08 Jul 2015
There have been minor changes to the chapter below.
Chapter LV: The Curse of Silver
It was here that one would expect events to take their course. An enemy. A hunt. A reason to scale the walls of this domestic prison. With his back to the pouring rain, his hair and clothing starting to cling, Lucian mounted the iron railing, knowing that he would not slip. Waiting for a head to pass below him before he dropped from the turrets, lending his body to the air for the two and half seconds before he landed. Like a stray cat on his hind legs.
Glancing to the right and left before ducking into the murky shadows, entering the main hall in search of an arsenal for his hunt. Knives, guns, bullets, blood rations. The bare minimum of what he would need before leaving for the safe-house which he had no intention of entering.
Instead he found himself face to face with Bess. She was a silhouette in the servant's hall, her eyes red and the hair falling from its knot. Always, she had a way of finding him when he least wanted to be found.
He pushed his way past her. Too far gone to hear anything but the hunt. The trail. The scent drawing him forward. Hundreds of smells. Blood, fire, dust, rain, ash, vinegar, salt, wine…thousands of trails leading deeper into the house. Down the stairs. Towards the outdoors. Towards an edge that no one else could see.
She called out to him again. "Luka," she said then. Luka please.
She had not called him Luka in over thirty years.
And so he stopped.
Turning his head to look at her. Regretting the act for it left him wide open to knowledge that he had no desire to hear. Words that made the blood rush into his head, as though he were seeing the world through a red mist. His control unaffected by what she was saying. Words that existed without meaning, separate from the sentences that harboured them. Through logic alone, he deduced that something 'terrible' had happened. That they had looked 'everywhere.' That 'she' was gone. 'Missing' from the household. 'Missing' from the roll call. That no one had seen her 'since sunset.'
It occurred to him afterwards that in spite of the topic having much to do with his missing ward, it was his name that he found most relevant. The use of it. The strange thought of Elizabeth Fulligan being distraught enough to call him anything less than 'Mr. Kerr' in front of the household staff.
One would think this might have compelled him to move. Surveying what havoc Fate had decided to make of his world. This chaos that would not stop, when in the midst of that chaos, he began to wonder why Bess was speaking German when she so often preferred English these days. Why she was surrounded by her boys, the three lycans who kept her safe in the household. James, Thomas and Liam. Surrounding her as though they feared what he would do. These boys, now men, whom he had charged to keep her safe almost three decades ago when she returned to him with a married name.
The chaos failing to make sense as he looked upon the others. Those who were standing beyond the boys and behind Elizabeth Fulligan, these guardians who were so willing to let this distraught woman take the fall for the disappearance of his ward. A weeping governess. A stoic riding instructor. A tutor hanging his head. No silver in their eyes, barely any lycan in their blood; for they were nothing short of excellent in their references. Their faces pallid, these people he could barely name let alone recognise. How could he have left her with them, he wondered.
Sabine.
Small, grey-eyed Sabine whose hair was red. Whose mother had died far from home in a vampire raid with a silver knife speared through her eye. The body burned by the Lycan Registry before the blood was dry. The daughter of his daughter, for how could she be anything else when their smells were so closely matched. Though he had fought it...though he had avoided referring to her as anything other than his ward, Sabine was of his blood.
And they had lost her.
He asked the question again, though he could not recall asking it in the first place. How could they lose her? The lightning showing their faces cowering in fear, the thunder hiding their frenzy as Liam shouted for them all to run. Thomas having the sense to lock Bess in one of the silver-plated rooms, the only one who suspected there was more to the lycan-master's expression than mere curiosity. That there was a reason his face was beginning to harden and it was not for an abundance of calm. James, the one who called for Raze as the lycan-master's spine began to crack in a dozen places. All attempt at reason met with a blood-wrenching growl that made it clear he had passed beyond the point of shooting people in the leg.
His skull changing into that of a monster. Like a beast from the gates of hell. His certainty growing with every clap of thunder that he must have offended a higher power. That he was cursed. That everything he touched became cursed. The logical side of his intellect no longer trying to wrestle with the concept, for he understood now what was causing it. His history, that origin to his troubles, that first century of war when he decided in all his twisted glory to curse the abomination that brought about his wife's demise. Cursing the water of her grave and then refusing to think thereafter of the dried blood he had found among her ashes.
The thought of this abomination's blood being an instigator for his refusal to breed, his decision to bed or scorn based entirely on the fertile scent of a woman's skin; the tempting fragrance of a moon cycle at its cusp. Centuries of whore-housing and drunkenly behaviour eventually lending itself to the theory that smell is affected by liquor. His first child dead before it could be born and the second a faceless ghost behind a letter that had been folded too many times. It was his fault, he realised. This tendency for his offspring to find themselves in peril.
It was his curse. His actions.
His fault.
The rest of his evening unclear for it was here, at this precise moment, that he lost himself. His control. His reason. His perspective. The lack of his drug, the loss of Rena, Reinette…and now Sabine finally triggering a voice that could no longer recognise the difference between friend and foe. A voice that had become inhuman.
The mindless cries of a wolf tearing through the halls of the London den, searching for prey that was no longer there. The beast breaking through brick and mortar and glass, clawing up the stone walls and aiming to howl on the ramparts, only to be shot down by a well-placed silver bullet. His pack finally able to corner the beast in a western drawing room where it was seen licking the wounds on its right leg. Pacing on three paws, baring its teeth at an empty fireplace before it collapsed. The daze that was silver, blue, and red finally turning to black.
o…o…o
Elsewhere.
For Reinette, her brief period without consciousness had served to teach her far less about the dangers of substance-abuse than the habitual nature of a bad situation evolving into a far worse one. The chloroform had not lasted long, her kidnappers were not a dream, and their escape into the fireplace had given her a new reason to thrash Lyosha into the next century.
It was a mistress corridor. A nook behind the fireplace for the use of a lady of different times. One that required entrance between walls for whatever foul reason he had concocted for having such a thing. There were spy-slits along the wall. Her brief views of his opulent prison giving her some insight into the nature of lycans hiding in plain sight. She saw shelves covered in books. A stained-glass window filled with a menagerie of birds and a marble face that seemed to move in the dark. The haze creeping around suits of armour and paintings of flora and fauna. The candle-light betraying a rich tapestry of colours that might have suited her in another life.
If only the tour had been under more reasonable circumstances. Her limp body carried through the corridor and down a long set of stairs. Cobwebs floating in the stale air that had not been touched in so many years. She heard rust biting on the rattle of keys like bones. The doors unlocked and the journey ending in an earthen scullery, far below ground and lacking in light or fresh air. It was there that the chloroform wore off completely. The scullery turning into the catacombs and the mistress corridor showing itself for an escape route.
She could no longer see the paunch-faced woman in front of them, crawling on all-fours, but she could hear her. The sound of weeping starting to grate against her ear, for she had seen no cause yet for this woman to be weeping. Traitorous. Her senses now trying to find where the fingerless vampire was carrying Sabine. Strands of her hair wrapped around his head like a wildman wearing the skin of a fox.
It had been a shock to see her. Slumped against the vampire's back, the child was gagged and tied for the long crawl. The rope holding small purpose for they could have left her and she would not have moved. Her face showing a vacancy that was spattered with blood. Eyes that had chosen not to see whatever had scarred her into this state of compliance. As though she had hidden in a field of red poppies and would not come out until the nightmare was over.
Unable to crane her neck any longer, she took pains then to breathe through her gag, trying not to wince over every rock and bone digging into her back. Holding her limbs stiff as she felt herself being half carried and half dragged along the earth. The size of the tunnels familiar to her, but the smell deeper and danker than any portion she had ever crawled or walked through. Kolya on his knees, towering above her with his hand snaked around her back like a sweating manacle.
"You are safe now," he said, looking down at her with a sweetness that made her ill. Reminding her of Paris and the days when she had known him for a murderer, but failed to see him as a threat. His smile so open but his gums now showing above his teeth. "Safe for all of us…" he said. "…you will see."
This glowing sentiment of how she 'would see' expressed over a dozen times before they reached the end of the tunnel. Kolya radiating joy as he climbed out first and then pulled her out by the wrist, forcing her to walk in front of him, catching her whenever she stumbled. His gait growing longer and her wrists jerking ever farther past her waist.
His mind glazed by the thought of this miracle he expected to perform. Chiding her for being kidnapped thrice. For refusing to speak any tongue older than Russian, even if it would keep the masque for a while longer.
Their march taking them deeper into the tunnel. Deeper and farther away from her cage in the den. The harsh voice of her Mentor telling her to be thankful for she was a lady of the blood. Thankful for her youth and the memories that would soon be restored. Memories of Hrafn who would take her to the north where they would live as they had always lived. She forever fleeing and he forever chasing her like the sun swallowing the moon.
Her thoughts growing dull as she continued to march. Conscious that it was no longer her Mentor she was hearing. But a quieter sound. A memory of laughter.
Dry like the pages of an old book. Her ears wanting to turn for she could swear she could hear him beside her. His voice deep as he read the words in Latin, translating each sentence before he spoke it out loud. Turning the pages one by one...and then abruptly closing the book. Rising to his feet with a stretch and counselling her to either heal faster or die, for he had neither the time nor the patience to read Hawthorne. Her throat tempted to laugh in response. At odds with the sorrow in her heart. The regret she felt on this long march towards the surface.
Because it would not happen. He would never read to her. He would not call her 'Nette when they were alone. He would never rest his hand on her back, touching the hairs at the nape of her neck. Curving his arm around her spine and drawing her close. Close enough to breathe the skin of her breasts, to feel the tautness of muscle. A memory from a dream. A death toll for a life unlived.
Lyosha.
Eyes wide, she felt every hair on her skin rise...and then with her heart beating, she jerked her wrists away from Kolya. Turning back towards Sabine, back towards her cage, and finding her waist caught by an iron grip. Fighting against it. Clawing her nails into his arms. Kolya pulling her back and turning her forward to march.
She would not.
Her knees choosing to fall rather than march, the act of falling causing Kolya to stumble for having to drag her forward. Her skirts starting to billow in the mud. The intensity of her flight forcing him to slow down for every rock she gripped and every nail she raked across the ground. Finally coming to a stop when she would no longer budge from a root. Her wrists tied, but her fingers digging deep into the wood, holding it as though it were a rope on a churning sea.
Sabine watching her struggles from afar with only a passive loll of the head. The fingerless vampire too petrified to approach for he could sense that there was some question to her allegiance. Her captor choosing then to release his grip from her waist, instead pressing his thumbs down on her wrists, squeezing until she released her hold. Gently pulling her to her feet. "We go up." He said softly, touching her hair and then smoothing it down with a smile. "Not down."
She slapped him.
Or tried to.
Her wrists still tied, he caught her by the fists, treating her like a lost soul that had forgotten her way. Pulling her up a second time, no longer letting her walk but carrying her. "We go up," he said again. This time louder. Sure of himself. Unwilling to see her struggles as anything more than a twig flowing against a current. Small and weak against the inevitable. She was going up…not down. They all were. Her anger starting to churn as she determined then whose fault it was. For it was not she who had built the cage. It was Lyosha.
Damn him for letting them go.
o…o…o
Three hours later. Back in the London Den...
Lucian was pacing in the Change Quarters. He had broken chairs. A table. A mahogany bedstead. Out of anger or principle, every piece of furniture surrounding him was now in pieces or crackling in the fire. Curtains aside, it was a glorified cage on the bottom of the lycan den. The outer door made of iron…and the inner door welded between sixteen bars of silver-plated steel. As though a velvet curtain could mask the brutality of a lycan Change.
His breath moving faster than it should have been. His hands calloused and failing to heal after his foray through the den. No matter. He snapped another chair leg and whipped it across the room. Breathing in…and out. Unable to find a…a means of…feeling…better.
"Guaaard!"
He shoved his shoulder against the bars, ignoring the hiss of his flesh starting to seethe. Ignoring it until the silver forced him to relinquish his attack. The pain forcing him to limp a few steps back. Steeling himself before again slamming his fist into the metal. "Guaard," he barked again.
A small window on the outer door sliding open to reveal the face of Aron. Finally. The stupid lout saluting sharply before bending forward to look through the guard-hole. "Sir," he said.
"Key."
"I have orders, sir."
"Give me the key, Aron." The warning was there, but the threat considerably less daunting with the limp. A silver bullet lodged in his kneecap, and the wound starting to fester. Raze had every right to shoot him in the leg, but he was going to ruin Singe for leaving in the bullet.
"Orders, sir."
"Is Raze out there?"
"Not yet, sir," he said. "Can I fetch you anything, sir?"
With a grimace for an answer, Lucian hurled a dented pewter goblet at the bars. In the past, he had thought himself kind to throw Reinette in a lavish prison; but for all the comfort, he was finding this worse than a plain one. But there were losses to count. His knee threatening to buckle as he ventured closer to the wall. "My ward," he said, speaking in earnest despite the anger. The most recent Change having tired him enough to have brought him back to his senses. Slightly lessening the impulse to hurt a great multitude of people. "Sabine. Have they found her?"
"No, sir."
"Leads?"
"I don't know, sir."
He growled. "Well then find me someone who knows." The ache in his leg drawing more than a grimace, but the order doing the trick.
Aron bowed his head before saluting, "Yes, sir." The window sliding shut followed by the sound of boots sprinting down the hall. A door opening and closing before the soldier passed up the stairs and into silence. The Change quarters on the lowest level of the lycan den, far enough from the main floor that even a hound would not wake to hear him.
He needed to get out of here. The blood still dripping from his right knee and the pain too excruciating to withstand his fingers in the wound. His limp finally coaxing him to the edge of the wall where he could lean for a spell; tired from the night without memory. Tired of being helpless to do anything. The sweat on his forehead starting to drip. He shifted over, easing himself onto his back for the sake of the cold floor. Avoiding the carpet. The room starting to swelter, making the headache worse. Making him acknowledge the warning Singe had given him.
He was withdrawing. The worst possible time. All three of them missing or dead now and the words of that vision seeming to pound in his ears. Leaves upon fire, her face, for she lies on the brink of a chasm. Drink, she will not, for light bears the darkness, the cold inside, the creature that is not among us. Eat, she will for her crime. Hunger without end. Grief without fury. Seven months ago, Reinette had warned him of the vision after tasting Sabine's blood. But what did it mean? What could it possibly mean for one so young?
His considerations short-lived as his stomach began to roil. The Change making him sick. The silver stopping the Change, and his strength fighting the silver. Sooner or later, one or the other would fail. His control only half in place, so that by the time his prison-window slid open again, he was clawing at the walls. Six…seven…no, eight of his incisors lying in a pool of blood. All of them growing back at an excruciating pace.
"Singe," he growled towards the window. "…you flaming piece of…"
The scent hit him before he finished the insult.
Raze.
With the sound of a key turning, the prison door opened. A shadow blocking the light. His subordinate ducking his head to pass through the shadow and into his prison. Silent in his manner and unwilling to speak first. The despair in his scent, the fact that he was standing here at all, speaking volumes about how lost they were in this hunt for Sabine.
"Sabine?"
Raze shook his head.
He squinted…and then scrubbed his eyes. Trying not to remember the sight of that faceless child. "They took her?"
There was a curt nod.
No.
No…no, no, he thought, pulling himself to his knees. Why was this happening… He reached for his head…and then slammed his fist into the ground. Holding it in. Using his arm to shrug off the sickness in his stomach. Shrug it off…and deal, he decided. Looking at the back of his hand and then wiping the blood off his mouth.
"Open the door," he said.
"No."
His skin was starting to writhe. "Then take out the bullet."
As usual, it was the quiet and dangerous beginning of what could only resolve itself with an explosive argument. Rage his closest companion in times of despair, despite the initial calm that often preceded the damage. The logic. The method behind his madness.
Raze who always knew the flavour of his observations, regardless of any preceding calm, seemed to be doing battle with himself. His scent soon resolving itself into stone. He inhaled, putting his hands behind his back. His shoulders straight. Eyes front. Waiting for the explosion. "The bullet stays," he said. His damned saint of a guardian.
As ever, it was an unlikely occurrence for Raze to string more than three words together in a sentence. He gritted his teeth…and then abruptly hit his head back against the wall. "I shot you with a military-grade cartridge, Raze." He was trying to hold himself back from the bars. "Not blood-forsaken silver covered in gangrene."
"That bullet is the only thing keeping you here, old friend."
He lost it. "Open the fucking door, Raze!"
"No!"
The grit of Raze snapped through the air like a whip, as though his patience had just given way to an immense pressure from above. His scent suddenly filled with a vicious hostility that bordered on treason. Like a wolf marking its territory, as though there was some choice in what roles they were playing. All the points of his life seeming to collide in the same moment. Like the days of Xristo's rebellion, when loyalty became dust in the face of a changing world.
The purpose of this silver cage starting to take on a darker meaning. Why was he really in this cage, he wondered, with a narrowing eye, pulling himself off the one knee and onto his leg. Holding the bars, even as his hands began to sear. "Look, I'll make you a deal," he said grimly. "…you can open the door now...or you can spend the next fifty years regretting this moment."
The words seeming to draw a mark in the sand. He could smell a brimming resentment…all the tell-tale signs of a dogfight-in-waiting. The bars in some ways a godsend, for between the two of them, wounded or not, he'd always been the least troubled by the notion of a fight.
"Is that all you have, Lucian?" Despite the threat in the air, it was quiet question. Raze who rarely voiced his thoughts, answering less like a brigand without wages than the old friend who'd saved his back countless times. Too tired to fight whatever it was that kept them on the same side… "Threats," the man whispered. "Poisonous words meant to rile…and anger…and hurt…" He looked exhausted. "How does it feel when you answer to no one?"
"Open…the damn…"
Before he could finish, there was a thunderous crash as Raze slammed his fist against the bars, forcing him to recoil. The exact spot where his hand had been. Parts of his burnt flesh still sticking to the silver. For a moment, the man towered above him. A challenge in the making…and if not for the six hundred years they had shared, one might have thought there was murder in the air. Raze taking several strides on his side of the bars, pacing in the manner of a wolf before the kill. Eventually, choosing a wall to lean against, crossing his arms. His eyes still narrowed…
…but the challenge retracted.
Lucian was on his back. Eyes wide as he stared into the face of rage. Raze had challenged him. He squinted, forcing himself to recover and rise to his feet. Using an arm to wipe blood from his throat. "You know—if you have something to say to me, Raze, you'd better damn well say it now."
As usual, it was not the roar, but the quiet of Raze that made him wary. Raze brooding over the stones at his feet…and then suddenly turning to face him. His voice soft. Pensive. Logical. His next words coming out of nowhere, spoken like an executioner before the dawn. "Where were you yesterday?"
"When?"
"Before the fire."
The hair on his neck started to rise. "What?"
"You heard me." Like a bull before the stag, the lycan took a menacing step towards the bars. His skin starting to tighten across the skull. Watching with silver eyes, as though he could see through every lie. "Before the fire, Lucian. Where were you?"
He made to speak…and then snarled, taking a step back from the bars. What the hell did that have to do with Sabine, he thought. Anger daring him to pace, even though his leg would not have it. His heart starting to race again. The mind wanting to act, but the body forced to lean against the broken half of a table, watching his kingdom crumble from afar.
Raze had yet to blink. "Should I repeat the question?"
He jerked his head in disgust. "And what answer will satisfy you?"
Disappointment. Exhaustion growing in his scent. The retort caused Raze to close his eyes. As though he could not do this for much longer. "The truth," he said bitterly. "…and do not mistake my motives, old friend. This is no mutiny. I simply want…the truth."
The truth?
He felt one of his knees threatening to bend. Twisting his torso, instead using the momentum to shatter one of the table legs against the wall. His energy spent. Breathing hard, still trying to mask his pain with anger and cynicism.
"How can you ask me that," he said finally. For once, unable to ignore the whisperings in the back of his head. The thought that it was only a matter of time before even Raze saw him for what he was. And yet he could feel his form threatening to snap. It had been centuries since he'd set a fire like that… Centuries. The words making him sick even as he said them. "I gave you my word, Raze. Do you have no faith in me?"
"I have more faith than you know, Lucian." Raze had become dangerously quiet. Taller by several hands now and practically on his hind legs. Like a beast waiting to pounce. "But you misunderstand my question. I did not ask if you started the fire…" He put his hands behind his back. "I asked where you were."
Where…
He squinted in distrust. "Riding," he grunted.
"Before sunset?"
"Yes." It was like a great weight off his chest. He had been riding. Like a mortal. A gentleman without a single care in the world, because that was what they had left him with after restricting his duties and pouring his blood-forsaken laudanum down the drain. Even with Bess holding the rest of his stash, he'd still be spending the next year under reduced circumstances.
"You admit it."
"Of course I admit it." Scoffing in the face of truth. "Should I have been shoeing a horse when they set the stables alight?"
Raze shook his head in disgust. "You shouldn't have been riding."
So kill the damn horse, he thought. He was about to yell the words. Growl them at his oldest friend. An entire debate formed on why he'd rather have carnal relations with a dead horse than spend another decade in this blood-forsaken household. His rage getting the better of him. Frustration drawing the memories faster than blood, so that instantly, the words dried in his throat. The sound of the crackling fire, the sight of Raze disappearing like a stone thrown upon water.
He was seeing it.
A memory. A sickness growing in his stomach like all the air had been punched out of him. The morning sun too bright for him to look upon. Out of the corner of his eye, he could hear Raze droning on…and on…about the next shift. Weylan would be accompanying him throughout the day. His time would be restricted between the study, the barracks, and the dining hall. Singe would require his presence in the lab at precisely twenty to midnight. Several appointments in the day and one in particular he should not forget.
An hour before sunset.
She would be waiting in his study. His perspective shifted. He could see himself through a mirror. Slouching in his chair, his boot on the edge of his desk. Picking at the dirt in the sole and ignoring Raze with a profound strength of will. His eyes glancing briefly over the agenda and then flipping the book shut. His evening activities holding less interest for him than the prospect of eight hours' slumber followed by an evening ride.
Swift like a torrent being sucked out of his lungs, the memory ended. His sight starting to waver. His throat tightening around bile. Betraying him before he could mask his scent. At some point, he had stumbled. His arm outstretched, reaching for the wall. He tried to take hold of something. Anything. His knee threatening to collapse on him. He had… He was…
His knee gave out. Forcing him to the ground as though the world had been thrust upon his back. He had forgotten it. The memory. The fact that he had seen it. Her name written down in the book. Sabine. She'd been asking to see him since they returned from the Gathering. He was trying to move his tongue. Like wood frayed with splinters.
Raze seemed to be pondering him. His thoughts merciless. Every word spoken with a bite. "Was it a fuck that called or did you simply forget that she was there?"
"Raze, I swear..." he said. He was on his knees. Blood, could the man not see he was on his knees? "...I swear I did not remember until now."
"And yet I told you yesterday morning. I tell you every morning. Your duties. Your hours. Your schedule for the next shift…" And for once, he seemed to be losing his reserve, jabbing his fist against his palm. "…how hard is it to listen?"
It hurt to listen. The words drilling into his head. He wanted to curl against the wall. Distantly aware that Raze was yelling at him. His fist striking the wall on occasion, punctuating his sentences. Weylan saw her waiting outside his study an hour before sunset, precisely on time. She was gone by the time he got back from the stables. No one could remember seeing her after that.
By the bloods, he wanted to retaliate. This was not his fault. Even if he had been there, she'd still have been a target. But he could not say it. Not without the pressure building. The skin of his forehead feeling hot and compressed between his hands. His nails wanting to grow…and grow…until his nails could break through the skin. Until his skull cracked and the red could seep down his fingers. "We can get her back, Raze. We will fix this..."
Raze bared his teeth before he could make the sounds. "You cannot fix this with words, Lucian."
"I will fix it," he snarled, his head jerking up in anger. The urge to defend himself rearing up before he could stop it. Conflicting with his shame, the guilt that kept him from looking Raze in the eye. His legs finally leaving him with no choice but to remain seated, leaning with his back against the wall. Pressing his thumb into his forehead now. Tired of this guilt when at the heart of it, all three of them knew what kind of person he was. How many times had he warned them?
He had told them. He was not a care-taker. He was a drug-addict. It was dangerous. Leaving her with him like this was some kind of experiment to see how responsible he could be with his own flesh and blood. He had fucking warned them.
"…how many hours has it been?"
He could hear four seconds of air being inhaled deeply. The anger still sitting on Raze's scent, but the gravity of the situation instigating his decision to answer. "Three and a half."
Making it four, they could easily be in London already. Closing his eyes and ears, he started working through the details again. Too sick to his stomach to do anything but think. Rena and Reinette in the east wing throughout the morning. Sabine waiting outside his study an hour before sundown. The fire starting at sundown. It still did not make sense how they could disappear, nor why Blackmarks would steal away Sabine. His mind taking him back to his desk, sifting through the information as he analyzed it.
"Leads?"
"None."
"Her scent."
"Gone." The lycan's eyes were slits. "Your Change made hers indistinguishable. The rest had evaporated by the time you finished clawing your way into the west wing."
Yes, thank you, Raze, I was looking for more guilt, he thought, pressing his thumb harder against his forehead. Think. Think. Think. "Grounds?"
"No sign of an escaping party." Smelling like he wanted to break something over his head, Raze pulled one of the wooden chairs over and sat in front of the bars. "The roads were clear. The forest. The river." He exhaled. "All of it clear."
"Catacombs?"
"Guarded since before the fire began and lacking in a Blood-scent." And judging by the way Raze said Blood, it was clear he still thought Reinette was dead. As though he was just waiting to shoot down every option, no matter how far-fetched. The catacombs representing the primary evacuation route for his den, and by that virtue, the least likely escape route for their enemies.
In short, it came down to ninety-seven souls with only a dozen exits. Two of them sealed, including the one leading to Reinette's lair. Each exit assigned to a guard, and each guard responsible for between eight and ten lycans, all of their scents familiar to him and each other. For the sake of their continued existence, all children under twelve were distributed equally among the escaping troops. It was the reason they were able to deduce that Sabine was missing so quickly.
No one could have slipped past.
"House?"
"Every sentry was at his post up until the fire." Raze had folded his arms. "Prior to that, two of them recall hearing a child crying on the upper floors, but they could not identity the voice. Only that it occurred in the East Wing and they were certain they saw Rena."
Another nail in her coffin, he realised.
"Do we have a name yet?" There was no need to clarify whose name was the object of this particular question. No doubt several parties would continue to lose sleep over that child's face. Stripped. Like she had been gnawed alive.
"Ginny Marsden."
He squinted, feeling stupid for the second time that evening. "Who?"
Raze sighed. Hard to break old habits. Like chaff in the wind, Lucian refused to remember anything mundane while Raze made it his mission. Of course the lycan had an answer. "Daughter of Grace Marsden," he said. "The mother worked as a scullery maid. Failed to report for work this morning. Missing for over a day now."
Just like the others. Mary Parker. Sarah Henderson. Ina Jacobsen.
Grace Marsden.
Ginny.
Something was rubbing the back of his ear wrong. "Presumed dead or traitorous."
"More likely dead. Can't see her killing her own child…" Raze was rubbing the back of his neck. Leaning his chair back with his boot against the bars. "…although I'll grant you, she was different, but not enough for a skinning."
"Define different."
It was the reason Raze had come down to the lowest floor of the den. The reason he was willing to report to someone he wanted to strangle six times out of ten. Banter. Conflict. They both needed the resolution that came from arguing. And despite whatever strangulation might be going on his brain, Raze always had his facts in a straight line.
"Grace Marsden worked here for two years, seven months, and twelve days…" His answer spoken out loud before he could remind himself that he might not be in the mood to satisfy what they both knew were some severely anal-retentive standards of time. "Average references. Military wife. Husband died in combat eight years ago. His name was clean…" Although by the grimace on the lycan's face, there was something not right about Grace Marsden's file.
Something that was clearly not up his alley.
Without referencing the subject of his query, Lucian folded his arms behind his head and said, "What?"
In answer, Raze massaged his jaw. No doubt fully aware that the word 'what' always meant 'Thank you for sharing that with me, Raze. I am curious about this thing you have said. Please explain yourself further so we might discuss it.' Still it was another fifteen seconds before the man answered.
"She smelled rotten."
Not unlike his leg, thought Lucian, still trying to avoid feeling anything below his torso. "Why?"
"Because she smelled clean at the same time," the man decided. And by the shake of his head, that was his final verdict and he had to stick with it. "Like a well-painted ship with a rotten keel." His eyes were brutal. Brooding on the fact. "I could never put my finger on why."
"Maybe because there's nothing to put a finger on," Lucian grunted.
The words sounding like a lament for more than just the smell of Grace Marsden. For he was failing to see the entire picture. Something that galled him more than the leg. From his position, with his eyes closed, he could see the broken evidence, the mess laid out by their enemies. The pieces that refused to match.Mary Parker, gone without a trace. Sarah Henderson, left outside the prisons and covered in lye. Ina Jacobsen, missing her eye…also presumed dead. And now Reinette, Rena, and Sabine.
It all seemed so random.
What was the thread connecting them all, he wondered, failing to notice that he had started using his arms to move evidence around on a table that no one but himself could see. "Ginny." He said again, snapping his fingers at Raze. "Why does that sound familiar?"
"I have no idea." Raze was staring at him with an intense, gritting stare, clearly at the end of his rope for dealing with someone who required special care, regardless of how deadly he was. Perhaps an understatement to say it had been a long five hundred years. The impasse of their conversation broken by the sound of approaching steps. Quieter than Aron and accompanied by a short cough every few meters.
Singe.
Allowing his arms to fall back on the ground, Lucian found himself eyeing the door with the kind of satisfaction that could only come from being able to yell an expletive at someone. He was going to ruin Singe, he decided. Slowly. Lots of mental pain.
The flames of his anger rising and then eventually leaving his head after the scientist came through the door. Like a mole that one had planned to eat, but which turned out to be doing strange things around the room that confused its attacker; enough that not only did one not eat the mole, but eventually, one began to listen to it. Much like their first meeting.
The bespectacled runt waved Aron aside, leaving the door behind him open and launching into his explanation, using two pieces of paper to punctuate his sentences. None of them seemed to find it strange that one of them was behind bars. As though it were perfectly normal for him to be sitting there with a bleeding piece of silver in his leg.
"It was not a child," Singe pronounced. Clearly expecting applause.
Not the words he had been expecting. Lucian squinted and then started picking at his leg. "What?"
Singe waved the papers again. "The cadaver," he said triumphantly, as though he had happened upon one of the most profound discoveries of his career. "It had a growth disorder," he said. And then he retracted. "She," he corrected. "She had a growth disorder." His excitement was causing him to ramble. "An anomaly…"
"Speak lycan, Singe."
"Here." Singe held up the papers so the two of them could see. Parchment really. The watermark of the Line Registry in the centre of both sheets. "Birth and death certificates for one Ginny Marsden. Registry #LG1029184467. She appears in two files."
"So?"
Singe looked over his spectacles. "You fail to appreciate the magnitude, old friend." He was reading from the papers now. "Her last name was not Marsden until 1861. According to the birth certificate, she was born on October 29 in the year of our Lord, 1844. The mother is listed as a fourteen-year-old scullery maid. Name unlisted." He waved the paper. "The child suffered from severe birth defects and was labelled 'stillborn.' Death certificate signed on the same day by one Charles Andreas…"
Lucian sat up on his knees.
"Finnegan," he yelled, at the same moment as Singe. Pointing at the man in a manner that called for a triumphant round of back-slapping as they both came to the same conclusion. That's why it sounded familiar.
Staford, McIlry, Douglas, and Finnegan. The last of the Blackmarks working with Christian. He could still see the lycan sneering across from him seven months ago. There's your culprit, Christian had said. Every upper-class bastard has a lower-class portrait hanging in the scullery. Gresden. Grinley. Something like that.
Not Gresden or Grinley.
Ginny.
The magnitude of this triumphant discovery short-lived as his damaged knee suddenly exploded with pain. His spine cracking in three places, forcing him to scream as he fell onto his back, writhing as the Change took him for a second time. His bones breaking and stretching beyond their capacity. The eyes of Raze and Singe watching with little comment as he began his second Change of the night. No longer confident whether the screams were in his head or his lungs. So much for taking part in the investigation.
o…o…o
Meanwhile...
Reinette was lost. Her eyes deceiving her as the earth turned left and then right and then again left. The labyrinth of catacombs making them climb and duck and climb again. The escape confusing her. Until without warning, they stood before an exit. Just as he had promised her. That tiny little hole in the wall, the one that had eluded her for months. Its existence hidden by a ceiling that was cracked, the entire surface looking as though it would fall right on top of anyone who dared to pass through it.
But when her eyes came closer to the crack, it became a carved illusion. A deterrent rather than a structural failure. Her head ducking as Kolya carried her through into a dead-end. A second deterrent. The dead-end hiding a gap above their heads where the the tunnel continued up and then down again, for it would seem lycans were paranoid about their escape routes. A people who preferred their lives locked and underground when given the choice. Only when they needed to climb did Kolya let her down again to walk.
Her feet tired as she found herself wishing for her bed. The familiarity of her chairs and the fire she had left burning in the grate. The cold something she could withstand as all vampires could; yet the warmth something she preferred now. Kolya's hands freezing on her wrists as he pulled her forward. The march proceeding for what seemed another hour. Perhaps two before the walls became brick. The air filled with heat and coal, stoked like the boiler of a train. The walls clanking like an army of hidden copper soldiers failing to pounce on their kidnappers.
Eventually, Kolya called for them to stop. The lycan-guide no longer necessary as he took the lead, finding his way through the maze with little effort. The lights all out and her eyes seeing shapes. He led them to a room where their kidnappers lit candles, the glow touching upon a small storage room filled with tools. A second length of rope was brought out and a pair of chairs were placed in the centre of the room. Their wrists untied and each of their hands and legs bound to a chair. She was told to be calm. Kolya kissing her on the forehead, promising to return in due time before leaving them with his lackeys.
The paunch-faced woman still sobbing into the butt of her hands. Rocking on her heels like a dog whining for its lost pup. The fingerless vampire grasping a bag to his chest, simultaneously muttering under his breath. Mopping his brow with a kerchief covered in grime. His sweating head towering far above hers, yet for all his height, he could not raise an eye to meet hers. The fact of this observation having led her to stare at him as soon as the door closed on Kolya's back. He was not Hrafn, she decided again, ignoring the voice of her Mentor. He could not be Hrafn. It was impossible.
"Mmwuh muhm…mmuhm."
The vampire glanced at her and then shook his head. Briefly and in a manner that still would not meet her gaze.
She demanded it again. "Mmwuh…muhm…mmuhm."
No answer.
Albeit gags were not the most communicative of devices, but even she could tell she was grasping at straws with this one. The knots too tight around her wrists and the guards too nervous to be reasonable. If she turned her head far enough, she could see Sabine. Her emotions again trying to grasp at straws as she tried to build a scent. Something a...not a beast. But a child could pick up on. Comfort. Hope. The possibility of scratching someone's eyes out with a nail, surely such thoughts would bolster the child. But could a lycan child even register a scent, she wondered. Her understanding of lycan physiology limited…and the lack of a response failing to give her a sign. Sabine's head slumped against the chair. Drool on her lip. Heart-wrenching, but not the most useful of strategies.
Time to move on.
She started shifting her chair back and then forward. Back and forth, attempting to knock her own chair over. At worst, she'd ended up with a bruise, and at best, the chair would break. The legs starting to tip over…and over…
…only to freeze in mid-air.
The blood starting to rush to her head as she saw a face hovering above her. The fingerless one. His eyes were green. His hair brown and nondescript. It was the first time he had looked at her. Sweating and grasping his forehead, he seemed to lose his nerve. Quickly, he pushed the chair back onto its legs and then backed away from her. Like a bear retreating from a porcupine, the grade of her impertinence seeming to alarm him. In fact, he looked terrified.
She narrowed an eye at him…and then started again. Shifting the chair back and forth. Just about to fall over until he caught it again. Looking at the door as though he expected it to open. When it did not, he picked up her chair and put her against the back wall so she could no longer fall in that direction.
Brute, she decided, latching her glare on him and starting to shift her chair sideways. It was a test. This time, she was dragged, chair and all, to the corner of the room. The test having less of an effect on her than this great bear of a man, who looked all the world like he was about to cry for having to come near her.Coward, she thought. Stinking of ale and sweat and…ashes.
Murderer.
She started drumming her boots against the floor. Kicking her heels at the wall. Raising her head to the ceiling and yelling through the gag. "Mmwuh muhm…mmwuuuhm!"
The brute caved. He knelt in front of her, so tall that they were to eye to eye. The smell of chicken-blood accompanying his every word. "Please," he whispered. He was using an old Russian dialect, rusted as though he had not spoken it in centuries. Taking his cap off before he realised he was not wearing one. "…please, lady, you must be quiet."
"Mwuoh," she retorted. She could barely understand the man.
"But he'll come back." The vampire pointed at the door. Looking at her as though she were crazy. "Do you want him to come back?"
If she could, she would have snapped her teeth at him. "Mwuh muhm." She jerked her head furiously towards Sabine. "Mwuh muhm muuhm?"
"At least she's still alive," he argued. His eyes were bloodshot, like he too had seen enough for the night. "You see that woman…he skinned her little one in front of her. You don't see her trying to run."
A little one.
A child.
With a muffled hiss of rage, Reinette started to kick again, but the bear caught her boots with his hands. The stubs of his fingers incapable of circling her ankles, but the pressure enough to hold them down. The very act of touching her seeming to make him more frightened than her. Murderers. Brutes. Villains.With every hiss, the brute seemed to shrink into himself as though he had caught a snake in his hands and did not know how to retreat from it.
He was looking behind him now. "Graace…" A short whine of a whisper. Waiting for the other guard to answer…and then switching to English. Asking her to help him. But like Sabine, the paunch-faced woman would not reply. Her grief inconsolable. The same blood-spatter marking her face. The only sane ones being the vampires at this point, and even that was debatable.
"Mmmphff," she said, calling for his attention again. Negotiation, she decided. Talk. Deliberately trying to lower her voice. As though anyone would hear her screaming in this hole.
The brute clamped his palms tighter upon her ankles and then turned to look at her in a panic. "I don't know what you're saying," he whispered.
She shook her head, trying to wriggle herself out of the gag. "Mmmphff," she said again.
"I can't," he said.
"Mmhmpff."
"I can't let you go," he cried. Wiping his forehead on his shoulder, and then with an unexpected jerk, raising one of his hands in front of her face. His voice strangled as though this was his nightmare as much as hers. "…and even if I could, why should I raise a finger to help you?" His fear growing wilder. His teeth starting to draw back as he pushed her jaw back and made her look at his hand. "I don't have any fingers," he cried. "Or don't you remember that?"
It was painful.
Her jaw wrenched back against her neck. Her eyes squeezed tight. She smelled alcohol and sweat on this man's skin. This man whom she'd never seen before in her life. Truly she had never… The thought became dust as her throat spasmed. Her chest rising into the gasp as she felt something rise up from beneath the darkness. A memory. Her breath staggering to a halt as she saw something in the dark. Her eyes closed, but the man's fingers splayed in front of her, for in the memory they were whole. The fingers twitching and moving.
It was his blood. It had to be his blood, she thought in a daze. A wayward drop of blood that had fallen on her tongue. Yet she knew her tongue was dry. That she was seeing not a vision, but a memory. Blurry in her mind's eye, she felt herself scrabbling on the ground, trying to turn back, trying to pull away from it.
But in the memory, she did not flee.
o…o…o
She had no reason to flee when she was not the prey. Their fingers entwined like lovers after dark. Bound with rope, twisted like the trunk of a poisonous old yew tree. He was her prey and she was his hunter. Not a hunter one would think twice to look upon. Her face hidden, her arms and legs wrapped in a plain woollen kirtle with a red shift underneath. A moonless night and the whole world grey save for that red kirtle. The seams and pleats, the itchy wool seeming to bother her more than his screams. His struggles like those of a fly, his bulky mass fruitlessly screaming for her to stop until he became quiet. The silence disturbing her more than the sound. She was not glad he was quiet. So she waited.
Waited for him to wake up. Waited for his eyes to flutter open again, so she could carve away at his nails, his skin, and his bone. Slice so he would scream until she was finished. Only then sweeping his fingers off the stump. One by one. The first hand and then the second. Until they were all gone. Even then, his voice pleading with her, begging her to let him go. But the memory would not let her. Not when she had so many tools at hand.
And Hrafn had promised her she could take her time with him.
o…o…o
Unwittingly, she screamed, trying to pull her hands back, only to realize they were tied. Her screams muffled. The past still deafening her ears, while the present stood silent before her. Judgment. The memory fading as she came to herself with a gasp. Her chest starting to constrict, leaving no room for her lungs to breathe. Her head growing light. The gag tasting sweeter than the blood dripping from her nose.
He must have hit her.
The gleam in his eyes causing her to expect the worst. A knife. Or a rope. Even a bar across the head. Yet the seconds passed and still nothing happened. The bear looking afraid and uncertain about her response…and then hating her as he buried his ruined hands into his armpits. "Rot in hell," he whispered. Seeming about to say more and then backing away, leaving the matter like a canker on his tongue. The prey thinking to confront his worst nightmare, only to find she was gone. Dead.
Her eyes started to sting, first making her angry. It was a true memory. A piece of her past, it should hurt no more than the memory of her Mentor. It was proof of herself. Her true self. A time when she had been strong. Efficient. Cruel. It was… starting to fall apart. Her vision growing blurry. Starting to doubt herself. Starting to question how she could have gone from her Mentor's counsel to following the ways of a monster.
She would never have… How could she have… But there was no answer that she could give, either to herself, the hunter or to her captor, the prey. No way of telling him that she was lost. That she had no memory of this past. That she was sorry. That she was different. But then how different could she really be, she wondered. Her memories foundered, but her instincts betraying her. The moments when she could have acted differently but chose not to.
In Paris, knowing within seconds that Kolya was a blood-masker. An innocent that could dream while he killed. His blood forever sweet and pure, the worst of his memories translating as sorrow and pity rather than cruelty. The kind of creature that killed with a smile, believing that his actions were good. She had had months to tell someone. Dozens of times when she could have raised the point. Saved Lucian the trouble. Her decision to remain silent representing less of a decision than a simple fact: she had not cared.
If Kolya had killed all the exiles under the sun, she would not have cared unless he turned on her; and if they in turn had killed him, she still would not have cared. Her thoughts more concerned with herself. Her captivity. Her youth. Self before others. That was what her past had taught her.
Yet how many times had Lucian mentioned that there was a murderer on the loose? How many times had she flitted about the subject like a crow, confident that for once, she knew something that he did not. Never once considering that her silence might have an effect that she would feel. Seeing that woman burned alive. Knowing that Rena might have been hurt. That a child had been murdered.
Things that would not have fazed her in the centuries of her past. And yet it was her past that made her thoughts come to a shameful halt as she looked upon Sabine for a second time. The innocent who had wanted nothing more but to give her a gift. The child's face covered in blood for the sake of her choices. Choices that made her want to sink below the ropes that held her.
The truth of her character.
An exile that had survived a thousand years by being cruel. Able to watch everyone she cared about be murdered…and then join the murderer for the sake of her own survival. Her fate undeserving of love, underserving of happiness for she was a monster. An animal. Worse than Lucian could ever imagine, though she hoped to blood he would never find out.
o…o…o
Back in the lycan den…
This was what hell was. Waiting. By the time Lucian woke up, Raze and Singe had gone. The kinder one of them having left his pocket-watch on the table outside his cell. By his estimation, the Changes were passing quicker. The wood still burning in the fireplace. His head burning and freezing at the same time, while his stomach curdled on emptiness. His understanding of the cycle starting to become more precise. Every four hours. He was changing every four hours. Blood, he needed to get out of here.
On occasion, Aron would open the guard-hole and give him news. Still missing. No new leads. Perimeter still clean. Countless times throughout history when he had been sequestered, unable to act or search. Yet by far this was the most difficult. Not just a merge or a lost shipment. His obsessions drawing him into a web of regret. Calculating the odds of finding them while picking apart the details. Trying to see the angle he might have missed.
The angle proving itself dull as he began to imagine different ways to get the bullet out of his leg. Most of his attempts requiring a knife or an axe of some sort. The withdrawal making him tired. Weak. Cold. His skin shivering to the extent that he was forced to take residence under a thick blanket in the corner of the cell. Staring at the watch, thinking of what he would do to the next fool that tried to leave him food. The brutality of his imagination forced to check itself when the door opened and Bess entered the room. Or Mrs. Fulligan he should say. His desire to cleave someone's head open with an axe just failing to extend to his housekeeper.
She held a tray in her hands. Her dress changed and her face clean. Dignified in the face of tragedy, as though the fire and the loss had never happened. Her scent filled with a quiet tranquility like a river passing over stone. Washing the hardness until it became smooth.
Mrs. Fulligan nodded for Aron to close the door behind her. The guard proceeding to close the door, but continuing to look suspiciously through the iron window. He need not have worried. She was fearless. Unshaken by the sight of a former lover at his worst, unflinching as she approached the bars. Her eyes rimmed from a sleepless night, and her duties to a household in chaos.
Balancing the tray, she passed a glance over the cell and then lowered her eyes. "You've not eaten, sir."
"Not hungry," he replied. A little more curtly than he should have. He was more to blame than her, but she had another thing coming if she thought he was going to sup.
"Please sir." This time she approached the bars, lowering both herself and the tray to the ground. The tray pushed close to the bars and the shadow of her dress blocking the sight. Her voice maintaining its decorum. "You should eat."
"Still not hungry."
"Sir…" Her name should have been constance. "Eat." Her voice speaking gently, but her eyes starting to harden. Warning him as she had done, thirty-seven years ago; the night she had seen him Change during an attack. Only now she was older, and there was no shock. Only an intense desire for him to take something from her.
Take.
Her presence finally taking on meaning. Daring to hope, with the blanket over his shoulders, he pulled himself closer to the bars. The room feeling too hot now. His hands weak and filled with tremors as he pulled the tray through the small horizontal opening at the foot of the cage. The plate holding four cuts of venison. The meat turned over to reveal a precious cargo stained with blood.
Laudanum.
Bless her, she had brought him laudanum. Barely passing his eyes over the door, he dug the glass vials out with his nail, hiding both within his fist and then beneath the blanket, so there would be no sign left for the guard. Seeming to eat the meal with only the curtest of words. One-handed with the blood dripping down his throat. And still she did not flinch. Even though she smelled of pain and sorrow and guilt. The desire to speak freely finally drawing him out. Words that even the guard could not hear…
'How goes the hunt,' he signed. Keeping his hand low and hidden from the door. Thank blood she was facing him for as usual, she could not hide her thoughts.
'Poor,' she replied. Rare to teach a mortal their signs, but Elizabeth Fulligan was a rare mortal among his peers. The words hurting her fingers for they were too old now to sign as quickly as they once did. 'Raze follows procedure,' she said with her hand. 'Rules of curfew and safety. They have a trail, but cannot hunt in the open.'
'What trail,' he asked. Wiping his mouth against his shoulder, hardly tasting the food as it went down his throat. He could have been eating hawk and it would have tasted like saw-dust.
Through the bars, Bess' hands were still. Trying to come up with the words. Spelling out the name 'Grace.' Her brow darkening and her eyes stricken with hatred before she continued. Mistakes in her sign-language, though he understood what she meant. 'They looked for her at the Registry, but the search was halted.'
'Why?' He was having trouble holding himself back from the bars. Desperate for news, desperate for some understanding of what the hell was going on upstairs. He could always count on Bess for keeping her eyes and ears open to the lay of the land.
There was a pause as she again tried to think of the words. 'Raze sent word to the council,' she signed. 'They used…a rule…to take charge.' The sign was hesitant as though she had seen the sign but never used it. 'They say the hunt will…make not safe…the den. All hunts have been halted. They are in meeting. Now.'
He swore under his breath and then answered her question. 'They are using a horde rule to take charge over the den.' He showed her the sign for it. 'Temporary right of oligarchy.'
His explanation avoiding the finer details: That it was a rule that could be enforced upon any leader who was 'non compos mentis,' that is to say, 'not of sound mind.' Damn Raze for contacting Allegra. She would vote for a hunt, but she was a fool to think the investors would risk drawing the attention of the coven for the sake of a single child. Especially in the year before an assassination attempt.
He needed to get out of here. Now.
With his voice, he asked if Mrs. Fulligan had brought salt. His manner blunt as though he found her presence irritating. With her own, Mrs. Fulligan answered that she was only allowed to bring the meat, sir, and that she was sorry for the inconvenience, sir. He expressed his disgust over this fact and continued to eat, wary of Aron's face still watching through the hole. The key attached to the guard's neck. It was a vacant hope. Do you have the key, he asked.
Mrs. Fulligan kept her head still. Her eyes still lowered to where his hands were signing. 'No,' she replied. 'Weylan is outside. He plans to hunt for Sabine. He will wait for you to escape. Thirty minutes.'
Thirty minutes, he thought with a bitter laugh. First a charge of non compos mentis, and now a direct contravention of curfew and safety, not to mention, he was sporting a silver bullet in his leg. If they ever made it back alive, at least he would have company in his cell.
He exhaled, chewing the last bit of saw-dust. The four pieces of venison that he'd managed to eat without noticing. Trying to plan how the hell this was going to work. He glanced down at the bleeding hole in his leg and then signed the question to her. 'Does he have forceps?'
'No.'
He scowled. 'Well then how the hell…'
Before he could finish the expletive, Mrs. Fulligan raised a sharp eye that spoke for itself. Stern in her judgment of the situation. As though he had just complained to her that he was having trouble getting blood out of a white shirt and by the by, would she mind heating up his dinner for a second time. In other words, save it for someone who cares.
With a roll of his eyes, his hands tapered off. His manner sullen but no longer trying to dispute the undeniable fact that their roles had just changed. A few years shy of seven hundred, he had four dozen British soldiers at his beck and call, and the only woman that could give him orders was his mortal housekeeper. Even Allegra failed to have such power.
He took a deep breath. 'Thirty minutes,' he agreed, pushing the tray back towards her with no sound other than an expletive.
'Thirty minutes,' she signed again, taking the tray from him. Her frown patient, but fading for she worried over his actions. '…and bring her back, Luka.' Her last signs woven with her right hand held low to her dress. 'Please bring her back.'
Her final plea invisible to the guard though her scent spoke of her worries. The weight she felt on her shoulders as she pulled herself unsteadily to her feet, using the bars for stability and turning for the door with a heavy sigh. Every grey hair in place, while the den fell to pieces. The loss of a child something that none of them could stomach. The desire to comfort her making him call out before she left.
"Mrs. Fulligan."
She turned. "Yes, sir?"
He wanted to reach out to her. At that moment, more than any other. "Thank you."
"You're welcome, sir." was all she could say to him. Turning away from him and unfazed by the prying eyes of Aron. The aurochs unlocking the door, standing back so she could pass and then bowing his head once towards the cage before closing the door. The bow making him scoff. Never let it be said that the lycan den did not treat its highest ranking prisoners with respect, he thought, uncapping both the glass vials and upending them over his mouth. Sweet…bitter…laudanum.
The vials empty and the glass thrown in the fire. It hardly mattered if they found it for there was no way to remove what had been swallowed. His hand shaking as he lowered himself onto his side. Curling up to wait for his blood to catch up. The dose already making his head start to spin, for he had drunk more than he should have. His heart liable to stop at this rate. But there was no time. He needed the control back. He needed to know himself. His veins, his skin, his drug. He needed it all back so he could escape in thirty minutes. Through the silver bars. Through the iron door. Past Aron the aurochs and out the corridor.
Simple, he thought.
Now all he needed to do was get this fucking silver bullet out of his leg.
A/N 28 September 2013:Made a dialogue addition to the chapter to make it clearer that the catacombs also serve as the main escape route for the den in the event of a fire. (Thanks to icecoatedsha for wondering out loud why no one was sniffing in the catacombs — because you are completely right! Although I had mentioned that the lycans were poised to evacuate in the previous chapter, I made no mention that it was the catacombs that they would be using to evacuate. Shame on Lucian for not discussing this topic with Raze! ;))
A/N: That took way longer to write than expected. It was actually ready on the weekend, but I haven't had a chance to sit down and post it. Sorry! :) Anyway, many thanks for all the reviews, story alerts, and favourites from gothic mermaid, Naturally Nocturnal, DeanWinchestersFanGirl, Sinedra, NeverEndingNights, kiki80, Harlequiin, Sleepyreader319, Dovack, jenni10121, rukoitalian65, ' , IgnitingFireworks, OMGItsA, Something-Or-Other7, dreamgirllivi, and you-animal. As always, feel free to read and review because it honestly does help me write faster.
gothic mermaid: Indeed, I am back! I'll try and update more often, especially if it makes your day. (It typically makes my day too because it means I can finally go to bed since I update so late at night! ;))
Naturally Nocturnal: I've wanted to reply to this review for an entire month. My brain was overwhelmed when you said you named your wolf Lucian and your raven Reinette. I had a brain-gasm. I am not joking. It made my day to hear that. Even if no one notices the reference, it felt wonderful knowing that there is a digital homage to the characters wandering through Guild Wars 2. _
DeanWinchestersFanGirl (Re: Chapter 16): Glad you liked it! :)
Sinedra: I feel honoured when people review stuff! It means they're taking time out of their schedule, and for me, that's awesome. Also I just realised I have not addressed whether Rena is dead or alive in this chapter, so you're going to have to worry about her a little bit longer. Speaking of Raze, you can tell his patience is wearing painfully thin what with the silver bullet he shot in Lucian's leg, and as for Allegra, I will give you a hint and say that neither Raze nor Lucian would want to be on the other side of her temper after finding out Sabine is gone. (I think she'll forgive the bullet in the Raze's leg though ;))
NeverEndingNights: Things are definitely starting to move, although for me, I've already written some of the REALLY BIG chapters that I'm building up, so I already got to read all the exciting parts that make me go "WOAH-LY-SHIT!" ;D Same here about Selene...I like her, but...OOOooo Lucian had me at hello. Ever since he said "You don't think or you don't know?" to Raze. Glad you're enjoying the myth references (we share a love of Persephone) and geeking out would be totally fun, but then I wouldn't be able to share my stories anymore! (There it is: the truth. I never let anyone I know in real life read my stories and that includes my poor partner/boyfriend who has to hear things like "Shoo, I'm writing" but never gets to read any of my writing. :))
kiki80: I updated! Finally! :D
Harlequiin: Awww, thanks. I'm blushing. _
Sleepyreader319: Yaay! I updated soon! Two days after you asked. That has to be a new record.