23 December 2013 - Some changes to the chapter dialogue.
Chapter XXVIII: Spare the Devil
The East Wing. 1:46 am.
Left to his own devices, Lucian traced his hand along the siding of his chair, feeling an air of quiet settle upon him as the door closed. Black for the sake of mourning. Rather than acknowledge the irony of that statement, he contented himself with a change of thought, steering clear of whatever emptiness there was for lingering on his past.
Instead he tried to recall the last time he had been in this room. Six years ago, maybe seven. To his pleasure, upon entering, he had found no evidence of his final argument with Allegra. Battered doors exchanged for new ones. Scratches covered in whitewash and lavender to mask the scent. He blinked, staring at the wall. That scar…he could still see it in his mind's eye, but the day-shift had done well to hide it away. A quick sanding and a length of precisely matched wallpaper were all that remained of it.
He heard Reinette open the door, the rustle of the black as she passed behind him and took her coat from the wardrobe. She was clean again. She had found her veil, the gauze dimming her features to a gloomy mask, the blue irises losing some of their shine. Absurd that she could suffer all manner of indignities, yet persist in hiding her face. The root of pride more than dignity, he decided, watching her button her coat and kneel to lace her boots, one after the other. She still looked miserable, but at least there was a whiff of anticipation in her smell. Excitement even. More to the point, she had calmed down. No longer snatching things and flinging books to the floor.
Hands deep in her pockets, she settled herself down to wait in the opposite chair, checking first that her gloves were present before tucking them away again. She made no reference to her previous state of wallowing nor to the fact that five minutes ago there had been more dried blood on her face than he cared to remember. In fact, she seemed to be under the impression that she could pretend it had not happened. Like hardened clay broken to fit into a mould, her back a little too straight, her lips a touch too sullen. And by a stretch of the imagination, he could see it. The 'stuck up piece of work' as Tanis had called her. The young woman travelling alone, her belongings left behind in some lodge, her task one of secrecy. He was about to stand, but she spoke first.
"You are very cheerful tonight," she said, quite out of the blue. Her stare was plain and direct, the statement a dull echo of the accusation underneath. She had thrown aside her momentary French for their mutual Russian. Her French, he suspected, was not yet up to conversation. As to her accusation...well, it was true. He was feeling more positive than usual. He had woken early around four in the afternoon. His watch had finally been sent off for repairs. The headaches avoided him throughout the day. Around nine, Jacqueline officially retreated to her quarters, hoping some imbecile would mistake her for an expecting mother. He worked through dinner, confident that he was not an imbecile, and as a result, business ended early. In a word…sublime.
"You find it problematic," he said, by no means surprised by this latest paradox of Reinette. She was made of paradox. The first night, he frightened her out of her wits, three weeks later, she had the audacity to reproach him for being dour…and now she was bothered by his cheerfulness after four days without washing.
"A little," she replied coolly, turning her head to look at the door. "More so when you force the sentiment upon others. Is it cold outside?"
"I didn't think to check." He tapped the side of his chair, getting her attention again. "How is it you get to call me dour in Paris, but the moment I scrape you off the floor, you have an agenda against good cheer? Do you intend to be miserable for the entire century?"
"I am still thinking on it, Lyosha."
"Well think on it, Reinette…" he replied, stretching his legs out. "…but do not be so dour."
His blatant mockery only earned him an unaffected sniff before she changed the subject, as though she were choosing not to react to something entirely immature. More so, that if she had to reply, she might be forced to say 'we are not amused by your inherent wittiness, Lycan-master. Please be more serious.'
"You know, I pictured you as a night-sleeper," she remarked. She was doing it again. Probing him with accusatory statements that had little to do with matters of prison or war. Whether it was his good mood or actual interest, he was willing to humour her. Without the blood stains and filth, she seemed a little more optimistic…no longer hissing.
"A night-sleeper," he said. "…and what gave you that idea?"
Her face took on the dry air of one who could not help it if her subject was so obvious in his movements. "A lycan in hiding would benefit from mortal habits…" Her next remark came with a shrug. "On the journey, laudanum was a necessity for you to sleep when I did, which is consistent with a diurnal lifestyle…" As an afterthought, she said. "…and your skin is tanned." She focused on a part of his neck. "Unevenly, I might add."
So she was still hissing. Diurnal, like a flower that hid during the night. It was a term often used in botany. He was mildly curious of what else she had been doing beyond categorising his life, but aloud, he said, "Two of your observations are correct." All three had a grain of truth to them, but he could not sleep without laudanum, whether it be day or night.
"The first and the third," she said, pursing her brow. "…while the second, I believe, requires an addendum." When it became clear he was not going to give her one, she pulled one of her gloves out and started to flick it against the side of her chair. Flick. "I suppose it is foolish to ask for more than ten minutes outside?"
"Yes."
"Well then we should hurry." She smelled sullen again. Flick.
He shrugged. "Only if you wish it," he said. "…and as I mentioned, we have around five hours until sunrise, so that gives us a two-hour window."
Flick. "To do what?" Her voice was getting progressively short with him. "I dress, we talk and then you abscond to the next exciting point of your day. Probably Rena. You seem to forget I have no choice, Lyosha…that I am locked up. Your schedule dictates the timing. Me…I am stuck here at the end of it."
"Well for once, I have time to wallow with you," he said. "…so if you want to talk, we can talk, but once we get back from that stroll, I am leaving. My schedule may be empty, but traipsing around the snow is for your benefit not mine." She did not seem inclined to answer that. Flick. Flick. She kept on flicking that glove against the chair. Though it begged reason, he found himself enjoying the sound. It was like the ticking of a clock. Repetitious. Precise. Unconcerned, he let his eyes close, all but the tiniest sliver to keep an eye on her. Flick. Flick. Flick.
She found her voice after the tenth flick of her glove. "Lyosha," she said. Flick.
He waited for her to continue. Flick. Flick.
"Lyosha?"
He opened one eye. "What?"
"Why do you not answer?"
"Reinette…" He had the grace to explain the source of irritation in his voice. "…there are two people in this room, yes…" He did not wait for her nod. "So logically, there is no need to call my attention. If you speak, thick as I am, I can probably deduce that you are addressing me…"
"Your eyes were closed…"
"Barely," he said. In spite of his griping and the stubborn twist now working its way through her jaw, he was enjoying her company. She was not lycan, so there were no pack politics. She was not young, so he had no desire to charm her. As a consequence, he was getting more and more comfortable in this chair. "…and call me Alexander. We are in England, so you may as well use my English name."
She frowned, looking at the fire. "I prefer Lyosha."
"I don't recall giving you a preference, Reinette."
"Then I'll name the dog Lyosha."
He obliged her. "What dog?"
"The one you will give me," she said decisively, starting to play with the golden chain around her neck. "I thought it would fit well with my prison. I could keep it by the fire and see which one of you comes faster when you're called."
"I'll wager the dog," he said. Fascinating the way vampires only used one insult. "And if I win, I get to name you after another queen," he determined. Starting to get sick of the cushions, he took both out and dropped them on the floor. Marie Antoinette. Publicly reviled. Covered in blood towards the end. It could be quite fitting, he thought.
She grimaced, her eyes jerking towards him suddenly as though he had done something rude. Her frown becoming quite stern before she returned her attention to the pendant. Perhaps willing to admit that a battle of words would not draw any blood. "Names aside then…" She continued to pick at the clasp, perhaps dissatisfied with his unwillingness to curl up and die. "…why are you doing this?"
He had to laugh at that. "Doing what?"
She exhaled, clearly as frustrated by her surroundings as she was confused by them. "You tell me I am not Edmund Dantès, you see that I am insulting you, and yet…" As if she could not fathom such a thing coming from him, she gestured around them. The high ceilings that once housed the majority of his mistresses. "…you give me this?"
"So?"
She narrowed the eye. "So why?"
"Why not," he said. "…you deal with me, I deal with you. We return the favours we are dealt. I may as well keep us both comfortable while I do it."
It had been an offhand statement. The words spoken with no intent, but the effect causing an unexpected transformation in his listener. Her face remaining cold, but her smell starting to change. Like a caged bird starting to rethink its first instinct, she was studying him, now chewing the edge of her pendant. "So it was true what you said on the ship?"
"Depends," he said, looking at the door. He was getting that itch between his shoulder blades. The one that was always…perfectly-timed. The one that seemed to know precisely when fresh milk was about to go sour.
"On what?"
"Well, we could start with what I said," he suggested. "…and then I can verify if it was true." In some ways, it was surprising even to him that he was still sitting there. But it was not as though he was invested in her impression of him. In the end, he kept his seat. "Remind me of the details?"
She flicked her pendant away as though she had tired of it. "You offered me an escape, Lyosha. That hardly constitutes a 'detail.'"
An escape.
Not entirely impossible, and yet highly improbable. He frowned, thinking back. It all sounded very familiar. She had thrown up. Laudanum in hand, he'd been talking to her. She'd been singing something. And now that he thought about it, he was sure that he'd overheard Reinette whining to Allegra about some vow he'd made to bury her underground. Something he'd chalked up to nonsense.
And to be fair, it was his journals that made the memory this time of year, not his laudanum…and unfortunately for Reinette, he failed to write this one down. Already starting to slouch again, he took a stab at the details. "…and this happened on the first ship?"
He heard a faint scoff of disbelief from behind her veil, as though he were making a bad joke. "Well of course it did, Lyosha." She looked over to his chair and then returned her gaze to the fire, her fingers now wrapped around one of her gloves, twisting the leather in a manner that suggested she was imagining the leather to be something else. "You do remember of course?"
No point in lying, he thought, managing to exhale most of the air in his lungs before he shrugged. "I expect Raze does." He'd meant the sentence to be reassuring, but perhaps shocking was a better word for it.
"You expect…" she said softly. Almost to herself. Her voice weaker than usual. Her eyes starting to sear in their colour, the veil only just managing to mute the sight if not the scent. And then like a whip, her glove slapped against the chair arm, the moralist on her tongue starting to seethe. "…you promised to bury me in a catacomb. How can you possibly not remember that?"
Big words from a woman who'd forgotten her own name. But she was gaining steam. Had the glove not been in hand, he suspected she might have been shaking. Regaling him with the horrors of his company. "You said I'd die or come to my senses."
Possible.
"And yet you don't remember?"
Not technically.
"Spare the devil," she whispered, sitting back in her chair to look at him and then closing her eyes. Three questions to seal her opinion of him, the moralist in her blood now rolling up her sleeves before she chopped off his head. "Is there anything worth keeping in your memories?"
Lots of things, he decided, scratching his beard in a manner that he hoped would come across as indifferent. Like observing one's attackers from a particular high horse. "Only if it affects me on a daily basis."
"Well this wager affects me." And by her tone, if wishes had anything to do with his high horse, they would still be at the start of the track, trying to struggle through the gate. "The least you could do is remember it."
Oh for bloods' sake.
They both knew she knew he could do it.
Feeling mildly defensive, he rolled his eyes and began the unavoidable task of working his way back through his memories. The strength of age allowing him to travel back. Remember what he would and discard the rest. His mind filling with colours and sounds, the smell of rancid blood sweeping across an oak floor that had seen too many days at sea.
His conscience suddenly wary of what he was looking at. She in the corner, his thoughts as he toyed with her. Buried anger over that song. His first night back on the drug, of course, it would be fair to say the laudanum had affected his decision-making. Perhaps it might have been more polite to deal over blood-wine than blood dripping down his teeth. Then again, it paid to look ahead, and in fifty years, Reinette might be a powerful chip in the game of lycan politics.
He turned his gaze back towards the chair across from him, letting go of the memory before it could turn to something darker. "Fine," he said. "Third of October 1899. Two hours after sundown, I wagered that before a year was done, you'd choose to stay in my den rather than escape. Neither of us was in the best frame of mind, but I will assume that you want the deal to stand. Are you satisfied?"
She was quietly drumming her fingers on the chair arm. "Only if you are, Lyosha."
Perfect.
He knew that trick. They were veering into mistress territory again. She was repeating him, questioning him, and now chiding him for failing to remember an important date. Rather than remove himself from his slouch, he skipped the pleasantries. "Can we agree that you're not satisfied?"
"Oh no…" She was already seeking out the clasp on her pendant-watch. Her fingers riled enough to make the process more difficult than it normally would have been. "This is very satisfactory behaviour for an opium addict, Lyosha. I mean, blood knows, it must be hard enough remembering one wager, let alone two."
He exhaled towards the ceiling. "Can I assume that you will eventually get over this?"
She eyed him...and then threw the pendant. Wrapping herself deeper into her coat with a scowl. "Eventually."
"Good…" He let his fist fall to the side of the chair, the chain of the pendant now hanging from his fingers. She had flung it towards the fire, but as usual, his instincts were quick enough for him to catch things without seeing them. "…because this is your last opportunity, Reinette. You asked me to remember the wager, and I have remembered it. There are no second chances now that the stakes are set."
"If you can remember the stakes," she muttered.
"Of course I remember," he snapped, feeling the urge to bare his teeth at her. A familiar tension had entered their conversation. He leaned back, adopting a comfortable pose for what must be an uncomfortable truth for her. "Choose to stay in the den, woman, and you become my ally for the next century, regardless of what happens to the horde, the den, the exiles, or the war. You have a year to decide. Does that sound familiar enough to you?"
"Or…" She did not look impressed.
He gestured. "…or you gain your freedom and Tanis' head for little more than finding a hole in the wall."
If it had not caved already.
She frowned in suspicion. "Good," she finally said, now smelling like a moulting bird with its feathers in a twist. Clearly not a creature that enjoyed being forgotten.The scent still raging within even as she stood, gathering her skirt and stepping closer to the grate. He might have asked her if she was sure, but she was already moving to her next topic of interest. Always another question with this one.
"But why did you offer me his head," she asked now, holding her hands closer to the coals.
Closer.
She was not fleeing the fire. That was good. Her appearance moving away from the cadaver he had first seen, the corpse-like creature which could not bear the touch of heat. The straight back and her tendency to elongate the neck helping her height, though it was more an illusion than anything else; she was quite short really.
He blinked, forgetting for a moment that his answers were beholden to no one. "As I recall, you wanted it."
"Yes. But I would have taken the deal for my freedom alone…" The light from the fire made her profile into a silhouette. "…which makes me wonder why you want it."
"Personal question, Reinette." Not quite a warning, but he was conscious that they were moving into uncharted territory. "I can give you the bare bones, but are you sure you want to go down this path?"
She shrugged. "What's another lock among a dozen?"
"Fair point." He scratched the side of his neck, his nails growing instinctively. Sharp enough to grant relief without breaking the skin. "Call me sadistic, but I could go either way on that one. Historically, Tanis is worth a great deal. Politically, the majority of my horde likes the look of his neck…and as of late, I am growing more inclined towards their point of view." All they needed was brandy, and his visit might have grounds for a political debate. "If you were to escape, the issue would come up before the horde and a vote would occur. As I have the final say, I suspect we would be lopping his head off before midnight."
"So lycans can vote," she said. It seemed to be a questionable concept for her. Her hand reached for the poker-iron. "…but when did you first start dealing with exiles? A century ago…two? Before that, we were picked off the streets. Guaranteed murder for anyone living beyond the coven." She inclined her neck, frowning across at him. "And now there are vampires in the palm of Exile's Quarter; safety for all those who can prove their worth." He could see where this was going, the iron stoking the coals, the barrage of questions. She was wondering how long until he swung a vote on her neck. "I am curious, Lyosha, how long have you known Tanis?"
"Personally…" He considered telling the truth, but decided against it. Up until now, he had given her bits and pieces, but his relation with Tanis was something far bigger than that. "…about two centuries." Make that seven. "…but like many of us, I've known about him for longer than that." The vampire had taught them how to read Latin. Both of them. He quelled the memory before it could fester.
The blood-seer before him failing to notice what could not be seen, now turning her back on him. Her next question seeming to have little to do with their previous topic of conversation. "…and you are familiar with the game of 'chess'?"
"I may have played it once or twice."
After all, he was an addict and according to Reinette, that made you senile.
She ignored the sarcasm. Leaving the coals, she tapped the poker-iron against the grate and used one end to plot a series of squares on the floor between them. "I ask because I used to play a game called Valdskák," she said. She had entered what he now recognised as her moralistic scholar mode."Sixty-four squares. Thirty-two carved pieces of blackened wood and reindeer bone. A thirteenth-century variant of 'chess,' as you call it."
"Myself and a few others."
Again, she took no notice of the jibe. "Years before the war began…" It was as if she had to relive the moment. She, seated by the fire and across from her, the opponent. She ran her palm along the edge of an imaginary board. "…the Norsemen taught me to call the pieces by name: the Pawn, the Rook, the Knight…"
"…the Bishop, the King, the Queen," he intoned. "Tell me when the metaphor begins." Where was this going? The silence told him how little attention she was paying him…which was fine by him. The seat was hard. His slouch was comfortable. He had time to spare. "…and do not be fooled, the eyes may be closing, but the ears are all there."
"And still you are not listening," she countered, kneeling on the floor, leaning closer to the fire as if she could see what was happening. "In my memory, Lyosha, these exiles that I played with…we started to use different names. Names for the black and names for the white. There were always stories coming down from the covens, but we were exiles, so it did not matter to us what they stood for. After the slaves rebelled, the whites were the bloods. The blacks were the serfs."
Now he was listening. His eyes no longer closed, and his ears now trained on her every word.
She was remembering… Her fingers sweeping along the board, the respective place of each piece. "There was the Peon," she said. The pawn… "…the Castle and the Horse…" The Rook and the Knight. For a moment, she covered her eyes, like a horse trying to blinker itself into finding the right path. "…the Historian on the left…" The Bishop.
"…the Blacksmith in the centre…" At the name, his eye twitched.
One left.
She was thinking hard. So hard that she had forgotten she was talking to him. The Blacksmith in the centre…
"…and his Bride on the right," she finished, snapping her fingers and turning to look at him. There was a bold pride in her smell, her eyes lit from within…and in a manner of speaking, he was pleased for her. She had remembered names from almost five centuries ago. Pleased until he saw her blink, the seer now realising where she was. The pupils now seeking the fire again, her scent filled with caution and confusion. He could feel the pendant-watch ticking in his hand. Any second she would ask…
"You were married," she said quietly, as if the thought had never occurred to her.
Rather than deny it, he studied her veil, focusing on that which lay in front rather than behind. He could feel his smile losing some of its depth. "Vald-skak," he said, sounding the word out as if the language interested him more than her question. "Is that Old Norse?"
"Icelandic," she corrected, for a moment swayed by his misdirection. Licking her teeth for a split second, she got to her feet. "I never became fluent, but it did not matter at the time. The traders spoke Old Norse or one of the Sami dialects. My mentor would have me translate." She raised her hand to her chin as if she were brooding on a matter that had never sat well on her chest. "Usually after a game of tablut, but I gave that up after the outsiders brought seal-voda to our cave…"
Seal-voda?
He raised an eye at that. No wonder she could drink Bikavér. Seal-voda was the immortal's answer to Scandinavian vodka. Fermented seal's blood mixed with a healthy dose of chicken marrow. The stuff was lethal.
She noticed his look all of a sudden, a furious blush rising. "…I mean, Valdskák."
"You said seal-voda."
She shook her head, raising a hand as if to push the past back. "Valdskák." Her resolve firmed. "The word translates as Guard Chess. It means that any piece that is guarded cannot be taken, including your Historian." She was back on point.
"My Historian?" Now that got him riled.
"Precisely," she said. She was not frightened by his tone. It was like watching a flame kindle above her head. "You were the Blacksmith. He was the source. The histories, the treatises, the legend…it was his words that passed from mouth to mouth. Always the Historian. He was the one who wrote about you."
"…and the words were very unflattering."
"Truth gives birth to hate, not flattery, Lyosha." She was showing her age again, the remnants of a Latin proverb butchered into Russian. "…and I am looking for truth." She resumed her seat across from him. "If Tanis was a creature of Viktor in the fifteenth century, how is it possible that he could play for your side of the board?"
Right.
This conversation was getting taxing now. His historian, his side…was there anything else she wanted to throw on his back?
He deflected her inquiry. "…I would assume that has something to do with misinterpretation rather than history." He had long since been staring past the veil. What was Tanis worth to him? Information, history, books. His mood had been good. The last thing he wanted to do was discuss the past. Scholars believed Viktor spared Tanis because the vampire had saved the Elders…but he knew Viktor kept him alive for another reason. He gestured with a cold care. "Tales change as they travel, and Iceland is a far cry from Hungary."
"My memory is not perfect, Lyosha, but was it not Iceland that Viktor fled to after the revolt? He came by ship. Tanis would have been with him, and both would have had much to share with the Scandinavian covens. You, on the other hand, stayed in Hungary…" She was very good at that look. Mildly curious female holding an axe behind her back. "…and since that is your definition of the source…"
"I never said that."
She pointed. "You insinuated it. You also suggested there is a true tale waiting to be told. One which I suspect you know."
"You can suspect."
"Or you could tell me."
"Or we could pretend it's like the knife in my boot. It exists. It's sharp. You know it's there, but unless we get into dire circumstances, you won't see me bandying it about for the entire world to see."
"But you will have to…"
"Oh look…" He leaned forward and hooked her pendant-watch with a nail, flipping it open in front of her. "…time for your walk. End of story." She was starting to remember details from her past. He, on the other hand, had buried what needed to be buried and the rest he abandoned. Living in the den, she would find out, but if he could help it, a significant period would pass before she did.
"I will accept that for now…" She did not shy away from his nail. "…but if you plan to be my ally, Lyosha, you will have to tell me these things eventually…" Her eyes were gleaming again, the irises changing behind the veil. He felt a chill all of a sudden. He had seen that look before. Somewhere.
He dropped the pendant-watch in her lap. "We discuss the matter in three decades."
"One."
"You just made it four."
"Four," she scoffed. "I will be gone by then. Or dead."
He did not answer that. Blood knew why he humoured her like this. Getting up, he moved to the curtain and ran his nail along the bottom, tearing off a long, horizontal strip of black cloth. For at least the first year, the less she saw, the better. He crossed the room and held out the strip. "Black for the sake of misery," he said. His smile had faded completely, but he made a last minute attempt to soften the blow. "It will complement your wardrobe." He knew she had not expected this.
She stared at the blindfold, her neck tight like she was holding something back. Weariness. The smell of disappointment. She had wanted to see… He could see pleading in the irises, but he had nothing for her. She would be blindfolded until the den accepted his decision to keep her in the upper house. When she did not take the cloth, he tied the knots himself. He waited for her to stand and then took her by the wrist, leading her out of the room. The gardens were snowed in. She hated lavender, but maybe he could find something more to her taste. Something that would prompt that smile he bartered for.
Besides…
… why else did they have a conservatory, if not to rip the heads off flowers?
A/N: And we're back. Hope readers enjoy this latest installment, and rest assured, the outdoor "snow/garden" chapter is coming soon. (Also news about that tutor we've all been hearing about. It's the first time this character is being featured in Prelude, but just as a hint, we all know him.) It's about half-written, so I'll have to polish it off over the next few days or so. (I plan to start locking myself in my room at least three times a week so I have time to write…) Anyway, thank you to Mackenzie, Zepplin82, Mas, Sheen, trestreschic, Nena85, PerpetuallyDazedandBewildere d, LadyGreySun, slytherinesseeker, RecordxPlayer, and bella999 for the latest favourites, story alerts, and reviews! I always appreciate them. On that note, please feel free to read and review.
Mackenzie: You're right, she is totally digging Lucian. Poor thing, stuck in a room with him. (What is a lady to do in such a trying circumstance?) Anyway, her smile is on the way for next chapter
Zepplin82: Thank you! I will definitely try to update more often.
Mas: Glad to hear it! Will update soon.
Sheen: Very pleased to hear you enjoy his tendency to jump between moods and it's definitely not odd (I always find the imperfection of a character makes him more interesting. Now strangely enough, the side effects of laudanum include both euphoria [great elation] and dysphoria [depression/anxiety/restlessness] so hopefully he keeps a little bit of the bipolarism when/if he gets off the laudanum. Silly Lucian.)
trestreschic: Yaay, you like my Lucian. (That's always a great thing to hear!) More updates to come and hope you continue to love story.
Nena85: It was awesome to hear that you stayed up late to read the story, and I'll try and update more often. (As well as keep the details and relationship going in a direction that works.) Thanks for the review and hope you keep reading.
Reference
Note: The word "greenhouse" has been substituted with "conservatory." (More accurate wording for 19th century Britain.)