Chapter XXXVII: Of Death and Morning

25th November 1899. 7:21 am.

It was the morning of the next day. The fireworks admittedly still silent, despite a brief episode involving Jacqueline and the master bedroom door, her cries falling on deaf ears and her plan to 'break in' torn asunder by Raze. The finest but certainly not the sharpest knife in the box using concentrated perfume and a cigarette to try and burn the door down. As for Lucian, to say that 'things had gone as planned' for him was not quite accurate either.

Rather, he had started with a plan in mind. He had entered his room the night before and, instead of veering straight for his drugs cabinet, he aimed straight for his writing desk. The massive pile of papers that had accumulated over the past three days. Following Raze's advice, he spent a good half hour skimming the daytime report, taking note of all payments and shipments, signing off on one of two transfers. Solely because of Bess, he looked over the household finances, approving her request for extra beef rations in the coming season of good cheer; and then, having left it for last, he opened the envelope in his pocket.

A very stiff, very plain envelope with a very red seal. Raze had given it to him two days ago, the paper inside probably the most important document in need of his signature. His eyes skimming the code and then rolling before searching for his journal. The same one Reinette had been rifling through that morning on the ship. Dates, dates, dates…two centuries of dates…and now one more. 1900. April 1900, and by the look of things, it would be Wagner this year. Not his favourite choice, but then beggars could not be choosers…especially when it came to a Gathering.

Finding his journal in the liquor cabinet, he wrote the date in code, signed the document and left both on the desk, his right hand now otherwise engaged with opening a bottle of blood-wine. His left hand tapping away incessantly, his legs kicking back, pacing the length of the room, the wardrobe, the bed…and truth be told, ending up in the master bathroom. For it was there that his plan dissolved. There that he remained until morning…

…and to bathe in morning was a beautiful thing in the lycan-master's quarters. Lovely beyond reason, but not for the lycan-master, who by societal norms was passed out on the floor, an empty laudanum bottle within his reach, and beyond that, a pool of something vile. He had been there since half past three, having drunk his way through the bloodwine, having decided four hours ago to spontaneously kill himself, and then, acknowledging the extent of his inebriation, having chosen to wait until after sunrise. No one looked for him after sunrise. Allegra would arrive in the evening. Langley, facing the prospect of Mrs. Fulligan's displeasure, would enter to help him dress. The door would open, and heaven help them, a hell he had not craved for a century would break loose, Jacqueline weeping into her gown, Raze being the only one worth a knife to cut him down.

Was this a new occurrence, one might ask, certainly Jacqueline…this unexpected decision to kill himself in spite of the war, the Horde, the countless lycans whose lives rested on his shadow? Though passed out and the object of much scrutiny, he would have flatly denied it…for he was aware of his problem.

For six hundred years, preaching to people about survival when twenty-eight percent of the time, he wanted to kill himself. Sixty-two percent, living because of other people and ten, contemplating why revenge was worth living as a dead man in a domestic household. Like an empty shell, spending the majority of his time signing documents, approving transfers, negotiating merges… Empty by habit, empty by requirement, yet not so empty that he could not at times become painfully aware of how empty his life really was.

A life with Jacqueline.

Catherine. Helena. Greta. Elizabeth. Suzanne. Allegra. Victoria. The rest of their names in his library, the point being that in all cases, the slighted woman, she whose end he could so easily contemplate, acted not as a filler, but a marker; the figurative point in his life when he began to question himself, dwelling and wondering over the point of his existence. Reason, yes. A horde, a war, a revenge to be had, saving his people from extinction…all manner of reasons for him to exist, but to what point? The answer, at times, within his reach before it dissolved, leaving him with nothing. The prospect of being nothing…having nothing.

Or worse…

Filling the gap…giving in…after so many years of shutting them out, giving in to his memories. Her name. Her face. Allowing her voice to resurface, allowing himself to remember, to compare, to see how far he had fallen since her death. Every woman seeming but a cheap copy of marble…the original lost beneath the sun, and he, obsessing over that fact, his mind consumed with every moment, every mistake, every choice he could have made differently…plans and strategy within the past, forever trying to save that which could no longer be saved…

But for that, he was not ready…not now…perhaps never again…and so, dreaming of death, he once again embraced the nothing, his conscience finally settling on the fact that however many times he despaired of being empty, the opposite was far worse. Far worse to remember than to forget, and far better to live with a hole in his chest than die in mourning. So he stirred…he stirred in his sleep, knowing that in a few hours, he would get up and the noose would come down; knowing that in the evening, he would dine with Raze, Allegra, and Jacqueline, the food immaculate, the rationing lifted for the sake of an important guest. Dessert would come, and as the parties withdrew, he knew he would quietly break the news to Jacqueline. She would leave the room, he would go after her and in the space of two hours, all of which would be spent listening to her weep, he knew that his mind…his prospects…would go from broken nights, alcohol and depression to the heights of optimistic and purposeful existence. His mood would swing, the drugs would sing…

…and all would be as it should.

o…o…o

The East Wing.

At precisely that time, Reinette was far less inclined towards killing herself when plainly someone else ought to be the target. Lucian had not arrived for their morning session…and to make matters worse, she had been robbed. Her hand forced beneath her bathtub, scrapping against the tiles, trying to reach the far corners, her frustration weighing heavier than she would have thought, given her dream from the night before. Her pendant was gone. The chain no longer around her neck…the enameled piece as much absent from her room as Lucian. The image of the lighthouse. The osprey lost at sea. They were on their knees…her and Rena, looking under the bed, checking drawers, cracks and loose floorboards. The third time they had gone over the room…and only now, the certainty that she had lost it. But when?

"Are you sure you've not seen it?"

"Not since yesterday." Rena was moving the bedside table back into place, as ever stoic in her handling of the situation. Surprising, the idea that, mere months ago, the woman had been torturing her for information. "You wore it when you slept?"

She frowned, rubbing her forehead. "I think so…" Hard to remember. She had gotten dressed the morning before…and then…after they took Lucian away, she returned to her bed…and left the pendant on the table. "…I could have sworn I put it right there."

Rena was staring impassively at the door. "Other than you, I only smell Raze, Lyosha, and myself, but if you are sure, I will speak to Lyosha about it…"

"No…" She stood quickly, dusting off her skirt. "…no, that is not necessary." She made her voice firm. "I trust your senses, Rena…" She was making excuses. Someone had taken her pendant…someone who had access to this room. "…and for that matter, it is just a trinket. Just a…silly trinket beneath the floorboards," she said, forcing her teeth to smile, recalling for the first time in some days how little she knew of Rena. Rena who hardly spoke, yet knew so much about hurting vampires.

She could feel her trust starting to unwind, her defences rising once more. Turning away, she pulled her nightgown from the wardrobe and drew it over her head, her eyes still searching the floor. Other names sifted and discarded as she opened one more drawer and then closed it. Raze, an unlikely candidate for stealing jewellery…Jacqueline, jealous but guaranteed to leave a scent wherever she walked; Sabine, too brash to steal something when she could demand it…and Lucian…

Too unconscious, she decided, her eyes now following Rena's back as her warden left the room. Could Rena have taken the pendant…but why?

The question causing her to stand, unmoving, as her mind circled the facts, the details, the words that might hold the key to this mystery. Smell. Discounting Lyosha and Raze, if someone had been in this room, Rena would have smelled the perpetrator…and she had not, which suggested one of three things: One, she was lying for herself; two, she was lying for someone else; or three…she was telling the truth. The third the most unnerving option of all, for it meant that there was a third party walking these corridors. Someone who had a key to this prison…

…and someone who had no scent.

o…o…o.

Exile's Quarter. The Sewers. 7:45 am.

Meanwhile, far east of the Kerr household and as many feet down, Kolya was sitting on a sewage pipe, watching his allies at their work. The Blackmarks. The enemies of Aleksey Itzhak and the sworn followers of a fallen leader. There were over a dozen of them, scrubbing red tiles, cleaning red clothes, changing a red story. By the blood, he knew he had dreamed again…but for his trade, the Blackmarks had set things right. One of them making him repeat the alibi…ten times in different ways. Different angles. He had been on "the other side of the den, working with Caul and his sons. Like the lycans, he had seen a woman go down the tunnel…an exile… and after that…nothing."

But his dream told a different story. In the dream, the woman's name was Ina…and she let him follow her down the tunnel. She told him stories as she headed for work. Stories about America. The time she spent in New York before the coven threw her into exile. She was young in years, but old when they changed her…too weak to kill humans and too common for the coven. 'Some life,' she said. But when he asked about her life now, cleaning sewers, she laughed. 'Better than that lot.'

She was living on the harbour when it happened. The stupidest thing she ever saw, a lycan boy running the chimneys at night, the deathdealers after him. Worst part of town, the place chock full of Bloods…and they could see the commotion from their balcony, some of the guests laughing. Pointing. He was heading straight for them…'should we try and catch him,' one of them said. 'Ina…try and catch him. Go on.'

Always, they chose the weakest among them to do the deed…but what fun would it be otherwise? So she caught him. The lycan struggling under her nails, trying to bite her, trying to get away… Their host out on the terrace, infuriated, offended that such a thing could happen at one of his gatherings. An animal on his grounds…and the others circling, gentlemen and ladies, not a warrior among them, but the thrill showing in their teeth at being that close to a lycan that could not kill them. And in that moment, two hundred years from the day, she remembered what it was like to be human. What it was like to be a child, scared…running from the bogeyman before he ran them down…

…and before she knew it, she had pushed him away…not towards the circle, but the balcony. She pushed him…and knowing what she'd done, she jumped. Both of them falling, her dress pulling her down, the fabric tearing as she tried to get out of the water. The boy gone by the time she resurfaced, and the deathdealers coming…

"And then," he had asked. "What happened then?"

'I moved,' she said. Philadelphia. Charleston. She hid with the outcasts, the beggars, the guttersnipes…anyone the coven threw out. But it was dead life. No food. A burden. Only so far she could run before the coven would find her…but two years later, the lycans found her first. The same boy showed up in her hiding place, except this time, there was a man with him. A beast of a man…a real lycan…said he'd been watching her for two years now…and if she wanted to come, there was a place on a ship for her. London. Exile's Quarter. A safehouse for the rest of her life in exchange for the life she saved: his son. From then on, she knew what was what. She learned. She read the history books. She earned her place…her food. Her bed. Belongings. Savings. The lycans were good folk…honest folk…and she never regretted taking their offer. Not once in a hundred years.

Such a strong sentiment.

Kolya let out a deep sigh, pleased that he could relive the memory one more time before he forgot. Pleased to know that despite having killed her, he had liked Ina. He had liked her words, the brashness in her voice. Blunt and full of fight. Vigorous. But now…

…back to reality.

For Ina's eyes were now in his hand, and just below his line of sight, the Little One was holding out a small wooden box filled with sawdust. This small lycan, the child of the Big One, wanted one of the eyes in his hand. So he put one in her box, like charity, and threw the other into the water. The iris seeming to follow him as it floated away. It would burn once it reached the sun. The Little One continued to stare at him and then took the box to the Big One. The Big One nodding, licking her lips before she added the bloody scent-card. Words written on the back this time. Words that would be found in a cellar on Poplar High Street. Words that said, "Have a pair of eyes for a candle, guv'ner. X."

"Please to be knowing who is candle," he said from his perch, causing them all to turn, jerking their faces round like he had cawed at them. The same with his victims. Always surprised…but what kind of killer would he be if he could not read their scratchings from here? His victims, for he knew they would one day be so, looked at each other…and then at the Big One. Their leader. She pulled the little one close to her. Still angry over the match. "Never you mind," she said, causing the fat to roll along her neck. "You just keep doing what you does…" She spat on the ground. "…and you keep your eyes to yourself, you hear?"

He shrugged, paying more attention to his paraffin canister than her English. "If I am keeping eye to myself, then eye would not be in box," he decided out loud, stepping down from his perch. Not a very big problem that she would not answer. Blackmarks were a means to an end…and candles were not good leverage for a killer. Only matches and paraffin. "…and I am needing proof of access…you have?" Impatient, he held his hand out, waiting with the unlit match, his bluntness always catching them by surprise, so that before she knew it, the Big One had shifted an eye around, and then handed him the prize…the price for Ina's head: a small folded cloth…linen from the house of a gentleman.

Promising.

He unfolded the cloth in his palm, and then breathed…relief. Joy. A mutual exchange…political for them…and personal for him. The cloth falling to the grease and the slime as he held the coveted item up high, watching it glint in what light there was. The pendant. His lady's pendant, the one she had worn in Paris. The final proof that the Blackmarks had access to her prison. Proof that he would kill for them as many times as it took…and that in half a year, they would take his tarnished gift to her, the silver key burning a hole in his stomach, and if he could find it…the blood waiting for her in the city, the deeper part of his mind dreaming over and over how this arrangement would end in blood. His arrangement with the Blackmarks. His arrangement with the bloodseer. So much blood.

"Is that it?" The Big One was losing her nerve. "Is that what you wanted?"

He blinked, his mind taken out of its fervour, his eyes looking down at her. "Da," he said, politely holding his hand out to shake. "I am thinking we have arrangement. Good arrangement." The Big One shaking his hand…and he, for now, leaving them all with a smile, still holding the unlit match, backing away from the paraffin and the blood, his thoughts forgetting Ina, and already turning to his next victim. His next dream. Another woman. Another whore. Older than Sarah Henderson. Older than Mary Parker…

…and worthy of another death in the morning.

A/N #2: Note to self, always double check names before establishing them as characters. Unfortunately, I used the name "Hannah" for two entirely different characters. I hang my head in shame. Rather than leave it, I've decided the matter can no longer stand and have updated the story so the one mentioned here (who was previously named "Hannah") is now "Ina."

A/N: Alas, a second bout of depression for Lucian. (Never fear, Allegra will soon be here. Certainly not the type of woman to just let him lie there when she can poke him with sticks.) More dialogue, more memories, fireworks (the imminent difficulties involved with getting rid of Jacqueline,) a bit of murder inquiry (someone is bound to find poor Ina's eyes,) a minor deal that still has to be resolved (bad news for Reinette over the holidays. Her room might not be so cosy over Christmas anymore,) and of course, the steady movement towards the Gathering of the Horde (which takes place somewhere loud and underground...hint, Wagner.)) Anyway, next chapter is mostly written, so hopefully I'll be posting again in just over a week. Many thanks to Sheen, Celtic_Aurora, Mistress_Arsonist, keili77, Mackenzie, and BlacksSilver_rose for the reviews, story alerts, and favourites! They keep me writing, so as always, please feel free to read and review.

Sheen: Fast approaching, but still about twenty chapters away (A lot still has to happen, plus I think he still needs to get a bit more attached to her as a person before she screws up his capacity to look at her as 'just Reinette...you know, Reinette, that bag of bones over there that I occasionally like to spend time with...' ) ^^

Celtic_Aurora: So close and yet so far away on the drug habit...though I expect one day, he'll have to do something about it. Maybe not cold turkey, but at least a cut-back if he's going to make a go of things with someone other than Laudanum. Probably would make for a lovely argument between him and Reinette...

Mistress_Arsonist: Exactly, though if I were Raze, I think I'd take Lucian being so agreeable as being a very bad sign. (Don't worry, the day he truly decides to get off laudanum, I imagine he will be very biting, stubborn and/or crass about it.) As to the long lives of the immortals, I'm glad you find the concept as interesting as I do (makes a brilliant venue for coming up with stories...so many gaps in history that need filling.) As for Aris, probably my fourth favourite character to write about (her history's half in my head and half on paper, but that works since she comes out in snippets and memories most of the time.) And on a final note, theft indeed, and Reinette no longer as trusting as she was the day before... (we'll see later if Rena had anything to do with it. ;))

keili77: You're right about Lucian on his own (hence the reason he's still not clean after all these years. He thinks he can stop, but it's really way past that point by now.) Anyway, Gathering of the Horde and longer chapters to come! (Also I agree, Raze deserves a rest, but I have a strong feeling he wouldn't take the offer. :))

Mackep: Me too. ^_^

BlacksSilver_rose: Why thankyou! Will try and live up to the review. ^^