5 December 2014 – More detail in the middle of chapter.
Chapter XLIV: The Warmth of Something Dire
Three days later.
And so it was that Rena waited for something dire to happen. A chest slowing with every turn of the hourglass. The breath fading from a woman's mouth. For Lucian, such things were circumstantial. A lesson for the lady in question and a reason to turn his attention to other diversions. The annual festivities of a season, that singular time when he would be most preoccupied with the social aspects of his world. His thoughts mingling with light and life rather than darkness and death, for it was the former pair that had taken precedence in the upper floors of the den.
It was Christmas morning, and the great hall was decorated in all its glory. Wreaths of holly hanging above the rafters and a chain of bright chandeliers lighting the rooms. The scent of evergreen branches and mistletoe mingling with the soft perfume of ladies and the crisp tobacco of their gentlemen. By the windows, a small orchestra played a dance, causing the older folk to mill near the fireplaces, their conversation stimulating, albeit interrupted by the pitter-patter of little feet. With the full moon banished by the sun, even the children had free reign, some of them displaying their teeth, hiding behind skirts and dodging one another as they waited for the hour to tear open their gifts.
Dressed to the nines, Lucian was surrounded by half a dozen gentlemen, the subject matter moving rapidly from investments to the last horse that Diggory happened to see prior to the races being shut down. Diggory being a small, intense child of twelve who seemed rather set on acquiring a number of investors to purchase the creature for him.
The answer being no.
Several couples down from him, Raze was attending on Allegra, whose hand was firmly attached to the arm of her husband, the ivory on her wrist casually displaying her new status. The first time she had walked these halls as a married woman. The lady whispered something of import into her husband's ear, eventually causing a remarkably deep grin to appear on the man's face before they leaned in close and…
…that was his cue to leave.
Excusing himself from the conversation, he turned away, drink in hand, already considering how best to navigate his way without appearing as though he were running. His endeavours paused for a brief moment as Sabine scampered into his path, holding up her dance card and the small pencil attached to it. She had acquired a lengthy list of partners, and despite knowing his habit of avoiding dance, she wanted a full set. He eyed the card…and then crouched down long enough to write "Diggory" before sending her off on her way.
He was leaving.
Passing ever so slowly through the crowd, occasionally returning a greeting as he moved along, he left his glass on a table and stepped through the open doors into the main hall…where apparently a throng of young, powdered women had decided to take up residence. All of their eyes turning to him before flicking back to the lady at their centre. The tension growing by about…twelve hands.
Jacqueline.
She was staring at him, red-eyed, her nails clenched around her fan. The hands of at least three ladies patting her shoulder simultaneously, all of them glaring at him as though he had grown a second head. Understandable.
According to the Line Rumour, they were all under the impression that he had slept with no less than nine other women whilst in her company…when really, it had been one. He eyed the lot of them, considered whether etiquette was really all it was cracked up to be…and then by chance, was pulled aside by Rena, who mysteriously required his attention.
Rena, who was meant to be downstairs after having chosen to opt out of Christmas, if such a thing were possible. Her eyes moving coldly over the fluttering geese, giving them cause to step back as she informed him of what was occurring below. The news causing him to look at her…and then move…
…fast.
o…o…o
Four minutes later.
He skidded to a halt in the main entrance chamber of the catacombs. No time to think. His coat thrown onto the table, exchanged for the bowl of blood still sitting there from the previous evening. With his hands spread over the top of the bowl, he darted forward. Growling at Rena to wake Singe. His nose making it simple for him to duck into the second tunnel. Three paces forward, then left into the first quarter.
Rena had given him a bearing. South by south-west.
Within seconds, he found signs of passage, a smear of blood-stained ash beneath a sun-trap, a piece of string on the rocks, the remnants of a blanket shoved into a corner. She was down here somewhere. He sniffed the blanket. Usually a scent called to him, but hers was faint…at least two turns making him pause before he made his choice. It was difficult to distinguish between the past and the present, the smell of the wool calling him left, left…and then right. The pattern repeating itself until it became clear how she was choosing her path. Left, left, right.
His efforts finally rewarded by a pale wrist jutting out of a small hollow beneath a rock. Six minutes. Still trying not to spill, he placed the bowl he was still carrying on one of the burial slots in the wall and then turned back to the opposite tunnel. Kneeling on the ground beside the wrist, hoping to blood this was a trick. Willing her hand to rise up. Stab him in the face. Throw a rock at him. Anything.
"Reinette."
He said it with a forced callousness, the tone of one who was not in the mood for 'tired.' The hand did not move. Fuck. He pressed two fingers on her wrist, feeling for a pulse. Counting four seconds…and then, cursing under his breath, he ducked down even further, turning his head sideways to peer into her hiding place. It was more of a slice than a hole. She was lying on her front, her face turned away from him, her knees curled up to her chest.
He hissed her name again.
No answer.
Eight minutes. Forced to do something now, he wedged his arm into the space, managing to get a grip beneath her armpit. The angle and gravity fighting against him until she slid over…and then out onto the tunnel floor. Her face fell in the dirt. Bruises covering every scrap of her skin. Dirt smeared across her neck as though it had clung there decades ago.
She looked dead.
Instinctively, he turned back to the tunnel, looking for Rena, suddenly conscious of what needed to happen next. His eyes pinpointing the sun-traps until he found a spot that would not be compromised by the changing angle of the sun. With his destination in mind, he kneeled down again, hoisting her up and carrying her along the edges of the tunnel until they were deeper in the dark. The rocks hard underfoot as he laid her out on the tunnel floor and then retrieved the blood, placing the bowl beside her. Bones shoved aside so he could work. His hands moving faster than his brain to the point that he was muttering without realising it.
He slapped her across the cheek, keeping the bulk of his strength back. "Come on, Reinette…wake up." It was a tall order. But death was not an option…if not for him, then most certainly not for her. Angling her neck back, he forced her jaw to open and reached for the bowl at his side. Trying to get her to taste the drops of blood. But it was different than the Awakening. She was in danger of choking, globs of blood collecting on her tongue with nowhere to go. The amount of grey in her skin making him wonder if it had been altogether wise to instruct Rena to just let her keep lying there…
…but it was too late now.
No choice but to keep working on her throat, holding the head back until help came. Until he heard footsteps. Too heavy for Singe. It was Rena. Wary of time, he growled for her to know his location, his thumbs still pressed against the neck of their mutual failure. He'd been over the body for almost twelve minutes now, half the time spent trying to drip blood down her throat and the other half trying to get her to swallow. Barely a heartbeat. He knew Singe was on his way, but he needed options. Quick options.
In moments, Rena came sprinting through the tunnel, her hair illuminated briefly by the sun-trap over her head. Her eyes gleaming in the light. She came to kneel beside him, holding a small porcelain bowl as out of place as sugar at a lycan gathering. It was a marrow bowl from the upstairs kitchen, the edges chipped after years of service. The surface warmed by the hand of Mrs. Fulligan.
As soon as she was near, he let go of Reinette's throat, in the same movement, taking the porcelain bowl from Rena's hand, removing its cover and placing it carefully on the ground beside him. She had followed his instructions. Three tablespoons mixed with a quarter cup of blood. Boiled and then left to cool for three minutes. Rena took a step back, watching blankly as he rolled up Reinette's sleeve, simultaneously drawing a knife from his right boot. Eyes watching the skin, searching and forcing himself to remember. He had done this before. Many centuries ago. Centuries when he actually cared about keeping vampires alive instead of just killing them.
A moment in thought…and then he darted the knife into the skin, six times along the vein, each cut the size of a fingernail, each cut located precisely along the arm. The knife dipped into the bowl, doused in marrow and then pressed into each cut. Vampires could stomach marrow, but too much of it and their systems reacted. The blood working over time to compensate…all he needed was a reaction…something to break the cycle. Something to wake her before she slipped.
Wake, he thought.
Wake.
o…o…o
But she did not wake.
Unbeknownst to those around her, Reinette dreamed, not of her past, but of her present. In the bowels of the earth, she saw herself, at times sleeping, at times awake. She could not remember how or when she lost her way, only that she had panicked at the rising sun. Every stone growing hotter until she found another hole, another trap that led her further into the maze. Her dreams of escape falling apart, torn like the yarn on her wrist, replaced instead by the reality of her surroundings.
Hunger gnawing at the edge of her throat, telling her she had not moved for hours…days even…that to sink into the ground and starve was the only way she could resist her captor. Bitterness. Despair. The realisation that she did not know the way back, that every turn looked the same, that he had lied. That there was no exit, and he had left her here only to crawl in circles. She dreamed of shivers in the dark. The voices of her mother and sisters following her in her sleep…the cries of a small brother whose face was like hers, his footsteps following her across the ice only to fall beneath it.
Of all these things, she dreamed…
…and then without warning, she felt herself growing cold. Black overwhelming the dream, so that sight took its place. To drink of lycan blood was to see the prospects of a future…all knew such things. But to starve, to reach that cusp between life and death, was to see one's own future. The cruel irony of the bloodseers' fate that only on the brink of death could they see their own path…not through the distorted words of a muse, but through vision.
So beyond dream, with her breath fading, she saw not the past, nor the present, but the future…
o…o…o
She heard a crack...
…and in the same moment, became aware of herself. Unsure how she had come to this place that was neither the catacombs…nor the den. Wondering how she could have come to be outside. Wondering if she was dead…and this was the reward promised by her ancestors.
In the vision, she stumbled to her feet and then froze, staring at the outstretched arm that was hers. Tears threatening to fall as she turned her palm away from her, staring at the back of her hand. Youth, she realised. She held her hands up, her fingers long and slender, her cheeks smooth when she touched them. Youth. She breathed out, feeling the cold breath coming from her lips. Even laughter for she could not stop the wave of joy threatening to overwhelm her.
It felt so real. She could feel the cold of the North, she could see the stars in the sky. Unable to hold back her joy, she hugged herself, rubbing her arms briskly, feeling the strength beneath her winter coat of fur, feeling the tautness of her neck. She was young again…and if this was a vision of her future, then it meant she would triumph. Somehow, years from now, she would triumph over her captors. She would be young again, free of the catacombs and away from his den.
Her eyes now keen to take in her surroundings. The small clearing that was her refuge, the open sky above and the inch of snow beneath her feet. Her camp pressed against a snow-covered rock and her belongings laid out below. Every detail removing the haze and drawing her further into the vision. The dream. The future. Whatever this place was, she felt at home.
Leather packs resting against a fallen log. Knives laid out beside a stone, ready to be sharpened. Every sector of the camp was organised, from the skins drying beside the fire to the sacs labelled for their contents. The words appearing blurry. It was as though she could see only that which she focused on. The picture starting to grow darker the more she looked upon it. In the centre of the camp, she saw a wooden bowl lying on its side, growing black from the heat of an iron-skillet. The campfire eating the remains of a meal spilled only moments ago. And most disturbing of all, she saw a hare lying with its throat cut, its eyes staring at her through the glaze. Its fur torn as though claws had ripped through its heart.
She felt adrenaline. A heightened sense of awareness. Like a hawk veering after prey. The dream becoming more real. She started to find herself in the vision. The words of her Mentor telling her to be cautious. Urging her to remember what became of the blood-seers. The ones who dream of their own death. The feeling accompanied by a dreadful knowledge.
This was a death vision…
Her reaction too late. Her hand only now reaching for the closest knife. Throwing aside the leather sheathe, finding herself drawn to the blade like a compass pointing north. A wondrous blade crafted from steel with a hilt of ivory. It showed an osprey in flight, the bird surrounded by a wealth of intricate detail. Even now, she wanted to study it. So eager to witness every detail before her. The hilt fitting perfectly in her palm, her thumb coming to rest upon the osprey as though it had been crafted for her fingers. Beautiful, she thought…
But too late.
It felt like a rock thrown at her back. She stumbled, using the mountain-side to break her fall. The tip of the arrow protruding from her chest, causing her lungs to seize. Breath slowing, limbs tensing in shock as she sought cover. Veering away from the light, turning back from the fire. A second and third jolt striking her from the right and the left. The sensation of blood seeping from her throat as an icy hand grasped her head, jerking a knife across her neck. Veins taken care of in a blink of an eye, and the air fading away with every second.
Only then did they leave her.
Shadows.
Whispers on the wind, circling like vultures after prey. Drowning in blood, stabbing wildly through the air. Losing her balance, feeling the snow bite into her knees. The world threatening to fade before the vision could gift her with foresight. Please, she thought. Let me see them. If she could but see the faces of her attackers, it could be the difference between life and death. Fate and the light of the moon gifting her with a final vision before the end. Not a whisper, but a soundless blaze of fury. Firelight glinting off silver, her lungs draining for she knew his face. Ruthless…the slaughter of thousands at his hand. The desecration of the smaller covens. The killing of men, women, and children. Mortals and vampires alike.
Lucian.
His presence confusing her…filling her veins with hatred. Rage that he would murder her after all that had passed. Wanting to hurt him for what he had done, the last of her energy spent on hurling her blade across the fire at him. His stride refusing to break, the man…the savage…pelting forward with the ferocity of a wolf, catching the hilt…
…and shoving not her but the shadow behind her against the rock side, plunging the blade deep into its eye. Twisting with the momentum, the edge of the blade slicing a second shadow across the neck before he dropped to his knees. His hands finding purchase from below, breaking the spine of one and stabbing the blade upwards into the throat of the last. Seconds, she thought dimly, feeling the dream, the wayward thoughts of this vision settle upon her brow. It had taken him only seconds.
All of them…dying…like flowers at the turn of winter. Tongues turning black, their mouths twitching as they gurgled on the poison of her knife. The last of her attackers brought low…and for her mistakes, a pool of red seeping through the snow beneath her. He staggered to his feet, letting the knife fall useless into the bleeding snow. A hopeless growl of frustration and anger suddenly tearing from his throat. It meant little in her final moments.
Her thoughts struggling to find solace in the end. A thousand years to her existence, and now only minutes left. The fates callous and cruel, to let her to die in captivity. Not alone, but travelling with her warden…her captor. Death the only escape from the invisible leash still tied around her neck.
"Reinette…"
He had fallen to his knees, his hands cold on her neck, stemming the blood-loss. The glow turning to shadow. The silver retreating into grey, but the irises now showing flecks of white as if in pain. Anger, a terrible rage, for what their attackers had done, but above all things, pain. A horrifying truth rising in her gut.
He was afraid.
In all her years, she'd never seen him so afraid. Shock keeping her upright until he moved, laying her back slowly, the sky reeling above her head. She tried to say something, but her throat was…pierced. The guttural sound of a creature grasping for air. It was through her throat. The arrow was through her throat. Never in all her years…
He was moving quickly, his hands tearing into cloth, reaching for the one knife unsullied by blood. He had been close to skinning a hare with it…only ten minutes ago. She remembered it now, the presence of her death forcing her to fall deeper into the vision. In the corner of her eyes, she saw the metal start to glow against the dying coals. Her instinct rising. Her mind unable to keep track of what was real. She remembered the feel of burning hot metal against her skin. She remembered him burning her skin.
She began to struggle, her arms weak, but scrabbling in the snow. Like a bird flown from its cage, he caught her before she could move, his one arm restraining her head. Keeping her still…her breath drawing faster as the adrenaline kicked in. The throat. There was an arrow in her throat…she was…losing blood.
Too much blood.
"'Nette…" There was a tight urgency in his voice. He gripped her close, pressing the cloth against her neck. Giving up on a knife that would be useless if she struggled. Instead reaching out to push the strands of hair from her face. "…look at me." His eyes only a foot from hers, as though she had been swallowed in a grey mist. "I will be quick…I promise I will be quick, but you must be still."
No.
This was a nightmare.
She had fled from his den. She had escaped from his world. How could he possibly be here? She tried to scream. Tried to put distance between them, tried to get away from his face. The little strength she had intent on tearing the arrow from her throat, tearing away from this nightmare. She needed to wake from her nightmare. She needed to...
"Look at me…"
He caught her wrists, gently cradling her as though she were not fighting him with every breath. "…you are safe," he said. Like hearing a song she had forgotten, his voice soothing her, soft as rainfall in the midst of winter. "You are safe," he said again. Stroking the crown of her head as though time had stilled. Pleading with her to listen, his words spoken over and over until she could hear what he was saying. Look at me, 'Nette, you are safe, he said. The name making her want to scream…but his voice drawing her back into quiet again. Safe, he said. Over and over.
She was safe in this hollow. Safe in this world where a lycan held her life in his hands. Her breath starting to slow. Darkness looming above their heads, yet the world seeming to cradle them both in light. The snow reflecting off the moon; so that soon, she felt her arms go slack, the fight flowing out of them like warmth from a winter's hearth.
Memories rising within the vision. Memories of a past that had not happened yet. He called her 'Nette when they were alone. His hands on her back, curving around her spine, her breasts, the tautness of muscle. She tried to speak. The vision was wrong. It had to be wrong. She was a vampire, a bloodseer raised by the oldest of bloodseers. She would never have allowed herself to be sullied in such a manner…how could she have…
But in the vision, she had no voice.
All she could do was watch and listen. Watch as he darted forward, reaching for the knife and seeing to her wounds, taking shock for what it was…and obedience as a sign of trust. Listening to the calm he spoke into her ear, soothing her with words while he dealt with the first arrow, the blade cutting just above her throat. Her throat unable to heal, unable to close around the wound. Even to pull out the arrow was dangerous. He risked tearing out the veins. Death within seconds.
She heard a crack, like the sound of an ice tree breaking in winter. His hand flinging the stub away, binding the neck quickly with a rag torn from his shirt, the arrow held in its place. The second and third broken at the tip and bound in the same manner, the wounds less pressing, but still presenting danger. More so because of time.
Time for the sun to come up. Time for covering their tracks and moving to a new location before they were hunted a second time. Time for finding a place where she could heal, somewhere hidden from daylight.
Her eyes tracking his shadow in the dark, watching as he gathered the essentials. His movements mechanical, the mark of one who needed structure in order to fight despair. Leaving most of their camp behind, he shouldered both their packs and gently pulled her up, balancing her with an arm, keeping the arrow stubs a safe distance from his chest. The vision obscured by black as her body gave in to the wound. To hunger. The sound of voices nearby. The sense of being dragged and then lifted into the air…
o…o…o
And then she woke.
Firelight reflecting off the rock ceiling. Warmth seeping into her bones. She squinted, trying to understand where she was. Her body lying on the floor. A blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her wrists bandaged with cloth. She had been wounded. She had been…
…attacked.
Roughly, she pushed the blanket away, pulling the neck of her shirt down, the smell of blood causing her to struggle, searching for the wound in her throat; her fingers finding only…skin. Her throat healed, the arrows gone. She had survived the attack.
Somehow she survived.
She moved to get up…and then stilled, touching her throat again. Confused. Of course, she was not young again. She had been dreaming. Her cheeks sunken, her neck wrinkled, like parched leather. But how could… How could she have… She was grasping at straws, her breath starting to run ragged as she remembered the dream. In her mind's eye, she had been young. Strong. A capable fighter. Not only young, but a creature of…fallen morals. Even the possibility of abomination making her shudder. Her thoughts holding such weight, such fear for that future that she failed to grasp the obvious. Firelight. Warmth. The faint smell of…
…laudanum.
She felt her throat constrict.
He was here. Now. Reclining on the other side of the fire with his shirt-collar loosened. Flipping through her journal and looking suitably unimpressed by the long stains of red spattered across his shirt. Despite this, he had left his waist-coat on. His tail-coat set aside, as though folding it still mattered. Irises that had been so fearful in the dream and now only displayed the boredom of an emperor stripped of his lavish surroundings.
Stripped.
Only a fleeting memory of a dream within a dream. His hands on her back, curving around her… Flinching at the thought, she clapped a hand to her mouth. It would not happen. It could not happen. She would never submit to such…foul immorality, she decided. Lycans were dogs. Their habits were unclean.
A furious blush rising to her cheeks. Even her mantra was failing to give her peace. Her eyes darting towards him and then quickly away as she willed herself to forget such nonsense. Reminding herself that she was in control of her future…that she, not the vision, would dictate what happened from this moment on. It was a warning.
Just a warning.
As always, keen to witness the fruit of other people's misery, he had closed the book and was now staring at her with a remarkably suspicious look on his face.The same look that Singe sometimes gave her when she professed to be studying and was actually considering whether lycans were proportional…everywhere.He seemed to sense that she was thinking something that she ought not to be thinking; and yet for reasons no doubt beyond his ego, he could not imagine what. The staring match going on for several seconds before he spoke, tapping the book against his chin. "You know, this might be an ill-timed question in light of your recent brush with death, but…" His voice was flat. "…are you…quite…alright, 'Nette…"
She gasped…and then furiously got to her knees, backing away from the fire. It did not seem to matter that her wrists were bandaged, that she had been on the brink of death, that she had lost every ounce of energy. Every hair on her neck rising to the ceiling as panic set in. "Why would you call me that?" Her voice sounded strangled.
"Because it's your name?" he offered. If not for the sarcasm, it might have come across as helpful. And by his eyebrow, he had just assessed her question as being grounds for placing her in a lunatic asylum.
"But you…" It felt like her eyes were enormous. Even to her own ears, she sounded mad. She licked her lips, trying to seem normal…trying to unravel her thoughts. And then she sniffed, pointing at him with the accusation. "…you shortened it."
"So?"
"Don't shorten it."
He exhaled, looking pensively at the ceiling. "You realise by telling me not to shorten it, my first instinct is now to…
"Stop it," she hissed, looking around them, feeling as though every word was being heard by…someone…and then crawling forward to snatch the blanket, pulling it back with her to the tunnel. Starting to shiver as she left the fire, but determined to put space between them. Her back against the mouth of the tunnel and her arms wrapped around her knees, trying to rid herself of that…feeling. Like she had been caught doing something wrong.
And now he really thought she was mad.
He had the most estranged expression on his face. After a while, he rubbed his forehead and then got to his feet, putting his hands in his pockets and scuffing some of the rat faeces with his boot. The environment saying much for what he thought was the cause of her state of mind. "Reinette, it has only been one week since I left you down here…"
"I did not ask for you to come and check on me," she muttered under her breath.
"Well as it so happens, my interests are your interests," he replied tightly. "…and it affects me…" He indicated the blood on his shirt with a wave of his hand. "…when you decide to go three days without eating."
She kept her mouth shut. Saying something was liable to make things worse. The vision only a chance possibility, but…still making her paranoid. Memories of herself lying on a snow-covered plain with an arrow in her throat. A fallen woman. A mistress of a dog. The words sounding horrible in her mind, cruel and prejudiced, but her fears proving too strong. Abomination. Even her mentor had spoken of the evils of abomination.
He was getting frustrated. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"
She met his eye and then started picking at the gauze on her wrists, saying nothing. Firmly ignoring everything beyond the tunnel. Occasionally looking up and meeting his eyes, but on the whole, simply waiting for him to go away.
He made a grunting sound and then stalked off. His back to her now, his paces taking him the length of the cell. From afar, she saw him thumb the side of his neck, turning several times in his path as though he were thinking. The light glancing off a face that could not decide whether to help her or smother her with a brick. He was about to lecture her…tell her off for stupidity.
Stubbornly, she kept her eyes forward. Her hands firmly around her knees, her thoughts so consumed with ignoring everything that she did not recognise movement until it was too late… a familiar set of fingers darting into the hole, taking a wrenching grip on her upper arm so before she knew it, he had dragged her, kicking and screaming, out of the mouth of the tunnel. Pulling her across the floor and depositing her in front of the fire again, the blanket thrown in her face, and the bowl of blood slopped down on the ground in front of her.
She snarled, kicking the cloth away. "You…half-breed…piece of…"
It was not over.
There was a four-inch long scratch across his face. Rather than deal with the wound, he pulled her bathing bucket to his side and took hold of her wrist, forcing her hand into the icy water and dousing it until his blood was off her nails. Again, she tried to scratch him, but he caught her other wrist, twisting it behind her back. "Are you done?"
The angle making her cringe, making her want to cower before him. It hurt. She could feel tears leaking out of her eye…but she was not yielding…her blood boiling over as she spat the word. "Slave."
"You're right," he said derisively, shoving her forward. "I was a slave…and thanks to your little escapade, I now have all evening to listen to your shit…" He returned to his seat, the flames lighting up his scowl. The cut healing, but the blood remaining. "…and don't even think about going into those tunnels until you are fucking ready for them." There was no pity in his eyes. "Now explain yourself."
Shivering, she raised herself into a crouch, folding her fingers beneath her armpits, trying to warm the veins. Her left arm causing her to wince in pain. It felt like he had wrenched it out of its socket. "I got lost," she said.
"You got 'lost'….'" His expression was vicious, giving her the sense that he wanted to do brutal things with that word. That if he could, he would have carved out her brain just so she could understand the concept of losing something. "…you had three days to call out to Rena and for some inexplicable reason, your location hindered you from using your voice…"
"I forgot she was there…"
"Oh yes, that's very comforting," he said. "Now I know you can make it through the rest of the year."
She jerked her head up. "Just because you are having second thoughts on this deal, Lyosha…"
"It's not a 'second thought,' Reinette…" He was starting to yell. "…it's more like a blinding epiphany into how shit you are at taking care of yourself."
"I was doing fine," she hissed.
"You almost died."
"As if you care."
It seemed to be a back-breaking straw. "Of course I fucking care," he bellowed at her. "…am I supposed to throw a rotting carcass in front of my council?"
"I'm sure it would not be the first time," she snapped.
Her words earning a growl to the ceiling. The man retracting his nails and then taking a very firm hold of himself. Licking his lip and then scratching his throat, his nails drawing marks on the skin. He looked away, his eyes very specifically holding their grey, and then indicated the bowl.
"Drink it."
"No."
"Oh my word…" He pressed his palms to his skull. Talking to himself. "…there is something wrong with you." Scrubbing his face, clearly trying to understand some mystery that could not be solved by logic. "Tanis was not lying to me. You are touched in the head."
Good, she thought. The less he thought of her, the better. She was starving, but she would be damned before drinking from that bowl. She turned over, curling up with the blanket gripped tight. Small comfort on what had turned out to be a horrible evening.
He was still talking behind her. The sound of someone who had reached the end of his rope. "Reinette, can you just…admit…you should come upstairs?"
She said nothing.
"You're right." His voice was flippant like he had decided that if she was not going to talk, then he might as well have a conversation with the ceiling. "I was drugged out of my mind when we made this wager. I had taken eight times the recommended dosage, woman…eight times. Do you know what that can do to a man?"
The fire crackled.
"Did you know it's Christmas?" He sounded resigned. "This is my life. Christmas in a hole with a deranged person…I can't imagine why I'd have issues with that."
She bit her tongue, wondering if he had ever considered that perhaps she was suffering from the exact same issue…and then closing her eyes briefly, knowing it was a mistake, she turned over, speaking through her teeth. "Do you always talk this much?"
"Actually, no." He looked at a loss now, his head resting on both arms. The blood on his face belying the expression. "I tend to be quite succinct." And then he turned over onto his front, crossing his arms, not seeming to care that the blood on his shirt was now matched by the grime. "Are you coming upstairs now?"
"No."
She still did not trust him. For all she knew, this was all part of his…trick. His means for winning the wager.
"Even if I was monumentally sloshed at the time?" He was almost looking apologetic. Not quite, but almost.
"Even then," she replied. In all honesty, she had no idea what 'sloshed' meant. It didn't sound like a Latin word. But she was not about to ask. Not when she was not speaking to him.
He exhaled. Flicked some of the dried blood off his shirt, and then rolled onto his feet, stretching his back out like he'd just woken from a nap. "Alright," he said. "I'll leave the fire." His hand reaching down to pick up her journal. Crouching on the floor, he flipped open the pages, skipping all her writing and found a blank spread. Finding a pen in his pocket, he uncapped it with his mouth and began to sketch something.
She squinted, suddenly confused… What was he doing?
With a rather scrunched-up look of concentration, he considered his drawing, muttered something in what must have been English and then shook his head. The pen going back into his pocket. He looked over at her. "You can climb an eight-foot wall, right?"
The question caught her off-guard. "I…" She had no idea if she could climb one or not, but he seemed to have some reason in mind. "…I suppose."
He nodded in approval. Coming over to crouch by her blanket, flipping the book onto the floor and pointing at the small map he had drawn. "Do you see that circle?"
She stared at the drawing.
Lines…a few crossed-out squares. Only the one circle. A small legend on the right side filled with tiny handwriting. Again, it was a style of penmanship she had not seen…as though he changed his letters as much as he changed his clothing.
"A safe-room. The ceilings are intact, so it gives you a safe spot to sleep during the day." Without waiting for her reply, he ran a finger down one of the lines he had drawn…a set of ungainly twists and turns on the paper. "This path will get you there, but you need…" The pen was out of his pocket again, the cap in his mouth. "…to climb here…" He added a pair of crosses on the line. "…and here." He capped the pen again and tossed both book and pen onto her blanket. "About eight feet on the second one."
Her mouth was trying to work.
"Wait…what?" She was on her feet. He was already getting his things, unfolding his tail-coat and shaking it out. "What do you mean a safe-room?"
He dusted the tail-coat off…blood and all. "I mean 'the ceilings are intact and it gives you a safe spot to sleep during the day.'" He turned. "Did I not just say that?"
"But…"
"You'll also find a small supply of charcoal in the room–always good for marking a path." His face flinched in disgust for a split-second. "You could also used charred bone if you want, but…" There was a pause. "…some people find that morbid."
She seemed to have forgotten how to think. "Why are you…" She was trying to shape the words. "…why would you…"
"Because it gives you a reason to survive," he said, reaching the open door of her prison. His hand lingering at door…and then he smiled, turning away, the light only just catching the silver as he passed. "And because it's Christmas…so take the gift and find your way back next time…"
And with that, he was gone.
The door shut.
A/N: And we're back. Sincerest apologies to any one who's been waiting for the next chapter. (I fell off the writing horse during the Christmas break and it's taken me months to get back on again.) Anyway, many thanks to Celtic Aurora, Mackenzie, Mas, Kassandra203, Kiyofugi, BeforexImxDead, Wicked Autumn, lillytuttle, tainted-angel21, Ella Palladino, Vanadesse Meldiriel, BlazeVein, , bleedingsilver, Quinn14, and Emerald Gaze for the reviews, favourites, and story alerts! As always, feel free to read, review, and refresh (as I'll be proofreading over the next day...on that note, it's three in the morning and I have work in four hours. Oh dear.)
Celtic Aurora: Soooo many problematic conversation ahead (some of them already written down. Part of the reason I'm so late with chapters these days is I keep writing later chapters.) Wish I could have gotten this chapter out as quickly as the last one. Oh well... ^_^
Mackenzie: Ah Sabine, she's a definite favourite of mine.
Mas: Definitely will try in future to update sooner than I have been. ;)
Kassandra203: Thank you! Back on the writing horse, so hopefully, updates will be somewhat more frequent now.
lillytuttle: Thanks! ^_^ (I tend to write with that same feeling, so it's great to hear when it comes across that way.)
bleedingsilver: Thank you, and I promise I won't abandon it! Note to self: Must finish story...must finish story...
Emerald Gaze: Thank you for that! Just received the reviews in the past day or two, and they gave me that extra drive to finish up the latest chapter. (And yes, I do feel lycan culture ought to have progressed alongside, if not further than, the coven, particularly since they're not bound by the laws of the Covenant...so they get history, interspecies relationships if any vampires are keen, plus they're ruled by this swell lycan that has a few problems, but on the whole, runs quite comfortably on the side of charming.) On that note, welcome to the story and I'll try and keep the updates coming quickly. ^_^