Chapter XLVII: The Age of Demons

Ten seconds later.

The door shut behind the spotless Mr. Weylan. Giving her leave to let her breath out…admit to herself that she was now more comfortable. That she missed her veil. That her appearance was made all the more wretched in the company of this youthful stranger whose face was so sweet to the eye. The words of Lucian still ringing in her ears. The truth of his insults. But now she wanted more from him than just his insults. She wanted his memories—not of war, not of his years in hiding—but of something far older than that…

…the purge.

"You were there," she said with a deliberate emphasis on the last word. How could she have been so oblivious? He was old enough to remember. He had to be. So was Tanis. The thought making her wonder if all those years ago, she had asked Tanis the same question.

Lucian was thumbing his beard. "I'm not sure I understand the question."

"The purge of bloodseers." She was watching him, looking for some reaction, some hint as to what lay beneath his skin. "You were…" She was trying to be careful with that word. "…a slave…when the purge was happening. You were alive then."

"So?"

It felt like she was accusing him of something. "Did you see it?"

"You mean did I catch a glimpse through the bars," he said mysteriously. He was being taciturn, starting to roll his pen between his thumbs, eyeing the door. He had to remember, and yet, she had to be careful not to press him too far.

She leaned forward. "A glimpse, a sound…" She was trying to explain herself, at the same time realising the danger of this conversation. She must never betray Áris. "I was never raised in the covens, but there was a…" Say it. "…a war brewing to the east of us. I think the ones who taught me might have been a part of it, but the dates are…hazy for me.."

"A war…" His ears seemed to prick. "…what kind of war?"

She raised her shoulders, despite her own fears, choosing to speak the truth. "I think they were fighting the purge…" She was getting too close to speaking about her mentor. "…but I know I was at least a certain…age…when they left."

"How old?" He sounded bored, but she suspected the emotion was deceiving. Never one to ask unless he wanted an answer. Never one to linger without reason.

Her focus shifting back to her hands, trying to put together her answer. If she was not careful, another deal would fall on her head. "Perhaps I could tell you what year…or decade I was Changed if you could tell me…what you know about the purge or…" Her suggestions starting to sound like a lost cause. He had the upper hand. "…even show me. If I could read any of the history that you have…"

"There is no history." He scratched the back of his neck, finally turning around in his seat to face her rather than the door. "All the scrolls were destroyed," he added, resting his jaw on his chest, his shoulders starting to hunch down. "…so even if I accounted for what I remember, it would just be a memory."

"And that is all I need," she said hastily. It was the first time she had truly wanted anything from him. "Just a memory, Lyosha." She was already pulling her knees closer to her body, hoping to blood that he would not change his mind. In centuries past, she might have cringed at the idea of pleading to a lycan…but as with most of her decisions of late, she had no other choice. "Just so I can understand what happened."

"Memory and understanding are two different things, Reinette; I do not promise one over the other." He was being deathly serious, the casual manners stripped away in the face of something that actually mattered. "Nevertheless, if I tell you this, you sign that addendum. You tell Weylan everything he needs to know, and you get your papers cleared. Understood?"

She ducked her jaw quickly. She would do it.

He shrugged as if to say 'alright.' The silence dragging for so long that she began to think he would never speak; but then he leaned forward, clasping his hands together, staring at them as though they held the memory. The candle flickering on the table between them. The walls drawing in as though they were sitting in a cave and he had begun to tell her a story of spirits and demons. The draft from the tunnels echoing like the whispers of the dead.

His voice among them.

"So from what I know," he began. "…the blood-seers were a fixture in the coven until around 1046 A.D.…mid-century." There was a thin trail of mist drifting from his mouth, her mind imagining it to be the forms of men. "Some say they were as old as Delphi, the men of their order holding the same sway over vampires as oracles once held over men. Others say they were descended from a fourth son of Corvinus, one that was cast out in his final days…"

She said nothing to that. It was true that most blood-seers had been men. But the part about a fourth son of Corvinus was a legend. A myth. In the words of Áris, only fools followed after myth.

He seemed to take her reticence in stride, pausing for less than a few seconds before he continued. "And as the tale went…whoever wanted their days foretold had only to bring a small token of blood to the order. The seers would then take it away and within the night, they would return with words." His hands were rubbing against one another like a man brooding on his sins. "Words that often made no sense, but words filled with enough truth to keep them respected by the coven…"

A voice from the depths of her mind compelling her to speak. "For it was said, their faces would be on the council before the end," she whispered. Her voice harsh, but in tune with his. For it felt like she could see them all…their ghosts standing in a row, looking upon the future with eyes that had been gouged out…

…but she could not.

Her heart beating faster as she realised Lucian had stilled in his chair. That he was now eyeing with her suspicion. Even doubt. As though he was beginning to suspect her of knowing more than she let on. But his suspicion was unfounded. It was just a memory. A memory of Áris teaching her what was lost before the purge. Before he could ask, she turned her eyes away from the tunnel, explaining the words to her captor. "I remember being told they were…" She searched for the term. "…that…the Elders…had instated them. That there was…pride…in being a blood-seer at one time."

There was a long pause, one that waited for her to say more. Her fears growing that he would not continue, but then he sat back. "Yes," he said, seeming to brood his way back into the story again."…but pride can only last as long as good favour. And as fate would have it…" The story descended once more into what seemed a myth. "…there came a night when a very proud Elder wanted good favour."

An Elder.

She pursed her lips, thinking back on the lessons of her childhood. In all their days, the Elders had never once allowed their blood to come in contact with the seers. One of the first lessons she had been taught as a child…only a leader will refuse. "I find this hard to believe," she said.

"Which part?" By the tone, he found her observation unsurprising.

"All of it." She was being curt in her answers, but they had moved into the realm of discussion; he would stay merely for the sake of proving his point. "A blood-seer can offer the vision, but a leader is meant to refuse or risk bringing a curse upon his head." She was reciting the words of Áris…the lesson that a leader would be struck down in his path if he ever touched his blood to a seer's lips. Why did it feel as though she no longer believed in them? "Throughout history, our purpose was for the common people. The soldiers. The hunters," she explained, raising her jaw at him. "It is how I knew your standing. You refused."

"Well, this one accepted…" There was a hardness entering his voice. "…and for his pride, he did not wait on ceremony. He followed after the seers and demanded they give him his prophecy first-hand. Every word…exactly as it was spoken." His eyes now captured by the darkness of the tunnel as well. Seeing a past that she could not. "…and in the months that followed, accidents started happening. Cleansing ceremonies, seers accused of all manner of crimes against the Covenant…"

The way he spoke of it…

"You were there?"

"No…" And for once, he actually looked apologetic. As though somehow he wished he could have had a different answer. "…but I was told the story by another."

"Who?" She was sitting forward in her chair. In her mind, she had always assumed him to be one of the oldest lycans, the most infamous…who could have told him this…

"A dead man," he replied, giving her a reason to stop questioning him. A trace of silver entering his eye before he continued with his myth of a story. "So eventually…" He was starting to brush the mud off his chest again. "…the Elder fell asleep, and things became normal again. Seers were tolerated, soldiers sought their fortunes…and then almost two hundred years later, the same Elder woke from his sleep." His hand stilled. There was a pause for breath, as though he needed it before continuing. "…and three days after his Awakening, a new rule was added to the Covenant." The word seeming to lie rank on his tongue. "…so that one day, blood-seers were tolerated…and the next, they were executed in public. Skewered on swords and thrown out the gates before sunrise."

She felt her throat grow taut. They were left to the sun. "Did any escape…"

"A few." His eyes were looking past her again. "…but the vast majority were hunted down on that first day." His tone becoming methodical. "First the guild-house, then the chapter-houses, and then the forests to which they fled. All of them dead by nightfall."

"How many?"

"At least a hundred souls," he replied. The silver running deeper into his eyes, glazing them like porcelain on metal. "Twice that number after the outlying covens were informed of his decision."

"Whose?"

Even as she asked, she did not want to hear the answer. To hear was to open a box that could never be shut. For though she feared the Elders, throughout her life, they had been a triad…all of their faces put together in her mind like a three-headed Cerberus. There had never been one to hate more than the others. One whose name was now…

"Viktor." Across from her, Lucian was very precisely examining the pen in his hand. His voice never rising above a murmur. "You see, he was relentless," he said, studying the lines along the metal, the ink that smeared his fingers. "He knew they were out there, so of course, he had to hunt them." A half-smile that could not justify the words he spoke. "Hunt them…and bring them back so they could be executed."

The last words sounding like an order. She was starting to feel very cold, her voice sounding small. "When was the last execution?"

"Around 1262 A.D…something like that?" His voice had become vacant. "They were hounded for almost fifty years," he said. The pen seeming to hold his entire world for that single moment…and then he inhaled, waking up from the memory and turning towards her, the pen forgotten. Like a grounded man trying to study the flight of birds. "And then there's you," he said.

Her?

She spoke carefully. "What do you mean?"

He put the pen down, clasping his hands together again. Speaking to the fingers as though they now held more than just the memory. "I mean, there had to have been over…sixty…executions after the first massacre…" Every word spoken with mounting precision as though he were trying to feel his way down a shrinking path. "Blood-seers, their accomplices, their children…by the orders of Viktor, they were all hunted down for the sake of one drop of blood." There was a pause before he looked up at her. Patiently still trying to understand her perspective. "Can you not see the common thread?"

"All I can see are these walls," she said, indicating the space around them with a rough jerk of her jaw. Her tone stubborn; her answer unfair for of course she could see it. Both of them persecuted; like the lone scorpion crossing the river, he expected her to cling to the back of a wolf.

But it was not in her nature.

He seemed to sense as much, but as it was against hers to accept, it was against his to give up. "Reinette, if you accept your place in this society, the walls will come down. You will have a lifetime of being accepted for your abilities," he said.

"Freedom and acceptance are two different things," she replied. She did not have to even think to answer. He of all people should be able to understand that. "The same way you baulk at being a slave, I baulk at being a tool of war."

A terse look of disgust crossed his face. "You would not be a tool…"

She interrupted. "Is that not what Viktor said to the lycans?"

The question bringing him up short; as though he could not fathom her words, his gaze drifted to the candle, his hand searching for the pen again. "No," he said abruptly, tapping it against his palm. The sense that they had come full circle in the conversation. His answer coming from somewhere…bitter. "We were never given a choice. We were given axes and picks—told to dig our own prison and then whipped into submission once we finished it. The branding was just a courtesy."

His mind seemed elsewhere. The light from the candle sketching a picture of youth. But the eyes making her see the truth of what he was. Old. He was very old. And tired. The conversation reminding her that she was not just talking to Lyosha or Aleksey. Something that she almost began to pity.

"I thought you had no brand," she said.

"I cut it off."

She nodded. So the vision had been right. Unfortunate. Hard enough trying to forget that she knew exactly what he looked like without clothing… And then she blanched. "You what?"

"Cut it off."

"How?"

He snorted, pulling the papers to his side of the table again. "How do you think," he said. His voice had become brusque. Despite his previous sentiments, another wall coming up between them. "Can I presume that is the last memory I need to regurgitate this evening?"

She let out a breath, watching it mist in front of her. "Yes." There was more to this story. More to what he knew…but for now, she would leave it. She was starting to wonder if she even wanted to know the rest. "Are you bringing Mr. Jones back in?"

"Still thinking about it…" He was scrubbing his face as though trying to clean it of something. Like a hound needing to shake something off before he could continue in good stead.

"Lyosha, you think too much." The words spoken again without much thought to consequence. And yet it seemed again that it was her right to speak so and his to respond in kind.

"Do I now?" He looked up from his hands, and inexplicably smirked, latching the fingers behind his head. "Good thing you let me know, Reinette, or I might have gone on thinking about how freezing it is down here…" The expression turned bored. "Scratch that. Thinking about being somewhere warm and supple in about nine minutes, so let's hurry this up." He snapped his fingers three times, reaching for the pen, indicating the papers with the tip. "Year of Birth, if you please…"

Perfect.

She could hardly tell if it was worse that she understood his terminology for intercourse or that she considered it normal. Trying not to rise to the occasion, she rested her chin upon her knees and nodded in agreement. He had shared what he knew, and for that, she would give him what she knew.

"If your dates are correct," she said, ignoring the eye-roll—of course he assumed his dates were correct, but swift calculation had never been her strong suit. "…the purge went on for fifty years, so I must have been.…" She chewed her tongue for a moment. She was probably off by twenty years, but he needed a number, so she'd have to estimate. "…at least two hundred and fifty when it started."

"Come again?"

"Two hundred and fifty. Give or take."

"Give or take," he said. Fixing her with a look. Putting his pen down. Taking the time to place both palms on the table before muttering what sounded like an English curse under his breath. "So 'give or take,' Reinette, you were born in the 10th century?"

"Around then," she said, scrubbing her legs, trying to get some more warmth in them. And he could eye her with as much angst as he wanted, but there was little she could do beyond giving a rough estimate. "…if it helps, there were lycans when I was Changed, but they were still…" What was the word?

"Savage?"

She made an affirmative sound, folding her head on her knees. "I think they were being hunted."

"Well that makes a change."

"No," she said, giving him a look. "It was an annual hunt, Lyosha." This was all becoming quite familiar to her all of a sudden. Her vision growing sharper with the memory. "An ancient silver-back," she whispered, feeling a hint of nostalgia. "Twenty feet tall with teeth up to his eyes." The tales had been magnificent. Reminding her of a time when beasts were hunted instead of caged. "I think half the covens must have been vying for his ugly—"

He cleared his throat.

Loud enough for her to suck the last word back in. The rest of the sentence lost, but her memories finally registering whose head she was talking about. The expressionless head that often showed no reaction when he was being insulted. As usual, she tried to hold his gaze and then found herself unexpectedly looking at the ceiling, trying not to grip her chair any harder. Her pride still smarting from his insults, but some sick sense of right and wrong telling her it was wrong to return the favour.

To his credit, he did not look angry. Merely perplexed. "I think you were about to say 'ugly head,'" he said. "Is that right?"

It might be.

He was examining his pen now, plainly waiting for her to admit the sentence. No doubt enjoying himself all of a sudden. Struggling for words, she broke off a third time before ending on his own colloquialism. How had he put it?

"Oh for bloods' sake, fine. It came out wrong," she snapped. Closing her eyes in frustration, saying the words before she could dig the hole any deeper. "Sometimes I see you in this form." It was a harsh truth. "...and I forget that you were 'that' at one time." She rephrased quickly. "That you…are…that, I mean."

Blood.

She had just called him a 'that.'

She stole a look at her palms, wondering how she could be sweating in the midst of winter. Her palms eventually losing out to the sight of one of his boots shifting beneath the table. Like someone who had not quite decided whether he was going to stay or walk out of a play just yet. One who might still be persuaded to sit through the second act.

"That," he repeated. The long pause suggesting thoughts that went deeper than the hole she had dug. His expression, when she looked, starting to resemble the same one Rena had sported the night she'd assumed they were sleeping together. His words put together slowly, for the sake of one who was…slow. "Reinette, I think you are mistaking me for someone else."

Not the words she was expecting.

Her tongue forgetting to speak. Her brain trying to pull itself together before her nose sniffed. She eyed him. And then smoothed her hands down the side of her shirt. "I may not be able to say your name, Lyosha," she said, sitting up, holding her back straight. "…but do not think for a moment that I have mistaken it for someone else..."

"No, I'm quite sure you know my name, Reinette."

She countered. "Then how could I be mistaking you for someone else?"

It was absurd.

She was sure of herself. One of the few memories she knew in her gut to be true. For he was a monster. 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. The night of flame and retribution… How many stories had she heard of his cruelty. A creature of nightmares, the silver-backed beast of the night. His likeness splayed across the pages of every history Áris had ever kept in that chest.

"There was an illumination," she finally explained, gesturing towards the shadows at his back. He might be in his human form now, but under all that skin, there was an animal. A beast. A raging demon. "…you were…silver-backed. And monstrous. There were teeth everywhere."

"Reinette." His expression had grown tighter, but he retained a placid tone of voice, one who was patient enough to translate her insults into a useful sentence. "Monstrous I may be…and there are teeth everywhere. But contrary to your opinion…" He held up a hand and to her horror, it began to Change. The talons growing in kind and the hair sprouting from its skin. "…I am not a silver-back."

She stared at the hand. It was shocking. Grotesque, the nails sprouting into talons, the skin covered in coarse…black…fur. Her eyes widened as it very abruptly transformed back into a human hand. If he was not the monster, then who…

"Wiliam," he said, his voice cutting like a whip, the rest of him choosing then to sit back as though he had finally seen it all. The leaps and bounds she had taken towards proving her stupidity. "You are thinking of William Corvinus."

She felt her mouth turn into an 'oh.' William. The first of the lycans, the son of Alexander Corvinus. The name conjuring up a faint sense of memory. It was William in that book. Lucian came…later in the scheme of things. Still a creature of the dark, still a monster, but…later. Her memories must have consolidated them. And then her scowl turned into a confused squint. "But when were you born?"

"I don't know, Reinette, when was I born?" he said a little too lightly. An octave away from mimicking her voice. Looking at her as though she were completely obtuse. Her mind having trouble processing why he seemed to think she was an imbecile. Why he was still waiting for her to realise that…

Oh.

Blood.

"You're…"

She was starting to splutter.

The blanket falling from her fingers. The rest of her putting two and two together, only to come up with less than two hundred and fifty. Her tongue about to fall out of her mouth."…you're younger than me?"

He did not look amused. As though to say 'finally,' he rolled a sharp eye and scrawled the notation on the paper, seeming to ignore her splutter out of principle. "I'll put down 'late 10th century' until we have a specific date. The rest I believe Weylan can deal with."

It was awful.

There was no other word to describe it. Just awful. It did not matter that he was just as unimpressed with the situation as her, that they had both gone months thinking what had turned out to be an incorrect assumption. And it should not matter. He was a lycan. What did she care for his age? What business was it of hers if he was a few years younger? Or a few decades. Or centuries.

"How much younger?" She was leaning forward past her chair. The blanket again clutched in her hands. Fingers that were…old. Wrinkled. How could she be older than him? And what the hell had possessed him to call her young woman?

Appearing tranquil if not amused, he capped his pen. "Does this mean you're staying with us for the next century?"

"No."

"Well in that case, I…am…" Reaching into his waistcoat, he pulled out his pocket-watch and flipped it open. Examining the golden face as though it held the answers to life. And then he clapped it shut without a care. "…not telling."

"Two hundred."

He shrugged. "Still not telling."

"A hundred and fifty." She was blurting out ages.

He squinted one eye. "You know, it sounds like you're bidding on something, Reinette."

"A hundred."

"Keep bidding …" Looking thoughtful, he tucked the pocket-watch back into his waistcoat. Getting to his feet, his tone dripping with condescension. "…I'm leaving without you, but keep bidding."

Her teeth were out.

She almost got the retort out as well, but his duties seemed to descend upon him as he called out sharply. "Weylan." In the distance, the door opened and Weylan stepped forward, his back straight, his manners polished and smooth. A very quick hand signal prompted the man to cross the room, approaching them again. Robbing her of…company. Conversation. Her retort.

Not that he would notice.

He was already signing the addendum. "Assist our lady in anything else she requires…within reason," he added. "…and if you would be so good, give her a run down on what's expected in four months. Preparation is key." He flipped the paper over and shifted it in front of her. "Read…and then sign."

She let her eyes flick over the document, reading under her breath. Weylan had taken her language into account. She breathed out…and then took the pen from his hand, signing the name across the bottom in Russian letters, copying the same spelling that Weylan had used. The first time she had written it on paper.

Jeanne…

…Antoinette.

They did the same for the addendum. And then he left. Hardly a goodnight…and only the curious eyes of Weylan to keep her company now. His manners graceful and polite. His Russian sweet to the ear as Kolya's had been. His words going in one ear and out the other as her thoughts lingered on the door that Lucian had passed through. In a year's time, if she lost that wager, the danger would not be in her surroundings. It would be in youth. Temptation.

Weylan's voice like a chime in her ear. In four months, she must only speak when spoken to. In four months, she must answer all questions truthfully. In four months…she would stand before the lycan council…and her life would depend on that council's decision.

Her life.

Only then did she turn her ear to Weylan and listen.

o…o…o

Thirty miles from London. Near the Port of Tilbury.

An exiled vampire was sobbing on his knees. He was trapped in an abandoned brewery, the tools of his trade scattered on the wooden floor. Copper pipes rising to the ceiling and steam bubbling out of a giant urn filled with ale. Above him stood a man who ought to have been dead. Someone he had not seen in almost three hundred years. He and that…woman. His flesh still cowering in fear when he thought of her. The missing tips of his fingers still aching after all these years.

"I'll do anything…" He was begging, his Russian as broken as his leg. "…anything. Please, Nikolai…please." He had a life now. He had changed. He was no longer a part of their…their sick company.

The vampire Kolya leaned down, taking hold of his hands. Clasping them as though in supplication. "Everything I need," he said. "…is on this list." Elegantly, he pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket, holding it over his target's shuddering face. "You have four months before I call on you again."

The paper fell between the man's fingers. He was ducking his head fervently, the tears running down his face. He would do as Nikolai wanted him to do. He would do it. Anything.

Even for a murderer.

The murderer laid a hand on his shoulder. "Your dog-wife," he said. "…she will live if you do this for me." And then he smiled, his teeth shining like pearls. His tongue mimicking the English as he held a hand out. "It is good, yes?"

"Yes, Nikolai." He took the hand, shaking it quickly. "It is good." His wife would live. That was all that mattered. Gwen would live. The blunt stubs of his right-hand fingers grasping at the floor. Pinching the list from the ground and skimming it. Dynamite. Paraffin oil. Matches. Sterling silver. Iron file. Blood rations. He could get all of these easily…why was the man threatening him with murder if all he need was a few supplies…but then his eyes reached the bottom of the list. His voice…his hands shaking as he looked up. "But I…I cannot…find someone like this…"

"Then change someone…" Kolya had closed his eyes, as though in a waking dream, but still holding one of his hands. "…and have it done before four months is finished, yes?" The claws starting to grow into his flesh. "…I need her to be…that. Exactly…like that."

"Ah…h…" He was cringing beneath the claws. His blood was starting to drip from the wounds. "…yes," he cried out. He was gritting his teeth, trying to smile into the pain. "…it will be as you say."

His words touching on that faith that seemed to have finally driven the vampire mad. It was the most gruesome part. The angel's teeth drawing back into a caricature of a smile. "Then we are friends," Kolya whispered.

"Yes." Terrified, the man spoke quickly, feeling as though his head was about to nod itself off. "We are friends," he wept. His head falling in defeat.

His hand clutched by a madman. One who carried the dead in his veins. One who shook hands before killing his victims. But in the midst of his madness, in the midst of that hunger…that dream that helped him kill…the monster had made a promise: his wife would live. All he had to do was help Kolya take back this woman in four months…

…and his Gwen would live.

A/N: And we reach the end of the conversation as preceded by last week's cliff-hanger. Next chapter: we will be leaping forward to the Gathering of the Horde. (Oh my!) Many thanks to Celtic Aurora, Mas, Pamela Wright, Emerald Gaze, and Mackep for the reviews! Glad to see people are still reading. Feel free to read and review.

Celtic Aurora: Hurray for making your day earlier. And yes, I too was quite amused by the mud. (Silly Lucian, trying to break a horse that doesn't like him.) Always pleased to see your reviews.

Mas: I promise! I will warn everyone if I'm going to take a break. ;) So glad you liked the update and revisions. (As to having visions of sex with Lucian, all I can say is "I knooow..." Poor Reinette. The flashbacks hardly makes her life easier when dealing with him. ;)) Also pleased you liked Weylan.

Pamela Wright: The banter is often my favourite part to write, so it's very kind of you to say. Glad to be back. ^_^

Emerald Gaze: Alas, poor Weylan...he ought to learn Latin (on the plus side, by not learning Latin, it does afford Lucian and Reinette a certain privacy while in the company of young folk.) Hope the pain of the cliffhanger is satisfied with this latest chapter (and for the record, there will be future conversations between Reinette and Sabine. Particularly if anyone ever finds her new hiding place for all things stolen. As of now, she hasn't given the items to Reinette, but those cigarettes are bound to show up somewhere. I don't think Lucian will be pleased.)

Mackep: He is in big trouble. Although I still think he's going to be oblivious until he gets hit over the head with it. Felt sublime to read that you love the detail. (And don't worry, I won't let the great writer bit go to my head. Still have a ton to learn, but I suppose that's the fun of writing. You can only improve by doing it consistently. Which I intend to do. ^_^)