12 December 2013
Minor changes to conversation at the end of the chapter. (And many thanks to icecoatedsha for making a very good point in his or her review about catacombs. ;))
Chapter LIV: A Death in the Night
Thirty minutes later.
For Lucian, it began with little warning. A flickering light on the horizon; the smoke starting to rise before the bells began tolling in the distance. The faint sound of horses screaming for mercy as though the devil himself had left a calling card. The unyielding beast between his legs rearing at the sound. The touch of his heels spurring its blood as he wrenched the bridle back towards the house. Cursing the hills for not letting him pass more quickly into hell.
Cursing the heat that always seemed to follow him. His evening ride bringing with it not peace but the sight of his home burning from afar. How could his home be on fire? The entire eastern wall of the stable-house enveloped in flame. Feeling his anger outweighed by fear; his dignity evaporating like the skin burning from his wife's face. So that by the time he reached his home, he was more animal than human. Tearing into the dismount, almost killing his horse in the process.
They would all burn if he did not reach the stable-house in time. The flames already licking the walls, threatening to devour the household of Kerr. Everything he had built and buried in the past four hundred years about to go up in smoke if they could not fight this blaze.
He could see the panic in their eyes. The horses fleeing the stalls with their tails on fire. The soldiers and servants sprinting back and forth, hauling water across the yard. Soot on everyone's faces so that for once he could blend with his own people. A worker. A beast. Watching his flesh starting to blacken. Hearing himself shout for Thomas to issue an order. Get them out. All of them. Ready to evacuate. Ready to leave through the catacombs.
The smells in the air speaking of lightning and thunder. But the air remaining dry. The hell raging below for a time that had lost its precision. The seconds escaping him for the first time in centuries. Estimation. That was all the fire had left him. The general sense that three quarters of an hour had passed in heat and sweat and smoke until finally he felt it…
…rain
The clouds roiling above them as the heavens parted. Lending their favour to the den. Raining down on them in a torrent as the stones became scorched, the ground black with ash, starting to ripple with heat and water. A number of the young ones hooting as the fire began to expire. Losing themselves in the downpour, clapping him on the shoulder, still ignorant of the crime that had transpired here. The blackened doors of the stable. The broken lock on the ground. The darker portion of his intellect able to spot the crime simply for having committed it so many times.
Arson.
The danger still lingering beneath his weariness. For the adrenaline had passed. The animal starting to sense the weakness of man. His hands starting to slip on his knees, feeling the sweat drip onto the wet cobblestones. His body asking for rest. Asking for respite. Asking for his drug so he could stop the inevitable. Stop his skin from itching. His hands from twitching. The Change that would creep up on him if he did not control it. Taking the seconds that he needed to think and plan. Assess and resolve anything that might be an obstacle…
…and then he started.
"McNally."
It was the first lycan in his line of sight. Trying not to bark up his lungs, he used his hands to sign the rest. Firearms. Ammunition. Enough for two contingents. Major and minor.
Soaked to the skin, McNally ducked his head, already sprinting for the main doors without looking back. He might be a wainwright, but they were all soldiers in this war. In a few seconds, he'd be in the hall, shoving one of the carpets aside. Rifles. Pistols. Revolvers. Grenades. If you could dream of a firearm, it was down there; and with the full moon in two days, he was taking no chances…
"Arlington."
"Sir."
He was still signing. Too fast to waste his breath. Take the major. Question the guards. Question anyone who might have been in the vicinity when it started. Send two after the horses. Find a scent if you can.
Arlington bowed his head and moved. His eyes gleaming for the moment it took him to see his way. Taking the men he needed. Following his order and leading his assignment into the shadows. Through lighting and thunder, they would spread across the grounds, combing the dark until they found something.
"Sir!"
Taken off-guard, Lucian turned, with the same reflex, catching the barrel of a rifle in his hand. Winchester 1895. Ordered last year and rapidly gaining a reputation among his peers as his favourite gun. Two-piece lever action. Non-detachable box magazine. Five cartridges…and it might have been four if he had dropped the blasted thing. Biting his tongue, he checked the magazine, released the safety, and then shouldered the gun. He could yell at McNally later.
Beckoning with his free hand, he touched his elbow twice and then tapped his shoulder, side-stepping back towards the stable-house. The signal was clear. Minor contingent. Track and shadow.
His last order barely requiring a look before Raze had the right of it. The lycan smelling of exhaustion, but signing his acknowledgment. His hands still scored from carrying thrice his weight in water. Foregoing exhaustion for orders by rolling off his back, loping to the stable doors and taking a stance on the right side.
It was how it had been…and how it would always be. He on the left and Raze on the right. One with the firearm and the other with claws, ready to climb the walls and drop while the shots rang out. The two of them poised on either side. The rest of the contingent fanning out, creeping around the back of the building and edging along the walls in silence. Peering through cracks and holes. Tracking and shadowing the ground. Sniffing for clues among the ashes.
Every breath making him want to cringe. Making him want to flee from this place. But soldiers did not flee. Their knees were steady and their hands did not shake. Not for cinders nor for flesh. He and Raze waiting until McNally gave them the all clear. The roof intact. The beams unlikely to fall.
It was a long shot, but in all the chaos, the perpetrator might still be in the stable-house. Two counts of three before they glanced at one another and then nodded. Kicking the stable-doors open, the one aiming the rifle, swiftly moving from stall to stall. The other darting up the walls and targeting the area from above. The area deemed secure but empty in under eight seconds. Eight horses dead. Two of them burnt to a crisp while the others had suffocated.
Clear.
He heard Raze drop into one of the other stalls, his feet barely touching the ground before he started investigating the dead. Touching each horse on its neck, checking the burnt ones for signs of an accelerant. The smell of paraffin. The short lengths of rope trampled under their hooves. The tracks milling about without reason until they began to merge. The horses released, one by one, in order to start the fire.
Lucian said nothing and then crouched onto his haunches, sniffing one of the lengths of rope. Seeking a scent that was not ash or charred flesh. Seeking anything that could give him a reason. Raze now rooting around the stalls, searching with the same intuition. The why of the matter more intriguing to them than the how.
Letting Raze take the tack room, he let his steps take him north down the horse's alleyway. Stepping around the dead, observing without touching anything. Taking a glance in each stall, keeping himself occupied with the details of what did not fit.
He had been in this stable-house at precisely four o'clock, just before the evening ride. The stalls clean and the horses stabled. He had spoken to Henry Fulligan, untied Our Lady of Sixteen Hands, groomed the horse, tacked her up, and for once avoided being bitten. Given her lack of discipline, she likely would have perished if he'd not taken her out.
Every stall that he passed contained the same elements. Feed. Water bucket. Salt. Bedding. Everything evaporated, singed or damaged, but making sense given the environment.
Except for that.
He stopped in his tracks and then turned to his left, catching the top of the stall door with his free hand and leaning against it. Staring into the stall and processing what he saw. Feed. Water bucket. Salt. Charred bedding. The scene sitting unwell with him for there was a third container here that did not fit: a charred coal-bucket lying on its side against one of the brick walls.
Letting go of the door, he stepped into the stall, casually slinging the rifle over his shoulder. Less interested in whether that was the safest course of action than over what was in the bucket. His hand reaching out, turning the open end towards him so he could look inside. Its contents comprising of a second, far smaller, iron clue. The odd piece in this puzzle.
A poker-iron bent in half around a paraffin canister. The poker-iron looking oddly-familiar for it was something he had handled only this morning. He could still feel the weight in his hand, the grade of metal, the fine-printed 'EW' giving him the precise location from where it had come. The East Wing. The hair on his arm rising as he began to feel an itch on his shoulder. The sense that he had missed something. Something very…
Very…
…wrong.
And then he turned, hearing Taylor before he saw him. The doors swinging on the hinges as the young lycan sprinted the length of the stable-house. Skidding to a halt and thrusting a rain-spattered card up before him. Trying to speak around the ash in his lungs. "Sir," he said. Like all of them, he was trying to catch his breath. "We were…we were rounding the horses up, sir. They…" He coughed. "…they tied it to one of the saddles."
They tied it to one of the saddles.
Tied a card to a horse that would run the length of the countryside, giving them time before it was caught, while they finished putting out this fire…which was a decoy. Feeling remarkable blank for the first time that evening, he snapped the card out of Taylor's hand and stared at it. The calling card of the Blackmarks. The 'X' scrawled in blood across the back. The name 'Jeanne-Antoinette de la Roche' printed across the front.
Reinette.
His mind able to quantify only three possibilities. That if Reinette was dead, then Rena had failed in her task. If Rena was dead, then Reinette was dead. And the only circumstance in which they were both alive was a very slim one.
He hesitated. His eyes targeted on those of his subordinate. Raze standing tall at the far end of the stable-house. His expression carved of stone, knowing what had happened and caring less for the crime than the house that had been compromised. Blackmarks openly attacking within the house of Kerr. Lycan legislation now giving him no choice but to have Lucian escorted off the premises until the house was secure. As of this moment, Raze would be taking charge of the entire investigation. While Lucian would have to go underground.
Rather than register that fact, Lucian turned the card around. Holding it up so Raze could see the name. Because they both knew that until he knew…
…he was not going anywhere. Not on his life.
And whether it was the act of showing the card or the scent of warning he was giving off, regardless of the catalyst, it caused Raze to stop in his tracks. A slight crease appearing on the man's brow. A crease that said little to most people, but spoke volumes to him. The question of why they had to do this every time. Why he could not come quietly…for once. The crease disappearing as Raze raised his hand…cautiously. Almost in peace before taking another step towards him.
Taylor starting to smell unseasonably ripe, as though it was only just occurring to him that he was standing between two alphas and that, out of those two, only two had their hackles up. Before the boy could move, Lucian's claws shot out, catching him by the shoulder. Forcing the boy to remain exactly where he was. Don't…anyone…move, he thought.
Raze exhaled…and then took another step towards him. He understood that this was hard, his eyes said. But they were operating under the rules of curfew and safety. He had no other choice.
Lucian eyed the step…and then dropped the card, reacting before his subordinate could. Slinging the rifle off his shoulder, shooting Raze in the calf muscle, shoving Taylor into Raze and then vaulting off the boy's back. A bullet would only slow him down for a few minutes. His feet barely hitting the ground before he was sprinting past the stable doors. Colliding with a soldier, shoving the man aside with a snarl, as he turned for the main hall, bursting through the front doors at a dead run.
Rena. Three flights of stairs. Rena would not abandon her. Twists and turns until he reached the last staircase. Distantly aware that Raze was following him. That an hour had passed since the fire. That whatever crime had occurred in this house was already done.
"Reeeena!"
The silence too deep as he bellowed her name again, his voice echoing up the staircase. For once, uncaring if anyone heard. Looking behind him for her eyes, the yellow eyes always perched in the dark. The temptation to yell her name a third time swallowed by the sight of the eastern wing.
The walls scratched to pieces, the pianoforte slashed in two. The room hung with a thick yellow haze that stung the air like poison. A scent made of a thousand scents. The perpetrators masking their crime with a series of shut doors and windows. The smell coupled with a numbing realisation that made him want to vomit. There was blood on the carpet. Black blood as though an animal had been skinned here. His breath starting to move faster. His eyes starting to burn in the haze. He dropped to his knees, trying to see beyond it, trying to see what his nose could not.
"Reeena!"
She was not answering.
With a growl of frustration, he began to crawl forward. The smoke burning into his skin. Using his hands to find his way, pushing the broken furniture out of his path. The air starting to waver around him. Like a carousel that would not stop, turning, trying to find his way, trying to find her scent among the wreckage. His skin starting to crawl beneath the air.
Rena.
He called her name again. Only this time, there was no sound. He could feel his throat closing up. The rasp making him spasm. The poison starting to turn his blood. Paralyze his limbs. His head starting to pound before he realised someone was grasping his forearm. Raze. A cloth covering his mouth, gripping his arms, and forcing him up onto his knees. Raze's voice muffled like in the old days when they worked the mines…and his leg still bleeding.
Hardly the time for an 'I told you so.'
Staring more at the leg than Raze's face, Lucian was forced to nod in agreement. The act of stumbling to his feet taking far longer than he planned. His limbs refusing to budge until Raze jerked him up by the arms and over to the eastern balcony. The one struggling with the lock before the other broke the glass. The rain stinging their faces as they tumbled through to the outside. Hacking and coughing on their hands and knees for several seconds before they realised the nightmare was not yet over.
The carpet inside taking on a darker meaning, even as the rain continued to wash away the crime. Pungent pools of water streaming over the empty eyes and missing tongue of a red-faced child without a face. His eyes turning away in disgust, yet holding their course. Sickened by the sight, yet unwilling to take a step beyond relief. A dull relief that it was not Sabine.
His teeth wanting to grow sharp again, wanting to find the rage. It lingered there beneath the surface. Waiting for him to crack so it could take over. Instead, breathing the cold, wet air until he could clear the poison from his lungs. Pressing his palms, almost in prayer, over his eyes before he sat back on his knees, taking in the rest of the horror.
Still searching for an answer. Latching on every piece of this broken carousel. The signs of a struggle. The furniture scattered across the balcony. The cigarette butt washed clean upon the stones, making it hard to get a handle on the scent. But he was sure who had been smoking it.
Rena.
She had been here. She had tried to run. Tried to throw herself over the railing. The perpetrator striking her with an iron chair before she could make her escape.
He forced himself to stand, following her tracks through the rain-soaked balcony. The red spattering across the table. The angle suggested a head wound. Blood pooling into the stones before the victim rose to her knees. Crawling across the stones and onto the roof. Her hands smearing her path. Her blood trailing up and over the roof.
Over the roof.
She could be bleeding out on the ridge of this house; but if she had the stomach to stand, then she had the stomach to heal. With his stomach starting to heave on itself, he turned his back on the roof. Looking at Raze and then indicating the roof. "Follow her."
Raze was limping, but he moved to block the glass doors. "Lucian…"
"Raze…" For the sake of blood, he could put this in one of two ways. "…you need to move," he breathed. It was as simple as that.
Raze stared at him. Conflicted. And then the man grimaced, the air punched with the scent of frustration before he stepped aside, holding the cloth out. Wet from the storm that followed him. The smell of charred stone and Raze's scent telling him to take it. Take the cloth and see what happens. See where this choice takes you.
o…o…o
He took it. His throat telling him he was making a mistake. Burning as he took five short breaths and then pressed the cloth to his mouth, diving back into the haze. Finding his way as quickly as he could through the room and down the hallway. The mirrors and lamps surrounded by haze, showing him as a beast in their reflection. Seeing Reinette's door in front of him and trying the handle.
Locked.
If it was locked, there was a chance they never made it this far.
Steeling himself, he shoved his shoulder against it…and then his back. Once, twice, and then thrice before he broke through. Falling onto the carpet and immediately kicking the door shut again, preventing the haze from following him. Coughing into his arm, and then pulling himself to his knees. Reinette. Scanning the room, seeking out the chairs and the fire. The desk with its books, the black drapes of the bed closed and thick enough to hold back the sun. Aiming to call out for her…to help her…to find her…
…and then letting the cloth fall to the carpet. His breath moving in and out of his lungs, burning his chest. Making him want to suck the shallow laugh back into his lungs. Conscious of what he had just seen. Conscious of the fire dead in its hearth and the wind howling at her back. Every drop counting the seconds until she would crumble. Counting the seconds until he would have to acknowledge it.
The fear she must have felt; cornered and trying to escape her fate. Crawling away on her hands and knees, her skin cracked in a thousand places around the mark seared into her skin. She had known death was coming and she had feared it. Her veiled screams buried into her palms, though he could swear, he could still hear her screaming. This silent statue screaming for him to help her…this thing he had let into his world.
Why didn't you tell me... It was a fleeting thought. A thought he had yet to acknowledge for to his mind, the counting would never stop and as a result, he would never have to acknowledge it. The answer evading him, like a magpie chasing after a silver thread. The spirit flown, the body burnt, and the count telling him to move on quickly before he regretted his stay. His hand on the door before he found himself regretting his departure; the voice that told him that it was her departure rather than his that he was regretting.
Regret causing him to cross the room and crouch on his haunches. Staring at this thing that he had refused to touch all those months ago for reasons that seemed so foreign and yet familiar. This thing he had yet to acknowledge: that despite her status as a prisoner, a gamble, a chess piece on the field of his war, she had become a companion in misery. And that for the brief time he had known her, this creature...
...no.
This woman...
...had been intriguing to him. And for the sake of that: for the sake of that brief, miserable shadow she had brought to this hellish existence he called life, he needed to say something. His hand reaching up to touch her shoulder. He needed to say the words...that he was sorry. That he should have been there. He should have protected her.
His breaths perfectly timed and his calm perfectly measured. Easy for him to say the words and walk away. Easy for him to have caused another death and regretted it for the time it took him to forget it.
It should have been easy—but the sound of rain grew distant. The statue wavering in front of him like boiling water on a hot stove. Like a bell tolling in the dark, a beast flinching at the sound, he heard the crack of a whip. The air growing crisp, burning its way through his lungs, coating his veins with charred blood. The haze weaving itself into the fabric of his skin.
His hand jerked back.
Too late.
o…o…o
His past swept over him like a torrent. The mask slipping away as he lost control of his scent. It sounded like a waterfall. An uncontrolled, wrenching torrent coming from his throat. But it was time, not water. It was the seconds before he woke from the memory. The seconds between the before and the after. Every heartbeat passing like an hour.
Knowing where he was and still...even in his mind...still unable to break free. Eyes darting first to the sun, to the sky, searching for an escape that was gone. Searching for some way to draw them back in time. Draw them into the seconds that fell before the memory. Twelve seconds. That was all he ever wanted. Twelve seconds to remember her face as it used to be. Twelve seconds to hear her speak. Twelve seconds before she became a memory. Her face forever etched into the stone of his consciousness.
His hell.
Not the moment of her death, but the twelve hours that came after. Twelve hours of watching her bake under the sun until he began to forget that she was dead. That she had not always been a statue. Eyes burnt out of their sockets. Skin blacker than night, turning harder and harder until she began to crack. Her hair falling out before noon. Watching each tendril turn to dust as the ash began to drift around her feet.
At the time, it occurred to him that he was going mad. That his tongue was getting dry after he started conversing with her during the fourth hour. No longer speaking by the eighth, only to howl in rage every time a crow landed on her face, pecking at her lips, searching for flesh where there was none.
But it was enough.
He had seen this memory. He had been here, and he would leave it behind again. His reality was not here. It was in London. The year was 1900. He was alive and she was not. His throat sucking in air and his shoulders starting to hunch on the last word. Porcelain shattering on the floor and the sound making him cringe as he fought to break the cycle.
The chains that were not there. The cinders that were not falling from her head. None of it was here. Blind, he reached out to the air beyond the chains, scrabbling for anything that was real, trying to pull himself from his knees. Trying to breathe. Trying to shove the memories back. Desperate now to find his way, he felt for the walls, finding and then hitting his head against the surface.
He just had to breathe. He just had to close his mind…to her voice, her name, and her face. Her face could not be here. Not while he lived in this world…not before he finished his task... Again, he hit his head against the wall. Her face could not be here. The same curse, over and over again, knocking his head back against the wall, willing himself to the present.
o…o…o
It was the force of his head, not the mantra, that broke the memory. His head hitting the wall, and coincidentally, the wardrobe—for in truth it was this structure he was hitting, not the wall—toppling over with a crash. The room solid, capable of absorbing the crash, yet incapable of staving off that natural order of things; that rule which dictated the fortitude of an inert object subjected to an external force. Even before his eyes could open, he could see what was happening.
She was disintegrating. Her torso collapsing into her waist, like an hourglass sucking on its last grain of sand. First her fingers, her palms, and then her hands breaking at the wrist and falling to the floor. It was the moisture in the air…the smoke and the haze cooling the shell too quickly. Dust clouds rising into her veil, which in turn, fell away from the back of her skull. The shoulders keeping the neck upright for a full three seconds before the head toppled over, like a corpse without a noose.
Years later, he considered how events might have transpired had the veil not fallen first. Her lips revealed to him, screaming and silent. Her eyes squinted shut against a light that burned into flesh. His breath moving faster again, his skin growing tight. Conscious of what he was seeing. Conscious that it had been too long since his last dose of laudanum. That he had imagined things in the past.
Using the tip of each claw to drag himself to his knees, he crouched over the few sections of statue that remained. The features completely obliterated by the fall, making him wonder if he had imagined it. The rest of the statue reeking of ash, but drawing enough of a question that he found himself crouching over the torso. The neck. Her veil. Scraps of burnt clothing. They all belonged to her.
He was not mad. He had seen that face before it dissolved…and though the world might doubt, he had not hallucinated this death. He had not imagined the smell, and though his time with Reinette had been brief, he had not forgotten her face. The seahawk. The cheeks sunken, but the bones high and lean, vicious even on the cusp of death. Her jaw sharper than this corpse who had taken her place.
His hands covered in the foulest of scents as he began to search through the ashes for her pendant. Gone. Leaving the ash, he began to turn her quarters inside out, searching for a trace of the burnt pendant. Where was it? The dresser, the desk, opening drawers, flinging books in his search, tearing through the wardrobe. Gone, gone…
…gone.
With a growl, he found himself striding to the bedroom door and wrenching it off its hinges. The act striking him as odd. Making him uncertain whether a second growl had occurred before or after he chose to throw the battered door out of the already-broken window. He was acting impulsively, and yet it felt right. As though his skin were a second coat. His impulses loose, his shoulders starting to hang. For the first time in hours, he felt right in his skin, as though every atom had fallen into place.
On a different night, a different moment, he might have checked himself at the door. He might have remembered what it meant when his mood went from rage to calm in the space of a minute. Calm and precise, his lungs moving faster, while the beast inside told him that he could function without the drug. That he was higher than the drug. With this thought repeating in his brain, he realised that he knew exactly what he needed to do. He needed Raze to assemble a third contingent. This needed to become a hunt.
o…o…o
Through the hallways, he went, out the balcony, and onto the roof. Tempted to bellow Raze's name, but choosing instead to stalk him. The trail fading with the rain, but still zig-zagging across the tiles, until it leaped out onto the stable-house. Rena must have tracked the culprits. Followed their scent to the stable-house before they burned it. The tiles below his hands still warm from their proximity to the fire. The rain cold on his back, streaming down on their heads and making him forget for a moment what he was hunting.
Raze.
Raze was crouching on the edge of the roof like a giant gargoyle. Motionless with little ability to see beyond his particular point of view. Concise as ever. "The trail stops where the arson started." The stony exterior held nothing back. "Even with a wound, the council will suspect her of being involved in both murders."
"It wasn't Rena."
Raze gave him an eye. Suspicious. The kind of eye that questioned whether a drug addict with a penchant for shooting him in the leg ought to be deciding the terms of reality. "How are you certain?"
"Rena is not a Blackmark," he explained in the simplest of terms. Feeling the calm of his certainty. His exterior unfazed by the double vision he was seeing. Something was trying to snap behind his teeth, but he ignored it. His eyes glancing back towards the balcony, the small body lying in the corner. But he was in control. Rena would never had done something like that. Not to a child. "…and whoever targetted Reinette had no intention to kill. Only to replace."
He had forced the last word quickly past his tongue, like a pair of dice on a wheel, before reasonable conjecture could take over. The instinct to calculate the odds of finding her in one piece starting to wash away with the ash on his shirt.
The scent card pointed to the Blackmarks, but the murder of a lycan child failed to reconcile with their mandate. His ability to reason telling him there was a second party involved. One that understood the significance of a blood-seer. The face of each council-member turning into a wooden mask as he thought on their loyalty. Had he pushed them too far during the Gathering…and if this was the first sign of rebellion, how long before he found himself with a silver knife in his back?
As usual, it was the act of muttering to himself that always seemed to prompt a greater capacity for tolerance on the part of Raze. A significant pause occurring before Raze again spoke, like a peaceful orderly speaking to his favoured lunatic. "You suspect the council?"
"I suspect everyone…" It was neither an affirmation or a denial. Simply a fact. His eyes trained on the horizon, the grounds, and then the house for exactly three seconds each before he turned on his heel. Changing the subject again before he could regret sharing his suspicions. "…for a third contingent, Raze, how many can we spare?"
Hard to tell where Raze's scowl began. "The third will not be necessary, Lucian."
"It will be if the scents are moving or divided. A contingent for each scent, then divide them by location." He counted them on a hand. "House, grounds, catacombs. One of the trails will lead to quarry whether it be ash or flesh."
"I say again, the third will not be necessary." His subordinate chose his words with care, keeping his eyes on the stables below. "The house and catacombs can be searched by the minor. The major will take the grounds."
"Thereby contaminating the third scent and losing your quarry," countered Lucian. His mind like a chained animal, struggling against the void, the emptiness that came before a hunt. No longer a thrilling adventure, but an onus. A responsibility that he had let slide. Something Raze would never have allowed to happen.
Raze who dared to look him in the eye. "With all due respect, Lucian, I am not sending an entire contingent after ash. The first murder alone takes precedence in this circumstance."
"The first murder is a byproduct," he said with a dismissive wave. Suddenly angry…disgusted even at the way his oldest friend was trying to sway him from a path that held purpose. But why could Raze not see it?"
Raze who was a stickler for rules. Raze who was still under the impression that he was losing it. That it made more sense to watch the back of a madman than crack a whip on this investigation. His ability to refer to the child as a byproduct causing even Raze to give him a pained look.
"I am sorry, Lucian." Despite the sentiment, Raze seemed intent on building a fire on his hopes. "There will be no investigation, there will be no movement, until you have been removed from the premises. The den has been infiltrated and by order of the lycan council…"
"Start the investigation, Raze, or I swear I will order it myself."
"Try it and I will inform the lycan council of your actions." Raze had unleashed himself from his crouch and drawn himself to his full height. "In the event of any emergency, any hint that your den has been compromised, according to the fourth amendment of the Horde Duties Act of 1793, it is my first duty to ensure the longevity of the Horde by escorting you to a…"
"How dare you threaten me with parliament," he scowled. That damned law having less to do with his security than Auguste's predecessor trying to guillotine his head. His curse taking much of the rancour before he was able to spit out the only word that could simultaneously agree while expressing the opposite. "Fine."
His challenge going unanswered for Raze had not the stomach for such a victory. The lycan seeming to retreat upon himself, offering his words like a rock upon Abel's head. "You were the one who signed it, old friend, not me."
"And I will abide by it."
"When?"
"Now."
"Your word?"
"You have it," he said. The last of the thunder let lose with his final breath, leaving behind only the rain and the dull sense that his bones were straining against his skin. And then he turned on Raze. His claws wrapped around the man's throat, his last instructions simple for he would not be returning to this house for some time. "Find out whose child that was. What she was doing here, where Rena has gone, why Reinette was taken, and how the hell…" This was a simple one. "…someone managed to infiltrate this den before dusk…" The whole countryside had to be hearing him now. "…without a single soul being aware of it!"
Raze did not flinch. Like a weight forever carrying him on his back, holding him to a course as Atlas held the world, he waited, straining for air until his neck was released. And then he retreated, bowing his head, moving before the rage that was in both their scents turned into a reaction. The shadow retreating across the roof, so that finally, Lucian was alone again. Able to let the mask drop from his scent. Tightening the leash on an animal that was throwing itself against a cage, clawing against the back of his eyes now…
…yet he was nothing if not a creature of control. His hands threatening to slip before he took a stronger grasp on a ledge that had been weathered for centuries, forcing his rage to stand down. For the first time, wary of the hope that was still growing in his stomach. Sick that he could be hopeful while crouching only sixteen meters from a skinned child. Sick that he lived in a world where the scent could only faze him for a moment.
But his attentions had moved beyond the dead for he was sure that the living were still out there. Rena with a wound to her head…and Reinette…either leading her own escape or fighting her kidnappers. So convinced of the fear he instilled in those around him, he'd never stopped to think of what else she might have been afraid of. The other circumstances that could have driven her to fear this morning. His intentions, his impulses still leading him by the nose, telling him to follow the three scents. The card left by the Blackmarks. The blood-scent of Rena. The trail of Reinette…
The notion of her betrayal making him more angry than he would have thought. Perhaps for the trouble it caused him to believe it. Touching his jaw to his fists and looking out into the night. Troubled by what he saw. The rain washing away the trail. Scouring the night clean and giving their enemies a greater chance of safe passage. He was losing this battle.
But he would be damned before he let them go without a hunt.
A/N: Pheew...sorry for the long break. I won't go into the details of why I've been away for five months, but suffice it to say, I'm back. Picking up where we left off and hoping that some of you are still reading. (Note: I was very pleased to receive a few reviews even five months later, so I am very thankful to all of you that are still reading.)
My thanks to Celtic Aurora, pamelawright, Mackep, ReadWheels88, Naturally Nocturnal, compa16, Sinedra, kiki8o, bennette4796, GothicFaeKitKat, AngelicaLeighton87, BlazeVein, cutiepie102, eldontyrell, AwakenWings, Athar-Luna, Ryan's my name, and Vixen123 for the reviews, favourites, and story alerts! (I hope I haven't missed anyone because it's been a long five months. :))
As always please feel free to read and review!
Celtic Aurora: I need to start including sub-titles for all my chapter titles! e.g. Chapter 53: The Smell of Fear a.k.a. Creepy Kolya has Reinette! Stay tuned! ;)
pamelawright: This was a lovely review to read and then I went and screwed it all up by not actually finishing the next chapter for five months. Bad Rushwriter! ^_^
Mackep: "On the horizon" meaning "moooooonths and moooonths later..." ;)
RedWheels88: My frequency dissolved! (Sorry! :)) And life is back to normal now, but it's still a bit messy here and there. This is really the first day I've had to write in five months. Glad you were excited when you wrote the review, and I hope you still are. Very glad Rena's still a favourite out there (she was one of my favourites when I started, although I guess I have a fondness for all the characters in some way, even Tanis. :)) Either way, thanks for the review!
Naturally Nocturnal: Surprise! Rena might still be alive...or is she? Or is she going to die right after we think she's okay? Or is she going to be okay in the end and then die anyway? (I won't tell until it happens. :))
compa16: I hope you DO read more. Thanks for the review! :)
Sinedra: Good gracious! That was an excellent review! :) It also prompted me to whip out the laptop and get writing again. Also thank you for being understanding about the slow romance (it's sometimes difficult because to be honest, I've been writing for four years, and it must be brutal for my readers because we still haven't gotten there yet.) Either way...I'm hoping this is going to be the year. The year when we finally get to the point where we can actually (realistically) start flowing towards that potential chain of events that we all know is probably going to happen. ;) And we will (someday) get to know Reinette's real name (I wrote it down about four years ago, but haven't had a chance to use it yet. At least it's on a piece of paper somewhere. ^_^)
kiki8o: Thank you! I'll get started on the next chapter right away. :)