Chapter XXIII: The Smell of Forbidden Fruit

London, England. 4:30 pm

It was snowing when they arrived in the city. Daylight outside, but muggy enough that drapes were enough to keep light from entering their carriage. Dressed as a lower-class deck-hand, Raze had taken off, separating himself from their party. As usual, he would make his own way to the den. Kolya had been left behind on the corner of Bishopsgate and Hanbury Street. Two lycans would be responsible for transporting both the box and his belongings to the Exiles' Quarter, located in Whitechapel. God-willing, they would never see him again, though no doubt, he would have enjoyed making his farewells to Reinette.

By the terms of the deal with Vasili Andreev, Nikolai Proshkov Andreev had exactly half a year from the date of his arrival in London to get his affairs in order. Someone would note the date in the exile's log. After that time, the vampire would be thrown out on the street and it would be up to him to find his way in the world. As was the case with most exiles, it became a question of whether he wanted to lurk unprotected in the city or find his way on to the Americas. There was an enormous trade in that, headed by one of the more tolerated exiles living near Tilbury.

Across from his seat, Rena looked uncomfortable, compelled to dress the part of a nursemaid, the starched collar causing her neck to chafe, her hand reaching up every minute to soothe it. Beside him, Sabine was drumming her feet against the floor, moving about the carriage, wanting to look outside. She had never seen London before, but he had been adamant. The sun was all but invisible, but he was in no mood to sweep ashes from the floor. After her exertions earlier that afternoon, Reinette was still fast asleep, looking pale as a ghost, her head resting on Rena's lap. Had she been awake, that might have been a problem. It had been troublesome enough getting her onto the carriage. Several blankets and the use of a parasol had protected her from the waning sun for the ten seconds it had taken to complete the transfer.

Itching to move himself, he was counting the turns, trying to gauge how much longer before they arrived home. The stately home of Mr. Alexander Kerr was just outside the greater city, close enough to allow for daytrips, yet large enough to warrant a stable. Rarely seen in public, Mr. Kerr had not been home for these past three months, double the time it took to complete an inspection of twelve lycan outposts. In truth, Mr. Kerr could have returned in one month, but he had chosen instead to spend two extra months hiding in hotels, comfortable with the notion that every night on the mainland was another night when he did not have to discuss ballet with Jacqueline. He had been thinking about going south when Goar sent him word of some book of unspeakable value in Tanis' possession. Unspeakable value, indeed. It was supposed to be a three-day detour ending with a book, but he had ended up with a woman instead. A troublesome one at that.

He eyed the pendant around her neck, considering whether to check it for the time. He was itching to look at his watch, but the pieces were still in his left trouser-pocket. In a few days, he would visit the watchmaker's shop and have the thing rebuilt from scratch. The most important thing was getting some laudanum in his system; he had run out exactly four hours ago. He grossly regretted having crushed his emergency supply on the wall of that cell in Paris. Surely it could not be long…they had been in this carriage for almost an hour. To his relief, the sound of muddy streets soon enough turned into cobblestones leading up to a house. The carriage stopped briefly for the squeak of an iron gate, before proceeding onto grounds that were more gravel than cobblestone. Finally they halted, Sabine almost falling off her seat in her excitement. They were home. Drawing the drapes by a crack, he saw only shadows. They were in the stable-house. Excellent. They had followed his instructions to a tee.

The coachman came round the side, opening the door and bowing. He was the only mortal in the room, but he showed no fear. There was a slew of lycan stable-hands behind him, half of them too young to work. Poverty was rampant in the city, and any lycan would bend over backwards to get a position in the country, even under a mortal. None of them spoke or looked up, the custom being for most English servants to pretend they were made of air. In their first years of service, he had made an effort to speak to them, but they seemed to take it as an affront to their station. It was the coachman, Henry Fulligan, who had instilled that in them. Seeing it as a new form of slavery, Lucian had been disgusted, until one evening, a pressured footman had explained it as a matter of pride. They were proud of their work and if they could set up a household for him, one as grand as any other house, they wanted to serve it like the other houses, all genteel-like. Those had been the footman's exact words. Since then, he had let them go about their business as they wanted. He stepped from the carriage, smelling the familiar scent of horses and iron.

"Good evening, Henry. How is our lady settling in?"

Henry looked up, knuckling his wrinkled forehead, a hesitant grin on his face. "'Evening, sir. Welcome back, sir. She's a right kicker, but she'll find her place." He was looking with appreciation at a familiar-looking black horse trapped in one of the stalls. Sixteen hands high with a white patch on her shoulder. Goar had sent her on ahead, a gift for the lycan-master who had a known penchant for unruly animals.

"Excellent."

Behind him, Sabine suddenly leaped out of the carriage, making a beeline for the horses. He caught her by the arm, muttering 'patience', keeping her firmly back. At the appearance of the young girl, Henry lowered his eyes, stepping back now that his master's attention was elsewhere. The entire household knew there would be a female ward arriving when the master returned. She was considered to be upper-class and as a result would suffer the same deferential treatment as Lucian. That did not mean she would not learn to respect the household as many children often forgot to do.

"Sabine," Lucian said in German, looking down at the top of her head. "…this is Mr. Fulligan. He is the lord of these stables and if you are good, in a few days, he will let you ride one of those horses." Having already decided she must have some means of occupying her day, he directed her attention to one of the thoroughbreds across from them. An older creature with enough spunk to keep the child entertained.

She beamed, staring at the horse with eagerness, her eyes already betraying her as a lycan. "Oh, yes. I want to…" Making a strong effort, she switched to English. "…ride very, very much. Mr. Kerr." She had already been instructed of his pseudonym as well as the politeness that would be expected of her in front of household staff. Turning to Henry, she nodded her head politely as Allegra had taught her to do, using the expression she had learned during their journey. Her accent was very German. "I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Fulligan."

Henry smiled in return, ducking his head again. "Miss."

Pleased at the respect she had shown, Lucian let go of her arm, waiting for the expected dash towards the horse. But she stayed perfectly still, the silver orbs looking innocently up at him, as if the furthest thing from her mind was movement. He frowned at that. Sometimes girls were far too quick to suit him. Particularly when he had to factor in how they would improve with age. He turned around, putting a hand into the carriage to help Rena out, but as he made the motion, he almost collided with one of the stable-hands. It was the price of being wealthy. Every day became a constant battle to complete manual labour before his staff could. Once he entered the house, it would be outright war. Ignoring the stable-hand, Rena took his hand and stepped down, balancing Reinette in her arms, still keeping the woman covered in blankets. It was practically dusk outside, the windows of the stable covered, but it was best to get her inside where there was no chance of a burn. The same stable-hand made an attempt to take Reinette from her arms, but Rena shook her head. She had strength enough for two.

Lucian was walking on ahead, calling his orders back to the coachman. "Take care of the bags, Henry. You will meet Rena on your own time, as well as our other guest." He aimed for the narrow door on the left, Sabine following obediently now that she had been assured of the time she could spend exploring this stable. The passageway was dark leading directly into the house, making it simple for them to bypass the courtyard. Due to the narrowness of the passage, Rena walked sideways, holding Reinette's head back from the wall, her boots colliding with the wall only at turns. There was not a servant to be found, all of them informed to keep themselves back. After a short walk, they ended in the kitchen, the place bustling with steam and hot pots, rich with smells but empty of life, save for Mrs. Fulligan.

"Good evening, Mrs. Fulligan."

Mrs. Fulligan was far less hesitant than her husband. Like Henry, she was used to dealing with Lucian in all his states. "Good evening, sir." She was a short, older woman, dressed cleanly as the housekeeper must. "If I may say so, it is good to see you, sir." Not a single hair was out of place, yet she seemed out of breath as if she had run from one end of the house to the other.

"You as well, Mrs. Fulligan." By all the poppies of England, he meant it. Three months away from home and he could finally settle down for a spell, knowing there would be a hot bath waiting for him every evening. He stepped aside, allowing Rena to come through with Reinette. Rather than explain the presence of a veiled, unconscious woman, he moved onto a far more precarious subject. "And how is our lady?" He did not mean the horse this time.

"Oh…" Mrs. Fulligan frowned in disapproval, folding her hands. She was the type of woman who never wanted to give an opinion, yet could not help wearing it openly on her face. Particularly on the subject of Jacqueline. "Oh, the lady is fine, sir." In other words, the lady was not fine.

"No trouble, I hope?"

"Oh no, sir." Her brow was knitting itself into a sign that said Yes, sir, and if you had asked my opinion about being left with her for three months, I would have given my notice.

He smiled. "Out with it, Bess." He knew exactly what kind of effect his smile had on her. It was a little known fact, but at one time, he had known Elizabeth Fulligan better than her husband did. She had started as a scullery maid in his household almost forty years ago in Germany. She would kill him if he let a word slip in front of her household staff, but they were practically by themselves. For old times' sake, she could live a little.

"Oh, it is not my place to say, sir…" She looked flustered. There was some hesitation as if she could not match the words in her head with the words she ought to say. "…but the lady has her needs. I am sure that…" She nodded to herself, finally coming up with the same explanation Henry often used when talking about a horse that was unpleasant to deal with. "…she will find her place. Begging your pardon, sir, but it is none of my business."

"Very good, Mrs. Fulligan. Very good." Still smiling, he put a hand on her shoulder, bringing her forward to meet Rena. "This is Rena. Both she and her charge will require rooms in the East Wing. Our other guest is missing, but she will turn up once she realises there is no dinner to be found in the corridors. You have my permission to discipline her as you will, but I would prefer you do it in English…she will be learning it over the next year."

"Of course, sir. I will inform the household." Having steadied herself in reality again, Mrs. Fulligan put a hand out to direct Rena down one of the windowless corridors. "This way, young miss." At least two hundred years older than the housekeeper, Rena looked nonplussed to be called 'young miss,' but she went.

There…

…home again.

Left on his own, Lucian breathed for a moment, getting his scent right. He could smell food simmering in one of the pots, meat being cooked in the oven. There was tableware being polished on one of the sidetables, a number of glasses set out. Iced blood-wine cooling in a bucket. They were preparing for this evening's dinner, and the longer he stood in this kitchen, the more haggard the cook would be. The cook. Not the chef. They were in England again…not France. His scent needed to be confident…in control. Three weeks he had told Jacqueline. Three weeks. It was a longshot, but he might get to his bath before he was forced to explain himself. While Mrs. Fulligan had taken Rena and Reinette down the servant's windowless passageway, his position as master meant going the long way. He went to the left, ducking somewhat lower than usual. The doorways were often short in these homes, particularly in the servant areas.

In the foyer, he saw a line of household staff, all of them waiting on his approval before he sought out his quarters. Let it never be implied that Mrs. Fulligan was not the most diligent of housekeepers. The maids curtsied, the footmen bowing their heads. Lycans, all of them. He could not remember a single one of their names, but he nodded in passing, respectfully acknowledging their presence in his household one-by-one. Almost four hundred years ago now, he had drawn a line at having servants…but as more lycans required employment, even servitude found its place in lycan society. As long as they were well-treated and wanted their position, he could live with it. Having reached the end of the line, the butler dismissed them and he was free to escape upstairs. It was his favourite part of the household. The railing oak, the floors marble, the windows wide and open. The one thing he stipulated for every house that he ever owned in the past six hundred years…windows. Windows everywhere.

Reaching the top of the staircase, he walked down the familiar path, the plush carpet under his feet, the line of portraits on either side of the hall. A hundred years ago, this house had belonged to an Englishman named Sir Robert Kerr. Having disappeared for a stretch of forty years, Sir Robert died of cholera overseas, just off the coast of Morocco. He left all his belongings to his son, Gregory, sometimes called Gregoire or Goar by his closest friends. Alas, tragedy struck yet again, and twenty years on, Gregory 'Goar' Kerr was involved in a freak accident involving a train and a carriage. Such a pity to have died so young, but at least he had an heir. It was a great comfort to society when Gregory Kerr's son appeared out of Germany another twenty years or so later. 'Of course, this man is a Kerr,' they whispered. 'One need only look at the portraits to see Mr. Alexander is the spitting image of his grandfather…and such manners, they whispered. Such a gentleman.

The lycan version of the tale was much shorter. The house was transferred from himself to Goar and back to himself again. Short and simple.

Lucian kicked the doors to his suite open. The master bedroom was spotless, every drawer in place, every mahogany table polished with a fire already biting in the grate. His four-poster bed looked as if it had been made, unmade, remade and then ironed, the drapes hanging just so. His bags were already being unpacked by Langley, his manservant. Langley's mother had been a friend, but he swore, if the boy turned sideways, he could cut something. On the whole, bearable as a manservant, but galling the way he glanced at Raze when certain requests were made. As if he had to check with the real mistress of the house before he could bring the lycan-master that fourth brandy of the evening.

"Good evening, Langley."

"Lycan-master, I…I mean, good evening, sir. Welcome back, sir." He swallowed, almost dropping the shirt he was holding. "Your bath is…" He looked uncomfortable. "…it…well, it…is waiting."

"But you misplaced the bath-salts and you forgot the water…" Used to Langley's incompetence, Lucian pulled off his shirt-collar, the coat falling at his feet. "Whatever the hell it is, boy, speak. You will not be murdered."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I'm sorry. But she…"

"She?"

"It's just that she…" He swallowed. "…she's already in it. I tried to stop her, sir, but she pushed me over. She was already undressing. I didn't know what to do." His voice had gone up by an octave. Langley was just under sixteen years old. He was born a lycan and he would die a virgin if he did not stop, drop, and learn what was underneath all that clothing women swore by.

"You did nothing wrong, Langley." Pulling off his waist-coat, he chucked it across the room. "Leave the bags, I will deal with them myself…" He pulled the remains of his watch out, setting the pieces carefully on the dresser. "…what time is dinner?"

"Just after 6:30, sir. I mean, seven. I'm supposed to help you dress for dinner. Mrs. Fulligan said that…"

"That will be all, Langley."

"But sir, Mrs. Fulligan said that…"

"Out!"

The boy footed it out of the room. More aware of his surroundings now, Lucian took a cautious sniff. Perfume. She had flounced right through here. A different scent from usual or he might have been on the uptake a bit sooner. Stalling for time, he took a seat on the bed and pulled off his boots. There was a hint of mud on the carpet. Mrs. Fulligan would kill him for that. He stood, walking slowly, but purposefully to the door. The last time he had seen Jacqueline, she had thrown a plate at his head. Then a glass. Then a fork. Out of everything, the only piece of dinnerware he had seen fit to catch was the knife.

Feeling uneasy, he pushed open the door to his bathing room. There was fresh steam coming out of the water, the bath-salts in place, his towel piping hot, hanging above the radiator on the window. Langley's nemesis was reclining in the tub, gracefully running a white sponge from her thigh to the tip of her toes. Angling her leg, she drew the sponge back, making it disappear into exotic places beneath the water. Like all his conquests, she was a vision to the eye, though by far the youngest he had ever attained. Short flaxen curls, brown-eyes verging on black, and a bosom made out of pure gold. She was just short of her twentieth birthday and may he burn for ever having thought he could break off their relationship with a word. As only a temptress could, she stood, dripping wet, and stepped out of the bathtub, walking past him into the bedroom. She smelled like forbidden fruit. Without a word, he followed.

Dinner would have to wait.

A/N: Yay, we made it to London. As you can see, Lucian is not very good at saying no to naked women in his bathtub (don't worry, in about a hundred years, he'll be better at that.) But argh. *shakes fist* Jacqueline, what are you doing in Lucian's bath? He was supposed to get clean. We will have to push his bathing to the next chapter. (We'll be meeting some strapping young lycans and seeing the actual den once Reinette wakes up. It's all on the same grounds, but Lucian tends to keep one area of the house for himself.) Thank you to trestreschic, Epilachna, and Sheen for the latest reviews!

trestreschic: Thank you very much and welcome to the story! Very glad you like my take on Lucian, and the updates will indeed keep coming.

Epilachna: Yes, I think Sabine's path is going to be a subject of great brooding for Lucian. He never enjoys standing in the face of things he can't control, but logically, he wants to be aware of them rather than not.

Sheen: We'll be seeing quite a few more of those visions. (I love writing them. Lets me adopt a far more dream-like tone.)