Chapter LXI: Ashes and Lye
It took him a moment to hear it. Garish laughter, the effects of his withdrawal still holding him in thrall, causing him to despair over the sound. Reason telling him it had been over eight hours since his last dose. That he had been skinned, stabbed, crucified—that, needless to say, his judgment was affected. But he had come here for Sabine. Not to be skinned. Not to be burnt alive.
Just Sabine.
His thoughts steadying. The laughter snuffed out like a candle. Allowing him to focus his gaze, the timbre of his voice. Giving him the strength to mask it: the exhaustion on his shoulders, the break in his bones.
He would be damned before he let her see it. Either of them. His attention sliding from one to the other, the danger of the oil forcing him to pay attention…finally…to that which he was so keen to ignore. Trying to keep the smile from reaching his face, though the laughter might have been a clue. "Grace Marsden, I presume?"
She blew out her match, letting its charred remains fall to the floor. Another one ready before he'd taken another breath. "I ought to gut you," she said.
"And I ought to sack you," he said with a tired grimace. Smelling her hatred, knowing its source, and determining in that moment that the truth would see him dead. The bulk of this revelation leaving him with a single option.
Lie.
She rubbed her chin. Seeming surprised by the cavalier attitude. But then it was difficult to know how to respond to such an opening. "You really don't know who I am?"
"Should I?"
She lit another match.
Touché.
He spoke in a rush. "Your name is Grace," he said, keeping his eyes on the flame. "Born in 1830. Employed as a scullery maid by one Charles Andreas Finnegan. At the age of fourteen, you bore him a daughter. In the same year, his death caused the dissolution of the Blackmarks, thereby transferring the entirety of his assets to the Horde."
"Not far off," she said mysteriously. Touching her neck. The face scrunching in thought as her hand lingered over the wound. "You get all that from a bite?"
"And then some," he whispered. Focusing on his pain. Hating with his gaze, wanting to strangle her wretched throat. Even if he had been trying to taste her memories, the most he would have gotten was grief after such a recent loss. But it paid to slip in a lie when someone thought you smelled of truth.
"What else?"
"You're a traitor." He didn't need two hours of research to tell him that. "You believe your daughter should have benefitted from her father's will, so you began to cleave to Blackmark ideals. Now you hate me for dissolving them."
"Wrong," she said, tracing a path through the fuel at her feet. Like speaking through a fog, the woman's attention more on the flame and the oil. The flame starting to near her fingers. "But I'm a generous woman, sir. You tell me why I ought to gut you…and maybe I won't drop this match."
Behind her, the rest of the room had finally woken up. Reinette showing her nature, backing away silently to the farthest wall. As far from the dynamite and oil as she could put herself. Ewan showing his fear, even though the smell had not reached them yet. Starting to edge carefully down the length of the abbey towards them. Perhaps his best chance for escape.
Which meant keep her talking. Adrenaline driving a spur into his lungs. "How many matches do you have left?"
"Four."
"Best out of five?"
She thought about it. Staring at the flame, her eyes callous, but reflecting in grief. The match about to fall…
…and the room suddenly dark again. Her breath visible as his eyes began to adjust. She dropped the charred stick to the floor, shaking a new one from the box. "Four," she said, lighting the next match. Like a merchant throwing dice on the table. "…best out of four…and you missed one."
So much for fair play.
The moment he gave the correct answer, she would burn him alive. So he just had to stall her. Give her three more guesses or a flaming lie. That was all. As long as he made them time-consuming and plausible, he had a chance…
He tried again. "We'll skip to 1861—you married Private John Simeon Marsden, an infantry-man in the Royal Irish regiment. One can only assume the marriage was agreeable because he not only wed you, but adopted your daughter."
"He died in a raid," she said softly.
"Did I order the raid?"
"No."
The smell of lye was coiling itself around him like fumes. They were running out of time. Ewan working his way from pew to pew. Painfully slow and mopping his brow with every step.
Twenty feet away.
It was just a game. Lies or truth, he could win this.
She lowered the match.
"Wait…wait!"
He had reached the point of sounding desperate. "Two more chances," he rasped. "I still have two more chances."
"Then talk."
If he could have backed away, he would have done it. "The raid turned you into a widow. Your husband was in the raid because of the war. You associate me with the war, therefore you blame me for your husband's death."
She stared at him keenly…and then sighed, blowing out the match. "You disappoint me, sir," she said, shaking the box. Readying the next one as though it made no difference to her. "One more chance."
She was cornering him. He swallowed, his throat ragged with every syllable. "Give me a moment to think…"
"Think fast, sir." A malicious titter escaped her lips as she held the match ready against its box. He could let it happen. The manner of death fitting, though only Raze knew how tempting this was for him. But there were more lives at stake. Not just his own sorry existence but the souls above his head.
He focused on her face instead, trying to visualise what else she wanted him to see. What else she was hiding…
Grace Marsden. Limp brown hair. Scars on her face. Stockish. Pudgy fingers. Her scent formed of the basest of human expressions. Nothing to say where she came from. Only that she was cruel...
... and angry.
But why?
Trying to focus his efforts on the reason. Keeping his mind from straying to that box of memories he had locked away for his own good. The pressure making him recoil, making him focus on her fingers instead. For the first time, focusing not on the matches, but the actual box she was holding. The dark shadows between her fingers. The illustration showing a pair of gentlemen lighting their pipes in a storm.
Bryant and May's Flaming Fusees. Specially designed for cigars. His familiarity with the brand causing him to stray further into his thoughts. Trying to speak. Instead finding his lips dry. His throat and lungs struggling to make room for words.
Trying to put together exactly how she could be holding that box, given that he'd spent the last New Year's social compulsively filling in the umbrella, coats, and trousers of both gentlemen with black ink. A more than aggravated portion of his conscience now starting to fixate upon the fact that he was about to be burnt alive by his own fucking matches.
She was looking unimpressed. "Is that it?"
He inhaled with a start.
"No," he said. Severe lack of concentration now present on the list of withdrawal symptoms. His brain sluggish, trying to catch up with his voice. "As a widow, you could have requested an immediate transfer to the nearest green zone. Instead you spent five years working in Dublin—it was there the Blackmarks found you."
His efforts paid off.
The distinct smell of her contempt turning into pride. As though her prowess with Ina Jacobsen's eye was a mere drop in the ocean. A gift which could have rivalled the eldest among them, if the world had given her a chance.
He took a stab in the dark. "You excelled at scent-masking—became a master of it." His words like teeth on a bone, fiercely trying to scrape out the last of her secrets. "But you needed better equipment. Someone who could give you access to a distillery…"
Her pace around the pillar had increased. Back and forth, vicious like a baited dog.
Think.
He started talking faster. "You moved to London." Ripples of fuel in her wake, back and forth, starting to spread faster for the movement. "That gave you three years to explore the house, grounds, and catacombs. Your original plan was to kill exiles until the Horde agreed to free Xristo—"
"This was never about Xristo," she said, laughing with contempt. His breath seizing as she began to turn away. Ewan only twelve feet from her back. Frozen like a hare about to be shot.
"Wait," he yelled, hoarse and clawing for her attention again. He just had to keep her listening. Just a few more seconds. Anything to keep her eyes on him.
The woman actually paused. Wavering on the balls of her heels…and then with a keen step forward, she lit the match. Three steps closer and holding it high, peering into his face as though she still had hope. That somehow he would waver in his resolve.
The need for another lie forcing him to grasp at different straws. "A statement then—your plan was to strike in the heart of the London den," he said. "You set the fire, Andreev took his hostage. But what you did not anticipate was my..." Think. "... my absence."
She snorted. "And why would that matter?"
Not a good sign.
He was struggling. "My ward, she…" He felt it slipping, the last of his theories faltering in the wake of exhaustion. "…she was never supposed to be in the East Wing. You had to act fast. You tried to take her…but Rena—my guard, she reacted violently. During the affray, your daughter was killed and for that…" He had nothing left, but the flame forced his hand. "…for that, you blame me."
Her expression became pained suddenly. The flame dancing upon her fingers. "Is that your last guess?"
He had no choice.
"Yes…" He breathed. "…you blame me for Ginny's death."
Croaked was more like. But he was lying. She knew he was lying. There was no way Rena would have killed a child. His lungs moving faster, his eyes fiercely holding her gaze. Hoping against hope that Ewan would make his move, that somehow he would reach the pillar before he burned.
Grace swayed for a moment.
The name of her daughter taking hold of her like a noose. Sorrow, hatred…the cries of a rabid animal coating her skin. Eyes red for the one who had been taken from her….The anger and confusion suddenly giving way to the turmoil underneath.
"Wrong," she said. And just as quickly the match was gone.
Darkness.
The first moments before light could blind. His first instinct to recoil from the oil on the ground. To force himself backwards against the pillar. Gasping for his next breath when he realised there was no heat.
Still alive.
He was still alive.
Long enough to see Ewan steal behind a pew when he should have been attacking. Long enough to hear that Grace Marsden had lied as well—that she still had another match in the box shaking in her hand. His own breath shaking as he leaned his head back against the pillar. Trying to find himself in the shock. The silence. The quiet mutters starting to intrude on his peace of mind.
If only they had been in his head.
But no—like a mad woman circling her tower, Grace Marsden had started praying. The words of a Hail Mary spoken in a chant before she used the length of an arm to wipe her tears. Crossing herself with two fingers as though she needed to seek forgiveness.
"Fifty-six years," she said weakly. Wiping the same arm against her chin. "…fifty-six years, and he just cut her down like she were nothin'…"
He barely heard the rest of the sentence. His capacity to focus after such a near brush with death limited to this latest revelation. Fifty-six years since the birth of Ginny. Kolya had killed Ginny, which meant Rena was in the clear. Both horrific and gratifying, despite the surrounding scent. A scene of hopelessness. A bond broken. The kind of loss that could drive someone mad. A loss so powerful that he nearly felt sorry for her…
…and then the rest fell apart.
His last piece of luck running out as a second scent made its way downwind. Clear as the lye on her hands, causing her to sniff. Once. And then again. Like a bloodhound. Reaching through the air, pinpointing the source of blood, alcohol and sweat.
Eight feet away.
Ewan.
"You think I can't smell you!" cried Grace brashly. Turning with a frenzied light in her eye, her matchbox brandished like a weapon. Her eyes scouring the broken pews. Her nose raised in fury at the stench of fermented chicken-blood.
The stench of fear oozing from a man who had neither the talent nor the will for subterfuge. Awkwardly, Ewan Saunders crept out from the dark. Tremendous in height, his stubs rising first from behind the closest pew followed by his head. A man who once might have been imposing. Now sheepish and sweating. Cowed by the sound of Grace calling him out.
"You sneakin' on me, Ewan?"
"Never in a million years, Grace." The man stumbled back in his haste. Somehow having the gall to sound hopeful. "Just thought we could talk, see?"
The smell of distrust rose. "Nothin' to talk about…"
He was sweating his hope now. Nervously licking his lips at the forty sticks of dynamite threaded through the foundations of Exile's Quarter. "Thing is, Grace, my…" Like it was something she might have forgotten. "...my wife, she lives in—"
Grace Marsden cut him off with a gruesome sneer. "You think I care about some filthy coven-breeder?"
"No, Grace…" He was nearly in tears. His scent getting weaker. "Just... maybe we should wait for Nikolai?"
"Nikolai ain't here," she spat. Hardened. Like a lost soul trying to free herself of the stone lodged in her throat… "…it's me who's in charge. Me holding the match. So you think of your wife…and you back…away!"
The man cringed, raising his misshapen hands as though she'd struck him, dropping his kerchief in his haste. Shuffling back the way he had come. His last hope starting to evaporate with the scent of alcohol. Grace refusing to leave it there, for she had more sense than he gave her credit.
"Hands on the staircase," she barked after him. "Thas' right, Saunders. Right where I can see you…"
Right where they could all see him. Reinette continuing to watch the whole debacle with barely a flicker of an eyelash. A woman who could watch the world burn as long as she was far from the flames.
So that in that moment, Lucian realised it was time to make his peace with the concept of being burnt alive. Not the first time he'd had such a thought, though in hindsight, there was a significant difference between planning a funeral pyre and stepping on one.
And yet to his surprise, Ewan was still struggling against the obvious. Shaking to his core, the man had lowered himself prostrate to the ground, placing his hands on the first step. Trying to strike a chord from afar now. Trying when the rest of them had given up.
"Please." The quavering voice was muted by the distance. Like a soldier after he'd stepped on a tripwire. "…please just stick to the plan…"
"There is no plan," the woman snarled.
"But he needs him alive, Grace…" Ewan was begging her, almost in a panic. "Please... if you kill that man, we will … all… pay for it …"
"Same as if I light this match," Grace retorted stubbornly. Turning boldly towards the pillar. Tears smudging the dirt on her cheeks and the match held aloft like a standard. As though she had to gear up for it. Her only advantage lying in that blood-forsaken match…
…and still she hesitated.
The flame unlit.
Lucian's mind starting to wander as he waited for his oblivion. The woman smelling of murder despite her choice to pace rather than act. Tarrying over her kills. Mary Parker, gone without a trace. Sarah Henderson, left outside the prisons and covered in lye. Ina Jacobsen, missing her eye. Presumed dead. Like a child playing dolls, trying to mimic a world she did not understand. Not just one smell, but a hundred.
His senses starting to itch as it occurred to him how long Grace Marsden had been plotting his demise. Fifty-six years. Like smelling blood on the horizon. The thought shaping into a theory. Shifting from the corner of his mind, twisting and turning through his blood until he began to suspect why she smelled the way that she did. The well-painted ship with a rotten keel.
Because when push came to shove, how long did it take to kill someone? And yet if he were to follow this theory, then he had to be certain. For they were both liars. And the closer they came to her truth, the closer they came to his…
"Did you know Sarah Henderson," he asked, raising his head suddenly. Trying to avoid the desire to grip his chains while there was still silver through his palms.
"No," she scoffed. A portion of his theory proven by how quickly she answered. The gruff demeanour covering a misstep. "Why?"
It was hard to explain, he realised. Sniffing the air, examining the contours of her face, finally aware of what he was seeing once the mask had been removed. Like the eye of Ina Jacobsen. The truth hidden by all that was around him. Cruelty. Hatred. The instinct to kill…
…but there was no shame.
Not a single trace of shame in the smell of Grace Marsden. The truth so close now that he could finally see the crack in her mask. The lengths she had gone, honing her craft, holding the facade until it was immutable. Weeding out the last thing that could still connect her to that past. That which was so painful.
Plausible…
…and yet so improbable.
"You know, the absence of a scent can be quite telling," he said cautiously. Thinking if he could be wrong. And yet he had it. The reason for her lie so clear now. Breathing the scent in, trying to take hold…trying to gauge every nuance in case he said the wrong thing. For it would come down to scent.
His against hers.
Only to find his last advantage somewhat compromised by a sudden change in the distance. Reinette able to sense it before he did. Reinette who had been content to watch him burn up until now. Her eyes following the threat, the aggressive sound of their voices, the language foreign to her save for tone and the occasional word…
…until with a sharp intake of breath, she retreated to a different corner of her cell. Farthest from the staircase this time. Like a ghost watching his back, her jaw jerking towards the ceiling, almost imperceptibly, warning him as she wrapped herself in the shadows. Silent and swift.
Waiting.
They'd run out of time.
He spoke fast beneath his breath. His words thrown together with the abruptness of a gambler who had a single die to throw. "Look I know why you dressed the corpse of Sarah Henderson."
Grace looked stung. The match raised by a shaking hand. "I didn't…" She swallowed again. Uncertainty starting to rare itself in her scent. "…I don't…know what you're talking about."
He squinted. "Don't you?"
"No," she countered.
"Because at first I thought it was Nikolai…"
"Quiet," she ordered.
"But that's not really his style, is it?"
"Shut up!"
From afar, he saw Ewan's head swerve in his direction, shock plastered across his face. "What you playing at?"
He could practically feel the other man's eyes boring into his skull. But he kept his eyes on hers. They were both masters of scent but there was something to be said for living so many centuries. Experience.
Something she lacked.
That which no one had had the courage to say out loud before. "I'm just trying to work out if Grace Marsden has ever killed before…"
Ewan scoffed. As though it were preposterous, this expression that pitied itself for being surrounded by lunatics. "Course she's killed. Do you even know who that woman is?"
"Better than you," he shot back."… her father was a Blackmark, feared by all, known to few, only I think you'll find they deal in clean up this time around, not killing."
It was a tall bet.
But he'd played this game longer than she had. And the hunch, regardless of how tenuous it was, came through for him.
The fire draining out of Grace. And with that, his ability to hate for it meant there was little more than pity to draw his ire. Fuel, fury and matches, when all she wanted was for someone to acknowledge it. Acknowledge the pain she had gone through.
His eyes still following her, his nose finally conscious of the scent. The lie beneath the cracks. "He was your father, wasn't he?"
She froze.
Stiff as a board…and then she nodded. The tears starting to brim over. Bleak. The match lowered to her side as she turned away suddenly. As though she needed to form it again. The mask that kept her whole. The well-painted ship with a rotten keel…
…and an escape, if he could find the right words. Reaching out his scent. Remorse. Sorrow. Sympathy. So close that he could hear the tremble in her voice. Smell the sweat on her fingers.
The lye.
The truth of Grace Marsden revealing itself with painful clarity. A woman that tarried over her so-called kills, leaving lye-soaked necks and glazed eyes and fanciful notes written in blood. Taking care to cover her tracks with scent-masking and theatrics. Using four matches when one would have done. Three corpses when she could have poisoned him with silver shavings so many years ago. Her hatred stemming from a depraved source.
For it was not just Ginny who changed her name—it was her. Grace Finnegan. The first surviving daughter of Charles Andreas Finnegan. Mother to his second child, heir to his fortune, and a victim in more ways than one.
Her wounds soaked with the hatred of fifty-six years. The pain starting to creep into her voice again as she looked cagily at the pillar. Her words coming out as a mumble.
"You think you know," she said bitterly. The words strung together like her nose was running. "…think you can just talk about him. You and your bleeding horde, just talkin' about my family like you know how it was?"
It was the first of the warning signs. The smallest hairs on his neck starting to rise. Her reaction unexpected, forcing him to change his tune before she could sense that he'd started on the wrong foot.
His eye already moving towards the staircase, gauging the distance. He was right that she'd never killed, but she sure as hell smelled like someone about to start.
"You're right, Grace," he said carefully. "I don't know. But if you put that match down, I swear to you, I will listen…"
"Liar," she cried. Shrill, the word echoing through the abbey as she circled him. Wiping her face against one arm.
He inhaled. Her scent was starting to spike. But they were so close. She just had to put down the match. "Grace, you would smell if I was lying…"
"But that's what you do," she scoffed. Contempt on her tongue, staring at him as though he were filth. Waving her hand as she pointed. "You lie to people. You're a liar."
He felt his throat tighten. Choosing his words…not just his words, but his scent…with precision. "Grace, I am not lying to you."
She didn't answer. Pacing before the pillar.…and then reaching forward. Her scent raring towards him like a vicious beast about to tear into his skull.
Only a second for her to do it.
The final match suddenly lit and the flame close to his face before he could breathe.
She'd taken hold of his jaw. Forcing his skull against the pillar, forcing one of his eyes closer to the flame.
Oh yes.
Her father's daughter, true and true. Her scent filled with outrage and raw carnage. So close to following in his footsteps.
"He told me you were coming," she whispered. So close he knew the others could not hear. "Told me to hide in the wall…and not breathe, Gracie, 'cause you'd know I was there. Told me to stay close so you wouldn't catch my scent…"
He felt himself choking. Struggling to breathe, his voice straining from beneath her grip.
"You took him from me," she hissed. Tapping her chest. Fierce as she brandished the flame, the only thing keeping Nikolai from tearing her head off.
Four centimetres of match left. The nausea overwhelming. Any healing he might have done in the last hour was gone. He couldn't even fight back. His arms, his knees weakened by the strain. The lack of oxygen.
"You know what he used to say to me?" Her voice was deafening even as she whispered the words. 'Every house has a secret,' he'd say. 'So don't think you know every nook and cranny just 'cause you take it by force…' "
She was going to break his neck. He could feel the bones cracking. His throat straining to gain purchase. His strength gone…
…but there was still a chance.
Scent.
He focused his scent. His against hers. His thoughts. His memories. Focused every fibre of his being on helping her to sense what memory could not. Straining to make her believe through scent alone. It was her currency, her way of understanding the world. Their eyes meeting. Her gaze no longer on the flame, but on his irises.
Believe me, he thought.
The air waning thin.
Until with a cry, she let go. The match still in her hand, delicate and dying. Tears in her eyes as she backed away from him. Shaking her head, kicking at the fuel. "I heard him gasping," she said. "For three hours…"
His lungs were burning, sucking in air. Coughing and wheezing, unable to speak without straining the cords of his throat. "Grace, I swear... I had... nothing…to do with your father's death…"
"How can you say that," she snarled.
Two centimetres left. The shadow starting to stretch across the pews. His eyesight unable to follow it with the light so close. But his instincts telling her to run. For bloods' sake, just blow out the match and run.
His last words formed out of the hollow cancer of his soul, the shallow reservoir of truth that could still be found beneath the cracked surface of lies he'd woven around himself.
"Just trust me, Grace," he whispered, trying to see through the light. Even with the pain, the tiredness carving its way through his mind with an axe, he could still see a way through. She just had to trust him. "You are not a killer—you are a victim. That is who you are. That is why you dressed the corpse of Sarah Henderson. Because you cared about her dignity…"
"You think I care, do you?" The scent writhed out its cage, that vicious uncouthness borne out of hatred and poverty. No control. Her daughter dead and the match about to drop… The spit landed on his torso, melding with the fuel. "…after all this, you think I won't burn you to hell!"
The rest happened too quickly for him to register. Time was up. The flame about to fall…and then only shadows and a breeze. The smell of ashes and lye as the match went out.
Leaving Grace Marsden dead before she hit the ground. Mid-scream, the head rolling into one of the pews. Glazed eyes. The throat muscles torn raggedly, leaving thick globs of blood upon the stones.
He felt sick.
Staring at the head as Kolya picked it up. Coiling the limp hair around his fist and hoisting it up onto his shoulder. His eyes black and the teeth sharp as he smiled. Like a two-headed monster. "It has been one hour, Mr. Itzhak. Will you help me?"
He tried to speak. Shaking for the first time, not from pain or withdrawal, but from…helplessness. The words refusing to come. And Nikolai taking his silence for what it was. Removing a knife from his belt. Warning him of what came next.
He shut his eyes. Trying to ignore the raw sound of a butcher carving through his torso. Nausea threatening to take him before the pain did. The stench of his own vomit…
…and his throat starting to retch.
Memories cascading into his veins, hitting his mind like a punch to the stomach. The dead eyes of Grace Marsden watching him as he gave into the black. Haunted by the sight of Kolya wiping his knife on the back of Grace's body. Her neck covered in blood.
"Another hour then, Mr. Itzhak."
The third hour.
Black.
A/N: For shame, Rushwriter, for shame. Last update was at the end of 2015. Which was not to say I was not writing, just that life got very...very...very busy. I am now less busy (in theory). Thank you, thank you, thank you to all who read, reviewed, story alerted, and favourited during this very quiet year. Also welcome to both new readers and readers who have started reading the story again (YES, of course I remember you! ^_^) I monitor every alert and review - they were all very encouraging and are fantastic for keeping me going.
Normally I list everyone's name out, but I think everyone's vote these days is just to get on with the writing. So off I go!
*shifts cat and husband off keyboard*
A/N #2: Aug 2018 - Still here! I was planning so much after this last chapter, and then SURPRISE, my hubby and I had a baby. It has been a crazy, hectic year...and we just got the nap schedule figured out. So I think I have a few more moments in the day now to write. Stay tuned! Don't lose hope! I'm still here...