him to step in and break it up, but this was not his den. Any rebuke must come from Auguste; to do otherwise would undermine the man's authority. But everyone knew Paris was in a poor state, overspending, allowing its walls to swell with numbers it could not sustain. One of the lower pack-leaders, Benoit had been seeking a merge for almost a decade. Only a matter of time before a leak sprang. Only a matter of months before the issue came up at the Gathering of the Horde.

He frowned, taking a gulp from his drink. "Is it always like this?"

"Worse." She did not take her eyes off the crowds.

He had considered taking a more subtle route, but the blood-wine was affecting his abilities at conversation. He got straight to the point. He slapped his knee. "Have you considered my offer?"

She drank from her glass, speaking around its edge. "I have, Lyosha." The red spilled down her chin.

"And?" Why did women never answer directly? You ask them 'why', they answered 'because.' He touched his hand to the stone wall behind him, feeling the cold while looking at her. It was difficult conversing with a soldier that had once been a child in his company. Two hundred years ago, Rena's only concern had been whether the lycan-master would make her a toy to play with.

"She will not like it." Rena wiped her mouth against her shirt. It moved the stain on her chin from the right side to the left.

"I do not care what she likes," he answered. Why did that sound false? He professed not to care, and yet here he was bending over backwards to make damn sure the woman was comfortable. But then it would not be him having to bend over backwards soon. It would be someone else.

She set her glass down and stood. "Then you have yourself a deal, Lyosha."

He nodded. "Good…" As she slowly turned, starting to make her way back to the women's quarters, he impulsively reached out, taking her by the wrist, making her look down at him. Such a fine soldier once…and now her eyes were always yellow. Tawny-eyed Rena of the gutter. "…Rena…little Rena, you cannot continue like this."

She was swaying, but a smile found its way onto her face. "When you stop, Lyosha, so will I."

He eyed her…and then laughed softly. It was true. Half the time, he was more drugged up than she was. He let go of her wrist. He was about to say more, but Auguste stepped into the alcove. The lycan leader was just as inebriated as the rest of his den.

"Good God, Lyosha, is this where you are hiding? Come, we must have a last round before dusk…" He grunted merrily and then turned, yelling loudly. "You there, boy! Blood for the lycan-master. His cup is…"

"Leave the blood, Auguste…" Rena had disappeared down the corridor. Faster than he would have liked, but there were enough rumours floating around about the lycan-master bedding his former ward. "…I have not been parched since I set foot in your home." He stood. "This has been magnificent, but you must forgive me when I say I must retire for the afternoon."

"Retire? Lyosha, it is not even dusk yet. You should…"

Smiling, he clapped the man on the back. "Good-night, Auguste." Truth be told, he liked the man. Only God knew what would happen when the topic of the Parisian den came up during the Gathering of the Horde. It could be mutiny. But until that time, they would be friends.

Auguste clapped him on the back as well, and then clasped his hand.

"Farewell, Lyosha. Farewell."

A/N: Originally Chapter 20 and 21 were one chapter, but for the sake of point-of-view, I ended up splitting them into two chapters. Hence, the Feast of Idols and 'Snow and the Ivory Comb.' All author/references notes and review replies have been moved over to chapter 21.