24 September 2015 A/N: Not sure if Eileen (anonymous) is reading, but I felt I had to respond to what felt like a slap in the face today. Yes, I am still writing. Yes, I am a slow writer, but please do not make assumptions about why I may be unable to write for a year. It may have taken me a long time to get back on my feet, but I adore writing this story, it brings me great happiness and my intention is to get to the end. Yes, you may have stopped reading by then, but it doesn't change that I am still writing.
Chapter LVII: Leaves upon Fire
Thirty-eight minutes later.
Though it would seem like a year, only a day had passed since all had been right in the London den. Rena crouching on the stairwell. Sabine bored with her studies. Reinette safe in her quarters. Only an hour since Lucian had escaped from the lycan Change Quarters. And now the sun already risen, making him wonder why the devil he was still listening to that voice. The one without doubt or consequence. A voice that condoned breaking into the Lycan Registry for the sake of a personal misadventure.
Their entry-point set in a bleak unassuming alleyway between two buildings. Four doorways on each side, every stone blackened by smoke, and every stoop covered in grime. Neither the cleanest nor the filthiest part of East London. Merely average. The urban squalor passing them by and the hour too early for anyone to look twice. Hawkers calling their wares. The lampworkers pulling their boots off, while children crawled fruitlessly among the refuse piles.
The back-breaking work of survival carrying more weight for the common man than the two lycans hiding in their midst. The Registry building rising only two stories above their heads, its upper half taking the guise of an old workhouse that more often than not was full. The few dogs behind its doors often describing the food as being 'spittle-drenched' on the best of nights and 'sewer-rot" on the worst. Its reputation for filth providing another reason for mortals to steer clear.
The necks of their coats turned up, they followed a line of dockers on their way to the piers, allowing them to pass through the streets unnoticed by lycan and mortals alike. Their faces already covered in dirt, so no extra effort there. Their steps taking them down the alleyway where Weylan now leaned against one of the walls, a docker's cap covering his face while his eyes kept tabs on the main street. Lucian was nowhere to be seen, his location going unnoticed for some time until the muffled sound of breaking glass announced his presence for anyone standing directly below. The world continuing to pass them by for the street was already used to such noises.
Weylan spoke without looking up. His words barely audible. "Have you found it, sir?"
"Almost." The voice came from above. Lucian, its owner, still invisible to passing eyes. If one could see what he saw, the view would comprise of a stone wall. A mixture of blood and glass on his fist. His hand reaching through a circular iron window as he began to feel for his entry-point. His fingers finally passing over the lock, its placement familiar to him, but the angle of his attack forcing him to rethink his choice of tool.
For of all the entrances to the Lycan Registry, this was the only one that could possibly be described as the 'complicated one.' The key to entering this door lying not so much in the door itself as the small window that existed three stories higher, flush against a four by three by thirty feet space between walls, the deep indentation seeming like an old forgotten chimney without a cover. With the street only a few yards away, the only method for scaling the wall undetected was to move vertically, bracing his feet and his back against the two opposite walls. One after the other until he was thirty feet above the ground-level.
Not the loudest, but certainly the slowest method for breaking and entering. With an eye to the ground, he pulled a leather wallet from his coat pocket, selecting a smaller choice from his tools before adjusting his position for the upteenth time. His good leg keeping him from falling three stories, while the other seemed content with merely holding until such time as it saw fit to break.
Three stories up a wall with only his boot and his back to stop the fall, he might have preferred to break the door down, his leg be damned. As it was, they were both aware of the danger behind the door. Like walking into a four-hundred and eighty pound mousetrap fashioned of steel, iron, and stone, with silver coating every sharp end, thereby preventing even the most stalwart of lycans from spending more time with any wounded appendages.
Fortunate that Weylan had had the presence of mind to pack his tools. That and scavenging the clothes for his back. A filthy coat and a second docker's cap pilfered from a sleeping vagrant. A week's wages left in the vagrant's pocket for his trouble. His leg starting to ache and his fingers starting to fumble with the lock. Granted he could have accepted Weylan's offer to pick the lock, but he saw no reason to burden the man with any more charges. Non compos mentis. Curfew and safety. Breaking and entering.
He again fumbled with the lock, cursing under his breath. Again willing himself to focus. Focus on the tools. As long the tools were available to him, he could open anything. His past experiences with cages having led to more than a few centuries of obsessing over the subject. Learning the thousands of ways that one could break through a lock. Cut through a chain. Throw a wrench in a trap. But the tools were the key. Tools and a pair of steady hands. Steady…comfortable hands…that were not shaking because he had just downed two blood-forsaken vials of laudanum in the space of three seconds…
Fuck it.
"Weylan." Forcing himself to swallow the pride that often accompanied such moments, he slowly…and carefully…climbed down from his perch. Allowing himself to drop the last four feet, landing on the good leg, before handing the tools over. Begrudgingly. "Open it."
"With pleasure, sir."
Within ten minutes, the lock was turned and they were through the door. The stone, steel, and iron locked behind them and the sounds of the morning turning to a deathly silence as their eyes adjusted to the dark. It was quite possible they would open the next door and find themselves surrounded by a pack of lycan clerks. On the other hand, the council's orders had enforced a twenty-four-hour curfew. Something that should, in theory, draw most lycan service workers back to their holes, leaving only sentries to keep watch over the building. That and the one poor soul charged to burn the place down should the Coven ever infiltrate the grounds.
In the end, it turned out to be the latter. Their sudden and rather unexpected appearance from a back room causing a lone sentry to pull his service revolver before he realised he was aiming it directly at the lycan-master's head.
Only to find that not only were his hands now empty, but the lycan-master was now aiming the exact same revolver at a space much lower than that, an area that, he was assured, would not heal pleasantly. The awkward situation explained in a tone that brooked no argument, so that in moments, the sentry was volunteering to have himself tied up in one of the storage rooms. Even offering to give them his keys so they could use the service lift instead of the staircase.
Their infiltration of the Lycan Registry leading them three stories down the lift, through the tunnel system, sneaking past three more sentries, one of whom was also 'taken care of' as painlessly as one could, until they found themselves before a massive door crafted from brass. The metal woven in coils and the decor suggesting an abandoned cairn that held the bones of an ancient warrior.
The air slightly cooler. The security slightly remiss given that there were only two guards standing on either side of the archive doors. Both pushing the term gargantuan and neither showing the slightest intention of surrendering their weapons. His breath starting to quicken. His ability to dig a bullet out of his knee-cap and beat a man senseless having left him with just enough energy to do absolutely nothing in the face of these guards. The element of surprise having left him the moment they had turned the corner.
But Luck, as it was, had a better purpose for him. Barely waiting for him to speak, the two lycans saluted in unison and then pushed the doors open for him. Their appearance daunting, but their day-to-day existence as hired muscle perhaps having left them with only a cursory understanding of the politics above their heads. That or someone had neglected to inform them. The Registry Archives holding thousands of dust-covered tomes and by that virtue, holding very little interest to anyone with a pulse.
Before they could notice the tell-tale beat of his heart racing, he muttered 'at ease' and stalked through the door, not even bothering to explain why his knee was starting to drip blood on the stones. Because apparently no one asked him anymore. His efforts to keep things 'normal' resulting in him turning on his heel and barking for the Archive guards to 'shut the damned door.'
Their actions quick and their scents justified. Not quite terror. But a sharp sense of self-preservation coated with respect. In the interim, it would suffice. Waiting until the handle turned, he considered staying on both feet, and then gave up. Allowing himself to drop to his good knee, and then easing himself down onto his back, closing his eyes for a moment. Until he slept, his healing cycle was going to be completely off. The withdrawal paused for the moment, but surely looming, leading him to wonder if there was a pharmacy nearby. Blood, but what he would give for a whiff of laudanum.
"Sir?"
He jerked his head up…and then looked over to where Weylan was standing by one of the cabinets. There were hundreds of cabinets, all of them labelled with letters. Three rows of tables covered in dust, and between them, twelve chairs strewn about the room. As though someone had been here ten years ago and then left in a hurry. If the Change Quarters were hell, perhaps the Lycan Registry was limbo.
He rolled off his back. "Did you get the files from Singe?"
"Yes, sir." Weylan paused in the act of opening one of the cabinet drawers. With a swift bend of his arm, he retrieved his lawyer's satchel from the floor where he had left it and unclasped the brass handles. They had left most of the resources behind in the catacombs: weapons, blood, ammunition. Anything that would draw attention. But the satchel, Weylan had brought. The rich leather making it seem out of place when they were both dressed as commoners, but its presence integral to their search.
Using a chair to pull himself to his feet, he shrugged his coat off and let it drop to the floor. He could already smell the formaldehyde from across the room. The faint trace of Singe that made him want to kill something. Particularly in light of how much damage that silver bullet had accomplished in the past seven hours. That and the again unnecessary flourish with which Weylan pulled the folder from the satchel, placing it deftly on one of the tables for Lucian to study. Bowing his head once as though this were a bi-weekly Line meeting before returning his attention to the cabinet drawers.
Thereby failing to see the grimace Lucian had directed at his back. "Is this everything?"
"I'm afraid so, sir."
"Right," said Lucian, limping across the marble floor and skirting around the tables covered in dust. "Start with Finnegan. First name, Ginny, Grace or Charles, and if you cannot find any information beyond what we have, I want you to switch to last name, Marsden," he ordered. Marsden for the missing scullery maid. Her daughter dead in the aftermath and his den left in chaos.
He flipped both files open. The watermark of the Line Registry appearing clear in the centre of both sheets. Singe's order slip still tucked between the pages...
Ginny Marsden. Registry #DG1029184467. A sworn testimony on April 4 in the year of our Lord, 1861, verifying the birth of one "Ginny Marsden." Born on October 29 in the year of our Lord, 1844. Mother listed as Mrs. Grace Marsden, wife of Private John Simeon Marsden. Certificate signed in the Dublin Registry Office.
…and on the second file.
Stillborn. Registry #LG1029184467. Death certificate of one still-born child. Passed from this life on October 29 in the year of our Lord, 1844. Mother listed as a fourteen-year old scullery maid. Name unlisted. Certificate signed by one Charles Andreas Finnegan in the London Registry Office.
He frowned…and then pulled a chair to the table, yanking one of his boots off so he could roll up his trouser leg and inspect what the devil was going on with his knee. "So correct me if I'm wrong, Weylan, but …" He eyed his knee and then held up the file. "…we are surmising that Ginny Marsden…is actually Ginny Finnegan…"
"Yes, sir."
He waved the file to right. "…whose father was Charles Finnegan, our original Blackmark…"
"Correct, sir."
He waved the file to the left. "…who we assume had a child out of wedlock with a fourteen-year-old scullery maid…"
"Indeed, sir."
He dropped the file on the desk. "…who by no small chance is now Grace Marsden, our resident scullery maid whom Raze describes as smelling rotten but clean. One whom I would also suspect is a traitorous Blackmark living in the boundaries of the London den." With a hand poised gingerly on his wounded knee, Lucian took a breath. "Did I get that right?"
"Right as rain, sir." Weylan was pulling several folders from the 'F' section.
He sighed, still eyeing his knee. It shouldn't be smelling like that. "So presuming Raze briefed you on the situation, how far did they get before the search was halted?"
"Property, sir." Weylan dumped the F section onto a table. "Master Raze believed we might find a lead under the list of properties that were leased to either the Marsdens or the Finnegans. We are also looking for any last names referenced by both the Finnegan family and the Marsdens. As yet, there is no indication of Grace Marsden's maiden name, but if we were to find a connection, I believe the path might lead us somewhere."
The key word being might.
"So in short…" Lucian was already pulling his boot back on, refusing to think thereafter on the infection now growing in his knee cap. "…no scent. No leads. Just a pile of papers that may or may not lead to quarry."
"Yes, sir."
At least he was honest. The next twenty minutes spent flipping through file after file. His tendency to look for order helping him to narrow his search down, but the results still comprising of over two dozen property listings within forty miles of the den. Eight residences, two storage houses, and an unhealthy pile of warehouses which had been sold over the past fifty years to make way for the new underground.
He needed another reference point. The contents of Weylan's satchel providing him with a list of street names from the murder inquiry. The trail starting with Sarah Henderson at the Lycan Prisons near St. James. Shifting to the burnt cellars of Poplar High Street. Crossing the Isle of Dogs with the eye of Ina Jacobsen. Widening out to Greenwich before ending in the perfume houses of Westminster. Arlington's foray into the lycan scent world resulting in several shut doors and a political riot among the Conservatives. People like Gautier and Douglas whose wealth was tied in the business of smelling more scents than the average dog. Heaven forbid they knock on the doors of a lycan perfume house for the sake of a murder inquiry.
Scratching his neck, he abandoned the list momentarily to search for a visual. One of the archive drawers yielding a relatively unused map of the London area, allowing him to plot out the various trails with a graphite stylus. The map covered in 'x' after 'x' after 'x.' Trails that had been searched and cast aside as cold through previous investigation. The stylus tapping on the desk before he added another reference point. Exile's Quarter. Located at the centre of his search, the quarter and its surrounding area of Whitechapel was approximately three to four miles from every other location on his map.
The only unaccounted location being that of Mary Parker. Parker whose corpse was never found. He scowled, starting to rifle through the files of each victim, the information on Parker representing only a single page. Eighty years old and hailing from South London, she worked the usual boundaries of Whitechapel when the murder occurred. The file containing the details of the bloodsweep from that night. The name of every exile marked with a dash to indicate the blood was clean. Her scent card marked with an 'X' giving them the first indicator of a Blackmark conspiracy.
He flipped Parker's file shut, skipped Ina Jacobsen, and moved onto Sarah Henderson. The only tangible corpse from the entire inquiry. His memory providing enough fodder for him to see every detail from the file. Sarah Henderson whose throat was melted with lye, the bite marks obscured…and her shirt-collar clean. The dress belonging to Henderson, placed on the corpse after the lye had been poured, suggesting Sarah Henderson was unclothed when she died.
He covered his eyes, trying to see every step. The killing. The pouring of the lye to obscure a bite. The dressing of the corpse. A chamber-maid wearing clean clothes to her death bed…with lye on her neck. The act of dressing a corpse striking him as odd.
It was an act of decency. A trait that the Blackmarks did not have. His years of watching Christos leading his campaign against Exile's Quarter suggesting that most Blackmarks were concerned not only with the killing…but also the degradation of their victims. Leading them into the dark, forcing them to suffer all manner of indignities before they were torn apart in the underground tunnels.
"Weylan…" He was slowly but surely going out of his mind with this one. "…why would you redress a corpse?"
"A corpse, sir?"
With an exhale, Lucian let his head drop back. "Yes, a corpse, Weylan."
There was a sound of a drawer being opened behind, the young lycan making a hemming sound as he considered his reasons. Eventually seeming to settle on one that suited his elegance. "I suppose if I had known the victim well, sir."
"And if you were her killer?"
Without missing his cue, Weylan walked past him to drop a stack of blueprints on the table across from him. "Respect," he offered before returning to the drawer to pick up the next pile. The question seeming to strike him as perfectly in line with the general conversation one might have with the leader of his world.
Respect, thought Lucian. He was thwacking his stylus against the table again. Blackmarks did not respect vampires. They left them in a tunnel with their entrails hanging on the walls and their clothes torn apart.
The minutes passing with irritating slowness as he began to wonder if his previous hell had not been better than this limbo. The helplessness that came from being surrounded by too much information. The knowledge that they were losing this battle. Losing the war against these infidels who saw it fitting to murder one child and steal another. His thoughts taking a darker turn. A chill flowing up his spine as he again saw the dead chlid's face in his memory. The hair changing from white to red. The face becoming that of Sabine, while the vision of Reinette rang like a minstrel carousing through his head.
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.
By the time the clock had struck seven, he was no longer looking at the files. Instead holding his hands to the back of his head, his eyes closed as he repeated the first line. Leaves upon fire, her face, for she lies on the brink of a chasm. His brooding interrupted by the sound of the doors crashing open. Weylan almost falling from a wooden ladder, while Lucian maintained his peace, merely glancing towards the doors before returning to his thoughts. Apparently they were not the only ones to break a rule this morning.
The moment stretching for the length it took Raze to eye them both to high treason before shutting the door behind him. Shoulders stiff as he stalked into their midst, removing his coat and dropping it on one of the chairs. His eyes brutal as he proceeded to roughly hoist up one of the boxes Weylan had left in front of Lucian. Marsden. Without a word, he carried the box several tables down. Flipping the cover open and selecting a file at random before taking a seat. The scent of hostility only somewhat muted by the ten feet Raze had decided to put between their respective tables…
A further twenty seconds managing to elapse before Lucian felt his balls take over. "Weylan, is it me or is Raze looking a bit thin on the ranks?"
Raze turned a page without speaking. The pissing contest taking a further three minutes to get started, this time with a grim mutter instead of a growl. "It was not a mutiny, Lucian."
"Oh please…" With a roll of the eyes, he pulled another file from the box of Finnegan. Everything to do with the kitchen accounts of the House of Finnegan between the years 1840 and 1845. Rationing. Food stamps. Orders. So far he had not seen a single reference to the name Grace.
Having regained his balance, Weylan seemed more controlled than Taylor had been the previous night. The lone wolf standing between two alphas in the midst of conflict. His arms full of papers, he climbed down from his ladder, stepped around Raze and deposited the files on the table. "I've taken the liberty of finding everything under Douglas, Stafford, and McIlroy, sir." His need for constant diplomacy causing him to turn to Raze, bowing in deference. "…and though my sentiments are late, Master Raze…" He maintained his position, offering a scent of profound respect. "…I would like to begin by offering my sincerest apologies for…"
"No explanation is necessary, soldier." Raze was scowling at the file he was studying. And then with a terse glance at Weylan, he indicated the back room. "Have you pulled the files on Rena?"
"No, he has not pulled the files on Rena," Lucian retorted from his side of the room. He'd told Weylan to focus on the Marsdens and Finnegans. Not the bloody history they already knew.
Weylan said nothing. Clearly waiting to see how things would proceed. The scent hinting at a full-scale brawl, while the scrolls, papers, and books above their heads pleaded for some form of decorum.
Raze adjusted his jaw. "Are we leaving stones unturned now?"
"Only the innocent ones." Lucian indicated a filing cabinet. "But please, waste your time," he said. "The rest of us will simply have to 'make do' with basic logic."
In answer, Raze smacked the file he was perusing loudly onto the table and then quietly selected another file. The smell starting to seethe, the scowl never seeming to end, until finally the man spoke again. His words a quiet murmur, echoing like thieves in a library after the doors had been locked. "You Changed before we could transfer you to the safe-house."
"Which explains why I woke up in a prison cell." Lucian dropped the kitchen accounts and switched over the next file. Page after page of household records.
"I am trying…" There came a long-suffering hiss from Raze's teeth. "…to explain what happened…"
"No excuses, Raze." He was flipping through the logbook. Stables. Groundskeeping. Tunnel maintenance. He flipped it shut. "Your wife happened. So if you want to talk about why I'm facing a charge of non compos mentis right now, then talk," he said. "But if I so much as breathe that woman's scent before the new year, Raze, I will eviscerate her with your mourning knife."
There was a crash as Raze abruptly shoved one of the boxes off the table. Abandoning his chair and sweeping over to the file-cabinet left open by Weylan. Starting to comb through the folders one at a time. "Can you even smell how unstable you are?"
"Oh I'm sorry, is my smell getting in the way of your air?" Unable to move without his knee threatening to fall off, Lucian got up, stabbing the logbook back into its box. "Here…" He picked up his box. "Why don't I move to the other side of the room so you can breathe properly?" He limped to where the maps were and dropped the box loudly on the table, proceeding to raise his arms and indicate the distance between their two tables. "Is that better?
There was no answer.
Raze choosing to block his field of vision with a grim turn of his head. As though somehow that was more mature than telling someone to fuck off with their right hand.
Shoving a chair back, Lucian returned the favour and then took hold of the table, unrolling one of the maps and starting to go through the list of properties again. The small tremor in his right hand continuing to mock him as he started to mark every entrance to the catacombs. Every blood-forsaken part of his body was about to crawl out of his skin. Yes, he was unstable. Yes, he was aware of it. And no, there was not a damn thing he could do about it—not unless Raze had a pharmacy in his back-pocket and somehow the blood-forsaken knowledge necessary for giving him a dose without causing his heart to stop.
Several minutes passing before he was aware of another chair scrapping along the marble floor until it was directly across from him. Raze as usual electing not to fuck off, and instead opting to weather the storm before battening down the hatches. Their decision to work together regardless of the surrounding mood having been the key to most of their military successes. Both of them poring over the map in silence, the one marking the entrances while the other began the arduous task of circling the ones connected to the London den. His ability to focus on the map akin to a child learning sums for the first time. The feeling of desperation starting to weigh on his scent.
Rather than admit this was a fool's errand, he took a step back, starting to circle the table. Careful not to turn on his right leg. Placing his palms on the edges of the map. Trying to connect the dots. Trying to see the lines that connected them. The words of Reinette rising in his conscience, repeating themselves, over and over. Leaves upon fire, her face, for she lies on the brink of a chasm.
He sat down.
What chasm, he wondered. Was there a chasm near the London den? He was thwacking the graphite stylus in time to the words. Leaves upon fire, her face, for she lies on the brink of a chasm. Rubbing the centre of his head, trying to think, think, think… Leaves upon fire, her face, for she lies on the brink of…
"Tilbury, sir?"
His stylus dropped. His tendency to mutter things out loud making him wonder if he was hearing things again. Tilbury. He squinted, staring at the map in front of him…and then turned to look behind him. For it was like hearing a voice from God, his need…his desire to understand those words…somehow centring on this innocuous creature. This unlikely source of all things God-like. His mouth finally able to conjure some form of response. "What did you say?"
Like a peasant tending the grave of a long-forgotten king, Weylan continued his simple task. His back bent over in honourable service as he gathered up pages from the marble floor. Tapping the edges of each stack against the wall until they were aligned. Placing each stack back in its respective folder and then placing each folder, one by one, back into its box. And then he looked up, seemingly unaware of the monumental reaction he was about to cause. "The line, sir." He looked mildly curious and then switched to Russian. "Leaves upon fire, her face, for she lies on the brink of a chasm," he quoted before switching back to English. "It's from Tilbury, is it not?"
Lucian stared...and then lunged forward. His senses tuned to the sound of a wooden chair scraping against marble. Papers scattering across the floor. His knee forgotten, his pain inconsequential for he had crossed the room too quickly for his mind to be wary of it. His veins beating against his skin as he wrenched Weylan up by his shirt, shoving him up against the wall and holding him prisoner by his collar-bone. "What do you mean it's from 'Tilbury'?"
"You were repeating a quote, sir." Somehow there was still one paper left in Weylan's hands. The surprise on his face apparent, but his voice one of complete control despite his shoulder starting to crack. "I thought it was from a poem called 'Tilbury.'"
He was aware of Raze trying to cut in. His nails growing in response until all three of them grew still. Blood starting to drip marginally from Weylan's neck. Raze loosening his grip on both shoulders…and then reluctantly taking a step back. Aware that the nails could continue to grow and although painful for Weylan, it would neither kill nor maim…it would only hold until the questioning was done. "A poem?"
Weylan nodded. He was clearly in more pain than he was used to. The flourishes gone, leaving behind a man of efficiency. "Her leaves upon fire, her face in the mire, for she lies in the brink of the deep.'" He spoke it quickly in English, the words carrying the same tone, familiar and yet entirely foreign. All this time he'd been thinking the words in Russian. "It tells of an English fireship, sir…she was sunk during an attack on the city of Tilbury."
"When?"
"1667." Weylan had closed his eyes. "The Anglo-Dutch wars, sir."
"Where exactly in Tilbury?'"
Weylan shook his head. "I…I don't know, sir." He was clearly grasping at strands of his memory. "I know the history of the area, but…the verse itself…I only heard it once. I expect the writer had some…location…in mind."
He gripped Weylan's collar tight around his neck. "Who's the writer?"
"It was…" Weylan was as close to panicking as he had ever come. "…it was…several years ago, sir." He was so clearly trying to remember. "I honestly did not think to ask…"
"…and the rest of the verses?" He was almost clawing the veins out of of Weylan's neck. "Do you remember the rest of the verses," he barked. Switching his tactics…instead trying to jog the man's memory with Russian. "Drink, she will not. For light bears the darkness, the cold inside, the creature that is not among us! Do you remember that?"
To his disappointment, Weylan had to close his eyes in order to speak. "I'm afraid not, sir."
In the corner of his vision, he could see Raze looking stunned, not so much by the closed eyes of a lycan soldier…but by the one holding him up by his throat. And so he should. For he had not shared the verses before. Not with anyone. Only Reinette knew what visions she had seen in Sabine's blood.
No matter. He moved on to the next verse. "Think hard, soldier." He meant it to come across as encouraging. "Eat, she will for her crime. Hunger without end. Grief without fury." He was practically yelling it in the man's face. "Does that sound familiar?"
"I...I don't know, sir." Weylan was staring past him at the far wall. He was having trouble getting out his words. "I can only remember the one line."
He felt his nails growing. "How can you only remember one line?"
"Lucian…" He could hear Raze's voice in his ear. Lucian, you must let go of him. The pressure of a hand resuming its grip on his shoulder. Careful not to push him further, yet holding him back from from further damage. "…you need to let go."
He was trying to let go…
…but he needed more. Location. Specifics. He needed to understand how of all the verses Weylan could remember, that was the only one. The lack of blood in Weylan's face finally calling him back to reason. His senses finally aware of his knee threatening to crack again. Seven hours with a silver bullet lodged inside the bone…it would be a wonder if he could heal before the next full moon.
His claws retracted like a sword sheathing itself into flesh. Blood on his hands for the second time this morning and his knee throbbing as though Fate had taken a hammer to every nerve.
"Tilbury." He could hear himself muttering. More to himself than the others. His hands rising to his hair, using his fingers to shift the locks back and forth, like a madman trying to press a key in all the wrong places. It was possible. There were docks in Tilbury…Trying to trust that this was exactly what he had bargained for, that Reinette had not been lying, that to have a blood-seer on your side was to see the events as they might transpire… The possibility that she could have seen this moment. That in a vision, she might have heard him say that line…and then repeated it back to him…for how else would she have known how to say it in Russian. The mysteries of the blood-seers altogether too much for a leader to think on for it was the blood-seer who spoke…and the listener who acted.
And then he laughed.
This was what he had bargained for, he realised. Staring at his hands and understanding for the first time that they were powerless. That if he wanted to save Sabine, then he must believe in the words of another. Believe in this hand of Fate that even Blackmarks were willing to steal. A sense of calm starting to settle on him for the first time in hours. His decision made as he started to limp towards the table. "I need a map of Tilbury," he said. "Immediately."
They could smell the change on him. With his hand still clutched at his neck, Weylan rose from his crouch and bowed. Wiping the blood off his collar-bone and footing it to the maps drawer. Scanning the labels with his finger, finding the right drawer, and starting to thumb through the different rolls until he found the one he was looking for. Tilbury. The drawer shut, the map only marginally stained with blood, and Weylan already footing it back to the table with his prize. It took less than fifteen seconds. His manner resuming its efficiency and his bow returning as he unrolled the map. "Sir," he said, breathing hard from the exertion and then taking a step back.
Raze was looking increasingly strained. "Lucian, how can you…" He seemed to have difficulty phrasing his question. "…what are you basing this on?"
He shrugged past Raze. "Call it a hunch."
"No," said Raze with a very firm stance of clarity. Managing to toe the line of sarcasm, despite his regular conversation being quite averse to anything but honest and blunt conversation. "You are basing this on a verse, Lucian." It was almost accusatory. His voice becoming increasingly deep, his words spoken with precision, a sign that there was a severe storm starting to build. "A verse that has nothing…whatsoever…to do with Sabine."
"Then continue your search in London," he replied. He was already marking tunnels. The stylus retrieved from the other side of the table and his chair pulled up so that he could sit. Trying to see how Tilbury could be their destination. She had told him once. 'They do not always come true. They are only prospects.' And yet her words were the only lifeline he had. Sabine lost in this great city…and his eyes scanning the map for connections.
Trying to see how the underground…how his territory…could possibly sustain a connection to Tilbury. Two locations that could not be on the same Line. Not by any stretch of the imagination for one was a berth of vampire exiles while the other was one of the most heavily protected dens in the western world. They simply did not connect. Their search of the surrounding grounds of the lycan den suggesting that no one…not anyone could have escaped over ground. Which meant that somehow…not only had the perpetrators escaped his den…
…but somehow…they used a connection that could lead them straight to Tilbury. From his den. The thought making him feel…confused. Irritated. In fact, how the fuck did someone connect his den to Tilbury without him knowing?
"Lucian?"
He looked up…and then dropped his stylus. He was not going to sustain the conversation. "What do you want me to say, Raze?"
"I want you to look at what you are doing." Raze was clearly at the start of a rehearsed conversation. He always gestured whenever he had rehearsed something. Perhaps a speech that Allegra had suggested. "Truly look at yourself and tell me if you think this is sanity."
"I certainly don't think it's in-sanity."
"So how can you reconcile yourself with Tilbury?" While he was feeling remarkably calm for the first time that morning, Raze was starting to raise his voice. "It is madness. If the Blackmarks have taken Sabine, they would avoid Tilbury. There is nothing in Tilbury for the Blackmarks except…"
"An abandoned distillery district in the business of making scent-cards," he said, picking up his stylus again. It was starting to become very clear now. In fact he was mildly offended by how long it took for his own intellect to string this one together. However tight a ship they were running, it was entirely possible that someone was using the scent brewery for their own purposes. "Because that is what Tilbury is known for, is it not?" Using the stylus, he touched the tip of three fingers. "Exiles…scent-cards…and a port."
Raze was not budging. "The port is a safe-haven for exiles, Lucian, and it is guarded by lycans." He did not need to indicate the kind of lycans that guarded the exiles of Tilbury. And considering there had been no deaths registered from Tilbury, it would be highly improbable that any of the murders could have originated from a territory where lycans lived with bloods. "Any Blackmarks trying to smuggle a child of your blood would be heading north. They'd be avoiding every intersection on the Line, including Tilbury."
"Except they're not transporting a child of lycan blood, are they?" He circled the port of Tilbury. "They're transporting a Blood." He drew a line from the port of Tilbury across the cInal to Calais and then down to Le Havre. "…and as long as they can blend in with the locals, Raze, the moment they cross that cInal, we will have lost them both."
Raze was starting to realise where he was going with this. "Both?" he said. Placing both his hands firmly on the other side of the map. Like the guardian of all things prudent. "Lucian, I thought we were hunting Sabine."
"We are hunting quarry," said Lucian. He was starting to lean over the map. "…and if you will admit that our quarry has different concerns than my blood, then you could see that our chances of finding them are tied with that blood-seer."
Raze smacked his fist against the map. "Lucian, you must trust me." By his smell, he was speaking from the heart. "I know what you think you saw, but I went into the East Wing, Lucian…I saw what you saw and I am telling you…there was only ash."
"Only because ash always looks the same to you people." Neglecting to see the irony, he put his hand to one side of the map, and then pulled, ripping the parchment in half. He only needed the right side in any case. Handing the torn piece to Weylan, he reached for his coat, using a chair to balance himself as he retrieved it from the dusty floor. "Stay if you like, Raze. Check the records. Search the maps." He shrugged his coat on. "…but do not linger more than necessary."
"This is insanity, Lucian."
"No, Raze…this is a gamble." He was already walking away. His hand on Weylan's shoulder. His mind already twenty miles away. The port of Tilbury. There were three tunnels that led in that general direction. Belvedere, Dartford, and Rainham. All three required climbing…all three required running for between eight and nine hours. If the perpetrators had been travelling for the past twelve hours, he could already assume they had reached their destination. Which meant they needed something faster than legs.
o…o…o
Two hours later...
Reinette woke to find herself horizontal. The fabric beneath her neck itching like lice. The ceiling above her head made from a thousand torches. She could see shadows dancing in the dark. Faces in the corner of her eyes. A sickness waging its own war in her chest. She coughed. The sound of blood sputtering from her throat and her neck too weak to turn on its side. Her skull. It felt like her skull was on fire. She could hear flies. Insects crawling over her hair. Trying to sit up and finding her arms were bound. Her throat tied to the wooden table beneath her skull.
A sound to her right. Like a saw cutting through wood. Metals instruments being shifted against one another. Her ears and eyes not working properly. She couldn't see beyond the torches. Her throat finally managing to croak his name. The only name she could think to use…for she would not call him Hrafn. Not now. Not ever.
"Kolya…"
Immediately, she felt a hand on her cheek. Deathly cold, the fingers reaching toward her forehead and then touching her on the lips. "Beloved, you must not wake yet," he said in Russian. His voice so beautiful and yet so ominous. His face was blurry…swatches of red and black smeared across an open plain. His eye was missing.
"What have you…" She was starting to drift. Her voice softer than his breathing, every word sucking the energy from her like blood. "….what have you…done to me?"
He leaned over her body. His eye as black as the souls harboured in his veins. "You must heal," he said. "Heal and remember."
What… She was starting to remember. Her reflection in his eyes. She remembered being in a tunnel. Fleeing the light and running towards the darkness. Why had she been fleeing the light?
The memory lost to her as her thoughts dipped below the realm of consciousness. Faces appearing and disappearing again. She saw something. Waiting for her in the dark. A beast. An animal. He was sharpening his knife. Carving through the mound of bodies at his feet. Throwing them into the gaping mouth of a blazing oven. Burning away their tracks. In the dream, she stood at his side. A knife in her hand. Slitting the throat of a small child…her hair as red as poppies. Her eyes grey as a winter's sun.
She screamed.
o…o…o
Meanwhile.
They had left Raze at the Lycan Registry. Their exit far simpler than their entry now that the more reasonable of their number was in the building. His decision to 'let them go' providing just enough confusion to warrant an easy escape without any chance of detention. Once on the outside of the registry, it was a simple matter of going west. Their journey starting by foot from the Registry to the railway station at Fenchurch Street…and his leg slowing them down to the walking pace of a mortal. A measure of fifteen minutes rather than ten. From Fenchurch Street, they travelled east, boarding the London, Tilbury, and Southend Railway. The train useful in its provision of seating. Weylan purchasing their tickets, while Lucian lingered in the corner of people's eyes. His face hidden and the daytime traffic managing to give them some cover.
The journey passing in a blur, one in which he refused to question whether Raze had been right. His decision to act without thought providing him with some sense of direction. They disembarked at the Tilbury Fort station. The pier giving them access, almost immediately, to the tunnels of those lycans whose livelihoods were based on the rules of curfew and safety. Men and women who lived on the outskirts of the lycan underworld. Lone wolves who failed to connect with the safety of the lycan den. People like Owen Atherton. James Sewell. Gwen Saunders. All of them on his list…and many of them living a life that he envied.
When they finally ducked into the tunnels of Tilbury, he found himself at a loss for the first time in hours. Weylan looking at him to choose a direction. The lycan guardhouse. The abandoned brewery. The exile's port. Most of the places would be guarded…and if the perpetrators were still holding Sabine…or even Reinette…they might linger below ground for as long as necessary. The tunnels altogether unknown to him…and the map giving him less information than the vision. A tangled mess of tunnels that made him want to turn the map several times. For once in his life, feeling the weight that came with being trapped in an underground labyrinth. In theory he knew where they were…
…but with four dozen trails criss-crossing these tunnels, he simply lacked the time to explore them all. The complexity of the Tilbury tunnels finally causing him to use his leg as an excuse to stop and think for a few minutes. Taking time to peel away the gauze and wince at the festering wound. A mixture of red and yellow pus starting to congeal where the bullet had been. Small sections of his flesh starting to turn an unhealthy shade of black.
Definitely not right.
Rather than deal with the issue, he ignored Weylan's advice to cut away the dead skin. Instead, he took a swig of water, poured an additional dose on the dead skin, and then sat back, allowing Weylan to sequester the knee in gauze for a second time. The sensation of pain relatively familiar to him…and now his hunger starting to pick at the edges of his stomach. Food would have helped. But too late as usual.
As soon as the binding was done, he resumed his stance again, using the wall to keep himself upright. Still trying to decide which way to go. Suddenly wary of what he was doing here in the first place. Why he had followed those words. Why he had trusted in those three lines of verse when for all he knew, Reinette might be the culprit. She was poison. Her scent full of malice, her words like broken glass. And yet here he was following her.
"Sir?"
He looked down…and then to the right when it became apparent that Weylan had already packed away the medical kit. There was still blood on the man's collar. Something they had managed to hide while travelling for two hours among mortals. "What?"
"Do we have a destination, sir?"
"No, Weylan." As usual, he was less interested in the voice of Weylan than his own inner dialogue. The fact that he had fucked this hunt up before it had even started. The fact that Sabine could be dead. The fact that his laudanum was starting to wear off. He continued walking. "We don't have a destination."
Weylan nodded, slowing his pace down a little to walk beside. "And if I may be so bold, sir…" He indicated the cross-roads ahead of them. "…is there a particular direction that you wish to scout?"
Lucian inhaled, thinking on the question…trying to involve himself in a way that would make it less obvious how tired he was. Their location still some distance yet from the actual dock where the exiles disembarked. He could run ahead…or have Weylan run ahead…because in all honesty…and this was truly the rub…he could no longer run. He could walk. He could crawl. But there would be no running involved. Not after the hell he'd put his knee through over the past eight or nine hours. That fact suddenly making him a tick more than wary. The analytical side of his brain suddenly aware of what he was walking towards.
For if Reinette was right about this...
…and he wanted her to be right. It meant that at the end of this hunt, he would be facing Blackmarks. A mutinous horde of lycan Blackmarks. His eyes suddenly locking on the back of Weylan who, despite his position, was only a mere sixty-or-so in mortal years. Ten years too young for the last open lycan rebellion. A thought that made him wonder in turn what kind of supplies they were carrying.
He squinted, thinking back on the inventory he'd seen while the medical kit was out. The pack looking remarkably smaller now that he was keen to take a closer look. Something he had neglected to do during his foray of escaping…biting…and running.
What the hell is on your back, he wondered distantly. Trying to reconcile what he was seeing with the situation they were walking into. Four blades. Two semi-automatic pistols. Several rounds of ammunition. Enough for a single lycan at the peak of his condition. Perhaps his face was speaking for him because Weylan was starting to look uncomfortable with the fact that he was staring rather intensely at their supply pack. It was…ludicrous. Was he expecting them each to use a pistol? One pistol for each lycan and two blades to balance out the picture…
…who the hell could take on a contingent of Blackmarks with two blades and a bloody pistol?
He almost snorted out loud.
Blood, but they were getting cocky, he thought. And who could blame them, he decided abruptly, letting his shoulder sink a little more against the wall. With enough of them Changing without the moon, their society was becoming less and less concerned with logistics. He tried to take another step. Particularly when one had claws. But without the speed...
…well in that case, he hoped to Blood his aim would be getting more precise in the next few hours.
The part of him that still counted distantly aware that he had failed to answer Weylan's question. Weylan seeming to cue in to the fact that he'd been staring at a blank piece of wall for the past forty-six seconds and was looking more dazed than usual. "Sir?" he said again. "Do you wish to hold this section of the tunnel?" He indicated the area ahead of them. "I can do a cursory search of any scent-markers, if you wish?"
Lucian thought about it. Probably for far longer than necessary. In fact, he could barely conjure an answer at this point. His eyes starting to squint in the dark. What the hell did that mean? Was he having trouble seeing in the dark, he wondered. And how long since he'd slept?
Weylan was saying something. He shrugged the man's hand off his shoulder and continued walking. The words of Reinette again entering his conscious. 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. None of it made sense. He'd recited the second part of the quote for Weylan during their train ride. This time with a dose of more calm and less shouting, but the man had again been less than helpful. His memory of the first line extending only as far as…
...well, the first line.
"Sir?"
Do the children of this age never rest, he thought. "What is it now?"
"Sir, I am…" Weylan looked truly sorry to have to say it. "…wondering if we should break for camp, sir."
"Why?"
"Well…" They were clearly reaching the awkward stretch of the conversation. He trying to find a reason not to look down, while Weylan made no bones about staring at the dark patch where his knee had again started to bleed through. "…it would appear that you need to rest, sir…"
Really.
Because he'd considered that possibility. For despite having Changed several times during the previous evening, he had not…actually…gotten any sleep the previous night. He'd only blacked out while the rest of his body continued pacing his cage, the beast inside perfectly comfortable with using most of his energy without returning the favour. Usually he could remember things when he Changed. Like travelling through a blue haze in which one dabbled in such fanciful activities as terrorising the lives of women and children. He could feel his eyes starting to glaze in the dark tunnel. His hand slipping against the wall. He could rest...
…then again, rest was for mortals. Hunters whose guts were about to be torn apart by wolves on a grim winter's night. He cracked his neck, forcing himself to take another step. "Keep walking," he said, no longer interested in the opinion of Weylan. He would walk these tunnels until he found them. He would crawl on his knees if he had to. Certainly if Reinette could spend several months crawling through a rat-infested tunnel, then the least he could do was survive one day.
Weylan had not moved. "Sir, I just think it would be more prudent if we…"
A scream cut into their conversation.
Both of their heads jerking towards the right. Far off in the distance. The sense that it came from the north, though it was difficult to get a handle on where the echo was coming from. His heart beating with a sudden wave of adrenaline. The kind that woke him up from his daze. His ears pricked towards the sound. His legs once again capable of walking rather than crawling. Ever ready to demonstrate his prowess, Weylan was the first one to dart into the tunnels, the trail of his movements allowing him to follow after. Practically dragging the infected knee. The scent starting to grow more complex the closer he came to the trail. Layers of smoke woven with dirt and rats and iron.
The search ending in a crossroads. Four tunnels they could enter and nary a scent to be found. There was no sign of the screamer. No sense that they were following anything but the echoes of a ghost. Weylan had pulled the map from their supply-pack. The tunnels laid out on the parchment and the markers on the wall giving them some sense of where they were heading. North…and then east.
…and now this cross-roads.
Which way to go? The first tunnel leading to the docks, the second to the level below, the third to a level above, and the fourth to the pauper's district. He let himself slide to the floor, more from exhaustion than anything else. Rocks and bones at his backside…the map between his fingers…and a decision to be made. They needed to follow that scream. It was all he had in this labyrinth of chance that Reinette had led him down. Weylan giving him enough space to make his choice. Standing back and letting him examine the tunnels laid out on the map, one by one, at times, using lycan hand signals to direct his attention.
The walls of this particular cross-roads were made of brick. Older than the section they had come from, but still new enough to have been built in the last century. The grates were made of iron. The smells causing even the dullest nose to flinch. Sewage and water fighting each other for a place in the lower reaches.
He was using the last of his adrenaline. Searching the ground for signs from afar. Tracks. Scent. Sound. The dust of one tunnel lying untampered, but the other three covered in tracks. Hordes of people walking in the dust and none of them turning towards that tunnel. Making him wonder why no one seemed to walk through that tunnel. As though it had been forgotten for many years.
His thoughts going silent as he suddenly heard something. A change in the flow of water. Something so subtle that he might have imagined it in his current state of mind. But choosing to follow his instincts, as he'd done since the previous night, he glanced behind him at Weylan and then motioned the man to hold his breath. Two fingers to the throat. Doing the same as he inclined his neck, looking from tunnel to tunnel. Listening…and then directing Weylan's gaze towards the tunnel with no tracks. Taking one of the pistols and placing it in the side of his coat, a round of ammunition and finally a blade from the man's outstretched hand. Armed and slowly, ever so slowly, taking a step into the tunnel.
Following the length of it until he reached another crossroads. Every step filled with agony and the network of tunnels going on for miles ahead of them. He could have sworn that he heard something. His ears pricked towards the water as he listened, waiting for a sign. Waiting and listening until he saw it. Something so obvious that one needed to stand upon it before they could sense it. The water passing furiously below, the smell speaking of fish and rot and bile…and beneath all of that, a single…silver…eye peering from out of the dark.
Without moving, he beckoned for Weylan to come forward with two fingers. Swiftly…but quietly. She was in the sewage tunnel below their feet. Crouching in the water. Shivering. Her teeth grown and her back arched. Her dress covered in the filth of her hiding place. His knife slowly placed to one side as he knelt, carefully unlatching the grid cover with Weylan's help. Taking hold of the edge and reaching into the lower tunnel, drawing her out and up into his arms. A thin blanket from Weylan's supplies folded around her shoulders and head, smoothing the damp away before he stepped back into the tunnel, retracing their steps. Setting her down on the blanket when they reached the crossroads and checking her eyes.
Dilated. The pupils showing a glaze of silver. A child forced into a state of Change without the moon, only limited by her age. Her mind that of a lycan pup, thinking only of danger and self. Their base scents matching enough that he could pick her up. Weylan, on the other hand, would have to suffer a bite or two. With a nod, he motioned the man to come forward. Drawing the second scent into her environment. Like coaxing a fox out of its hole, he needed her to accept the scent of Weylan. About to have the man hold out his hand so she could smell it. Only to find that time was no longer on their side.
Footsteps echoing down the tunnel, accompanied by the sound of a metal instrument. Clack.
Clack.
Like a rapier clacking against the bricks. Sabine's scent started to spike with the sound. The hunter that had been following her. Clack.
It was coming this way. He picked up the child, blanket and all, and gave her to Weylan. Like throwing a cat onto an unsuspecting hound, but there was no time to make her comfortable. No time to avoid the bites. Run, he signalled. Silent. Back the way we came. Take the first tunnel to the docks. Find a safe-house before the sun goes down.
Clack.
Weylan took everything. The supplies, the child, and the blanket. Silent steps through the tunnel.
Clack. Clack.
With his back to the wall, Lucian breathed…and then removed the pistol from his coat. He'd left the blade at the grate…which left him with only claws and two rounds of ammunition. Picking up a pebble, he flicked it into one of the other tunnels. Immediately the footsteps stopped. The hunter becoming the hunted. All he needed to do was distract whoever it was. Keep them listening. Keep them talking so that Weylan could get her out. The head of the hunter finally appearing around the bend of the tunnel. Someone he had not expected to see. The surprise palpable on both their faces.
"Mr. Itzhak." Kolya smiled, causing his teeth to bare. He was missing an eye. "What a pleasure it is to…"
He cut the man off with a bullet. The steel piercing the vampire's abdomen six times, spewing blood on the ground as he reloaded, shooting him a further six times in the exact same spot. Not bad for someone who was going through a withdrawal. His experience with vampires having already taught him long ago that shooting with steel did very little damage to the skull…but pain…well that could still have an effect on someone. An effect that was really quite profound based on the pain-riddled sounds that were coming out of Kolya's throat.
The same pain wheezing through his lungs as he fired his last bullet. Pulling himself to the one knee, the act of standing taking far longer than he expected, but the effect altogether worth it when all was said and done. This was his heaven. The few moments in life when he got to drop an empty gun on the floor and bask in the sound of his enemy's pain. "Do you know where I just shot you, Nikolai?"
The vampire was curled into a ball. Gritting his teeth, hissing as though he wanted to burn him for his impudence. Oh yes. He was familiar with that scent. Something he might have spotted earlier, if he'd not been so busy purchasing a dozen rounds of annual transport over the next five years.
There was no answer.
No surprise there.
"Lower abdomen," he explained. Refusing to let go of such an engaging last conversation. Lowering himself to the ground, taking a breather against the brick wall. "See, the thing is," he added. "... even though you're…technically…impervious to these bullets…" He shrugged. "…I just thought…what the hell…twelve times…in the lower abdomen…that is bound to make you feel something."
He was only too right. Kolya rising to his knees with a beleaguered hiss, half of his face coated in blood, one of his eyes missing as though it had been scratched from his skull…and a silver knife in his hand. A blade that ought to have been caught out of hand. Something he ought to have been ready for if he'd not spent the past century courting his death. He'd been asking for it long enough, he realised. His hand raising briefly to his throat…searching for the chain that was no longer there…and then letting his fist fall to the floor. The truth was he'd stopped wearing it. Centuries ago.
Before a thought could turn into memory, the vampire lunged forward. His breath moving in the same second. Every second that his mind could count before he realised it was done. Death was upon him. He sucked in air, staring at the silver blade that had been stabbed through his gut. How many times had this happened…times when he'd been able to call up the strength to pull it out. The flesh starting to sear around the wound, making him want to empty his stomach on the floor. His regrets starting to coagulate. Following him to the grave as he thought about what he might have done if he'd had the time for it…
…and then he bared his teeth in a grimace. Blood pooling in his throat. The truth being that he no longer wanted to pull out the silver. He wanted to follow it. His eyes starting to see beyond the grey…beyond the void as his heart began to slow. Every second drawing him closer to the end. To the moment when it would all become worth it. For he would pass from this life and into the next world…
…he would see her.
Sonja.
A dreadful weight falling from his shoulders for in death, he would see her. He would say her name. Sonja. His wife. The emptiness of his soul hungering for her memory. The moment growing closer…and closer…and then ending with an agonising jerk. A cry of pain that he had not meant to utter. His eyes straining for sight, looking through the dark, and finally daring to see what they would not. A silver blade, sizzling with his blood, being wiped upon his chest, while Nikolai Proshkov Andreev stared down at him from above, unwilling to give him what he had just offered. His killer instead starting to roll up his sleeves, as though keeping lycan blood off his shirt still mattered…leaving him with just enough time to tighten his neck before the fist struck his face. Over…and over…again.
His teeth spitting blood. Flesh. A beating the likes of which he had not felt in six hundred years. Twenty-seven times. The silver searing across his throat, his back, his arms…every minute drawing him back to life even as his consciousness began to fade. The twenty-eighth and final blow so excruciating that he only had enough air to scream when the hilt of the silver blade smashed into his kneecap. The bone shattering into a dozen pieces. The pain enough for him to choke on his own vomit. Death creeping up on him…and then wandering away again. For it would seem his gamble was not quite ready to kill him yet.
Coward, he thought. Choosing to spit on the man's feet even as his world turned to black.
His counting finally at the cusp of a merciful end.
A/N: So I have lots of excuses for why it's been a whole year since the last chapter. Lots and lots of excuses, but I'll just throw them all over my shoulder and pretend that I've been updating every month the way I originally wanted. (At least I'm getting a little bit more time to write now…and I've realised I can write on my phone, which is a ridiculous method, but if it gets the job done, then I'll do it.) In any case, many thanks to anyone and everyone who is still reading after a full year without updates! I have been awful and you have my apologies. :)
In particular, many thanks to those from the past year: Celtic Aurora, CeliaSingsSongs, Laurie Jupiter, RedWheels88, tgurl620, Naturally Nocturnal, NeverEndingNights, icecoatedsha, The Fox Familiar, (Guest who said 'Update!' :)), Violette Penn, nana, YippieKaiYea, Executrix, BothHandsInHerPocket, Sinners Never Sleep1, Kicki von Berger, Arrowhead Sn, surfgirl1, prime bartender, Crazy4Wolven9Night, Raven Carter, WickedSecret, lorena123, inksilver, xBelekinax, R34P1N6 D347H, , LoriJane1995, kitsunlover, Lucky Girl 81, MarsPlanetsGirl, Songorita, Secretly-A-Fangirl, Hephaestus III, and Pentheo - thank you for the reviews, favourites, and story alerts!
So without further ado, please feel free to read and review.
Celtic Aurora: Battle is definitely coming…although…given that Lucian is a bit in a crappy situation right now physically, it may be more a battle of words while he's being stabbed repeatedly by Kolya. (Don't worry…I'm sure he's going to have a LOT to say. ^_^)
CeliaSingsSongs: Yaaaay! I'm so sorry it took me a year to update again, but thank you for leaving a review last year. I hope you'll still continue reading. :)
Laurie Jupiter: Poor Raze…he is definitely getting pushed to his limit by Lucian these days. (One day he'll stop threatening Raze's wife…maybe. ;)) Also you're right on Lucian's priority points, even though he himself starts to question them.
RedWheels88: Oh I do hope you're still reading! Sorry for the full year wait…and very glad you love Raze. He's always been one of those quiet ones in the background that make me go "He's definitely a stickler for loyalty," regardless of how mental Lucian gets. :)
tgurl620: Yaaay! I hope you're still reading too…hope you're still reading the adventure, and glad to hear you loved the story last year!
Naturally Nocturnal: I've been thinking a lot about the silver expelling too…at least when writing the story, I figure it's much easier to push out silver if there's a muscle to help with pushing the silver out. But if it's a knee (which is one of the most painful areas to be shot in) you're probably looking at a more difficulty process. ;) I've also figured that if he had the silver in his knee for about seven hours, while going through a withdrawal (which would make him a lot weaker) I think it's a bit like having poison in your body for seven hours…so it's definitely not going to be a quick recovery from this one. (But at least he still has his snarky sense of humour. ^_^)
NeverEndingNights: So glad to read your review! I do love Sabine as well…but I do believe she's going to need some therapy after this last situation. (A little bit more harrowing than being thrown out of a train.) For Reinette, I have to agree with you, she's definitely torn between what she thinks she should feel versus what she actually feels. (Also sorry for the long long wait! :))
icecoatedsha: You were definitely right…and I have to admit, I did go back and try to fix the chapters so that it was a little more obvious that the catacombs had been searched during the early stages of the investigation. (I added a note thanking you at the start of the old chapter because it IS important when things don't make perfect sense and I did appreciate the note!) In any case, I hope you're still reading after the long year! :)
The Fox Familiar: Ha ha ha…what a great start to a review! ^_^ Hope you enjoyed the rest of the story too. :D
Guest: I updated! Finally! :D
Violette Penn: Awww! Thanks for saying. Hope you enjoyed the rest of the story. :)
nana: Dunananananananaa I finally updated! :D
YippieKaiYea: That was lovely to read! Thank you for saying and I'm so pleased you've reread the story! Hope you enjoy this latest chapter too. :)
Executrix: I'm so glad you're still reading! ^_^ I appreciate it so much when I see names that have been around throughout the story (even with my really really crappy writing schedule! :)) It helps me keep going, so thank you for letting me know. :)
BothHandsInHerPocket: Now I'm blushing! Lovely lovely lovely review and I'm so glad I'm finally able to post a chapter for you. :)