10 July 2015

There have been minor updates to the end of the chapter.

Chapter LVI: Beasts of the Chase

24th of April, 1900. Forty-six minutes later.

As much as he was able, Raze was in full control of the London Den. Though the world had become chaotic: the den infiltrated by a traitorous Blackmark. The stables burnt. Sabine gone. A child murdered. Rena on the run. The blood-seer dead. The scent cold. And for the sake of them all, their leader confined to the Change Quarters for what had to be one of the most ill-timed withdrawals in history…

…though all this had happened and more, Raze had decided, or rather, he knew in his stoic and constant heart that life must continue. That the sun must rise and the mortals that surrounded them must believe that life had not changed in the Kerr house. Only that a lamp had fallen. Eight horses dead and the Master of Kerr choosing to spend the next fortnight in London until the repairs were in full swing.

At that exact moment, Weylan would be making the rounds downstairs, answering the door as the first footman when the gentry came calling. There would be servants scrubbing the floors and beating the carpets. Men clearing out the wreckage of an accident. Despite the constant need for meat, Henry Fulligan and his stable-hands would be disposing of the horse carcasses. The only sign of anything truly amiss lying in the absence of Alexander Kerr. But then how could anyone expect a true gentleman to linger in such squalor?

Yes, indeed, his lordship had been out riding the previous afternoon, but thank the Lord, his lordship was not hurt by the fire. So many lies they had grown used to telling.

It was a different story beneath the polished marble. The Lycan Council, so recently in the Gathering chambers, had taken charge at precisely zero two hundred hours. All hunts had been stopped. All unnecessary actions that could endanger the horde had been halted. All lycans registered in the London den were now legally obliged to check in with the roll-call every twelve hours. Rules of curfew and safety were enforced on a twenty-four hour cycle. From this moment forward, all Line travel and messages were being curtailed.

And Lucian…

…thanks to scorning his one chance at getting to the safe-house, Lucian had been temporarily released from his duties. Temporarily, they said…and yet, thanks to the murder of that lycan child—or oddity he should say—one could only wonder how long this next 'house arrest' would last before the horde again decided they needed his expertise for the constant war. How long their den would be under official review before they were released from the council's clutches.

This was the chaos that had kept Raze from sleeping the previous night. The chaos that had led him first to contact Allegra and then, to the one place where he could think after the council took charge. The sun coming up. The walls of Lucian's study bathed in a rising glow that few beyond a single person were able to witness. Because by all accounts, when Lucian was not in this study, Raze was in this study.

Odd that he should have to now share it with Aron, considering that Aron should be downstairs, guarding Lucian. Odd that Aron should be sitting in the leather chair across from him, unable to twiddle his broken thumbs because he was too busy holding the two halves of his face together.

It was a bleeding ruin. Like a masterpiece, a Vermeer that had been smudged with turpentine. One of the boy's eyes was squinted shut, and the other providing just enough blue to match his remaining hair, now more red than blonde. His uniform had been slashed. His shirt was lacking its upper half, possibly the result of one of his arms being dislocated. Or perhaps because his back had been shoved against a set of…four, five…no, six silver bars for the length of time necessary to leave an imprint. Suffice it to say, the key around his neck was missing.

To an outsider, it would seem at this moment that Aron could sense his presence was not welcome. That the missing key was a wrong that could not easily be righted. So Aron tried to speak.

But Raze raised his hand.

Not yet, he thought.

Because Raze liked to think on things. He liked to ponder and dwell upon the sights around him. In another lifetime, he might have been a philosopher. An astronomer. A great thinker like his father. His life taking him instead down the path of traveller…and then a warrior…and now…a guardian. The absence of the missing key and the sight of this ruined apprentice of guardians causing him to question why he even bothered anymore.

Why he bothered to train guards in matters of strength, intelligence, and resolve when the creature they were guarding was…

…unguardable.

His use of the word based on experience, history, and of course, the simple matter of statistics. Out of the four dozen personal guards recruited in the last hundred years, Aron had been the only one who had volunteered. His record impeccable, his strength indomitable, and his brain to a certain extent having the audacity to match his physique. Or one would have thought so prior to leaving him alone in a room with Lucian.

A man who used to take part in the training process, until it became brutally obvious that he was leaving significant scars on the minds, bodies, and souls of his victims. A fact that Lucian might have cared to notice if he had not been so busy walking away.

Not unlike the first time he walked out of a house arrest. Two hours after it started—and only an hour after he started maiming people.

Nor the last time. Thirty-six hours after it started—and only eight hours after he began describing to his guard in detail the kind of pain he was going to inflict, not on his guard, but on his guard's family the moment they all came of age. His description going so far as to include the kind of blade he would choose depending on factors such as weight, height, and the amount of loyalty they showed to their paternal heritage.

All things considered, the council had been remarkably understanding. The den had been relieved of all financial damages. Lucian had been forced to pay for the man's transfer…and that of his entire family. All three generations of them. An act which ought to have been painless, but which again, ended up being described, even as he signed the document, as 'a charge of complete and utter horseshit' before he again walked away.

Raze pulled his claws from out of the desk. "Has he left already?"

"Yes, sir." Aron could no longer hold his head straight, but he saluted with his voice. His accent hunkering down into his roots, despite learning English from a chorus of British soldiers. "…he said to give you this, sir."

Even with his elbows resting on the chair, Aron's fingers were shaking. The skin starting to pucker and hiss until he could no longer stand to hold what Lucian had pressed into his hand. The silver catching the morning light as the bullet fell like a dead weight, leaving blood on the desk.

Raze inhaled, pushing himself up from the chest and standing at his full capacity. He towered over Aron and then leaned forward. "How?"

Aron lowered his eye. Every soldier and officer forced to defend himself when a higher party decided to assign blame where it was due. The scent of shame wafting from his side of the desk. "I was not in the room when it happened, sir."

"Are you saying the cage unlocked itself?"

"No, sir." Under all the red, his skin was showing the pallor of sweat. "I…entered the Change Quarters. He was on the other side of the cage. He wanted…he asked for water, sir."

Water.

Raze felt his teeth starting to curve. "And you obliged him?"

Aron frowned into his beard. He was starting to hold his dislocated arm closer. Like a great hound after failing in its first dog-fight. Six feet tall…and beaten within an inch of his life by a five foot ten lycan who had been too weak to walk only three hours ago…

…and in his mind Raze could see it.

He could see the roles these characters would play. Lucian on the floor. Sweat-stained, smelling of bile and blood and smoke from the fire behind him. Foul was the word that accompanied such Changes. Foul and pitiful as the body fought against its nature. He would ask for water. He would reach a hand out…and for the green behind his ears, Aron would fail to see the danger.

What danger, Aron would think. The lycan-master on his back, his eyes dull, his skin pallid, yet in a moment. In that single, careless moment when Aron reached his hand forward to place the cup near the bars…not even through the bars, but near…that was when he would strike.

Using the wall behind him like a second floor, darting not beside, but through the centre of Aron's gaze. The speed causing his victim to hesitate. The smell making him freeze. The acrid smell of death sweeping upon him, latching its teeth, its nails, its iron grip on something. Anything. Once he got a hold, the game was done. Like a mastiff. His eyes unnaturally still, watching their lives turn to smoke like a light on the end of a candle.

So many words and passages describing his 'scent,' yet at the heart of it, only those who were 'close' to him knew what it meant. Harbinger of death. Raised by his enemies and trained to kill. He knew every weakness. Every point in their anatomy that could break. Even Allegra did not know the worst of it.

But that still did not explain how.

How he could move so fast when there was silver in his knee. How he could take out the silver so he could move so fast. Taking a moment to rummage through the mess, Raze found the item he was looking for. Hardly worth his notice save for its scent. Something they had retrieved from the balcony of the East Wing in the aftermath. Its presence uncanny. The ink bottle shattered, but the cork only scratched…and more importantly, still containing traces of that singular drug that should have been eradicated from this household. Like battling a hydra, every head they destroyed bleeding into another battle.

Trying to contain his volume, Raze came around from the desk and held the cork out. "When he attacked you, did the lycan-master smell like this?"

Despite only having a quarter of his face to show his emotions, Aron and his beard looked confused by this request. But a superior was a superior. So he leaned forward to sniff. Perhaps for the recent memory, his nose flinched and when he raised his face, it was not his black-eye that was making him squint this time."Does he not always smell like this, sir?"

"No, Aron," said Raze. "At one point in history, the lycan-master did not smell like this." Though it had been over forty years since that time. Impatient, he again waved the ink cover under the lycan's nose. "…when did it start?"

Again, Aron took a deep but cautious sniff of the underlying scent markers. Bitter. Floral. Easier for lycans to remember a scent than a visual. Closing his eyes, the guard remained still. Working the smell through. Pinpointing the scent among his memories. "He dined, sir."

"Dined on what?"

"Veal." For all of his determination, Aron was finally looking tired from his wounds. "From Mrs. Fulligan."

Bull's eye.

"Thank you, Aron." With a grimace that still could not bring itself to hate the hand that fed, Raze flicked the ink cork back onto the desk and then nodded at the soldier. "Dismissed."

Aron ducked his head and then pulled himself to his feet, ambling towards the door like a golden statue that had become a clay golem without a head. Only just able to turn the handle with fingers that would require a significant healing time. Another creation broken on Lucian's path through the shadows. Something Raze hated and admired at the same time. The survival instinct. The drive that had kept their pack alive even in the harshest of war zones.

Even in the worst of scenarios.

Sabine missing and none of them wishing to admit the possibility of her death. Allegra so incensed by the news that she had immediately called the council on them. A fact that would not go unnoticed by Lucian; not even if they found Sabine and won the war. A fact that he would hold against her until Raze doused that fire. For at the heart of it, they were his family. His brother-in-arms, his counsellor wife...

…and the missing one.

Sabine, the only pawn in this game that could cause Raze to put his hands together with an air of acceptance. An air that understood what needed to come next. The anger he had felt towards Lucian paltry compared to his rage at the council's decision to call off the hunt for Sabine.

Rena he could leave to the dogs. Reinette did not even exist in his mind, whatever Lucian might say about her kidnapping. But Sabine…Sabine he had guarded in the past. Sabine he had carried on his shoulders. Even in the days when Lucian still refuted her existence, in secret, he had visited the lycan carehouse. Watched her grow and fight and snap her teeth in that hell-hole. She was his god-daughter, he would never leave her behind…and to hell with anyone that told him otherwise.

A sheet of parchment in his hand, Raze reached for ink and a pen, choosing his words and then arranging them into a suitable document signed and blotted before he let it fall to the desk. Hardly the most significant of actions until one noticed that as of that moment, Raze had temporarily resigned from his post, thereby leaving Singe in charge of the den.

An act that Raze suspected would go unnoticed until the lycan council decided to converse with an unimpressionable runt who failed to see the point of politics. If they were not careful, within an hour, he would have them sterilizing themselves beside his operating table. Exasperated disdain one of his strengths, while the rest of them were forced to use their noses. Their claws. Soldiering on as they pursued the only lead that still remained.

The Lycan Registry. Before the council called off the hunt, they had pulled the files on Ginny Marsden…or Ginny Finnegan, he should say.

But it was Grace Marsden he wished to hunt. Her London connections. Her past before she came to the Kerr Household. Like a spider waiting in the corridors, she had bided her time in the scullery, waiting for a moment to strike…and then leaving the house in chaos. One of her Blackmarks setting the fire, while she burned the blood-seer. Leaving her daughter dead and taking another in her place.

But then who in the blazing hells killed Ginny Marsden? The tale turning and changing every time he tried to make sense of it. The culprit changing from Grace to Rena and then double-crossing itself so that Grace became the culprit again. Rena setting the fire. Rena murdering Ginny…and Grace striking Rena across the head in retaliation. The rain leaving him without a scent, so that all he had left was the knowledge of their disappearance.

The understanding that this house was holding a secret. A passageway that could allow their enemies to escape without setting foot outside of the house. The blueprints showing every entrance and tunnel, but failing to give him an idea of how the scum of the earth managed to infiltrate this house. Failing to show anything older than 1781. Failing to show the corridors built by any of the past owners: Goar, Morrigan, Sabas…even Xristos had been an owner during one decade or another.

For that was the lycan way.

Communal owners of their dwelling. Communal living for the creatures who hid in the daylight. Always thinking their doors were locked until it turned out the whole world had the key. For all they knew, any number of secret entrances might still exist beneath their noses. Escape tunnels and spy holes that had been burned from memory along with the blueprints of this house. His sense of security dissolving like ghosts passing in and out of the walls, like the perpetrators who had disappeared without a trace.

So with the light burning on his face, Raze shut the drapes of the lycan-master's study and turned his back on the sun. He would leave no stone unturned. No bridge unburned until Sabine was returned to these walls. They would hunt and they would track…and they would kill until the smallest among them was safe.

So it had always been. So it would always be.

o…o…o

Meanwhile.

Eighteen miles from the London den.

With his neck embroidered by dirt, roots, and what appeared to be someone's pelvic bone, Lucian, the most ruthless and powerful leader ever to escape the lycan Change Quarters, was lying on his backside in a stone tunnel, contemplating his humanity. Not because he had a brand-spanking new conscience per se, but more so, because the old one seemed to be following him everywhere. In the space of forty-eight hours, he had lost…things. People. Sabine sitting on the top of his list. Rena sitting below Sabine in theory…and Reinette…

…Reinette he could not place.

Not yet.

Not while Sabine was out there, and certainly not while his conscience was having difficulty sorting out his priorities. His issue lying in the fact that technically he ought to care more about finding the first two…not the third. They were his people. They were his kin. They were lycans. Whereas a bloodseer was a political pawn. An extravagance in this field of war. His brain already deciphering that this might be the reason Reinette was kidnapped in the first place. His mind wanting to track, to find, to hunt for that…thing…that had been taken from him. That thing he had put time and effort into…that thing that he had seen burnt to a crisp…only to see a glimmer of hope.

That poisonous venom that had cheated him for so many years. The possibility of life. The chance to undo what he had done. The chance to save that which he had lost. The blunt truth being that he wanted her back. Not for her political intrigue, not for her person, not even because he cared…

…he simply wanted her to live.

Live where death had failed. Live for a moment. Just this once. Just long enough for him to snuff the life out of her if he found out she had anything to do with Sabine's kidnapping. It was true that this might have exacerbated his decision to carve his nails through Aron's scalp. True that he had shoved his guard's face against the wall sixteen times, breaking his jaw in two places and then dislocating one of his arms.

And yet there was such a thing as comeuppance. Because why else would he be lying here, clenching his teeth over an already-damaged knee, which had literally snapped in two no more than twenty-two minutes into their run. One quarter of the way to the Lycan Registry and three quarters away from losing his ability to not scream in front of one of his closest advisors.

Weylan seeming already too busy to notice the lack of speech that often preceded such moments. The medical kit sitting in the dirt beside them as he worked. The bone already starting to knit, but the marrow as yet unwilling to re-form properly. And let it never be said that lycans could not be graceful under pressure.

With an unnecessary flourish, Weylan tied the last knot. "I am confident that the binding will hold, sir…" He held out an arm. "Can you stand, sir?"

What…the hell…do you think, Lucian almost barked. The words repeating in his brain, over and over in his brain. He wanted to break every syllable, less angry at Weylan than the fact that he was still limping. Testing the muscle and then prodding the knee with a wince.

"Sir?"

With a grimace, Lucian shook his head and raised his hand. Not now. Forcing himself to rise to his good knee, he ignored Weylan and locked his shoulder against the side of the tunnel. Breathing between his teeth and then standing on the injured leg. Apparently just so he could throw up his last meal. Chunks of veal floating in a pool of vomit and blood. Bloods, but he hoped the laudanum was still in his system. His ears choosing to ignore the lycan's question as to whether he was 'alright' or not.

The answer being 'no.'

But his mouth deciding it would rather be damned than admit his abdomen was cramping, his stomach was nauseated, and if the symptoms were what he thought they were, then he was still suffering from a severe opium withdrawal. Which would be just fine if his uncontrolled symptoms didn't have the capacity to turn him into a blood-thirsty lycanthrope from hell, who also happened to have a shoddy knee.

He got up.

Breathing into his palms. Controlling the pain. He was in control of his pain. Ten seconds, twenty seconds…and then he shook out his shoulders. Ready. He was ready for this. He could do this. He was in control. It was not the laudanum in his veins…it was him.

Across from him, Weylan was starting to look concerned. Clearly about to ask again over his master's condition, but then choosing the more appropriate action of not getting his head torn off by commenting. He offered one of the water flasks and nodded towards the tunnels. "Which way, sir?"

Which way.

Ignoring the inner voice that ticked, Lucian took a swig of the water and then spat. Nothing like the taste of blood-riddled vomit on his tongue.

"Left."

The turns going left and right, up and down until thirty-eight minutes later, they had arrived at their destination: the Lycan Registry. The only resource left to them for they were hunting blind without a scent. The fate of Sabine, Rena, and Reinette resting on this faint connection they had found…this Grace Marsden whose blood was as a black as Charles Finnegan. The faster they could get inside the Registry, the faster they could find a lead…a source…or even a location. The odds of finding any of that information just about on par with finding a cornish hen with wolf's teeth. He knew it…and Weylan knew it.

o…o…o

Deep below ground.

In a tunnel far far away...

Reinette heaved a sigh. She was slumped in her chair, contemplating whether she wanted to be found or not. Her chances of survival slightly higher with Kolya given that he had not murdered her yet. Whereas she was quite certain that Lucian—in his werewolf form no less—would be 'quite happy' to disembowel her after licking the blood off Sabine's face.

It was not a comforting thought. Naturally she dwelled on it. Dejected. Miserable. It could have been an hour or three that passed, the darkness of now reminding her of that first night on the ship. Watching Lucian sleep as she picked through his things, searching for a sign of his madness. Her surroundings unknown and her fate yet to be determined. Her hands facing the walls, hidden from her captors. The mad lycan-woman who would not sleep and the finger-less vampire who would not look at her.

Only Sabine could see her struggles. The child passively watching her work at the ropes while she in turn tried to ignore the child. Willing herself to forget what she had done. Forget the smell of saffron. The peace that could be found in rose petals and citrus floating in hot water. The clamour of the walls around them giving her some cover as she scratched and picked at the binding.

Her wrists starting to burn by the time the first knot came undone. The initial shock quickly tempered in the face of doubt. Wary of her own smell, she continued to slouch, keeping her hands hidden behind her dress. Unwinding the rope and then easing the second binding from her wrist, holding it tight between her fists. Free. Scanning the room for something she could use. It was an impossible situation. Even with surprise on her side, they were still larger than her. Her shoulders stiff. Her aged fingers shaking on the rope.

The thought causing her to hesitate. Her first night of waking still fresh in her mind, reminding her of how useless she had been. How Lucian had reached the door in a hundredth of a second. The thought drawing a crease on her brow as she considered her chances. Her strength limited. Her speed guaranteed to be less than her captors…

Even so.

She was a night-walker. A blood-seer. She could fall from a great height and land without a sound. Blend with the footsteps of her prey. Forget that her body was weak and decrepit. Forget that she was not a monster, a lady of blood tracking her victims, silent on her feet, in a world that moved faster than humans. A world that killed in the dark.

Her breath seemed to dry up, her heart beating slowly. With precision, she scanned the room for what she had already registered. The bare minimum for weaponry. Rope. Blood-rations. The bag. The knife in his belt. Categorising every item. An untapped portion of her mind shaping her path, seeing his tracks in the dust and knowing that his gait leaned to one side. Seeing the possibilities. The angle of the knife. Its potential for gutting. Slicing. Killing.

Embrace it, she thought. Embrace this dance of death. The pace of her surroundings slowing to a death march. Her guards following their routine like marionettes in a doll's house. The first step as the one bowed, moaning pitifully into her hands. The second as the other hobbled on his hind legs, turning in his pacing, his back towards her. Waiting for the cue when she could rise, letting the rope fall to the floor. So long since she had hungered for death.

First the one. Her movements hidden by the clanking of the room. Her steps imperceptible as she stepped up behind him, reaching idly for the blade at his side, the hilt carved out of maple, showing the four winds of the earth. Matching her steps with his shadow, sliding the knife from his belt, and in the same dance, abruptly twisting on her heel, stabbing it upwards through his brain.

He stilled.

She waited…a count of two for his eyes to glaze…and then she jerked the knife out again with a rasping sound. Watching him fall to his knees, his blood staining her knife. Pain and ecstasy starting to mingle with regret. She felt sorry for him. The few memories she had witnessed giving her reason to regret…and doubt.

It was here that she lost the advantage. Her hand was shaking, her resolve starting to weaken as she stepped back from the body. The fear, the doubt, the questions starting to rise in her breast. A werewolf. A beast. How could she overcome a lycan, she wondered suddenly. It was impossible. She was old. She was weak.

But she had no choice. Wrenching off her gag, she forced her eyes to Change and then turned the bloodied knife towards her second captor. Grace, as the vampire had called her. This despicable creature who had betrayed Lucian. Her anger, her challenge tinged with fear…and yet her opponent met both with only the blank-eyed stare of inconsolable mourning. Their eyes holding for a count of three...before Grace began to rock on her heels again. Broken. Capable of killing her with a single blow, but lacking in reason or purpose. A traitorous pig with nothing to live for but shame.

Reinette backed away, circling around the coward to where Sabine was tied up. Forcing herself to turn her back on Grace as she knelt beside the girl. They had to move before her luck ran out. She began to saw through the ropes, the knife smearing red across the girl's dress. Using her arm to wipe her forehead, trying not to betray how weak she was. The Change faded, the dance ended, and the knife shaking so much that she almost dropped it. Finally, the last rope fell to the floor. She stood quickly, turning the knife back towards the pig, praying to the Fates that the girl would stand and run.

Her luck did not extend that far.

She looked down.

"Sabine," she hissed. Touching the girl on the shoulder, still aiming the knife at first the pig…and then the fallen bear. The touch soon turning into a prod…and then a shake. His brain would be healing soon. "Sabine, get up."

The seconds continuing to pass. Fate choosing to saddle her with an invalid. With a hiss of aggravation, she pulled the girl off the chair, trying to make her walk. Pulling her. Dragging her.

In the end, she had to carry her. The weight of a nine year old more than she had bargained for. Her chances of escape starting to dwindle with every step. The untapped killer in her blood reminding her that a knife could just as easily slit a dog's throat as carry it. Blood, she was a monster, she realised. Even so…

…if she could just get Sabine out. That was all she wanted. Penance. Adjusting her grip, she turned for the door. Stepping around Grace and fiddling with the handle. Pushing it with her elbow and backing into the tunnel they had come from. Closing the door as softly and as quickly as she could before searching for the nearest exit. All the shadows seemed lighter that she remembered. Her eyes trying to adjust to all the changes.

Having no notion of where they were going, she opted for the darkest path. They had to leave the light behind. The tunnel made of stone like the one she had left, but the air starting to grow colder. The floor dry, but the smell of refuse telling her they were close to a city. She could hear flowing water. The weight of Sabine turning every step into a painful victory. She had to get Sabine out. The stones beneath her feet causing her to stumble. It felt like they were going in circles. The walls turning to stone and then suddenly brick again as they passed into another tunnel. The passage to her right leading into a pitch darkness.

The darkness suddenly flooded with light. There was no time to cry out. She fell to her knees, pushing Sabine away lest she burn her. Blindly pressing her face into her hands, trying to protect her skin. It was the fear of every vampire, that shock of seeing light where there was none. Her reaction had no understanding of time. Only light and its capacity to burn. Her hair failing to burn and her clothes retaining their form. She squinted and then raised her face to see what lay beyond the space between her arms. The light source coming from an open door at the far-end of the tunnel.

It was Kolya.

And how terrifying it was to see him.The face of that dark metamorphic angel, that seraph surrounded by light. He was burning something…the sight filling her with the dread of a nightmare come true. Behind him there was a butcher's table covered in parts. Pieces. Flies buzzing like vultures over the putrid heap of victims that had started to rot behind him. He was distilling them. Removing the larger parts one by one and boiling them in the cauldron. Boiling away the blood and then flicking the smaller pieces into the furnace. Covering their tracks. And yet it was not the bones or the flesh that made her want to cry out...

But the leaves of her vision. Leaves upon an open fire, the twigs crackling beneath a cauldron that smoked. Her fears made tangible. Sabine soon to be carved into pieces…and burnt upon the flames. His purpose clear to her in this moment, for she knew this creature for what he was. His back was towards them, but it would not save them. With only the barest of turns, his head crooked like a raven, he looked at her…and then reached for one of the knives on his table…

…silver.

No.

Desperate, she gave up on the light and crawled like a dog, searching the ground for the knife she had dropped. He was almost upon them. His boots drifting from the right to the left…the silver blade in his hand starting to clack, clack, clack against the wall like a metronome. Time was almost up. Somehow, she kept searching. Ignoring the sharp edges of the stones as she ran her palms across the ground. She may as well have been blind for all the aid her eyes gave her.

Suddenly she felt it.

The hilt of the fallen knife. Feeling a strange calm settle upon her shoulders, Reinette breathed…and then pushed herself up from the ground, reaching out to where she had dropped Sabine. Shadowing the child so she would not be blinded. Turning her back on Kolya…and for the first time in many hours, knowing what she must do. She had to get Sabine out. Time slowing down as she touched the girl's cheek, staring into the eyes of the storm…and taking hold of it.

"Sabine."

Breathing deep, she drew the last of her reserves. The last of her rage…the Change creeping into every corner of her soul. Knowing that for one of them, this escape…this chase…would be over. Grey eyes like the storm, she thought. Only there was no wolf coming to save her. There were only hunters in the night. The icy breath of the north filling her lungs as she bared her teeth. Wrenching the girl up by her neck and drawing her up close.

Their eyes met in the dark.

"Run," she whispered. Her voice colder and deeper than the Arctic…her pupils dilating as she saw herself in the glaze of silver. Violent, and deadly, the last vestiges of her humanity twisted by the Change.

She was a monster.

Her teeth angled back as Sabine dropped to the floor in a crumpled heap. Staring at her with a soundless cry. Finally able to see the nightmare that waited in the light before her. The raven with his silver blade. The leaves burning on the fire. The bodies lying before the cauldron. She could hear it. The girl's heart starting to beat faster, loud and wild. With a terrifying wrench of her spine, she tore into the shadows. Like a fox without a hole, the soles of her feet pelting silent against the jagged stones. A child. An animal. One that could flee without a sound.

And now gone.

Already the Change was passing. Her strength growing weaker. Her breath shorter. Slumped on her knees, Reinette reached out her hand and then let it fall to her lap. Forlorn. Left behind and waiting for the inevitable to catch up with her. She was not the only monster in this tunnel. The light casting an ominous shadow over her head, warning her of the heat she had once feared. The clack, clack, clack of Kolya's blade drawing close as he came to stand beside her. His expression no longer wrapped with a sickly sweet demeanour. No more empty smiles or promises for she had ruffled his feathers.

The time for blood-masking was over, and the creature that was Hrafn, whose name had been Kolya, had woken from his dream. He was alert and conscious of everything around him. His eyes, black as the raven that was his name-sake, now fixed on the top of her head, glittering with unleashed anger. Time was precious…and she had compromised their escape. His stance no longer curled but stick straight. The veins in his neck taut as his nails began to tap, tap, tap on the crest of his knife hilt, even now poised with more grace than the brutality she had expected.

It was uncanny.

She could see the carcasses behind him. She knew he had burned his name into her skin. Yet still, she was drawn to him. The firelight dancing with his shadow, lining his silhouette with an enticing glow. Despite the chill that was inherent to all vampires, she felt her skin growing warm. Her heart beating faster as her desire began to grow. The child within, the innocence that came from losing her memories, telling her to run, crying for her to back away on her knees. Telling her that she could change. She did not have to go with him.

But it was hard now. The faint memories of her future starting to fade before the past that was still ingrained in her blood. She was a creature of Hrafn and she must follow him. Return with him to the North. Drink from the blood and the youth of her people so she could again take her place by his side. Such things were like runes carved into stone.

Yet somehow she felt her hand curling in defiance. Her fingers curling tight around the knife hilt she had dropped. The knife. In the commotion, she had nestled it beneath her skirt. Hungry for the silver flask nestled in the shadows of his coat, tempting her with the promise of youth. With his eyes locked on hers, she expected him to speak, but he said nothing. Perhaps thinking on how to punish her now that she had defied him…not once, but twice…and when Hrafn was concerned, there was never a third time.

Hrafn was a stickler for such things, she realised, absently knowing it was true but having no memories to bolster the fact. No ageless face to match with a name for her eyes were still convinced that she was staring at Kolya. His features made all the more wretched by the few scant memories she had tasted in Paris. Memories of a handsome youth with impeccable Russian, a naive creature whose name had been Nikolai Proshkov Andreev.

…yet there was no doubt in her mind now that if ever the vampire Kolya had existed twenty…or thirty…or even a hundred years before…he was now at that very moment…ash. His memories worn like a mask by one who carried the souls of the dead in his veins.

A pity.

She lunged forward with the blade, aiming for his throat. Daring to cut the veins from his jaw before he could react. In the same moment, he twisted, darting to the left. She felt a cold draft passing across her cheek. His pale hand moving too quickly for her to see what had become of it. Her instincts telling her to move in the opposite direction. Instead, she felt her jaw crack. The sound of metal crunching into bone. A dull pain radiating from her head. Her fingers were empty…the knife gone.

Stunned, she tried to get up…

…and then fell to her knees, unable to control her limbs, tripping on the tattered hem of her dress. Her boots were not moving right. Confused, she looked down and then started to fumble at the base of her neck, trying to find the source of the pain, the place where he had struck her. Searching through her hair until she found something…hard and sticky. Her fingers soon sticky with blood. It was…

…her knife.

Her knife...was in her skull.

Again, she felt herself stumble. No longer able to think straight, the memories in her brain starting to coalesce. The pain starting to drift away. No longer the hunter, but the broken marionette sinking against the wall, staring distantly into the space in front of her. An eternity seeming to pass. Her eyes wanting to close. Her breath becoming faint…for reasons she could not remember. Her memories spinning on a giant wheel, so that her past was her future, so that in that moment, all things were simultaneous.

She was young…and old…and then young again. In one moment, she was a child, whining at her mother's feet.Curling into a ball on the ice, using her hands to cover her eyes, peeking at the sun through her gloves. Reaching across the broken ice, clutching at her brother's hand, trying to save him. In another, she screamed in pain, writhing as a steaming red-hot iron burned into her side.

The pain suddenly wrapped away. As though she always been there, she felt herself sinking into a moonlit grove, folded in the arms of a lover, one whose eyes were as grey as a winter's sun. His voice beside her ear, showing her how to mask her scent. Even with the hilt in her head, with her blood spilling on the ground, she could hear his voice. Calm. Assured. If they cannot read you, they cannot see you, he said, tracing a line along her back.

Soothed, she felt her arms go slack. Faintly aware that Hrafn had turned his back on her. His arrogance, his concerns now taken with the tunnel into which Sabine had disappeared. His was the precision of a surgeon. A butcher. A murderer. She would sleep…and then she would heal…and then, as surely as the sun chased the moon, they would go on as they always did.

Only she did not want to go on. Dazed as Sabine had been, the child within her struggling again…and again…with childish fears. Knowing that she was afraid of the dark. Terrified of the Stallos, the hideous northern giants of myth who tricked her brother into walking on broken ice. A single memory rooted deeper than all the others, an unyielding tendril of her past forcing its way through a mangled surface.

It was her first memory.

Old enough to scrape hides. Young enough to slip on ice. The face of her crying brother changing to that of Sabine. She reached across the broken ice, screaming and clutching at her brother's hand, trying to save him before he slipped beneath the water. Drifting through the memory, she felt her hand reaching up…slowly…but surely, at first slipping and then tightening around his hand. She need only pull…

…if she pulled, she could still save him.

With a sickening crunch, she pulled the knife out of her skull. The back of Hrafn starting to grow in her eyes. He was the ice. He was the darkness. And he was a fool to turn his back on her. She screamed, throwing herself at his back, the knife clattering useless to the ground. Attacking with her teeth like a wild beast before its hunter. The last of her strength spent on tearing her nails through his face, desperate to keep him away from a brother who had been dead for over a millennium. Clawing at his cheeks. His mouth gaping wide as she caught him off guard. Her nails managing to snatch away a single prize…

…just one.

A piece of his eye hooked between her talons.

With an undignified yowl, Hrafn caught her wrists, writhing in agony over the missing iris. The gaping hole in her head causing her to see things that were no longer there. The dreams that never came to pass. Where beauty had once been, she saw now only an ungainly fool clutching at his bleeding eye, forced to let go of her brother's foot.

Run, she thought distantly, marvelling at the speed of her little brother. In her mind, she saw him pull himself up, wet like a seal, from the icy waters. His black hair glistening in the sunlight as he sprinted away from his watery grave. His feet as light as a winter fox pelting silent across the snow. Her glory, her satisfaction, marred only by the dull sound of a fist crunching into the side of her skull.

Hrafn throwing his blade to the ground with a petulant hiss before taking her up by the wrist. Her arms going slack as he dragged her across the tunnel stones towards his fiery hole, cursing her name beneath his tongue. Cursing the light and the youth he had promised her so long ago. So intent on binding her to his butcher's table that he failed to notice that her face was peaceful. Failing to notice that he had done her a service by striking her in the midst of that memory. Even had she been conscious of the pain, it would not have mattered.

For her brother lived in that moment. He was alive in her dreams. His heart beating louder and wilder than a hare leaping from a hunter's trap. His hair turning red as he tore into the shadows of the forest. Run, she whispered. Watching him change from a hare into a glorious wolf. One that could flee without a sound.

And now gone.

A/N: Finally finished a chapter! Life has been ridiculously busy, but rest assured, I will continue writing and I am determined to complete this story. (Trust me, if a year goes by and I have not posted, then something must be very very wrong with me. ;))

Thank you to Naturally Nocturnal, Rogue's Queen, Mackenzie (Mackep), SilveringDeath, Sara-hold-the-h, CeliaSingsSongs, Laurie Jupiter, lucife56, Chiharu-angel, kiki8o, xXGenzoXx, gaarasgrl19, Louisloverforever, sango32510, Dezerai, and icecoatedsha for the reviews, favourites, and alerts!

And as always, to new readers and all, please feel free to read and review!

Naturally Nocturnal: LOVE the video. Love, love, love it. You made my day, and yes, I have favourited it among my bookmarks, so I can occasionally see Lyosha and Reinette running free in the world of Guild Wars 2. (I was planning on breaking my usual custom of replying at the bottom of chapters, but then I thought I was going to get the chapter posted sooner than I did - either way, just so you're aware, I've loved the video ever since March when you first posted it! :))

Rogue's Queen: Thank you! Here's more! :)

Mackep: Yaaay, you're back! (And right when you said you were back, I went and took three months just to post the next chapter! Sorry! ;)) Things are definitely getting serious, although it may be...a few...maybe a lot...more chapters before Lyosha approaches anything resembling 'drug-free.' Even if he does make it through, I think it'll be a while yet before he's in any condition to sleep well. ;)

SilveringDeath: You read it in three days? Oh my goodness, you're awesome. Thanks! :)

Sara-hold-the-h: Thanks for saying! I always get bashful after I read something lovely like that - always makes me want to work harder because there's so much I want to improve! :)

CeliaSingsSongs: Alright, you win! Twenty-four hours is a new record. Your review was also very lovely! Thank you for reading, thank you for loving Reinette, and thank you for reviewing (they always make me write faster! :))

Laurie Jupiter: Awww! Now I really am blushing.

Glad Reinette is your favourite, particularly as she is a very conflicted lady (also a little bit dangerous, particularly when you give her a choice. On the one hand, she wants to be different, but on the other hand, I think she sees herself as a bit of a lost cause at times. On the plus side, Lucian's quite a fan of 'being a lost cause', so he ought to be good company in that sense. ;))

Very pleased that you're noticing how Raze is definitely not all brawn (I think Allegra noticed this as well, after a few years of watching Raze quietly pick up all the pieces whenever Lucian loudly dropped something. :))

As for Lucian, you are absolutely right on the celibacy piece. He still has a streak of loyalty in his blood, but I think he's been all across the board when it comes to his love life (including trying to be celibate, screwing up by sleeping with someone, hating himself for screwing up, giving up completely, sleeping with a whole ton of people, hating himself for sleeping with a whole ton of people, trying to be celibate again, and then finally giving himself up as a lost cause and then sleeping better at night with his laudanum. ;))

Also I completely agree on lycan politics. It would make absolutely no sense for two societies to exist for over a millennium and have one spend the entire time trying to teach itself how to read. Lycans are better than that. They're scruffy, but they sure as hell know how to sit in a chair and call 'order' when a meeting needs to start. ;)

All in all, thank you for leaving that review. I read it last night and thought, "you know what, screw my other commitments, I'm going to sit down and write until I get this chapter done. No more cliff-hangers!" Although I may have left another cliff-hanger here, but...one of these days, there will be a form of resolution before the next chapter starts. _