Chapter XLI: An Eye for a Candle
The next evening.
It was a quarter past eight. The ladies of the East Wing restricted to the top floor, while far below ground, Lucian was hunkering down in a rock-faced, fifteen by twenty foot laboratory, the majority of space taken up by three tables, a bed, a chest, and a plethora of metallic instruments. The smell of formaldehyde and iodine melded easily with the blood-scent of an abandoned dinner, one that had hastily been sent back in an attempt to remove the odour. On one side of the room, Raze and Singe spoke amongst themselves, their words barely audible to the common ear, their attention on a small bowl centred on the main table between them.
Rather than joining the conversation, he was straddling a wooden stool, his head facing down and his eye trained on a brass microscope, the slide containing one of four blood-samples collected from Reinette over the past week. The view had much to do with the grimace he had been wearing since entering the room. Vampires often displayed symptoms of acute anaemia, but Reinette's cells were oval-shaped, almost globular, far removed from the sickle they should have been.
He sat back, running a finger through his hair, scratching the side of his temple. Not the most surprising of revelations. He had always assumed most of the damage was permanent, but he had hoped there would be something they could do about the problem. Particularly now that Singe had a living, breathing vampire to observe for much of his evenings.
He flipped a page of the small chart near his right hand, Singe's report going into extensive detail. Other than the ageism and weakness, she suffered from little pain. Her memories returning slowly, her mind functioning well enough, her reflexes quicker than a human…yet the blood remained in stasis. Frozen in its state. The veins had become withered over the past twenty years, and the outlook was not positive.
She was not healing.
"Lucian?"
He looked up.
From the other side of the room, Singe was eyeing him over his glasses, clearly losing patience…and for good reason. On the table before them was a porcelain dish holding a single eyeball. The blue iris tinged with red, the whites no longer white but yellow. The so-called 'eye without a scent' that Taylor had found in the home of Mrs. Grimsby. Something they had grappled over for a good twenty minutes before Singe shut the door, leaving little room for doubt as to the source. Unfortunately, he had yet to share it with them. Lucian put the chart down.
"Well, the smell is obvious," he muttered.
Singe frowned. "You think it is obvious?" He looked at Raze. "He thinks it is obvious. Forgive my intellect, old friend, but…" Singe took a strong whiff of the air. They had been sniffing the bowl for ten minutes straight. "How can a smell be obvious if you are the only one who smells it?"
"Precisely…" He picked up a pair of forceps and started to open and close the ends. He soon grew tired of this, namely because Singe's eyes were starting to bore into his skull. "…and as far as who left it, I'd say it was someone remarkably small. Perhaps even the size of a child." The smaller the culprit the less likely a scent would be left with its passing. He put the forceps down and angled his neck round, staring at Raze. "Victim's name?"
"Ina Jacobsen." Raze had had this information for over six hours, however, between the two of them, they both knew he preferred to wait until Lucian had gathered the obvious before volunteering that which was unattainable by clues. A subtle means of keeping the lycan-master interested in that which he found 'obvious'. "She failed to check in with the morning shift."
He got off the stool, starting to wander around the table, picking things up and putting them down again. It did not occur to him that perhaps this might have the same effect on Singe as Allegra had on him. "Location?"
"Section E of the Exile's Quarter."
The mind worked quickly. He never entered the Exile's Quarter. He never consorted with exiles and those he brought to this underground world were meant to forget that he had existed beyond leading them across the border…but he knew the layout."Prostitute?"
"Sewage worker. We have no official record of her prior employment." As usual, the man had no need of the chart he was holding, the information memorised.It might have been seen as impeccable from a younger warrior, but from Raze, it was both expected and taken for granted. "Since joining the Quarter, she applied for a position above the sewage tunnels, however, my records have her living in Section E for almost four decades."
"And the note?"
"Written on the back of the scent-card. A slanting hand, suspiciously well-formed given the crudeness of the language." Raze paused, pronouncing the next word with an over-emphasis on the guttural sound. "'Have a pair of eyes for a candle…guv'ner." He held the card out. "Signed X."
X.
Lucian took the card, scrutinising the words, sniffing as he did, the scent-card smelling of linen, grease, and the blood of Christian O'Riley. He read the note again. 'Have a pair of eyes for a candle, guv'ner.'
The 'candle' signifying Xristo, the anointed one. The 'pair of eyes' suggesting his enemies watched not only himself, but his prisoner. The word 'have' giving it a double-meaning…to have a pair of eyes in exchange for Xristo and the notion that his enemies 'had' a pair of eyes for their quarry.
All of these details appearing tiny beside the most telling detail of all…
"Raze…" For the first time in two weeks, he found himself looking on a bloodied scent-card with a modicum of pleasure. Almost pity. The cold satisfaction in watching an enemy stumble. The perk of their long friendship, that knowledge that he could look to Raze to enjoy the humour. "…tell me, in a hundred and forty-eight years of hunting Blackmarks, do you ever recall them actually leaving a note on a scent-card?"
He held it up.
And in such fanciful writing…
"Never." The lack of surprise in Raze's voice suggested the man was already on the same page as him. "Their connection to the Blackmarks may be real, but their execution speaks of youth. They kill too frequently. They opt for messages and symbolism when the core purpose of a Blackmark was not treason, but the killing of exiled vampires. All that they did, they did believing it was for the good of the Den."
That Raze had fought the concept of Exile's Quarter before its inception was a telling fact. But where Xristo had rebelled, Raze had stood by the lycan-master's decision. He had accepted the exiles. He paused, waiting for the lycan-master to speak, but after four seconds of being stared at without comment, his report continued.
"The placement of the second body so close to the Prison Quarter gives us reason to believe they are partially, if not fully aware of the comings and goings of the lycan den." The frown on Raze's was steadily growing into a scowl. "As it is, I would suspect they are a new generation, one bred upon stories without full understanding of the principles behind the Blackmarks. Whatever their aim, I believe that what we are hunting may be within the walls of the den. In which case, we may be dealing with a first-class mutiny."
Mutiny.
Lucian inhaled the word. He had no wish to hear the word, yet he had dealt with it fifty years ago and he would deal with it again if he had to, sparing little thought for the predicament in which Xristo would find himself. A dangerous circumstance to be in…a fallen leader whose new followers thought to place him on a throne of their making. It had not boded well for leaders of history and it would not bode well for Christian, the most frequent outcome being a very public execution watched by the very cowards who had tried to place the leader on the throne.
Without regret, he made the order. "Lock up Stafford, McIlroy, and Douglas on charges of treason," he said. He'd been wanting to do that for a long time."Separate cells. If they choose to resist, hunt them down." Raze could drag them by the scruff of their necks, if he had to…
The practical side took over Raze, like the mistress of a house planning a garden party…in prison. "I would suggest the south end. Block C. The air is drafty, the beds smell of mildew and the trains should be enough to drown out any noise between the walls." Raze knew the prison layout like the back of his hand. "Armed questioning?"
"Oh please…" Lucian smirked, flipping the scent-card back on the table. "…these men are investors, Raze. I think we can be a bit more polite than that…" He stood up. "Let them rot for the first forty-eight hours. Silent guards in front of each cell, and only those you trust to listen, memorise, and keep their mouths shut. Eyes front at all times." There was nothing like complete silence and the prospect of execution to make a prisoner nervous.
"And after the forty-eight hours?"
Lucian shrugged. "A desk, a pen, some paper. Let them write what they will…" Even if they were directly innocent of these crimes, one if not all of the three had a connection to this new generation of Blackmarks. "…and if the council complains, inform them that this is a military matter…and it is in the best interests of this investigation to have three of our 'investors' locked up until the matter is dealt with." It never failed to amaze him how willing his Council could be when it came to looking over countless indiscretions, all amounting to treason, all for the sake of money. But then money kept the lycan race from falling out of hiding, didn't it?
"Will they be formally sentenced?"
"Detained." He had no qualms about his actions. It was like pruning a fig tree. "Keep the investigation ongoing, but make all seem as though we have caught our killers. If our enemies continue to reside outside the prison…then I am curious to see how they will react to this." The question being, would these new Blackmarks see these men as traitors to be disowned or comrades in need of saving?
Raze nodded. Clearly he approved of the concept. "The curfew in check, all as it seems, but the attention on those who have been detained." The mild scent of appreciation at the lycan-master's display of almost normal behaviour. Just like old times. "It will be as you say."
"Excellent…" He stood. "…excellent…" And then, about to turn away, he stopped, looking the man in the eye. "…the report as well, Raze. Very thorough." More than just thorough, Raze had been solely holding the fort for the past week. "You've done well over the past few months."
Raze barely looked down. "It was nothing."
"No, it was something, Raze." They both knew it was difficult for him to acknowledge support, so if he was going to make the effort, then someone bloody well ought to be accepting it. "You have performed admirably, down to the last report, old friend, so just…" He breathed, putting out a hand. "…take the compliment before I recall there was ever…anything…to do with you and drink-fighting in the London den."
The faintest gleam of teeth. The scent of pride. Raze grasped his hand. "Keep to the shadows. Survive the war."
"And then some," he replied, gripping the hand tight.
It was a beautiful moment. Normally one that would make him uncomfortable, but he and Raze had history. They shared everything…from food to cities, to women. He clapped the man on the back. He was about to stalk out of the room, but again his mouth got the better of him. "Seriously though, do you always get your wife to do your handiwork for you?"
Raze's grip tightened, but before anything could happen, Singe interjected, perhaps aware of where this was going. Still in his chair, he tapped the table, drawing their attention down. Whatever the politics, his only concern was matters of science. The scent. "What of the eye then," he muttered. "You profess to know the scent, Lucian, but you do not regale us with your opinion."
Oh, would you look at that, he thought, grinning at Raze. Someone needs my opinion. Casually, he unlocked his hand from Raze and cleared his throat before focusing on the eye.
"Quite ingenious really…" He indicated the bowl and then the area around the bowl. "The scent is all around us, Singe. The scent is us. We…" He paused mid-sentence, leaning over the bowl and then nodding. "…are the scent."
The scientist eyed him. "Elaborate if you will, Lucian."
"Right…" Picking up a pen, he indicated the curve of the eye. "…we know there is a gum of some sort coating the eye. We cannot smell it, but we see it, yes?"
They nodded. Slowly. Singe was still looking sceptical.
"So why is it there?"
"Preservation," Singe muttered. "Some form of embalming that requires further study beneath the microscope." He sounded bitter. The swab he had taken had been inconclusive, partially because of the burns inflicted directly after the eye was first found.
"Alright…" Lucian sat down again. "…we'll do an experiment…a theoretical experiment," he added, noting the scowl starting on Singe's face. The day he got to touch something in Singe's laboratory without the man flying off the handle…"Lycans…" He made a broad sweep of the room with his arm. "…we smell the food, the drink, our clothes, our blood…danger, excitement, emotions…everything has a smell." He tapped the table with the pen. "…and a distinct one at that…" He gave a small pause for effect. "…so when does it become too much? At what point can the nose no longer handle the range of smell…at what point can it no longer decipher which scent is which?"
Raze spoke first. "Scent-masking," he said abruptly, crossing his arms. He smelled offended; whether by the concept or the earlier jibe had yet to be determined.
Lucian nodded. "Scent-masking." It was a dangerous weapon, one the vampires had never fully mastered. The trick lay in the concentration of smells, the gum battling the potential for evaporation. The smaller the space, the harder it was to pick out the scents. And the more scents there were, the more likely it was that the sense of smell could grow…numb. Like going deaf for a short amount of time. He leaned over the eye and pointed. "I am not saying there is one scent on this eyeball, Singe. I'm not saying there are twenty…I am saying there are probably over a hundred scents on this eyeball.."
"A hundred?" Now Raze looked sceptical. "They would need…"
"A distillery," Singe murmured. In the interim of discussing murder, they seemed to have reached a point of finishing each other's sentences. "Perhaps even access to a perfume house." The scientist pursed the creases on his forehead an iota more, and the gleam in his eyes began to grow. "It would explain why two alphas are unable to smell the source in the same sitting. If we could isolate a few of the smells…dilute the gum. Evaporate it somehow and…decipher those which are not common to the den, Lucian…"
Lucian smiled broadly. "…then we have a scent-trail." Confident he'd set them in the right direction, he slapped Singe on the back and stood up again. His work here was done. It was a moment worth preening over. A break-through even. "Call me when you make progress."
He was at the door when Singe called him.
A bit too soon.
"Lucian?"
Still high off the momentum of having solved something, Lucian turned briskly at the door. "Singe." Moving forward was the ticket. Not back. He had done something useful today. As coincidence would have it, he might even get something useful done in front of his desk…
…if people would just let him get there.
Perhaps the agitation showed.
Singe appeared to study him for a moment, and then taking off his glasses, the man proceeded to clean them as he spoke. "I merely wish to remind you, old friend," he said. "We have an appointment today. Raze tells me your schedule is free this evening, but I wish to confirm, so we do not suffer another…misunderstanding…over the correct time." He put his glasses back on. "Does one o'clock suit you?"
Right.
One o'clock.
It felt like his skin was too tight all of a sudden.
Three months away from home, and he was having trouble remembering his own routine. Or perhaps to be more accurate, he had hoped no one else would remember his routine. They were both staring at him. No doubt gauging his reaction. He squinted…and then managed a tight, not entirely comfortable, smile. "Course…one o'clock." He scratched his beard. "…Monday, I take it?"
"It will be Monday, yes," said Singe. "…after midnight."
"Well that was quick," he muttered. His neck was becoming remarkably…itchy…all of a sudden "Third Monday of the month," he said to himself…quietly. He was stalling by stating facts. Problematic to say the least. "Just feels like yesterday, that's all."
Singe's voice was matter-of-fact. "Our last meeting was four months ago."
"Right," he said. "One o'clock?"
"If it suits you?" An eyebrow had been raised.
"Excellent." Lucian nodded. Again. It felt like the smile was painted on his face. "Excellent. I will be here at…" He inhaled, flipping open his pocket-watch. It felt good to have the ticking in his hand again. "…one o'clock." He nodded one last time, and then stalked off, shutting the door behind him before either Raze or Singe could answer. His back to the door, the hallway empty and the air feeling…just a little thin. Third Monday of every month. Easy to remember. Good times. Perfectly normal. One o'clock. Perfectly fine. He had four hours to kill until then.
No problem.
o…o…o
The Laboratory of Singe. 1:21 pm. Four hours and twenty minutes later.
"Inhale."
Lucian took a deep breath. The stethoscope was freezing; noticeable even when his body was cold, like a dedicated source of ice on his chest. He could hear his heart beating. The sound barely audible, the majority of the beats cut off by the ears of Singe. Beyond that, the clatter of a heater through the wall. A dog whining several floors above them. Difficult to find animals that would take food from a lycan hand…
"…and exhale."
He breathed out. Complete waste of time. His heart was fine. His lungs were fine. Everything physical…as they had ascertained over the past twenty minutes…was fine.
"Good." Singe was holding a pocket-watch, the cogs ticking away behind the scratched surface. Flipping the watch shut, he looked over his glasses. Almost sagely. "Very good…now…" There was a clipped manner to his speech. "…how many beats per minute?"
There was a pause.
Lucian scratched his arm. They both knew what he was talking about. Far above, the dog had stopped whining. A bit abruptly…like someone had dragged it out of its hiding place. His eyes targeted the ceiling. "I don't know, ninety," he said. "I thought you were the physician this evening."
"Indeed…" The lycan nodded his head. "…but we see now whether I am a good judge of character. I believe you are keeping track of time, Lucian, yes…but I also believe you keep track in memory as well." He indicated the watch. "What if we make this harder? Forgetting the exhale, how many heartbeats would there be in the minutes since I told you to inhale?"
"Look, it's not that accurate, Singe." It had taken…a decade to get him into an examination room…and then another two for him to admit that perhaps, Singe knew what he was talking about. Nonetheless, he sincerely wished that Raze had not mentioned the counting four years ago.
Singe tapped the pen against his chin. "I believe the accuracy rises when you are stressed."
"Well, as you can see…" Lucian gestured at himself. "…I am not stressed." Just fine. Splendid, he thought. When he coughed, it sounded like hollow, if not entirely false, laughter. Perhaps his lungs pointing out that he had tried to kill himself two days ago, and they both knew it. Nonetheless…he was not stressed.
"You have nightmares?"
He leaned back on the table, waving a hand idly. "Are we talking about nightmares or keeping time, Singe…pick one." Hard to make light of the situation when it felt, rather suddenly, as though, every candle in the room was sitting under his seat.
"Both." Singe made a note. He'd taken a seat on the wooden stool, the small candle by his hand making the pages seem to glow. "Do you find yourself keeping time in the dreams?"
"Not really…" He picked up some tweezers, starting to fiddle with the ends. There were bigger concerns while he was dreaming…such as why he was pounding the flesh of his dead wife into an anvil…with a hammer.
"Is there any kind of constancy…a beat…anything that would suggest the keeping of time, even if you are not aware of it?"
He shrugged. The anvil. The hammer. Maybe her screams. He started picking at the dirt beneath his fingernails. "Sometimes."
"Can you go into detail?"
The tweezers were occupying his attention. He was supposed to talk. Every month, they attempted to…talk about any…issues. He was supposed to…get this off his chest. Thirty seconds. Forty seconds. A minute and forty seconds. He had to say…something. They had been doing this for what seemed like an eternity…and as yet, he had only come to terms with how pointless the exercise really was.
Singe took a moment to clean his glasses. "Lucian…" His voice was clinical. "…the more I know, the more I can assist…the more I can find the root of your problem."
"Right…" Lucian frowned, rubbing the back of his neck. "…right, the thing is…" He was nodding too much. Why did this feel so awkward? Usually he was the one staring people into the wall. "…the thing is, I'm still a bit…confused…" Yes, confused was the right word. "…how talking about it…is really going to do anything after…I don't know…five hundred years…" He twitched suddenly, poking a finger in his ear. It felt like the air was starting to buzz. He grimaced at the ceiling and then looked at Singe. "Do you hear that?'
Singe shrugged. "I hear nothing." As was to be expected, he looked indifferent to his patient's discomfort. A quality of having started his life as a chemist prior to venturing deeper into the world of biology and then medicine. "Perhaps in a month, I will hear a proper answer to my question."
"Well you've asked six… " he said tersely. "…and I've answered six, Singe so it's not as though we're talking about the end of the world here." It felt like he needed to slap his ear off in order to hear properly.
Another note. "Are you counting right now?"
"No."
"How many minutes have passed?"
Lucian blinked, staring at the man…and then he frowned. "Sorry, is there something wrong with your pocket-watch, Singe…because we can have that fixed, you know?" He was tetchy, he was aware of it, and there was no helping it. It was getting louder. Like a…high-pitched mewling. He scratched his ear. "Are you sure you don't hear that?"
"I hear nothing," he said again. "…but if my theory is correct, Lucian, you will be able to conjure this number, regardless of whether it holds your full attention or not." He leaned forward. "How many minutes?"
He ignored the question, raising his hand to his ear. It felt like his ears were ringing…every…half second. "How can you not hear that? It sounds like the whole den is buzzing."
"Yes, I am aware that you hear this, Lucian, but I am also interested in how many beats and minutes have passed since I asked you to inhale." Despite his small appearance, the man had the sympathy of a boulder. "A whole number will suffice."
"Alright, seven times ninety," he grunted, throwing out a number. His left ear was angled towards the ceiling. Who the devil was making that noise? It made him want to crawl out of his skin.
"Perhaps seven, perhaps six," the man intoned. "Perhaps we gauge my experiments like this and see how many minutes it takes to kill someone with inaccuracy."
"Yes, there's an idea."
There was no answer this time. Single looked both unimpressed and invariable, prepared to sit there for eternity, confident that the world would end, prior to his question being answered, just as he had predicted. The problem being that Singe was fine with that as long as his theory was proven correct.
Fine.
"Right." He scowled. "Alright. How many beats since we started…" He stared at the wall for a moment. Concentrate. "…using an average of a hundred and fifteen beats per minute…" Concentrate in spite of the ringing. "…not to mention the eight hours, twenty-one minutes…" The sound was piercing his ear-drum. "…and thirty four…five…six…seven seconds since I first walked into this room, I'd say you get about…"
Tick. Tick.
Clang.
"…fifty-seven thousand, six-hundred and seventy-five bloody beats if you're feeling generous, Singe." He could feel his eyes starting to go silver. Worse than nails on a chalkboard…like a dying cat. "Are we finished here?"
"Not quite."
"Well, I'm finished." He yanked his shirt off the table, shrugging it back on. Before the second was over, he was off the table and heading for the door. That sound could be dangerous, yet he turned around at the last minute. It made no sense, why was he the only one hearing this? "You still cannot hear that?"
Singe shrugged. "Unfortunately my hearing is not as good as your own, Lucian, but…" He turned in his chair, squinting through his glasses into a cabinet. "…I would imagine it is a dog-whistle, stuffed with cotton and played at half second intervals by Raze, four floors up…" Lucian stilled and then slowly cocked his head to look at Singe. The scientist failing to notice the look, having moved on already, putting on gloves and pulling a syringe from the cabinet. "Roll up your sleeve."
Raze…
…and a dog-whistle…
His hand was starting to hurt where he was gripping the handle of the door. One of the many moments when he was actually tempted to break something large. He inhaled, removed his hand and stalked back to the table, sitting back down again. Still counting the seconds of listening to a noise that was not there, the majority taken up by Singe jabbing him with a needle, drawing enough blood to service an army. It took a moment for him to find his quiet voice. "You realise I could have you thrown in a cell for this?"
"Yes, but I imagine it would not be so advantageous to your health, old friend." Looking increasingly cynical, Singe scrawled a note on the bottom of the page. "…besides, I imagine the sound will stop after another minute or so." He added a check mark to the chart. "Hearing is exceptional when you focus. Reflexes…" He flipped a test-tube without looking, checking the bottom of his chart as soon as it became clear the glass had not shattered. "…normal."
The buzz died away.
Lucian squinted…and then put the test-tube down, touching his ear tentatively for a moment, opening his mouth to try and even out the pressure. The sound was gone, but his ear-drum was still vibrating…he might have to yawn a few times to get the comfort level back. Blood forbid, the vampires start using dog-whistles in their arsenal. It certainly wouldn't kill anyone, but blood, fuck, damn, it was annoying…
"Do you need a moment?"
He tried pulling his earlobe. "To kill something, yes…but if you're talking about the examination, then no."
"Mmm…" Singe wrote something in the back-pages of his book, barely acknowledging the threat other than to categorise it. He had long since established that his brain was far too priceless to put him in any immediate danger, regardless of his actions. "…very well. Perhaps now we speak of some of the…eccentricities…that have come to my attention in the past few weeks."
"Right…" He was thwacking his ear with a finger. "…you're right, Singe, for a moment there, just after you established that a dog-whistle can turn my head into a timepiece, I was starting to feel normal. Please…" He waved a hand over one of the surgical saws hanging on the wall. "…continue."
"No, no…" It was the first sign of fervour he'd seen from Singe all night. Clearly this was one of the points he enjoyed studying. "…not a timepiece, Lucian. You keep time both in the present and in memory, but…" He was scrawling notes in the book, crossing things out at the same time. It was like sitting in on a lecture. "…whether your memories are separated into allotted sections of time, a minute, two minutes…" He gave an almost coughing laugh of eagerness. "…the means by which you keep time, this we must still examine over the next few months, however…" He hemmed and hawed, using the pen to push his glasses up, seeming unwilling but forced to brush aside the concept for the sake of time. "…we can let that one lie for the time being."
"Oh can we?" It was not often that he found himself rendered speechless until the lycan had finished his ramble. He was starting to regret making Singe his personal physician. "As long as it's just lying there, you may as well dissect everything that Raze happens to tell you about my psyche. I mean, the knife is right there, Singe…" He pointed above his head. "…right there."
Singe took no notice. The pen was on the page again. The lycan nodded to himself, making another of what must comprise an entire book of notes on his patients. "Do you ever see things while you are awake?"
"Do I see things…" He rolled his eyes. Laudanum addicts…so misunderstood. "…that was one study, Singe. One, and it was a fucking joke…" He was using his hands to explain. "…the side effects are minimal, the results are adequate and…" He scoffed. "…humans use more laudanum than I do."
"Mmm." Another note.
He was feeling remarkably blunt. "Can I see that book, please?"
Singe coughed in answer. Apparently he wasn't even going to dignify that question with an answer. It almost looked as though he had scrawled the word 'denial' along the bottom. "According to Raze, you ran out of laudanum on the night of your journey out of Budapest."
"So?"
"According to Raze, on the same night, you saw something peculiar, something that Raze did not see." Bluntness in exchange for bluntness. "Are you aware of this?"
Lucian crossed his arms. "I think I'm aware of a lot of things, Singe…and since you weren't actually in Budapest, for all you know, I saw something that Raze managed to overlook…"
The scientist exhaled, his head making a motion as though he were pushing the concept from side to side. "It is…perhaps more than Raze…" He paused. "…Goar is within your trusted circle, yet he too maintains that the house was empty. That that particular house has always been empty."
Right.
The house was not empty.
He leaned forward. "Look, I think I'm aware when what I see is actually in front of my eyes, Singe."
Singe was looking down over his glasses. "Are you?"
"Yes," he replied, just as bluntly, fully aware that it was the word "denial" he had seen scrawled in that book. The thought making him pause. He found himself staring at just about everything but Singe. Had he been hallucinating? The potential was there. He'd always been in control of the laudanum. He abused it…but the relationship never went the other way around.
At least as far as he was aware…
He looked up briefly and then returned his gaze to his nails. He was biting them. He had to think about this. Was he living in denial? Singe never lied to him when it came to matters of science or medicine, the man almost perpetually proud of his findings. By the scent, it was clear he had said his piece and was now studying his patient, waiting for a blood-slide to admit that it was red.
"Alright…" He paused, looking at the door. They had talked about this. It was trust-building. He had to trust Singe…and the more he trusted others, the less likely he would turn into a tyrant. Singe was not his enemy. "…this does not leave the room, but say I was going through a small withdrawal that night…"
Singe looked down at his chart. "And this was after you upped your dosage in Budapest?"
He started to nod…and then stopped. No. The facts were misleading. Singe was giving him the wrong facts…forcing him to…to say the right ones. It was like…bloody therapy. "No, it was…before that…in Berlin."
"I was led to believe you upped your dosage in Prague."
"Yes."
"So you upped your dosage twice in the past three months?"
Lucian frowned. He was starting to feel cornered. He fished for an answer. Unfortunately, the right one came to his tongue. There would be consequences. He could smell it. A combination of Singe's detached nature paired with his respect for the scientist's brain. "…yes."
"And then you saw something in the house?"
"Not something…" He was staring at the floor. "Someone…" He breathed out, his thoughts trailing off. He needed to remember. There had been a house. "I think it was a woman…" He frowned, letting his head fall back for a minute. Closing his eyes, he could almost hear it again. A woman singing to her child…a song too old to be sung by a woman in the 19th century. And yet it had been so clear…not so much the woman, but…the child.
Someone's daughter.
Singe waited for him to continue.
But the silence was too long…he had to deal with this, and get out of here. "Could it be the amount…" He needed to look at facts. A fix. Something to…fix this."…because I ran out of laudanum just before I saw that woman…in which case, maybe I should not be lowering the dose if I'm going to start seeing things every five seconds."
Oh, that would be nice.
Allegra would be off his case for five seconds.
"Perhaps…" Singe appeared to be thinking, his fist beneath his chin, the crease in his brow lending weight to the theory. "…the key would be to withdraw completely from the substance over a fixed period of time. Perhaps…two years." He seemed to be calculating. "We lower the dose on a tri-monthly basis…monitor your symptoms…regulate and remove the need for self-medication…"
"Come again?" His eyes were wider. He could feel his eyes literally widening.
He was hoping he had misheard that last one.
The lycan nodded, paying little attention to his patient. "Self-medication…it is no longer a viable option, Lucian. According to Raze and Allegra, you have suggested that you are in control of your measurements, however you appear to have difficulty knowing the difference between a teaspoon and several tablespoons."
"Yes, but I've…" He squinted. "…I've lowered the dosage already."
"Have you?"
Had he…maybe…give or take a midnight fix… He wanted to pull out his hair… He frowned. …which needed cutting. The point being, it was a frustrating sentence to take in. He exhaled. "Fine," he murmured. "We do it your way." He was feeling a bit empty. Like his brain had just shut off…except he was still counting.
Singe nodded before continuing. "In addition, I would suggest we remove the laudanum from your quarters immediately and place it in a secure environment…"
"Oh let me guess…" Lucian gestured around him sarcastically, being sure to include the surgical saw. "…how about here? "
Singe wore only the slightest of smiles. "You can be sure the measurements will be accurate," he said.
Right. Lucian exhaled, allowing his back to slouch against the chair-back. The ceiling was providing little consolation. Raze was no doubt upstairs congratulating himself on shoving his superior into the path of recovery. The true path of recovery…not the one where he wandered off and on it again, depending on how he was feeling…which was not good. After a moment, he nodded, put his hand in his pocket and drew out one of his emergency stashes. "You'll get the rest tomorrow." He put the bottle on the table and turned away.
"Why not today?" Singe was not failing to state the obvious.
He turned around. "Because today is turning into complete shite, Singe." He was trying not to speak around his teeth. "Alright?"
Singe nodded, smelling remarkably indifferent. "Alright."
It would be alright.
A/N: Next chapter already written (the whole thing!) I'll be posting it next week though, so I can get some kind some of schedule going. Many thanks to Celtic Aurora, Mackenzie, lillytuttle, ValueMyHeart, gothicluver13, and Kassandra203 for leaving the reviews, favourites, and story alerts! As always, feel free to read and review.
Celtic Aurora: He did have a terrible week, but things are bound to get better now that Singe is in charge of his laudanum. (Not that he'll be entirely comfortable with the symptoms of a gradually decreased dose. ^_^) As a sidenote, insufferable Lucian is one of my favourite things to write (he's terrible...but so loveable...but so terrible!)
Mackenzie: I know...I'm excited for her to get out of that room. Naturally, being underground is not going to be pleasant, but at least she can walk around. Have a feeling Lucian is going to be doing some visiting (certainly during Christmas).
littletuttle: Awww...thanks! I do sometimes think about writing something publishable, but I have to finish this story first. Feel like I'm learning to write by writing something I genuinely love. (Still have so much to learn about getting the scene across and picking the right words, but it definitely makes for a good learning experience until I try for a novel. ^_^)
Kassandra203: Thank you! (And welcome to the story.) I'll be updating next week for sure.