Chapter XLIX: The Coming of Hrafn
Twenty-four hours later…
It was the last day of the Gathering, the eighteenth day of April 1900. An auspicious day for it was the day after the Lycan Council had successfully orchestrated two of the greatest merges since the mid-eighteenth century. The Northern merge…and the unification of France. The first having much to do with man-power, and the second having all to do with history. The first time that the entire French line could stand together since the revolution. A day when Auguste could join hands with Benoit, their partnership poised to build a greater France, a feat that could never have occurred without the backing of the entire lycan council. Even Monaco was celebrating at this point.
The optimism of that vote, the sense that they were making great changes to their horde, drawing them back to this room with an eagerness that verged on zeal. A desire to vote on matters relating to the coven. The progress of Kraven. The assassination of Amelia. An eagerness to change the world on this final day of council. The nine of them seated at a table of twelve…and the thirteenth chair, the one at their head, mysteriously remaining empty. The gong remaining unsounded. The table covered in the rarest of meats and blood, an entire suckling pig commanding their attention, while every golden plate and glass went unused, like soldiers without a purpose.
For it was not polite to eat before the opening gong had been struck. The nine lycans at times yawning, stretching, but as a whole, refusing to remove their masks, their faces hidden from each other, for again…it was not polite unless the lycan-master had done it first. His absence holding much of their interest, despite their thoughts continuing to merge on a single issue. That which ought to have been France, if not for that second smaller issue which had been so recently paraded before their judgment. An issue that could easily be solved as soon as the gong was struck. For the majority of them had smelled her scent, the majority had seen her gift…and the majority of them were troubled by what they saw.
For there was no doubt in anyone's mind that she was a problem. Her scent a little too brash. Her history spattered with holes. Her existence as incontrovertible as a white-speckled dodo stepping out of a painted menagerie. She was an unnatural creature that should not be, and yet it was not her ancient gift but the rumours surrounding her patron that kept her critics silent. All manner of charges laid on the council table as to why they should silence her voice permanently and yet none of them voiced for they—the nine members of the Lycan Council of Twelve that had actually arrived on time—had yet to broach the topic. For they had been seated in the Horde Chambers for approximately twenty minutes now…
…still waiting for the lycan-master.
One who…confused…them. His scent rarely unmasked. His history marred by war. His existence as sharp as it was strange; for there was no doubt in anyone's mind that he had become especially strange in the past two centuries. His arrivals were late. He did not sit when he ought. He hardly stayed long enough to warrant a meeting, and yet…they followed him. They feared him. They failed to understand his kindness…for it was an arbitrary thing. Stories of his cruelty leading them to think twice before receiving or refusing his impulses—kind or otherwise. Think twice before threatening the things that he favoured. For his mind no longer worked in a way that others' did.
His fellow pack-leaders bowing their heads, scraping the ground with their smiles; wondering in turn whether the one next to them could fully appreciate why no one else dared overthrow him. Their reasons formed of a hundred twists and turns, their most recent centring on a very specific knot…
…that final meeting with the Blackmarks.
Almost fifty years ago. The last time anyone had directly threatened his power. The meeting with Xristo's messenger ending in an uproar as the meeting proved itself a trick; the messenger suddenly growling words of revolution while holding a silver knife to another lycan's neck—a trusted advisor, a creature favoured by the lycan-master. The follower threatening to slice open the man's gullet…threatening to kill if certain traitorous parties were not immediately released from their cells…
…and of course.
Of course, they had all…expected…some form of reaction. Some form of retaliation from the lycan-master. Needless to say, some of their number were surprised. The lycan-master remaining in his seat, watching the situation with a sharp eye and then very calmly, raising his weapon and firing a single shot between the eyes of his advisor. All of them assuming he had used lead rounds until they saw the dead man's eyes rolling into the back of his head.
The lycan-master now aiming the same firearm, filled with silver as they were now all aware, at the revolutionary. Asking the man, in the same manner that one might ask after the weather, if he feared death. Though robbed of his victim, the revolutionary was defiant. Trembling, but defiant.
No, the man said. He would die for the revolution. He would die for Xristo.
Good, the lycan-master had replied…and with nary another word, he shot the revolutionary between the eyes, holstered his weapon and then stalked from the room, as though the meeting had ended through natural means. It was only later that they found out the advisor—the false victim as it turned out—had been a traitor the entire time. A fact that some swore that he must have known, while others…were not so sure. Still…
…as a council, it gave them another reason to wait.
o…o…o
Meanwhile...
Eight hundred miles away and ignorant of any council meetings beyond the channel, Nikolai Proshkov Andreev stepped along the edges of an abandoned line of tracks, keeping his eyes on the shadows and his hand clutched around a tarnished key in his pocket. His heart and his mind staying close to the old photograph in his waistcoat. These days he carried it everywhere. For to him, fate was stronger than choice…and she was fated to return to him, regardless of any danger she might find herself in. A beacon of hope. A reminder that his lady would soon be at his side. For he had worked tirelessly in the past four months…and now everything was ready. The blood. The dynamite. Their escape.
The only thing left was to give her the key. The silver key she had given him all those years ago. The one that would bring her back to his side. He could hear her voice in his ear. Her lips touching his throat on that final night. 'Bring me the key and I will come,' she had told him. 'I will come back to you.' Such comfort to be had in those words. His back weighed down by the canvas bag. His meeting with Grace occurring on neutral ground now that the Blackmarks were laying low. He needed only one thing from her now…
…access to the London den.
He could see her as he passed her hiding place. Grace Marsden. The Big One. Crouching on one of the overhead brackets, her chin sagging and her face puckering like an ugly newborn. She dropped behind him. Her landing as clumsy as a pig rolling in mud. "Andreev."
He turned as though she had startled him. Putting a hand to his chest, smiling with teeth that started to draw near. "Please," he said too loudly for her comfort. Trying to touch her shoulder like a dear friend. "Please for you to call me Kolya, yes?"
"I'll be callin' you dead if you don't lower your voice," she hissed, taking several steps back from his hand…and then looking over her shoulder. A neutral ground was not necessarily a safe ground for either party. No mistaking the Little One's absence for Grace feared for the young one's life. She waved a hand for him to move quickly. "You have it?"
"Da," he said, pulling the stained canvas sack from his shoulder. "You are asking for exile with many goods…I am thinking, yes…I do this for you." He unwound the string, drawing the canvas sack open so she could peer inside. He had cauterised the stump of her neck so the bloodscent would not follow.
She grimaced, taking a step back. "Bloods have mercy, Andreev, I never told you to bring me her head," she said. "Just the fokin' goods."
"Not head?"
"No," she said, this time throwing up the hand like he was proving himself a nuisance in the scullery. "I point. You kill. We clean up…and you bring me the silver."
Silver.
The crux of the matter. The question of why a pack of traitorous lycans would allow a brain-addled vampire to kill on their behalf. Why Grace had been so adamant that he be the one to search the bodies for money. Such a simple question…
…and his curiosity satisfied by a simple answer.
Something Sarah Henderson had told him the night he comforted her over the death of her friend. 'The only way to keep yourself floating in a river of lycan thieves is to build a raft of silver.' And then she had shown him her stash. A removable slat in the floorboards and a small mountain of wealth underneath. Coins, cups, jewellery…everything that she and Mary had been saving for almost a hundred years.
All silver.
How else could an exile save when the quartermaster was a thief? Cornering them, putting his hands where they were no wanted, looking for goods wherever he could find them. But not silver. The quartermaster never touched their silver…and as long as they could get it back to their hiding place, they could save it. The one benefit of to being an exile living under den authority: any lycan caught with silver burns on his fingers was breaking a rule of Curfew and Safety.
Nikolai Proshkov Andreev looked inside the sack with a frown and then closed it with a simple sigh as though he could not understand why this cauterised head was not what she wanted. "I give you head. You give key to exile in den…" He shrugged as though this has been part of the deal all along. "…you have silver in return. It is good."
"No, Andreev, it is not good." She pushed him with the butt of her hand. "They're not in the den right now. They don't get back for five days."
"Still good." He brushed off her protest. "You give key to exile in five days."
She shook her head. "You're mad, Andreev."
"Not mad." Raising his hand for her to wait, he reached into his pocket, pulling the silver key from beside the photograph and holding it up for her to see. "This is key. You give key to exile. You have silver in return." He nodded, trying to make her see his point so he would not have to kill her in this tunnel. "It is good, yes?"
She stared at him, her face scarred and sullen. She had no idea what else was in his pocket. Finally, she spat on the ground. Scratching her chin as though she were considering. "I can't touch that."
"I have bag." He reached into his pocket and brought out the small handkerchief, depositing the key in the centre and then tying it up tight with a series of knots. Particular knots. "You leave this for her. You give her message from me…"
She shot back her answer like a pug barking at its owner. "I can leave the key, Andreev, but there ain't no message in this deal…"
"Please …" He was trying to be firm without snapping her neck. "…please to be telling her that Hrafn is friend. That Hrafn will come for her when the sun is down…" He smiled, trying to explain so that she would see. "…that he will give her what she needs to heal."
It was the name that did it. Hrafn. Grace staring at him…and then upended her jaw, throwing her head back and forth with a laugh. Jeering at the strange name she could not pronounce. "Hh-rra-ap," she said with a filthy sneer. "Who the fock is Hh-rrr-ap?"
His hand shot out. The dream evaporating for a split second; no longer the sweet eyes of Kolya the dreamer, but the blackened pupils of one who had no heart. Only blood in his voice, blood from the countless souls he had murdered for the sake of his dark lady.
"You will tell her," he said in the Big One's ear, running one of his nails along the crease of her eyelid. "…that Hrafn is coming…" He tightened his grip around her neck, translating the name, so she would be able to say it. "…Raven…is coming for her in five days when the sun goes down." His English had become perfect. His shoulders no longer lanky and awkward but menacing. "…and if this is not done exactly as I have instructed you, Grace…then I will strip your Little One of her skin and I will make you wear it on the day that I kill you."
Grace was struggling for air. Trying to get a handle on his nails. She was not answering. But she had no air…and without air, she could not bring the silver key to the bloodseer. She could not give him the right answer.
He released her suddenly. Her and the darkness beneath his skin, letting them both fall to the side of the tracks. His eyes sweet again as he looked down upon her. The stout woman scrabbling back on her stomach, rubbing her throat as she stared up at him in pure terror. The small bottle of paraffin oil out of his pocket and in his hand. The combustible liquid splashed across her face and body before she could move. Ready to light. Ready to burn if she did not do as he told her.
"You will do this," he said, lighting a match.
"Okay, okay…" She barked. Her eyes wide. Her body trembling against the side of the tunnel. Holding her hands to her head…weeping until he blew out the match. He knew there would be consequences to having shown her what lay beneath the dream. That however he might threaten…however much she feared him, this animal would retaliate. But she would not have time to; because in five days, he would put her down before she could bite…
…and he would be gone before the Blackmarks could hunt him.
"It is good," he said with a menacing smile, abruptly turning the canvas bag on its end, letting the cauterised head drop at her feet. Watching her recoil…seeing how little of murder she had in her blood. Wondering if her followers knew that she was a coward. A pug masquerading as a killer.
He knelt down to pat her cheek once before turning on his heel, creeping back the way he had come. Smiling with his long teeth and dreaming of what would happen in five days. This would be the last time he saw Grace before he would dream of her death. And then he would be with his dark lady again. Only five days before they were together. A ship to take them north and a necklace of tendons to decorate her throat.
How he longed for that day.
o…o…o
Crash!
Reinette sat up. Awakened by a sound of which she could make no sense. She could have sworn she heard something, yet it seemed farther away than she had first thought. Like a plate being dropped several floors above her. Estranged, she lay back on her pillow, growing increasingly aware of herself. There was something wrong. Her eyes wide as she stared at the ceiling, wanting to cling to the stone wall beside her…wanting to search for the nightmare. She had been dreaming, she realised. Running through a deep forest, her lungs tearing themselves in her haste. Wolves loping in the dark, howling in their pursuit. Her last moments filled with dread as a giant, thunderous beast rose up before her…his eyes silver. His teeth drawn back in a snarl that promised to tear the skin from her bones. His fur black as a moonless night.
It had been Lucian. She was sure of it. Her hands shivering as she tried to warm her palms, blowing on them as her mother had once taught her. The pitch-black of the room doing little to calm that fear. That sense that any moment, he would creep out of the dark and tear through her throat. The bed giving little comfort beyond the inch of straw between her back and the slats beneath. The nausea from the past days already fading, but her mind still sickened by her last waking memory. Standing in that room, surrounded by those…pitiless dogs…
And then she saw it.
Silver eyes in the dark. A hooded figure standing at the foot of her bed, watching her movements. The shoulders massive, the head almost reaching the ceiling. It could not be a woman…and yet there was no guarantee that it was a man. The wooden mask of a lycan Elder covering the features like a giant stag on its hind legs.
"Who are you," she whispered.
She wanted to believe it was Lucian. That this was some trick, some ruse to make her say something incriminating. But the figure did not answer. As though there were a thick veil of silence covering its shoulders; like death walking with its vengeful scythe in hand…
…but she could not die like this. Her mind working desperately, trying to find some strategy for protecting herself. She could not fight. The figure could kill her before she screamed…but there were rules to this nightmare. She might be a stranger to his world…but as long as her petition was under the council's watch, any lycan threatening her person could be convicted of attempted manslaughter. He had promised her.
"What is the meaning of this?" And then holding the sheets to her chest, she hissed, breathing the words quickly before he could strike. "I am an exile under the council's watch, lycan, so think before you lay a finger on me…"
The ominous silence evaporating as the figure broke into a growling laugh. He, for it had to be a man, spoke with a grudging approval. "I see you have learned some of our ways."
Her eyes widened. He was speaking Old Norse. Perfectly. Her tongue picking up her father's language as if she had spoken it yesterday. The blanket thrown aside as she crawled forward to the edge of the bed. Pulling herself closer to danger, but knowing it would not matter if he chose to kill her. "How do you know that tongue?"
He sounded amused by the hostility in her question. "You think you're the only one to spring from the North, woman?" His voice rumbling like an avalanche. "…and you may call me a 'friend of an ally.'"
"He is not my ally."
"So explain to me why he is fighting a legion of wolves to save your throat." He was circling the bed. His face hidden by his hood. "It is not like him, you know?"
"Why do you tell me this?"
"Because in the North, truth begets truth…" He had to be at least two feet taller than her when standing. But he seemed to grow as he leaned forward to place a small wooden rune by the side of her bed. "…and I am here to tell you that there are not enough votes to save your neck today. He only thinks there are."
She felt her jaw tighten. "Then to hell with you."
The mask began to laugh. "Spoken like a true Norsewoman," he said. And for the first time, she realised what kind of mask it was. The smile carved into the mouth. Like the giant Skrymir tricking the food from under Thor's nose. "…but your head will still be cut off tomorrow. We'll see if you keep your courage then."
The words echoing in her ears as the ghoulish figure gathered his great mantle and slipped away without a sound. The door shutting in his wake, leaving her alone in her bed. Gripping the coarse blanket and staring at the wall across from her. There was a sound in her throat. Trying to get out. Everything moving slowly as she began to wonder if she had dreamt it. All of it. The nightmare. The giant standing at the foot of her bed. The seven months she had spent in this world…
An hour later, when Rena brought her food, she was still sitting in her bed. Her fists curled. Her nails sharp as a blade. Her lips unable to move as the woman asked if she was ill. She felt her head shake. And then to her sorrow, she heard the woman ask where the small wooden rune had come from. She did not look at the rune. She did not need to. It was the Yr Rune…the one symbolising 'yew' to the Nordic people. Protector of spirits. Ward against evil.
For she knew it was not a dream now. She had not imagined his presence…and the ones who meant her harm were going to execute her in the morning. Still unable to speak, she tried to answer…and then before a word could escape her throat, she found herself sobbing into her hands. The sound becoming ragged. Weak. Hopeless. She had believed him. He had…promised…
…and she had believed him.
The sobs growing quicker. The breath moving faster. But for Rena, it went on for an age for the sobs and the breath were something she understood. The vampire crying her eyes out…seeming to have spent her tears only to start again. And for what seemed an age, Rena watched the vampire…and then cautiously, before the numbness could change her mind, Rena stepped forward and sat on the edge of her charge's bed, reaching her hand out like a line of rope. Feeling as the Blood took hold of her fingers. Feeling the woman grasp onto her hand as though it were the only port in a raging sea of serpents.
And although she could not change her expression, for there were limits even for her, Rena stayed where she was…and then finally laid her hand on the curve of her charge's head. Stroking the silver hairs until the sobs began to quiet down…until finally, the small bird fell asleep, cradled in her hands like the dead sons she had buried. The yellow eyes of Rena now watching the door like a hawk. Guarding.
o…o…o
Twenty minutes later…
Lucian was going out of his mind. For he was not in the council chambers, as one might expect. He was not on his way to make a final vote regarding the head of Reinette. Instead, he was biding his time. Perfectly aware that twenty minutes had passed and if he looked at his watch, he'd be another twenty minutes away from losing his vote. His occasional habit of yelling the word 'fuck' managing to go unnoticed by the majority of folk who passed by his door, for Allegra had had the decency to put him in the lowest quadrant of what had become the temporary den for the Gathering of the Horde. The torch-lit tunnels of this small lair located deep below the stage of the Vienna Court Opera House; a place where the growls of lycans could be hidden by the soaring voices of angels.
The other two occupants of this room turning towards the door, now able to pick up the footsteps of an approaching party. The battered door opening for a brief moment, allowing in the faint dulcet tones of a rehearsal going on far above their heads. Their newest visitor stepping through the door, accompanied by the sound of a mezzo-soprano opening herself to the masses with her voice. The same tones that would soon have her murdered on the steps of an arena after her ex-lover stabbed her in the heart.
But at least it was not Wagner.
"Magnus," he said loudly. He was the only person in the room to welcome their visitor. His smile too warm to express good humour. For it occurred to him that he had been sitting cross-legged on this desk for twenty-six minutes now, scratching up the surface with a series of blunt nails that were starting to bleed. "…forgive me for failing to welcome you properly, but…" He looked up with an exhale. "…in the faithful words of Ulysses' wife, where the fuck have you been?"
To the untrained ear, it might have sounded as though he were actually curious. But he was not…because if he had been curious, he might have spent the past six days wondering why one of his closest allies had been absent for the past six days of council. Why he had been forced to orchestrate two merges, one without a necessary party being present—thank you Magnus, he added tersely to himself as an afterthought.
All of that…
…after finalising two dozen soldiers to be transported south—not three. Twelve cases of ammunition to go north—not six…and a gold medal of valour for the idiot translator they had managed to find in the last minute. And to top it off, both Borya and Magnus had been absent from Reinette's viewing, which meant, according to council rules, Magnus could no longer vote on the issue. So the moment they walked into that chamber, they were going to find themselves with six votes against five…and that was including his swing vote. Needless to say…
…he was not pleased.
Before anyone else could speak, the Norseman raised both his hands for peace, grinning broadly at the two men and saving a wink for Allegra, before answering the question with a single word. "Scouting."
The wink did not go over well.
Allegra was practically swishing her tail. Her hands poised delicately on her hips; the lady's sweet German in stark contrast to the steel in her voice. "Scouting?" she said. "To what end, Magnus, when you have already ruined everything…" She pointed at the clock. They had been stalling this thing for almost half an hour. "…did you forget you were supposed to be there yesterday?"
"You'll thank me when you hear me out." Seeming tired, Magnus lowered his frame into the seat across from them. The youngest of the three pack-leaders of the North, he was a brawny man, a foot taller than the rest of the pack-leaders, his hair dusted the colour of wheat and his face chiselled from a stone. "Auguste will not vote for her, and Goar is choosing to abstain."
He felt his jaw being spat out. "What?"
Across the room, Raze had said nothing with his voice, but was now shaking his head at the news, all-the-while making an ominous hand motion, one of the coarsest insults that one could use for another lycan. Out of all of them, only Allegra had the grace to reply properly. She looked stunned. Putting a hand to her chest. Forced to sit down.
"But why?" she asked. They had done everything by the books this time.
Everything.
The key word being almost.
Magnus looked sorry to be the bearer of bad news. "It was Goar," he said. His expression did not envy the lycan. "…my sources tell me he spent more than a little time speaking to Tanis after your last visit. I think he assumed you'd tell them eventually…but when the talks ended yesterday, he decided to enlighten the rest of his peers."
Goar.
That…two-faced…son of an alcoholic bastard. Something he had not expected to deal with because in truth, he had planned to tell his fellow pack-leaders. He had fully intended to sit down and explain to them that Reinette knowing his name was not a reason for an immediate death sentence. And yet…somehow…it had never come up. He never mentioned it. He skirted around the topic and finally after six days of council talks, he had chosen to believe that he might have avoided that conversation.
There was a deathly silence. All of them absorbing the consequences of this news. That their small political war was lost. That in short, the only ones that would vote for Reinette were at that moment sitting in the room…
…and that she would be executed.
Come morning.
The shock of what was to come, the realisation that he could do nothing to stop it, rendering him speechless. The quiet broken only by the sound of his knife thunking into the surface of the desk. They could not be serious. Obviously Auguste was still smarting over being forced into that merge…and as for Goar, he was no longer sorry the man's ex-lover had just died.
"Hear me out."
Magnus stood up again, this time heading for the small plate of food that had been sitting on one of the side tables for the past hour. Plucking a piece of venison from the edge and then leaning against the wall, taking a bite before he spoke.
"Let us think for a moment…" With the gruff accent of a Norseman, it sounded as though the man had just petitioned them to drink mead in the walls of Valhalla with him. "…we can safely say to ourselves that Morrigan, Gustav, Dante, and the investor…" He looked at Lucian with an unrepentant expression. "…will not vote for her. That is for certain."
The investor.
Ha.
He gave a cynical laugh, scratching another line into his desk. What Magnus was failing to point out was 'the investor' was a single vote carried by a representative from the Lycan's Merchant Bank. They had all expected this vote to be favourable because for the past two decades, they had all grown used to seeing one Mister Edward Yarley—one of the older accountants, thoughtful, precise and a strong believer in the lycan-master's cause. But in the two days prior to the Gathering, Edward Yarley had confessed to being unexpectedly ill; and before a complaint could be filed, another investor had shown up to take his place…
…one Monsieur Jacques-Henri Gautier.
He would say again. Gautier.
The father of his most recent ex-mistress, Jacqueline. The same man who had found out a year ago during an ill-fated trip to the opera that his nineteen-year-old daughter was sleeping with someone approximately seven hundred years older than her…and just under five hundred years older than him. So in short, no…he would not be getting that vote.
For the umpteenth time, he considered stabbing himself in the eye…eventually, grunting his displeasure and then palming a hand across his forehead, trying to scrub away the brain cells that had possessed him to ever think of sleeping with the daughter of one of his investors. What the devil had he been thinking?
"Fuck," he muttered to himself. Another swan-song.
"Can you stop saying that?" Allegra had turned on her heel, giving him a piercing look that asked him to either offer something constructive or get the hell out of this room. And by her scent, she was now precisely as uneasy as he was…which was to say, not nervous at all, because neither of them should be nervous about…
…what?
An exile. A troublesome piece of work. Not worth it. Certainly not worth losing sleep over. She was just a blood. Just another exile so why the…fuck…did he keep saying 'fuck'?
"Worst-case scenario," Magnus began.
Oh, were they not there already, Lucian wondered with grim indignation. Had they just not proven to themselves that Magnus was the most unreliable lycan under the sun, one who could not even be trusted to attend a council meeting?
And why should he?
Magnus had not even met Reinette. Magnus had not spent the past seven months trying to get her to trust him. Trying to make her see the possibilities. Shoving her into a boudoir. Leaving her in a catacomb. Calling her a bitter…foul-mouthed…prejudiced old carrion-eater in his head. Talking to her for blood's sake.
The Norseman was still talking to his audience. His expression stating that he might be gruff, but he was happy to be of service. "…worst-case scenario, we know that Raze, Lucian…" He gave a respectful bow to his lycan-master. "…and Allegra will vote for her. But that as of yesterday, Auguste and Goar have reneged, and as you all know, I cannot vote."
"Because…that…was a stroke of genius," Lucian muttered under his breath. They all looked at him. Allegra gave him a warning look, but he was more focused on the small blade he had started flipping in the past eight seconds. The one from his boot, the one he had told Reinette that he would only bring out during dire straits. The one he could have shown her in four decades if she had been alive to see it. "After all…" He caught the knife. "…when the ship is sinking, what's the point in battening down the hatches? Why even register your right to vote, Magnus, when we are so clearly on the losing side?"
Someone tried to interrupt him…
…but he was not finished. It did not matter that they had lost the vote before Magnus had arrived. It did not matter that his affair with Jacqueline might have lost them the investor's vote. It did not matter that telling the simple truth of her knowledge might have garnered her a sympathy vote.
"You want to know who else thought it was a good idea to skip yesterday's meeting?" It was a rhetorical question. They had all seen the two empty seats. "Borya." He started flipping the blade again, nonchalant as his voice began to rise ever so slowly in its volume. "For some reason, Borya was missing from yesterday's council meeting…and everyone knows where he was, Magnus, so for your sake, I hope you were not with him," he reflected with a sinister smile. "…because if a brothel is one of the reasons that Reinette gets her head chopped off tomorrow…" His next words were spoken with a blood-curdling growl. "…then I am literally going to castrate you before the sun rises."
His threat doing its work. Magnus lunged from the wall with an unrestrained growl, but Lucian was already off the table, his feet planted and his claws out. He wanted to hurt something. Ten seconds from Change, his eyes silver, and in spite of that, his claws still holding the knife. Because for once, he was not joking with Magnus and he really was going to castrate the man. After all, Reinette deserved a parting gift before he cut her head off, did she not?
"Oh for bloods' sake," a steel-edged voice cried out in fury. "…can everyone just calm down for a minute?" Teeth at a point, like a golden-haired Valkyrie, Allegra had stalked between them, staring at them as though she intended to castrate both of them herself…
…and then she smiled. Her movements graceful as she placed a firm hand to each of their chests, pushing them apart like wayward children. "Now we listen…" She paused, allowing them to take in that word. "…to what Magnus has to say …" She made it sound like a very simple, very delightful thing to do on a spring morning. Something that they would all be rewarded for. "…and then as a group…" Again, she paused on the word, still looking between them. "…we decide what to do. Is that not to your liking, gentlemen?"
No one said anything.
"Of course it is…" She rubbed Magnus' back and then merely hovered over Lucian's shoulder when it became apparent his hackles were rising. "Now we do this together…" She had raised both her eyebrows, still nodding between them, still trying to get them to nod along with her. "…everyone…yes?"
Raze was smelling as though he had just come up with another four dozen reasons to remarry his wife. Magnus was already grunting his apology, acting as though he had been too quick to act. Like the simple giant that he sometimes pretended to be. And then suddenly…it was just him. Allegra looking very specifically at just him, as though somehow, he was the problem now. "Lucian?" She was giving him that look.
Oh right.
Because it was always him?
Returning a very different look, he made a hand signal to both of them, turned on his heel and returned to his position on his desk. Now using the knife to carve up the surface instead of his nails. He was not saying a word. He ought to just skip the execution and knife her in the back of the head. Give her a strong drink and then wait until she fell asleep. There would be no fear…and no pain…and he'd be done with it. His mind unable to conjure what came afterwards. Why this was even bothering him. Why he was trying not to break the desk…and why scratching its surface was not making him feel any better.
Allegra heaved a sigh, continuing to watch him with undisguised pity in her eyes. The type that made him want to give her the hand signal again. "Magnus," she said. Her voice one of great patience in the face of many things. "Please." She indicated the three of them as though they were all clearly of the same mind. "Tell us what you are thinking."
Magnus bowed his head once to her in thanks before he spoke. "I made an offer to Gottfrid and Thore."
Lucian jerked his head up with a narrowed eye.
Gottfrid and Thore.
After the rebellion, when the packs had started to fester and divide, Magnus had been the only northerner to swing to his side. The other two, Gottfrid and Thore, a Dane and a Swede, had chosen to be autonomous, keeping their packs alive by hiding in holes, their lives hidden beneath snow and ice. Stubborn, they had spent the better part of three hundred years avoiding his leadership. Their choice costing him an entire army of lycans in the sixteenth century; the enemy outnumbering his warriors three to one. He could still remember that night as though it were yesterday…
…and yet he had been forced in the past decade to accept their grovelling. Accept that the last decade had been hard…and that in an unprecedented turn of events, the two Northern pack-leaders were requesting a merge with the Horde, offering half of their soldiers in exchange for access to the Line. Hard creatures who had never learned the soft side of domestic bliss.
Blood, but he still regretted that decision.
"What kind of offer," he asked curtly. After all, they were being respectful to one another.
"I offered them…" Magnus took a deep breath. Looking at Raze. Conscious that he was about to say something that was clearly unwanted. "…the blood-seer."
"You did what?"
There was a bite in his question. Like watching his kinsman steal a bone from the alpha's dinner…which of course, he had already done this evening.
"Now, Lucian…" Magnus kept speaking. Quickly. Before the fight started again. "…they respect your position, and she will be a permanent fixture of your den. They do not contest that…" Again, the Norseman emphasised the word 'your,' perhaps conscious that he was treading on shaky ground."…but for two years of every decade, she must travel to the North and live in their den." He raised his hands before another protest could fall. "And wait," he said. "…she can choose when to come and if to come, but for every year that she fails to show, they will add another year to the next decade until she must stay there for the whole of it. Do you see, Lucian? It is a fair deal…"
Fair?
"Magnus…" He put his palms together. He was trying to use small words. "…are you telling me you just handed twenty percent of my blood-seer's life over to a den of regressive lycans who consider theft more reprehensible than murder?"
"Better than having her head chopped off…" Magnus was always trying to see the good light. Perhaps the only reason they could stand each other's company still. The one balancing out the other.
"Tell me there was a caveat regarding her treatment."
"Of course." Magnus stood tall, speaking with a confident rumble. "She is to leave in the same condition that she arrives…and that includes her physical and mental state. Any alleged crime against her person will be judged with the weight of the Council at its back. Her testimony will be taken to account…"
He still did not like it.
"Also…" Magnus seemed to have a final trick up his sleeve. "…I will check on her. Every month. This I can promise you," he said. The final words finally helping him to feel marginally more comfortable with the concept. "…and think, Lucian. She is a Norsewoman. What better way to make her feel welcome than letting her return to the land of her birth?"
The north.
Her homeland.
Still he continued to frown at the man's case…and then with a curt motion, he added a final scratch to the small picture he had carved into the wood. It resembled Magnus being staked to a rock, having his eyes pecked out by carrion eaters. Quite a work of art, if he said so himself. "Have you signed it?"
Magnus scoffed. "Of course." Like him, the Norseman was a gambler. One that did not hesitate to throw a pair of dice. From the side of his chair, he drew up the small case he had been carrying with him when he first arrived. The one they had neglected to notice in the face of dire news. The papers pulled from its interior and placed on the desk before the lycan-master.
The majority of it already signed…
…and very little room for amendments.
He breathed…and then with an ominous feeling over his head, he signed the document. "Let it be on your head," he replied with a grunt, managing to go a solid twelve seconds before adding the necessary words. "Thank you." Something he rarely said to Magnus.
The Norseman waved his hand as though it were all the same to him…and then guffawed, throwing his head back. "She must be some woman, you know." And then he looked at Raze, using the same broad-sided arm to point at their infamous leader as though they were witnessing something special. "Did you see that? He was going to cut off my testicles five minutes ago…"
"Don't…push it…" Lucian pointed his knife at the man's face and then flipped the handle, letting it fall point-first into the table. He did not like having to sign that document. And however Magnus might joke, he had a very strong sense that in eight years, he was going to find that 'the lady doth protest too much.'
Still…
…all the more reason to avoid telling her. At least for the first eight years. Feeling much more content now that he had reasoned out that path, he scrubbed his forehead and then reached over to pluck his neck-tie from the chair, refashioning the knot …and then sitting back in a brooding fashion, considering his allies as they waited for him to descend his scratched-up throne.
Despite all he had done for her. Despite everything his allies had done for him…the logic in his brain was telling him that this was quite possibly one of the biggest mistakes of his political life. That Gottfrid and Thore would want more from him. And that by saving the bird, he had just seized a pair of snakes…
…but who the fuck cared?
Taken by the impulse, he got off his throne. Time to vote.
A/N: Sorry for the long absence! (I just moved, so we were living in boxes for a while.) Hope people are still reading and as always, thank you to everyone for the reviews, favourites, and story alerts! In particular, pamelawright, Emerald Gaze, LookAliveSunshine03, Celtic Aurora, tgurl620, Red (who may also be referred to as) RedWheels88, Agagite Whispers, 555LordBacon666, xoedcobox, awesomesauce1323, Phoenixlikethecity, Rogue's Queen, romera, and juli 8D1819!
pamelawright: I so appreciated reading this review. Sometimes wish I could go back and change certain story arcs, but then I realised all those arcs are what make the story (particularly when you have to publish chapter by chapter rather than as a whole. ;)) On the plus side, the serial nature of fanfiction publication does force the story to do things that I sometimes did not expect, so even though I'm the author and have all these solid points in timeline, part of me is still thinking "What's going to happen next?" Anyway, thanks for continuing to read despite how long it's taking me to write it. :)
Emerald Gaze: Oops! Actually Grace Marsden (neé Finnegan) is the scullery maid and Elizabeth Fulligan is the loyal and efficient housekeeper. They do have similar last names though. ;) And as far as we know, Kolya has two personalities (maybe even three if you consider "Nikolai Proshkov Andreev" and "Kolya' to be different in their nature, one being more sure of himself and the other being a bit more dreamy).
LookAliveSunshine03 (Re: Chapter 5): Tanis IS pathetic! I fully agree.
Celtic Aurora: Kolya is indeed coming out of his shell and not in a good way. I can't wait to write the next few chapters!
tgurl620: Yaay, you love the story! (And just think, I've been waiting for Reinette to get restored since Day One, and that was four years ago. ;) I love her to pieces, but yes, I am looking forward to that moment when everything gets turned on its head.)
Red (Re: Chapter 17): Brilliant! Very glad to hear you're enjoying it! Love writing the character development, so it always makes me thrilled when I hear someone enjoys that in particular. Unfortunately, I do not write anywhere else. I decided about two years ago that if I was going to focus on writing, it had be Prelude and nothing else (just so I could say that I finished at least one story! ;)
Red (Re: Chapter 33): I was about to tell you whether the blood that Kolya has to find is the one that makes Reinette young…but I won't because you'll find out in a few chapters. I do enjoy writing Pierce and Taylor (even though they're not the main characters, I always thought their names had a nice ring to it. ;)) And Lucian is definitely very human at times (a little too human when he's in a 'mood,' but then he makes up for it by leaving unexpected flowers in books on the rare occasion. Happy siiiiigh.)
RedWheels88 (Re: Chapter 44): I know! Poor Reinette. The last thing she wants is a rogue memory of Lucian doing unspeakable things to her body. (I suppose she'll survive somehow. ;)) And yes, I will definitely be attempting to tackle WWI in some depth (and probably a few other points in history depending on how it fits in the storyline.)
RedWheels88 (Re: Chapter 48): Glad you're enjoying the mini-plot (I figured there had to be a few things going on besides them just staring at one another, grudgingly trying to decide if they enjoyed each other's company. ;)) Anyway, always happy to provide another chapter (and I hope the next one will arrive quicker now that I've unpacked most of my things).
Agagite Whispers (Re: Chapter 6): Good to hear and thank you for saying! :)