Chapter XXVI: Bitter Sentiments

The Library. 12:48 am.

Four hours later, Lucian had retreated to the upstairs library, its drapes drawn and the fire low for the sake of the hour. As usual, he was comfortable in his solitude. The room was spacious, the walls panelled with ivy, cushions upon the chairs, and a pair of oak tables roosting on either side of a thick carpet. In contrast, the twelve bookshelves of the room were filled to their capacity.

He had spent nearly four hundred years amassing their collected value, every book a treasured find, every scroll bartered for its weight in knowledge. Running a hand behind the marble bust of a headless woman, he found the thinnest of his journals and took a seat, his chair facing the fire, the smell of archive lingering on his fingers. The marble bust looked on as he began to skim its pages.

Every night, though his followers were not aware, he made a habit of noting down the evening's occurrences; useless information to some, but a practical means of giving context to a lifestyle. At the end of the decade, it would be reviewed, any important details transcribed to a more covert location before the original was burned. Uncapping his pen, he turned to the last entry from three months ago and entered a new date below it…

…o…o…o…

Friday, 10 November 1899

"I. Dinner tolerable," he wrote. "New guest requiring introduction to society."

In retrospect, dinner had been short of tolerable. Those lycans in attendance had been predictably reserved, many of them asking after his journey, all of them neglecting to broach the one question on everyone's mind. Who or what had entered through the stables? Was it a vampire? Was it an ally? It was a testament to London society that an entire den could chew on something, while none dared bring up the point. Rather than stomach their whispers, within the week, he would make arrangements for a Gathering of the People, a meeting of the investors as well as the heads of those families who called the London den their home. They would need an official statement of her presence, though her purpose would not come to light for many months.

While dotting and crossing his letters, he added a very generic mark beside 'new guest', a personal reminder to check the dates of his travel journal when reviewing this notation. He had an excellent memory, but should Reinette fail to outlast the year, it would be beneficial to have a cross-reference as to who 'new guest' was. During their journey, he had always referred to her as 'branded stock'…or in English, an uptight, prying piece of…

He scratched out the mark.

…the reminder was not necessary. It would take more than a decade to forget the number of times 'new guest' had put the word 'bastard' in a sentence with him.

Moving on…

II. 'Lady requiring introduction to door.'

The word 'lady' lacked a cross-reference, not so much for the excellence of his memory, but because he no longer cared who 'lady' was. All of their names were listed in a book somewhere in this library, their lives spanning the past four hundred years. 'Jacqueline' would be joining them. Her behaviour during dinner had cemented his decision to move on. In a voice that carried, she criticised the food, the service, the company, and to make matters worse, the only one more oblivious to the mood was the dead pheasant on her plate. Past experience said he ought to be arranging her return home as soon as possible. Very few of his mistresses chose to remain in the vicinity after they were cast aside, Allegra being the only exception. Reminding himself to speak to Raze about the arrangements, he added his third and final notation.

III. 'Inspection satisfactory.'

He would never write it on paper, but the barracks had presented a more than satisfying front, every soldier greeting him with a clean bunk and a savage eye for detail. Fourteen feet below the cellar, the London Den, sometimes called the Underground, housed over four dozen soldiers and their respective families. That their families lived in the barracks meant London was a yellow zone on the Line. The darker the colour, the more dangerous the zone, the blood-red of Budapest being the most dangerous. In five hundred years, he had not once given leave for a family to lay claim in Budapest. All but the strongest of women were banned from the red zones.

…o…o…o…

Finished with his routine, he capped and returned the pen to his left waist-pocket, putting the journal away and starting to drum his fingers on the chair. He was impatient for Raze to arrive, but he would not waste his time while he waited. Research was in order. There was a double-mystery hovering over Reinette's head, one which he planned to investigate over the coming months.

Why would an exiled bloodseer journey back into Budapest for the sake of a name? In twenty years, no one had sought her out. She travelled alone or neglected to tell her party of her destination. During his three-day wait at the monastery, Tanis professed to know nothing of her background or the H on her side. She was a challenge, a trick, depending on how you looked at her. Like one of those iron puzzles he used to make, the trick being not in assembly, but in understanding that two pieces were actually three.

The first piece. She had been looking for someone. Áris. Off the top of his head, it sounded like a derivative of Ares, the Greek god of war…or bloodlust, to be more accurate. The vampire histories might hold something to that effect, but he would have to search deeper than that if Tanis had been stumped. The second piece. The 'H' on her side. He would search the vampire histories, but her brand was so fresh it was like someone cauterised her only in the last century. Had she been caught? Did she escape?

The more important question…

…where to begin?

Patient in research if not in the art of basic waiting, his eyes began to amble through the stacks of book surrounding him. The library held the histories of mortal empires, foreign covens, wayward dens, but very little in the way of a catalogue. In the past, he had always sorted his finds into three sections: dangerous, private, and public. Dangerous went directly to the lycan registry. Private went to the second level of his study and required the use of a standing ladder. Public was more of an idea than an organised, physical space. It had no system, alphabetic or numerical. The common rule was to leave a book wherever there was open space, the result being that Persian naval history might very well be in the same section as the chanting practices of Gregorian monks.

His ears picked up steps approaching from the western door. The grandfather clock was fourteen ticks from one in the morning. He could hear Raze coming, the lycan's height accounting for the lengthy gap between footsteps. Using the footsteps and the ticking seconds as a guide, Lucian opened the side-cabinet and poured himself a brandy just as Raze entered from the right. The clock chimed the hour. Lucian downed the glass and poured himself another, leaving the decanter on the table before returning to his seat. In spite of his approval for drunken combat, Raze was a stickler for avoiding drink while on duty. He was about to give orders, when his subordinate opened his mouth. The lycan was solemn with an air of readiness. As if he expected to sidestep a flying object in the next few minutes.

…o…o…o…

Two minutes later.

Lucian put his glass down. "Run that by me again, Raze. I'm hard of hearing."

"They will be found," the lycan grunted. He was standing by the brandy. "I will find them."

"Give me a name, Raze…and for bloods' sake, tell me you checked the roster?" Damnation, he felt like throwing something. He picked up his glass again and stood, swishing the dark liquid and contemplating the fireplace. It was no mere coincidence this occurred on the night of their return.

"There are none missing," the lycan said, considering his words. "…but from the location, it may have been one of the loose-women. Her body was gone before we arrived. No tracks, no blood. Her attackers cleaned after themselves and escaped by the roof. We will check the final roster with sunrise."

Lucian let his arm hang, the tip of one finger touching one of the fire-irons. He had not expected this. After five decades of truce, why now? Drawing back, he turned towards the book-stacks, his nail reaching out to touch their spines. He wanted to claw them. "You are certain it was one of them?" His voice was almost shaking with anger.

Smelling wary, Raze nodded, holding out a short length of canvas, most of it black for having been rubbed across the stones of London. It was one of the scent-cards of the exiles, the only thing to stop a lycan from hunting an exile on the streets. Lucian abandoned the spines and snatched the cloth, sniffing it. Blood. Perfume. He turned it over, revealing the red X scrawled on the back. He had not seen that symbol in over fifty years. An easy symbol to remember, one that stood for a lycan whose name had become associated with insurrection and eventual defeat. One of the few who had been alive when the war first started…

Christian O'Riley.

Almost seven hundred years ago, his name had been Christos…or in Greek, Xristo, meaning the anointed one. The lycan never understood his choice to shelter exiles. It did not matter if they hated the coven or proved their worth. They were vampires, and they should be executed, all of them.

When Exile's Quarter was set up, the lycan murdered three and left with nine lycans, choosing to live in defiance of the horde's rules. Every few years, another murder would take place, an exile vanishing from the streets with only a blackened scent-card left to answer for them.

Five decades ago, Xristo's followers were hunted down and with a blade at his throat, the lycan accepted his offer of truce for the sake of their past. His punishment was to remain under house arrest within the city's boundaries. His followers were given leave to remain in London with their families. Their names held a black mark.

"Comb the street and set up a meeting," he growled beneath his breath. He was holding his glass too tight, on the verge of breaking it. "Whoever did this, Xristo or his followers…I want them found within the week." He let the canvas fall to the table and returned to the fireplace. Taking a sip, he grimaced and then tossed the remaining brandy into the flames. They spat with anger. Xristo could rally his followers in their holes if he wanted, but he would be damned if he let them hunt the exiles on his watch.

o…o…o

The next day. 5:21 pm. Saturday, 11 November 1899.

Reinette opened her eyes. She was in bed, woollen blankets over her body, the mattress firm, the pillows soft with the smell of lavender. Looking up, she saw the ceiling was made of thick cloth with velvet drapes hanging from an engraved four-poster. There was a scent-ball hanging in its centre. She sniffed, reaching a finger out and touching it. Fresh lavender. Seeing her arm, she touched the linen with her other hand, pulling at the sleeves. She felt clean…smelled clean. Someone had washed her hair, taking the time to dress her in a nightgown. Rena. Blood forbid the day she thank the woman for her care, but secretly she was grateful. The nausea was gone…

…what time was it?

She pushed herself up onto her elbows, her hands moving to her face, wiping the sleep from her eyes. Instinct told her to wait before drawing the drapes, but her fingers were already creeping out, still hesitant to a degree, ready to retract as soon as she felt a burn. There was no pain, no heat. She opened the drapes by a crack, peering out into a shadowy room. Firelight came from somewhere. Where was she? They were no longer on the ship. But neither was she in a catacomb. And where was Lucian? The question evaporating from her mind as soon as she smelled blood beyond the drapes.

She was so hungry.

Shoving the blankets aside, she got out of bed, almost tripping over her gown, surprised by the warmth of a carpet under her feet. She reached for the ceramic bowl on the bedside table, trying to pace herself as she drank, her hand unsteady so that she spilled down her neck. She was too hungry to complain over cold blood. And then, wiping her mouth against her wrist, she turned to explore the rest of the room, disconcerted as she walked through her surroundings.

The room was twice as large as the one in Paris. The walls were scratched, but beyond that in good condition. Warmth came from a small furnace filled with hot coals, comfort from a pair of low, narrow-backed chairs fit for an upright lady. At the far end, there was a single window covered in several layers of pinned cloth. Beneath the fabric, she made out wooden slats, and though light did not filter through, she avoided walking in front of them. Like the bed, everything smelled of lavender, a cotton ball of scent left in every corner of the room. Bending over, she stepped off the carpet—green with a pattern of tulips and lilies—and touched the hardwood floor. Not even a night's worth of dust. Someone had recently swept this room.

Standing, she moved to the left side of the room and opened a large mahogany wardrobe. Her clothes were hung neatly, her boots and bag placed on the floor. She closed it, feeling more unsettled. This was not Exile's Quarter…or if it was, this English Den treated its vampires better than she imagined. There were three doors, all of them closed. Like the window, she avoided them. Easy for a lycan to open a door, but for a vampire, it could mean burning…

Searching for her time-piece, she aimed for the final piece of furniture, a rosewood writing desk with a pearl inlay. It had three drawers, her books of the French language stacked in the first, blank paper stored in the second, and the other holding pen and ink. There was a second stack of books inside the desk-cover, but no pendant.

She looked at the doors, and then got on her knees, peering beneath the crack of one, her face pressed against the hardwood floor. No light. She sat up again, considering whether to try the handle. The vision would have knocked her out for at least a day. Was it night yet? She heard no sounds. Lucian had told her Rena would be her guardian. She could not be far. Would they leave her in a place where the sun could shine? Her hand was almost on the handle. She remembered herself and drew back, moving instead to the wardrobe and pulling out one of her skirts, starting to dress. She had not survived this long by being foolish. Better to wait patiently for her caretakers than find her face burning under the sun's care.

Dressed, she moved to the grate, sitting on the floor to warm her fingers. It was taking her some time to grow used to warmth again, like a sensation that had been forgotten. Cold would register in her conscience. Stone beneath her knees, the relentless chill in the air, the stench of rats. She remembered lying in wait for the creatures, her hand on the ground, clenching fur as it passed, wrestling the creature to her teeth. Her hand went to her chest. She felt pain at the memory. Sorrow. Her hand was shaking. Think of something else. In her head, she began to conjugate in French. Latin. Old Norse.

Beyond, she heard the footsteps of two people approaching the main door. Rena, she thought …and perhaps Lucian. A key rattled in the lock. She looked over her shoulder, straightening her back and searching for a mask of calm. She would not move for him.

The main door creaked twice before creeping open, revealing Rena and an older woman dressed like a housekeeper, her clothing starched, her hair twisted into a clean bun upon her head. She looked severe. Another caretaker perhaps? Reinette felt her back slump. Her prison sentence was starting and he was not even here to rub it in her face.

She turned back to the grate, trying to listen, but unable to understand a single word. English, she imagined. They spoke for about a minute, the housekeeping lycan carrying about eighty percent of the conversation. Commanding was a more appropriate word. Neither of them acknowledged her on the floor. Determined to be patient, she focused on the coals, waiting until the housekeeper left before addressing Rena. The woman had locked the door.

"We are in the den?"

"Yes," murmured Rena, tramping forward to open the left adjoining door.

Surreptitiously, Reinette leaned to one side, peering beyond the hard woman's form to see what lay beyond. The left adjoining room contained a small toilette, a ceramic pitcher and bowl, and a bronze basin for bathing. In the centre wall, there was a window, but it had been boarded up with wood, the cracks draped in black velvet. On the wall, she saw her enamelled pendant hanging from a hook beside the window, her scented oil and the ivory comb laid out on what appeared to be a vanity dressing table. Vanity for a glorified prisoner. The only thing missing was a mirror.

Getting off the floor, she followed Rena into the toilette. The woman was by the pitcher, washing her face. She abhorred the woman, but if they could discuss some ground rules, it might make the next few weeks a bit more bearable…

Reinette sat upon the edge of the bath. "Is this Exile's Quarter?"

"No." Rena began to dry her hands on a towel by the pitcher.

She nodded, moving onto her next question before the lycan remembered the silent status of their relationship. "Where is Lyosha?"

"Busy."

Aloof, vampire-beating piece of whore, she thought. She reached out and picked up the ivory comb, touching its teeth. "Will I be allowed to leave my room on occasion?"

"No."

Her lips tightened. She should have known the moment she saw that four-poster. "Not even to go outside?"

"No."

She took a breath, steeling herself. "May I ask why?"

Rena shrugged. "You must ask Lyosha." Her voice was monotone. "…in a month," she added, leaving the toilette and heading for the adjoining door on their right. Reinette balked, her mouth open to argue as she followed Rena. Before she could say anything, Rena opened the door, slipped inside, and shut the door in her face.

Her fingers curled into fists.

A month?

She swivelled on her heel and returned to the toilette, starting to pace in the tiny room. She was breathing too fast. That smell was driving her insane. Spying one of the scent-balls in the corner, she kicked at it with her boot, and then crushed it with her heel.

All he had done was replace her catacomb with a gilded cage. All of them trapped her…Tanis. Lucian. Hrafn. The raven of… She blinked at the sudden memory. …where? She could not remember the name, but in her eye, she could see it. A snow-covered fortress in the North. A coven of wildlings whose devotion to Budapest was as shallow as an empty lake.

She rubbed her face against her sleeve and then moved to the pitcher, washing her face and hands as Rena had done. One day, she would remember it all. She would remember. She would get better. She would escape. She scrubbed her hands until the skin was raw. She would get out of here.

Snatching the pendant off the wall, she made to throw it…and then stopped, letting the chain hang from her fingers. A month. Was she so easily forgotten? Was his schedule so busy? A simple 'welcome to your prison' would have been sufficient. She held the enamelled surface up to her ear and then wandered back into the bedroom, listening to the sound of ticking.

Her anger soon turned to despondence. She found herself sitting in the lady's chair, staring into the coals. After an hour, she removed her pendant and let it fall to the carpet. After three, she started unbuttoning her shirt, her corset falling to the ground with a single swipe of her nails. Stepping out of her skirt, she wandered back into her bed and shut the drapes. He had left her in a gilded cage. Beautiful and barred.

Welcome to England, she thought bitterly.

A/N: Author notes are listed at the bottom of chapter 27.