28 January 2014
There have been minor changes to the chapter below. (Largely to do with dialogue.)
Chapter LII: The Scent of Fear
Back in the London Den. 23rd of April 1900.
When she woke, Reinette could feel the last moments of her dream fading from her mind. Snow, ice and water bearing her across the sky. The wind rushing against her palm and before her, a ship sweeping across the harbour. She had been a creature of the sea. Her wings fashioned of oak and iron, bearing her aloft until she fell from a great height. Pain burning into her side as the eyes of a great storm struck her down with fury.
She raised her neck. Her eyes adjusting to a familiar darkness. Her muscles aching as though she had been dragged across rocks and sand during her sleep. She hesitated and then reached her hand out, drawing the edge of the bed-curtain and looking beyond it to her surroundings, feeling her way with sight before touch.
She was back.
The room just as she remembered it. The rosewood desk by the boarded-up window, the mahogany wardrobe in the corner, the low-backed chairs fit for a lady of the times. Someone had removed the travelling box, but she could see the edges where it had sat upon the carpet. Even the carpet was familiar to her. Green with a pattern of tulips and lilies. Her books stacked on the desk and beside them, a more ominous leaving: a single blanket and a pair of woolen breeches folded over a matching shirt. All of it worn and grey, showing the holes from when she had crawled upon the ground. Clothing suited to a poverty-stricken miner, a creature of the earth.
Reluctantly, she looked down at her chest, the soft linen that she wore, and then pushed the blankets back, touching her toes to the thick carpet and walking to the wardrobe. Pulling the doors open and staring at the clothing within. The skirts and dresses, the long coat they had given her in Vienna…
She had been allowed to wear it all during the truce; but it had felt wrong to wear the newest one. The one Allegra had been working on in the two weeks before he sent her to the catacombs. The blood-red silk embroidered up to the neck, the black threads keeping her modesty, while letting the tailoring to do its work. Giving her the appearance of an upper-class woman whose path had never strayed. A lady of wealth, one whose friends were powerful and whose worries were few.
She touched the fabric and then closed the wardrobe, resting her back against the doors. Touching her fingers to her hair and holding the silver strands in front of her. Trying to remember why she hated him. Why she feared her own future; the fate that might occur if she stayed in this place.
For a moment, longing for the drug that he had given her on his ship. The ease with which she had been able to make her decision. Stubbornness now telling her to ready herself for the catacombs. Ready herself to spend the rest of the year surrounded by rocks and rats. Reinette of the rock crawling about in the dark. Soon to be dead, soon to be burned or caught or eaten. Such an obvious choice and yet she could not make it.
Fool, she thought.
Half expecting to feel another dream-like slap of propriety from her Mentor—and then, by chance, bearing witness to something entirely real. Not a slap. But the sight of a folded piece of paper being slipped under her door followed by the tiny pitter-patter of feet running away. So soft that within seconds they were inaudible. Like a ghost touching its toes to the ground for the briefest of seconds before fading into the corridor.
A note.
She circled the paper, hesitating to pick it up. Remembering the stolen pendant and the thief without a scent. For it was not like Sabine to behave in this manner. Her brief meetings with the child enough to expect a bold announcement rather than a written message. Her memories of the Norseman's warning making her wary. Was something about to happen? Was someone trying to warn her?
Unable to contain herself, she crouched down, retrieving the note and hastily unfolding it. The letters written in a very coarse hand. The words making little sense. And yet after months of trying to learn this foul tongue, she could at least recognise it for what it was. English. But why would they write in English? Her confusion taking her to the desk where she opened the giant tome that had been the bane of her existence for so many months. Translating the note word by word until she had it fleshed out in her mind.
"Top drawer beside bed. Burn note."
Again she hesitated. It could be a trap.
And yet if they wanted to kill her, there were easier ways. Certainly without the use of a note. She turned, hastening back across the carpet and kneeling before the bedside table. Opening the drawer and removing its contents, being careful to look before she touched. A lone stocking. Parchment. Ink. The Count of Monte Cristo.
Finding nothing of consequence, she reached her hand deeper into the hole where the drawer had been, stretching her fingers as far as they could reach. Running her hand across wood and then gripping…canvas. A small portion of her mind telling her to use caution. Telling her to think before she acted. But she could not wait.
With an eye to the door, she took hold of the canvas and yanked it back towards her. Now staring at the prize between her fingers. A small note, almost identical to the first…and a roughspun bag tied with twine. And yet it was not the bag that captivated her, but the twine. The three knots holding the bag tight.
Three knots. The words crossing her mind, recited in the language of her birth. The memory of her mother, weighed down before the birth of her brother, and yet spinning before the coals. Drawing her close to teach her how to spin a special knot. Showing her the thread moving this way and that. The first brings the breeze. The second brings the wind…and the third brings the storm.
It was a Sámi wind knot.
Her mother's knot.
Desperately, she clawed the twine apart, forgetting the note, hardly caring if it was a warning. Only someone from her past could have tied these knots. Someone she trusted; for who else could have learned this knot? As though by the hands of another, she saw the knots untied and the canvas bag lying before her on the carpet. Her neck growing tight as she saw what it contained.
A key.
Tarnished and made of silver. An impossible thing for she knew this key. She had seen this key in her dream. The night she had remembered Aris for the first time, she had seen this key beside the bronze mirror and the wooden box. Her neck quickly turning to look behind her. Wary that this was the same moment in the dream when Aris had struck her across the cheek. But there was no one here. She was alone in her room…in the heart of a lycan den. How could this key be here?
Trying to understand, she reached for the second note. Squinting at it. The letters starting to blend with themselves; as though a drug were causing her to hallucinate. The thought crossing her mind that perhaps she was being tricked. For the note was in English again.
Starting to grow indignant, she rose from her knees and again sought out the giant tome on her desk. The New and Complete English-Russian Dictionary by A. Alexandrow. Published in London, 1884. The words translated quickly and then again, so that she could be sure. 'Raven.' meaning the bird. 'Is'…meaning 'to be.'' Coming.' Signifying an arrival or an approach. Something that would happen at 'Sunset.'
"Raven is coming at sunset."
Raven?
Confused, she considered the word. Raven. Its meaning. The bird of Odin, its plumage black, its beak filled with carrion. Its syllables. Ray-ven. Sounding the word out in English. She didn't know any…
Suddenly, her breath began to move faster. Raven. Raven meaning 'Corvus' in Latin. Corvus meaning 'Hrafn' in Old Norse… 'Hrafn' meaning… Before she could finish the thought, the note started to shake between her fingers…and then with a soft cry, almost a moan of fear, she hurried to the firegrate, kneeling in front of it. Desperately shoving the bag and the two pieces of paper into the recess and using the iron to push them deep beneath the coals until they were burnt to ashes. Tears running down her face for a reason that she could neither explain nor remember.
Hrafn.
He was not here. The panic starting to rise in her stomach. He could not be here. And yet she had prayed to him for salvation. Almost mindlessly, she had begged the fates to help her; to save her from the clutches of these lycans…
...so why was she afraid?
Petrified even. Her hand reaching to her side, pulling the chemise up and finding the brand. Turning her head the one way and then the other so that she could see it. The H burned into her side. She had become so used to the aberration that she had almost forgotten its meaning.
Slave.
She was a creature of Hrafn. The thought making her sick for she could not even remember his face. Or his voice. Only that she must go back to him. She must be silent…and when he came for her…
…she must follow him.
The thought ingrained in her blood…for she knew she had done this before. That she had fled from him…and that every time she had fled, he had found a way to take her back. Killing any in his path, stealing her back from the ones who had harboured her. Even now she could still see their necks. Eight of them left through the night, their legs swaying in the breeze. For it was only now that she remembered…
The English had only betrayed them. But it was Hrafn who killed them. The noose closing in as she rose to her feet and walked unsteadily towards the bed. Trying to sit on the edge and then sliding down to the carpet.
She was trapped.
Time passing in a daze as she wandered about the room. Leaving her chemise on the floor and stepping into her undergarments. Buttoning one of the mourning dresses up to her neck and finding her veil. The Norseman's rune found in the toilette-room and placed in her corset. The silver key placed on the sole of one of her boots before she wore it. Returning the drawer to its hole and turning towards the desk. Ready for his coming. For the card Fate had dealt her…
…only to hear another knock on the door. The second intrusion of the night, only this time followed by her name.
o…o…o
Reinette.
It sounded like a chime.
But it was not her name. Even though it was all she could remember, it was not her name. Keeping her back to the door, she breathed in. Calming her breath, reining her fears before she spoke up. Hearing the key rattle in the lock and the door swinging on its hinges. Her eyes chained to the floor, her fingers lacing up the boots rather than looking behind her.
For she was not afraid. Her hand would not shake. Her resolve would not change. Her path chosen by fate for she had no choice in this matter. The words passing through her mind like a mantra. She was a bloodseer. A creature of Hrafn and when he came for her, she would follow him.
When she turned, he was already sitting in one of the chairs. His clothing suited to a dinner that had come and gone. The only rough portion of his exterior occurring above his neck. The beard still unkempt and the hair begging for a cut. The eyes reflecting the fire for what seemed like an age; and then looking in her direction. Almost placid in his manner, using two of his fingers to make an aimless gesture across the side of his face like an arc passing over a winter sun. "I thought you got rid of that."
"What?"
"The veil."
She tried to speak. To say something. To warn him. Instead, she shook her head. Adjusting her dress before she leaned against the wardrobe, choosing to stand rather than take the chair across from him. Waiting for him to say something else.
The grey pupils seeming to study her, as though he knew something was out of place. Her appearance the same. Her manner exactly as it should have been, and yet somehow, he could sense something was different. As though the burned note and the silver in her boot had somehow changed her.
How right he was.
She kept his gaze. "Is something wrong?" she asked, turning her jaw as though curious. Taking the reins before he could. For in theory, nothing should have changed since the time he had seen her last.
Eyes that did not blink. Like a bloodhound smelling something rank beneath the surface, he inhaled and then returned the question to her court with an unfeigned smile. "Is there something wrong?"
"No," she said.
Her breath starting to waver, her nerves starting to betray her for a lie. He had offered to be her ally. She had accepted it on that ship…and yet he…he could not know of this. He could not see it. The red in her eyes. The world that was about to come crashing down. The thought giving her an opening, as though fate had meant for her to distract him.
"You drugged me," she said. Looking pointedly at the carpet, the spot where her travelling box had been, and then back at him, as though that were the issue. The red in her eyes. The tears of an irrational woman. One that had just been drugged.
"Oh you remember that, do you?" And already there was a pull of amusement on his face. His reaction making her flinch, but his suspicions seeming to evaporate with the question. His interest now on the empty chair across from him. Clearly waiting for her to take her seat, but disinclined towards ordering her.
She had to be careful.
Her stomach gripped with fear—but her mind staying wary. Until he left this room, he had to imagine that all was as it should be. That she had accepted his offer. That she wanted to stay in this…underworld of lycans. Like Persephone eating the seeds of Hades.
With a sigh, she let go of the wardrobe's handle and stepped forward to take her seat across from him."I still fail to see the humour," she said with a sniff, as though his amusement was simply another reason for her to detest him. As though nothing had changed. Hrafn would not come…and she would stay and live in this world. She would live among the wolves. She would learn their customs and follow their ways…
He was no longer paying attention. "What's in the R section?"
Blood, his eyes were good. Feeling the lie on her lips, she followed his gaze and saw the giant English-Russian tome on the desk. It was open to Raven. The word sitting on the page like a calling card. The ashes still curling in the fire. Her knowledge of English words starting with R giving her very little room for manoeuvre in her answer. "I wanted to see if…" Thinking fast, she swallowed and spoke the name he had given her. Only the second time that she had ever said it. "…'Reinette' meant anything in English."
"Reinette?" he repeated, as though unsure if he was in the right room all of a sudden. And then he let the scholar take over. "Well, you won't find it in there," he said, finally looking away from the book. "It's French. Short for little queen."
How ironic of him.
"And Rena?"
She had not seen her warden for days. Not since that awful night in the prison. Part of her hoping that Rena had stayed behind. That Rena would be safe from the coming of Hrafn.
Again he looked surprised by her question. Her sudden interest in things starting with 'R' seeming to puzzle him, but his concept of self-worth making him hardly reticent. "That would be Hebrew. It means 'melody.'"
Melody, she frowned. Well that seemed…
He inhaled. "Yes I know," he said, as if she had spoken aloud. "Very ill-fitting. You can hardly get a peep out of her nowadays, but…" He made a noncommittal sound, letting his eyes follow the shadows on the ceiling. "…that's life for you."
Another chime sounding in her head.
Life.
Shadows on the ceiling and the occasional conversation in the firelight. And yet in a matter of time, the fire would be creeping up the ceiling. Her instincts telling her to flee. Run from this faceless demon that was about to descend on them. As though the seconds were counting themselves down until the end. "What time is it?" she asked. Knowing her time was coming to an end.
"Half past seven." He was still looking at the ceiling, but he was scratching his arm now. Always scratching something, she decided. Like a wolf trying to lick its wounds in the dark.
"Day or night?"
"Day."
She heaved a sigh. "Good," she said. That was good. There were hours yet. Hours before the sun went down. When Hrafn came, it would be night…and it was not night yet. She was safe. They were all safe still. Her arms circling the cushion on the chair, drawing it closer. Wondering as she did whether a lycan was as terrifying as she had once thought it was.
"Why is it good?" He had raised his eyebrow. The nails no longer scratching but standing poised on his forearm. She was acting strange. Anyone could see that, but then he always seemed to find her strange. Her decisions. Her presence.
She inhaled deeply and then let out a long breath, conjuring up an answer. Whatever she said, it would not matter. She belonged to Hrafn. Her wagers meant nothing beside that. "You said I'd have to go back to the catacombs in the morning…"
"Well, that was…" By his tone, he was pointing things out for someone a bit slow on the uptake. "…fourteen hours ago…" He looked at his watch. "…so in theory, you still have another night to choose."
And what choice was that, she wondered. All this time, the choice had never been hers. She was a victim of fate, living on borrowed time, moving into this world and thinking for a fraction of an hour that she belonged here.
She felt herself smile in spite of the fear. "Is that why you're here so early?" she asked. "To make me choose?"
"That and I'm under house-arrest." He said it as if it were something to be proud of. "So when I hear the footsteps of another prisoner, I feel compelled to recruit her before I throw myself back in chains."
"Chains?" she repeated with a raised eye of skepticism. He may have used her box to transport cargo, but they could hardly put him under 'house-arrest' because of it. The warden always making a mockery of his prisoner.
"Alright," he said, as though she had pushed his hand. "…splen-dour. Now the drugs are gone and your mind is clear, woman. Do you want to stay or not?"
"What I want, Lyosha, is to avoid answering questions until the truce is over," she said. Knowing that whatever she said, it would not matter anymore. That it was a false hope. That whatever she did, Hrafn would come for her.
"Oh that is very poor sport, madam." The air of his words dry like a gentleman whose lady had just retired for the sake of a headache. His hand reaching into his pocket and flipping something gold onto her lap. "…perhaps this will change your mind?"
Her eyes lit up before she could stop herself. "You found it?"
"I wasn't looking for it," he retorted; always the cocky wit; as though he could not believe they were having this conversation. No longer the gentleman, but the bored valet waiting on her mournful leisure. "…and before you ask–no, it's not the same one, so…" He shrugged. "…take it or leave it."
Did everything have to be an 'extreme' for him, she wondered with an inward sigh. Take it or leave it. Stay or go. For a moment wanting to throw it back at him. Less a gift than a crumb for the bird that had just sung for its supper. But looking down upon her lap, she felt her anger ebbing away. Her resolve starting to falter.
The delicate chain of a pendant-watch held between her fingers. Almost a mirror of the first, save for the open sky behind the lighthouse. The sea roiling about in its berth, and her heart sinking as she realised the osprey was missing from its flight. The scene feeling empty without its presence.
An omen, she realised. For in the dream, she had been a creature of the sea…
...but in life, she had no place here.
"Thank you," she said stiffly. Unhooking the clasp and fastening it around her neck before looking away. For despite the omen…despite the terror that would occur when the sun set, she would keep it as a reminder. Even after Hrafn took her from this place, she would keep it. Not the book of poisons nor the death she had once longed to see…
…but the pendant.
"So you like it?" he said. By his tone, obviously failing to understand why. His words blunt and intrusive, indicating that this was not what he had expected at all. Less concerned with the gift than her reaction to it. Ruining the moment despite having been the one to cause it. Could he not give her a moment, for bloods' sake.
"Does it matter?"
"No, but…" He leaned back, regarding her with some suspicion. "…you have to admit something has changed since yesterday..."
"Nothing has changed."
"Oh what," he said with a scornful smile. "Of course it has." He looked very dissatisfied with her answer. "…and maybe I can shed some light on my perspective here." He sat forward, joining his hands in front of him. The kind of gesture that said this was hardly the kind of conversation he was used to having, but that 'there you have it.'
"On the one hand—and pretend you are me," he suggested. "…it's like…"
He was making a significant effort to bring the topic down to her level. Trying to put into smaller words, this strange thing he was sensing. "It's like stepping through a door…" he said, using his hand to indicate the door. Literally for the sake of her stupidity. "…and yesterday…" He turned to her. "…you smelled like saffron and blood and drugged vampire and what have you…and then today—and here's the key, Reinette—today, it's more like…" He was searching for a word. "…you know…"
Of course, he came up with something.
"…half-eaten carcass rotting beside the wolfsbane." The comparison seemed to work for him. Clearly he was already familiar with the smell. "…so can we not…" He paused, seeming to ponder the word before abruptly plucking it out of the air. "...talk about this issue, Reinette, because I am open to the topic." He opened his watch and closed it again, brisk in spite of the careless exterior. "Alright?"
She had yet to say anything. Instead choosing to meditate on that one word. Alright.
Was it alright, she wondered.
For with that simple word, she could swear she heard another chime in her head. The third chime of the hour. The one that signified the all clear, the end of the night's watch where all had to be 'right' in his world, even though hers was about to fall apart. Still she had the distinct impression that he was trying to reach out. Trying to make her take his hand and trust him. Tell him what was troubling her. Tell him so that everything could be alright.
And yet somehow…
She couldn't get past the other word. Carcass. She kept hearing it. Carcass. Not just any carcass. A 'half-eaten' carcass rotting beside some 'wolfsbane.' A very useful piece of knowledge given how long it had taken her to get past the idea of having spent twenty years in a catacomb. His words at the very least helping her to forget—just for that singular moment—that she was afraid. Instead, causing her to remember how just a few hours ago, she had longed to see the cogs that made this creature of legend tick…and now…finally…
…realising that this was him.
Lucian.
The most ruthless leader of the lycan horde. Lingering in the dark, biding his time for some dreadful purpose. The history of his legendary existence now less intriguing to her than the simple mystery of how he'd survived this long without being assassinated by one of his mistresses. Going over the hundreds of ways that she could express this sudden clarity of thought in a manner that he could comprehend. Finally settling on the most obvious one.
She sat back.
"Lyosha, what is wrong with you?" she asked dimly. Feeling oddly restrained for this was quite possibly the last time she'd ever see this man; and after spending months—what felt like years—suffering under this blunt facet of his personality, she truly wished to know. His answer giving her little in the way of fodder.
"Lots of things," he said directly. As though talking about himself was one of the more boring aspects of his life.
"But why not just ignore it…" Having yet to feel more angry than thoughtful, she kept her eyes glued to her pendant. Trying to see his perspective in the reflection. Even his neck. "…or leave it?"
"I never leave things." He had the face of a man contemplating life on a pasture, sounding as though he were having a conversation with the air. Looking far too comfortable for his own good. "I'm not good at leaving things."
Nor letting things go, she realised. And yet beyond strangling him with her bare hands, her question was perhaps the only way to satisfy the growing fire in her chest. "But what does…" She smiled, tasting the words like poison on her tongue. "…the scent of rotting carcass have to do with it?"
He shrugged. "All depends."
"On what exactly?" She was trying to keep her voice down. Trying to remain calm and grip her pendant like every other rotting carcass in this room. The scent of rotting carcass apparently something he found more intriguing than offensive. Like a…skull he had found on the side of the road. A rat he was picking up by the tail and sniffing to see if it was worth dissecting. He and his entire blood-forsaken den of carcass-sniffing wolves.
He finally seemed to have an idea on where she was going with this. "I'm not saying it's a bad smell," he cut in. 'It's just a very specific smell."
"You mean like opium?" she asked. At some point, she had risen to her feet, her nails gripped at her side, while the words continued to flow from that deep quarry of bitterness that she had been harbouring for the past seven months. "Or cannabis? Or the bite-marks of some syphilis-carrying whore," she suggested. "Did you ever think of that?"
"Frequently," he said after a moment, taking a deep breath through his nose; and then shaking his head slowly as though he were still trying to work out the ingredients. "But no, I'm happy to say it's not syphilis."
She almost screamed.
Counselling herself to breathe through her nose. Breath through the nose and speak as quietly as she could. Every syllable taking great concentration for every syllable brought with it the desire to scrape an eye from his face. "I know it's not syphilis, Lyosha." His name practically hissed from her tongue. The man was a nightmare. She ought to be glad of Hrafn's coming. She ought to be dancing a lark, prancing around the room at the very thought of leaving this…
…bastard.
"Now that," he said, stabbing his finger towards her. As though she were finally speaking his language, like she had dropped some imaginary waymark on this walk he was taking through the air. "That I understand," he said. It was a pronouncement. "That makes sense."
What was he even talking about?
She turned slowly, letting her nails hang before she could do anything regrettable. He had to be doing this on purpose. Riling her for some inexplicable reason. The question off her tongue before she could stop it. "What makes sense?"
He had the balls to put his boot on her chair. "Anger. Hostility. The general sense that if you had your way, my head would be sitting on the coals right now," he said. Not even giving her a chance to argue. "And for you, Reinette, those are basic ingredients…" He was gesturing as though it were all elementary. "But the rest, I'm afraid, has me perplexed."
"The rest of what?"
"Fear."
And when he said it, the room seemed to fall away. She could see only the stone in his eyes. His good humour stripped away, leaving behind the callous creature she had met in that monastery. The one that had carved into her back. Grabbing her chin and forcing her to stare into his eyes with fear. He was the fire. And the pain. The grey eyes of the storm.
"The gathering is over, Reinette. Their decision is binding, and they will not take your head on a whim." His words were solemn, his attentions focused, staring at the her as though every emotion was wearing itself upon her skin. "So I have to ask myself then, why…after all that has happened…are you so afraid of me right now?"
And for a moment, she could not answer. Her stomach sinking. Tying itself into a knot and then trying to swim. He knew. Somehow he knew that she was afraid. And yet he could not know. For she had to convince him. She had to convince him that everything was normal. That life was as it should be. That she had accepted his offer. That this golden cage he had crafted was not about to collapse.
"I am not afraid of you," she said.
But it sounded hollow.
Like the eye of the storm. His hands in his pockets as he stood, coming to stand beside her. His shadow towering over the room as he seemed to brood over the fire. And when he spoke, his words were more tired than blunt. As though everything he had just harvested had turned to ash in front of him.
"You know, the first time you smelled like this," he said. His expression almost wry as though the irony was something he could not help but mention. "…you were convinced I was going to tear your head off."
It was an opening. All she had to do was confess. Tell him what was happening. Warn him of Hrafn's coming. And yet she felt like there were chains on her arms. Binding her to every lie as she walked along this wire of deceit.
"And when was that?"
"In the carriage," he said. He seemed surprised that she had forgotten. "First night we met," he added with a smile. Reaching for the iron poker and examining its curve. "…and then I tried to get you to sit; but you were too stubborn."
Her throat tightened. Watching the curve of the iron. "So were you."
"Yes," he said. And then with an air of abandonment, he turned and sat down again, letting the poker-iron drop to the carpet with a thud. "…but I had hoped we had gotten past that," he finished. His questions seeming to lose themselves with that word. As though he had lost his will.
Oh for bloods' sake.
The room came back into focus. The warmth of the fire drawing her back from the edge. She dropped into her chair as well, breathing a sigh of relief, realising how ominous that poker-iron was looking until he dropped it. And for that matter did he have to be so blood-forsakenly dramatic? Scent of a rotting carcass indeed. For all she knew, that was his smell, she decided. His demons. His fears. He was petrified of being a monster. Terrified that after all this time, she was still seeing him as an animal. But as far as she was concerned, that had nothing to do with her smell.
Until another chime sounded in her head.
Another word.
Smell.
For the first time, she considered the terminology they had been using for the past twenty minutes. Smell. Staring at him. Her thoughts starting to move quickly. Her brain remembering things he had said. Things he had insinuated. Her intellect fighting with the obvious. And yet how else could he have known? How could he have walked into this room and known that she was afraid. From the first moment, he had known.
She felt a weight drop. Deep in the pit of her stomach.
"Lyosha?"
He spoke in an exhale. "Reinette?" And by his tone, he had given up trying to fix the situation.
"What…" Her voice needed to fight before it would leave her lungs. "…do you mean by 'smell'?"
Clearly not the question he had been expecting. But rather than be surprised by anything she did anymore, he raised an eye to look at her. The expression stating that he also believed she was doing this 'on purpose', and that if she wanted to keep playing the imbecile, then she might as well mark herself with a target and go hunting. "What do you think I mean by smell?"
Oh no.
No, she decided. Like the wolf from the old stories. The creature that could smell fear in the heart of the crow.
It was impossible. And yet her breath was growing shorter. Her head shaking. Her upper half now shifting, ever so slowly back in her chair. For if he could smell one emotion, then what…other…emotion could he smell? Her mind leaping back into her past trying to categorise what she had done. What she had said. The number of conversations. The carriage. The ship. Her quarters. The catacombs. That time in the cave. Right after the vision. She had been thinking about…
Before she could say it, before she could even think it, he breathed a single, sardonic sentence. "I still have yet to identify that one."
With a cry of indignation, she pushed her chair back and leapt to her feet. Backing away across the carpet. Backing away from this…aberration…of the senses. Something that had been obvious since the first day. Something she ought to have noticed. That sense. That ability to just pounce on every facet of her troubles. She was… she was…
He sighed deliberately. "Let me guess," he said. "Indignant."
"I am not indignant," she hissed. Her eyes wide. Affronted. Her hand reaching for the door handle, trying to…to what. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Her nails growing in fury as she had to abandon her escape. "What kind of sick person fails to mention that sort of thing?"
"Oh come on, Reinette, this is hardly front-page news," he said. His manner bland and unruffled, like a gentleman trying to straighten his newspaper after she had stepped on it.
"For whom?"
Her voice had gone up by a pitch. Her question left unanswered as it was obvious he found it rhetorical. Her steps taking her several times around the room, keeping a suspicious eye on him. Both her hands pressed against her back. How had she smelled in his presence, she thought. He had said it once. She smelled as though she…liked his company. Oh blood, he could smell when she was…pleased. The memory of that night in the catacombs. Had she shown something? Had she smelled a particular way?
She was starting to panic...
"Yes," he added. "Because that always helps."
"Stop…doing that," she growled, turning on her heel to stare at him…and then raising her hand to her forehead. Continuing to pace. He could smell everything. That was improper. It was an abuse of power. It was…
…indecent.
"You should have said something." She could hear the accusation in her voice. She was trying to be emotionless. Trying not to think about what she might have…smelled like in his presence. Why could he not have said something?
"Like what?" For the second time that week, he sounded like the only sane individual in the room. Perhaps uncomfortable with the sudden attention, but still trying to block her with his invisible newspaper. "One minute you're crying. The next minute you're happy. It's not exactly a finely-tuned science, alright?"
"Enlighten me."
"Oh surprise," he grunted at the ceiling. His voice louder than hers and his temper clearly more sarcastic. "…you're 'angry.' How the hell could I have known that without sniffing the air?"
She was seething. "Maybe if you were less of an animal, we could find out," she snapped.
A slash of silver crossed his eye. So unnerving, the sense that she had just overstepped her bounds by a mile. Squinting at her as though she'd grown a second head. His eyes seeming to accuse her of something awful and then his brain coming up with a very simple solution. Something he should have done ages ago.
He left.
The door slamming shut. The key turning in its lock before she could pound her fist against the wood. Hoping he could smell what she was feeling right now. Glad. Glad she would be taken. Glad she would be leaving this damnable house. Her emotions rising. Seething. And then collapsing. Her hands starting to shake. Her throat starting to sob. He was coming. Hrafn was coming…
…and there was no one to stop him.
A/N: Well, I think I speak for everyone when I say 'Reinette, that was totally uncalled for.' But then they both say awful things sometime, and she is about to be kidnapped by a madman—but having said that, it was still a low-blow. In other news, you may have noticed that only a week has gone by between chapters (I'm making an effort to get things written on either a one-week or a two-week basis, so wish me luck on that).
Many thanks to Naturally Nocturnal and Agagite Whispers for the reviews! (And you have no idea how thankful I am that people are still reading. :)) As always, feel free to read and review.
Naturally Nocturnal: So glad to be writing again (the house-move really messed up my schedule, but I'm hoping to write more frequently now). Anyway, onto chapter notes. (a) I too love a good bloody action sequence, however, I also love a good gory crime-scene that someone's bound to find later and say 'uhhh…why is there a piece of butchered heart under my…oh brilliant. It's not just under my boot, it's all over the room.' It also makes the enemy more ominous (for me at least) if I know he's just butchered a host of people, but I have to use my imagination to figure out how. (b) As to Luka and Bess, I'm glad you liked it. I always found that part of his past a bit sad, especially since she left him all those years ago, but also adorable since he'll still open a jar of orange preserve if she needs it…and of course, he can trust her. (c) And absolutely, yes, things are going to get intense [thankfully a chapter that was mostly written last year, so hopefully we can get into it quickly now. :)]
Agagite Whispers: Thank you! I will definitely keep updating. (And just as a note, every review gives me a reason to write faster, so again, thank you for this.) Starting on the next chapter right now. ^_^
Reference: The firebird's tale refers to Tsarevitch Ivan, the Fire Bird, and the Grey Wolf.