Chapter LXII: A Blood-Soaked Rag

The Tilbury Garrison.

"Leave us."

The words were spoken in a tranquil murmur, thereby forming a sharp contrast to the heightened flurry of movement that occurred shortly thereafter. That momentary pause before the bulk of his infantry had abandoned their posts and scurried for the exits. He could hear pens dropping, boots tramping, and the occasional soldier leaping to the side as he tried to avoid being trampled by the swish of fabric sweeping between desks.

Raze continued to ponder the wall, daring to linger in her scent. The mask she so often wore, greeting her followers with roses to hide her strength. She was a tide that would not be swayed. The sweetness of a knife that had just been sharpened.

Allegra.

She appeared to have dressed for a court-marshal. Skirts of grey-wool with military-precision. Taking the time to remove her gloves, delicately pulling each finger by its tip, and only waiting for the door to shut behind the last infantryman before she casually turned to the side and said, "My darling, is this a mutiny?"

He inhaled. "No."

She said nothing more. And for a time, they simply stood, staring at the pocket-watch he'd hung on the wall. It had been placed with ironic precision between the flayed skins Kolya had been sending him for the past three hours.

His desk was littered with maps of the Tilbury tunnels, a majority of them ancient and a good number of them bearing the watermark of Charles Andreas Finnegan. Hardly the type of thing one thought about during a mutiny, whether two-hundred-year old maps of all things might have been falsified. In any case, if there was a secret lair filled with dynamite beneath Exile's Port, they would not find it easily.

The rest of the papers spoke for themselves, of course. Although his wife was never one to let the silence speak…

"Eighteen crates of dynamite." She had opened one of his folios, flipping slowly through what appeared to be a collection of newspaper clippings, yellow with age. "Six cases of paraffin oil." Another clipping. "A set of sterling silver goods forged in a range of sizes for the discerning butcher." She sat down at his desk, closing the folder with quiet precision. "This is an executioner's list."

"I know."

"So accept their offer…"

"We need two more hours."

"And the Council values your opinion, Raze." She started to thumb through the stack of Line Orders he'd been ignoring for the past hour. "But we have voted already—there was a majority—and though you may still lead this military, my darling, you are still subject to our authority."

"Only in matters of parliament."

"Why do you think they sent me?" she sighed, rising to her feet for the sake of his arm. The unspoken dynamic that lay between them. Not only a Council-member, but a pack-leader—one who could strip him of power with only a word. She continued. "You and your men are to prioritise on a rescue mission with immediate effect. All documents in this garrison, including scent cards, are to be burned, and all evidence of lycan society is to be eliminated." She turned to survey the room. "I may not agree with the law, Raze, but I will uphold it."

"The law does not account for these odds, Allegra." He continued to stare at the pocket-watch. "No matter what we do, there is every chance Kolya will set off that dynamite. If we accept the offer now, if we lead the mission now, we are looking at extensive casualties among the exiles."

"There is no proof he will set it off."

"He is mad, Allegra."

"Even a madman will negotiate." Her voice was steady, but he could smell the strain. A woman who had dedicated her life to a cause that was now struggling. "…and for bloods' sake, Raze, they are skinning him alive. If all they require is safe passage in exchange for him, how can we possibly ignore that?"

"We can't." He reached for her shoulder. "But if I accept their offer now…and Exile's Port is destroyed as they leave, do you think Lucian will thank me for saving his skin?"

She grimaced, seeming to want to rail against the truth, but as ever, forced to handle it with poise. The determined breath and gleam of the eye suggesting she'd make known her displeasure once all was said and done. "Can he hold for that long?"

Raze did not move from his post.

"He'll hold."

o…o…o

Meanwhile…

Deep in the bowels of old Butcher's Block, Lucian woke to an icy hand tapping his cheek. Lightly as though he were on the cusp of nodding off. Allegra, he thought. Inexplicably. For the briefest moment, longing for the hell that lay in her presence. As though it could possibly fill the pockets of numbness running throughout his body or compare to the sensation of iron chains cradling him against a hard surface.

They had moved him.

With some misgiving, he opened a blood-encrusted eye. Unable to see beyond a squint at first. The grate above his head lending some familiarity to his new surroundings, enough that he could tell with a glance the hands that had built these walls. Twelve by twelve by ten, as though Xristos had wanted a space to mirror the torture they'd all felt in the years leading up to his rebellion.

He could even smell their bones. The scent of old blood and cinders leading from his knees to the fuel-soaked pillar where they must have died. The exiles they never found. Their voices silent now as the daughter of one who'd terrorised them.

Grace whose head had been left to watch over them, forced onto the carved end of a pew, while the rest of her body rotted in the distance. Rats would be picking over it soon. The true foe of the nightmare looming over him like a figure from Dante's Inferno. Grinning widely as though he lived for such moments.

"You nearly died, Mr. Itzhak."

"Well that's a…" His words were meandering. "…a poor reflection on you, isn't it?"

The vampire laughed softly, wiping his knife on a blood-soaked rag. "Mr. Itzhak, my purpose is not to be killing you." The rag was thrown into the corner. "Two times I am saving your life. For this, I offer new deal."

He could feel a rib fighting to reform itself. The pain failing to register beside the missing skin. The taste bitter as he spoke. "It's still…a no."

"Please to listen." The vampire used the knife to point at Grace's head. "One hour before, deal is for four people." His teeth parted in a glowing smile. Ewan was now cowering on a stool before the cells, his face covered in a motley of bruises for failing to keep Grace in check. "Now only three."

"Can you go lower?"

"Bah!" The vampire swept from his crouch. Seeming determined to avoid Russian now that his eyes were no longer black. "This is not good for business, Mr. Itzhak. You are like caged animal biting its leg off."

"Then we have something in common," he said weakly. Bracing himself for the backlash. It was getting hard to keep up the charade of might when he smelled like a miasma of human waste.

Kolya made a tutting sound. Like a bird thrown unceremoniously from its perch, he turned his eye on the culprit…and then brashly struck a match, throwing an unforgiving light upon all their faces. "Mr. Itzhak, when I drop this flame, business is over."

Is it, he wondered. The stench telling him his front was still smeared with fuel, but his mind unable to conjure anything beyond alertness. Able to see now why his hands were numb; yet failing to comprehend exactly why his captors felt the need for shackles when his palms were so clearly starting to blacken around the silver blades. There was a madness to having been threatened with burning twice. Instead of panicking, all he could do was criticise the situation.

The smile of Kolya was becoming hollow. "Mr. Itzhak," he said again. He was losing his patience. The match starting to creep towards his fingers. "…without business, you will burn, you will die, and we will live. Your time is limited."

The warning drawing little in the way of emotion. He knew what was coming. Perhaps he even feared it. But for reasons he could not fathom, he could not fight it. Instead, he tried to breathe deep. Each breath measured, trying to centre himself. Refusing to look at anything beyond the match. Time devouring the match until there was only a quarter of an inch. An eighth of an inch. Time running out.

No other words. No business.

No pleading.

The match flared suddenly…and in the same instant, a pale arm shot through the bars to his right. Reinette. The words spoken swiftly. A language he could not understand, but the tone of bartering clear on her tongue.

It was hard not to seethe at her voice. The still-human voice in his head already wary of what would happen if the silver came out. Wary of whose fault it was: letting his guard down, letting himself trust for the sake of egotistical reasoning. Believing he could somehow gain ground on what happened all those centuries ago. That somehow, he could undo that massacre.

His thoughts…his surroundings suddenly growing more sinister as from behind, he heard a chilling sound. Stone scraping against a brick surface. Steps creeping along the wall…and then silence. Darkness. The match gone and Kolya now in the corner of his cell, retrieving the blood-soaked rag.

His mind still unwilling to see it as anything else but a rag, lest he be forced to comprehend the agony that was the right side of his torso. That which gave him new reason to doubt whether he'd ever leave this place. The familiarity of that smell—the condescension—taking him back a few centuries.

It started with the rattle of his cage being locked. The echo of retreating steps. All of it so familiar. Doubt and fear taking it in turns to batter his nerves. Reminding him that he was not invincible. That every cut was bringing him closer to begging. The numbers and logic giving way to the harsh reality of the situation…

…Raze was delaying his rescue. Retaining control over the military by using a little known clause in the Horde Duties Act. As long as the alpha's life was in peril, it imposed a state of martial law over the closest den. While the Council would be vying for blood, Raze would have access to Horde resources. The kind that could streamline an evacuation that would otherwise be hindered by the politics of blood.

He could only hope.

Otherwise every cut would be meaningless. Skin now missing from his forearm, back, and torso. The need to Change still lurking in the corner of his mind, but held back by the silver. It had to be past one by now. Like a sun-dial made of torture, they'd be working at a snail's pace—transporting maybe a dozen exiles every quarter of an hour, all while avoiding notice of the general populace. The sun setting just after seven, which meant…

Four pieces of skin to go…

…and then a bonfire.

One he might not be able to escape, he realised. The epiphany brilliant in its summation, forcing him to confront that remote possibility that not only would he die screaming, but there was not a damn thing he could do about it. Every scenario in which he broke free requiring an obscene amount of blood, laudanum, or water.

He could feel his resolve shaking. His mind brittle, struggling to hold on before he cracked. Like a pendulum swinging closer to his neck, each pass wreaking havoc on his state of mind. Convincing him that he would lose. That he was weaker than the silver festering in his palms.

Just breathe, he thought, eventually letting his head fall back against the wall. His skin continuing to crawl, continuing to warn him of his symptoms. The world threatening to swallow him until his breathing took over. Four seconds for each breath. A single moment in time.

An action he could take.

Breathe.

o…o…o

He must have lost consciousness.

Cold and shuddering, the black threatening to take him again, but a noise prompting him to wake. Refusing to let him languish. Repetitious. Precise. Like a warden dripping water on his shoulders. Annoying with its intrusion, yet offering an unexpected respite in his downward spiral.

Reinette.

She was flicking pebbles against the wall. Dark smears on her hands and face, the shadows wrapping her hair in a veil.

Watching him.

Blunt.

"Did Sabine make it out?" she said.

He heard a stutter from beyond the bars. Ewan trying to say something, but she cut him off, hissing something over her shoulder. Norse. Norwegian. Something he did not speak.

The pitiful vampire immediately retreating into whatever hole she had dug for him so many centuries ago. Forced to guard them both, but screaming in his scent whenever he looked in her direction. Holding the stubs of his fingers close to his chest as though he needed to protect them in her presence. Not the worst crime in the world, but enough to make him pause. Make him question who was guarding whom.

Bloods, but the woman had nerve. He felt a grim line settle on his face. "Does it matter?"

"To some of us."

An age seemed to pass before he could speak again. Weak. Dazed. The chains keeping him a foot from the walls, but his knees starting to fester in the mildew. Aching to the bone, so by the time he stood, he was breathing through gritted teeth. "You expect me to believe you're caring now?"

Her palm smacked against the stones. "Yes…and if you would listen for a moment, you would realise that I am on your side," she said. Directly in his line of sight now, crawling on the stones, trying to pry them from their places. Her eyes fixed on freedom, but her voice barely above a murmur. "Why can't you just listen…"

"Because I do not trust you," he erupted with a hiss, unable to stop himself from rising to the occasion when she insisted on being so blood-forsakenly naive.

"Well, that is just…" She threw up her hands. "…perfect!" Her outburst dissolving into an angry shroud of mutters. "What happened to 'Trust me, Reinette' and 'my world can be your world?'"

"Has enough not happened to answer that question?" he grimaced. His wounds alone reminding him of all the reasons he ought to have thrown her off the train before Paris. His breath drawing faster as he slipped suddenly on the blood and the oil. Too tired…too weak to do anything more than loathe himself for letting it get this far. The great and powerful lycan-master brought down to her level.

"I did not plan this, Lyosha." She was struggling to keep her voice down. "I may have failed to stop it. But how on earth was I supposed to know it would be like this—"

He snapped. "And what did you think it would be like?"

Her tongue seemed to dry up. Her gaze, reminding him, for a moment, not of a faded rose, but a thorn scratching him as he picked it. As though they were still lingering in that blood-forsaken monastery. The mirror shattered at her feet, and the world refusing to break for her sorrow.

Without a word, she turned away. The smell of her frustration telling him to relinquish his anger. To see that she was caged. That she had been taken against her will. But his brain refusing to let go of that number, the eight hours she spent in silence…

Bloods, he was a fool to have made that deal with Tanis. A fool to have looked past her scent, that malice that spoke of something cruel beneath the surface. Refusing to open his mouth lest a single word turn into several again, lest he finally admit that it was not just the souls above his head that he wanted to save.

Seconds ticking by. The minutes starting to blur into one another. The woman even now refusing to give up. Stubbornly kneeling down to work the stones between the bars now, touching the surface of each one until she found a little give. A small pile of stones starting to build as she continued to dig her nails into the mortar. Tight-lipped, as though she still had no opinion on the melodrama playing out before her.

"Why did that woman want to burn you," she asked suddenly. Refusing to crane her neck as though a straight back could give her dignity in this place.

There was a terse silence.

That woman.

Grace.

His inability to narrow down the reason for his reticence having much to do with the explosion of rage still simmering beneath the surface. That which he was trying to ignore. Assuring himself that it was the principle of the matter that bothered him. His desire to gnaw on Kolya's skull stemming solely from the recent kidnapping of his ward…and nothing whatsoever to do with territory. Encroachment.

Betrayal.

In short, he was not precisely sure why he felt the need to converse with her in his last hours. Only that the dead eyes of Grace were prompting him to answer. His shoulders too locked up to shrug, but his voice still managing to wallow in a pool of indifference. "She thought I killed someone," he said.

"Her father?"

He could feel derision coating his teeth. "I thought you couldn't understand English."

"I can pick up a word or two." She smelled of bluntness again. "In any case, I don't need to understand your language to guess why people want to kill you."

"It's not my language."

She looked him directly in the eye. "You act like it's your language."

He bit his tongue.

Forcing his eyes forward. Perfectly aware that Ewan was now staring at him as though he were mad. Not the first time their ability to converse while simultaneously wanting to kill each other had prompted that reaction. But he was not continuing this. He was going to be burnt alive in four hours—he had more important things to think about. Like fuel…and matches…and dynamite.

"And did you?"

He sighed. His death was becoming prolonged. "Did I what?"

"Kill her father."

"No."

For all the icy crags in her voice, she sounded placid. "Then how did he die?"

"He hanged himself."

She frowned, sitting up to contemplate him with some interest. "How long does it take a lycan to hang himself?"

Three hours and twenty two minutes not including the time it took to chain him up to the rail, he thought, meeting her eyes with a pointed grimace before she could open her mouth again. "Why do you care all of a sudden?"

She shrugged as though it were all the same to her. Continuing to pick at the mortar. "I'm trying to find out the worst thing you've done."

"So you can categorise me…" he retorted. He was wrong—it was not a placid conversation. It was like being ground into dust with a pestle. "Here—I'll save you the trouble. It's not worse than spending eight hours in silence while you wait for your murdering psychopath-husband to infiltrate my den."

"He's not my husband."

"Oh I'm sorry—I thought we were still interrogating each other," he said with a tone of unmistakably false sorrow. "Is my Latin wrong? Did I miss the part where he called you his 'lady of blood'?"

Her head jerked up. A furious blush rising to her cheeks. "I am not his lady of blood."

"Then who are you?" he threw back.

"I don't know," she cried, scraping her nails off the stones. And then she winced, folding her bruised fingers into her skirt. The stones having taken their toll. "Even now, there are just…traces…of everything I remember."

He spat out a tooth. Trying not to cringe as it started growing again. "And that's supposed to make me feel sorry for you, is it?"

"No," she said. The knowledge hard to stomach with her voice still reaching out to him. Begging to be told off as far as he was concerned. Struggling as though she needed him to understand. "But when he offered me youth, I just…" She was staring at her hands. "…I wanted it."

Fool, he thought. Barely able to tell which one of them he was talking about. "So where is it?"

She smelled of doubt. "There's a flask in his coat. Silver." Her fingers were grasping air as though she could touch it. "He told me it held the blood of my people. That he would give it to me once we escaped. That he would serve me."

Typical.

"Reinette, he is lying to you."

"But I saw it," she whispered. Kneading the wrinkled skin between her knuckles. Eyes staring at nothing. "Both of us were there, so there is still a chance it can happen—I just have to stay the course. I have to believe all of this was meant to happen."

She'd gone from smelling like a sinking stone to a blood-forsaken leaf flying on the wind. She knew something. Her scent…that strange scent…mingling with her doubt.

He could feel the hair rising on his neck. His every instinct telling him to back away before the cliff crumbled beneath his feet. "What do you mean both of us were there?"

Her eyes jerked up. Wide. The feathers suddenly raised and ruffled as she rolled off her knees, coming to stand by the bars closest to him. "I mean if you want to survive this, you need to trust me."

"Fucking no," he said, looking at her askance.

"Don't you see, Lyosha—there are three of them," she whispered. "Kolya will listen to me, but Nikolai will not. If we can get Kolya to take over, he might be willing to let you go." Her voice had gone deathly quiet. Hands creeping around her sides, holding tight to the brand beneath her dress. The H seared into her flesh, speaking not just of a trade, but of torment.

She was terrified…

…and all he could think of was that memory. That black eye. Like nothing he'd ever seen before. Like a foulness that came and went on the breeze. A creature made all the more dangerous by a scent that seemed to carry more than a single mind.

His instincts still unwilling to believe. "You speak as if they're separate…"

She heaved a sigh. Sorrowful, but resolute. "They are," she said. "When he is one, he is not the other. He absorbs their memories. Hrafn was the first, then Nikolai, then Kolya. I think Kolya is the youngest of the three…"

Hrafn.

The shadows seemed to flicker, for a moment, drawing him into her web. Finally, he thought. The mystery unravelled and the name, though it meant nothing to him, giving him a strange feeling of relief. How long he'd wondered what the H on her side stood for…waiting for her to trust him with her secrets. And yet, he could feel the dread coming from those around him.

The tremble in her voice as she said the name in a whisper. Like a sail beating against the wind. A soft moan from Ewan echoing on its tail. Warning him that there was more. That beneath that name lay a thousand reasons for why she did not say it a second time.

"How," he finally said.

She closed her eyes, seeming to drift away as she drew up the words. "He calls it dreaming," she said. "He kills someone…drinks their blood. Wears it like a cloak over his veins…it was the reason I could not remember him."

He gave an unwitting scoff, no longer able to maintain a show of indifference. Even as a child, it had been a whisper to frighten vampire children. Blood-maskers. Immortals who could control their scent, their temperature…

…but their blood?

Impossible, he thought. Save for the fact that Kolya had passed every blood-sweep during the murder investigation. All sources giving him an alibi. Proving his worth, as they said. His memories immediately stirring up a memory of snow falling in a garden. The distinct feeling that he was being stalked by a ninety-pound ingrate wearing a blindfold.

His eyes suddenly narrowing on her person. The question off his tongue before he could realise he had not only stopped whispering, but had somehow appropriated the tone of a nun studying the history of the fig leaf. "Exactly how long have you known this?"

The spell broke.

He could hear the breath leaving her lungs. The faint smell of sweat starting to coat her dress. As though she were dreading something. Rather than answer, she began fiddling with her nails, picking the dirt from beneath and flicking it to the side.

"Nette?"

Her voice was barely audible. "Paris."

Holy mother of—

"Reinette."

"I am sorry," she hissed. Kicking some of the bones at her feet. "And before you ask, yes—I know I am an awful person."

Yes.

You are, he thought sharply. It was astounding. That was over five months ago. Not to mention three murders, and they could have avoided it all with a word. "Why the hell didn't you say something?"

She raised her head, a sudden whiff of defiance drifting from her direction. "Would you say something if your captors had just beaten you within an inch of your life?"

"I did…not…order that."

"Oh, this again," she sniffed.

He bit back a curse. "What do you mean 'this again'?"

She picked up a small stone and started scraping it against one of the bars. "You knew he was a murderer, Lyosha. You bartered for him. I hardly think I am the only one to blame here."

That was beside the point. "Do you know how many deaths we could have avoided?"

"What do you want—another apology," she said, flinging a stone in his direction. It hit the bars with a clang. "I am sorry!" She picked up another stone. "I am sorry that I absconded from a murdering psychopath twenty years ago." The second one hit the bars. "I am sorry that he is back." She smelled like a fire-cracker. "Is that what you want to hear?"

Not quite…

…but before she could say more, there were footsteps. Directly above their heads. Close enough to wonder at how long he'd been there. The sound of a knife tapping along stones as a tall, rakishly-thin creature descended the staircase.

It was too soon.

Lucian felt the breath leave his lungs. His torso still raw from the last cut. The sound prompting Ewan to get off his stool immediately. Scuttling back out of the way, leaving the fuel canister and matches where they were. As though to emphasise how obedient he was.

Hrafn passed before the cells like a ghost. His hands occupied not with knives, but a wriggling sack that he had thrown over his shoulder. Reinette had already shifted back on her hands, putting as much distance as she could between herself and the bars.

The act seeming to cause some distress for their captor. As though he could not understand why she would do this, he made a soothing sound, unlocked her cage and dropped his bounty through the door, before quickly locking it. His tone filled with devotion as he pointed to the sack.

"Drink, beloved."

Only the one instruction; and then gone as quickly as he'd arrived, taking the stairs two at a time. His smell carrying the same bitter incense that had lingered in the East Wing. His movements suggesting a schedule to keep.

Good, he decided, letting his head fall. Another cough threatening to rattle his spine. More time to focus on his priorities, he decided. Weak and weary, in one moment laughing, and in the next, striking his skull back against the stones in frustration.

Like a cadaver left to rot in his own grey matter, forming and discarding his options faster than he could think of them. Find a weakness in the bars. Make a hole in the wall. Disconnect the fuses. Steal the blast caps. Every plan unravelling when it all came down to matches, fuel on his clothes, and no water. The concept of dying in such a fiery manner both horrific and yet endlessly mesmerising to him.

Something he promised Raze never to do, despite having spent centuries entertaining the prospect. Absolution by fire. The ground well-beaten, the oil about to ignite and a half-remembered scream already calling him closer to the memory. Bright and ferocious, the air slick with the promise of oblivion. The smell of ash.

He was losing this battle.

o…o…o

Twelve minutes later.

Fucking hell.

The sack was open…

…and as a direct consequence, he could no longer focus on his imminent death. Rather, for the past eleven minutes, he'd been forced to survey the mockery of all that was civil occurring in Reinette's cell. Trying to avoid looking at the source of his disconcertion, only to find himself drawn back in—the sight somehow more captivating than the rats gnawing on Grace's head.

The fifteenth minute finally prompting him to say something. Wishing he could tap his fingers, but by virtue of them being broken, forced to merely twitch some of them. "Are you planning to eat that?"

She shrugged, continuing to mull over what was essentially a one-course meal. Her fingers draped around its throat, scratching the side of its jaw while it purred. The cat, in turn, starting to knead its paws into her lap, nudging her arm with his nose. Clearly starved for affection like the rest of them. Likely a resident of the tunnels already used to the scent of immortals.

He tried again. "You realise it's purring?"

"So?"

"So kill it already."

"I'm not hungry yet," she countered.

Speak for yourself, he thought darkly.

The cat gave a plaintive meow. Pricking its ears and immediately drawing itself up as though it could sense what he was thinking.

With a scowl, she managed to wrestle the cat back onto her lap. Flattening its posture and effectively forcing it to give her comfort. Muttering under her breath in a voice that she no doubt hoped would carry. "You're frightening him."

His voice was flat. "He ought to be frightened."

"Ignore him," she said to the cat. Rubbing one of its ears. Working her fingers around its neck, scratching the side of its jaw…

…and then jerking back as with a sudden yowl, the cat wriggled out of her grip. She gasped, trying to catch it, but having lulled its captors into a false sense of security, it hissed. Scurrying through, out, and round her arms, through the bars, and around Ewan before padding up the stairs, its tail up and its freedom secure.

Lucian gave a derisive snort.

Well at least one of them had gotten out.

Reinette looked shocked. The loss of her only source of comfort immediately apparent to both of them. Her first scent suggesting a desire to hug herself and her second, something that longed for him to crawl into a corner and just die.

The moment culminating in a sound that was halfway between a hiss and harrumph. "There," she called out, raising her arm tiredly. Obviously hating them both for her predicament. "The cat is gone—are you happy?"

Was he happy?

He could feel a scowl fixing itself to his face. Marginally aware that his fuse was getting shorter. That there was a two-inch stab wound at the base of her skull—and that if he fixated on her wound, for the sake of his sanity, he'd have a better understanding of why she might be asking him such an inane question. Forcing himself to fix his eyes on her face rather than her wound, trying to conjure up the words and then eventually, settling on a disgruntled silence, unable to communicate how he was feeling without driving another nail into her skull.

Above them, the ceiling suddenly creaked again, the sound ending the conversation and causing both their heads to rise to the ceiling.

Hrafn.

It had been an hour.

His heartbeat slow. His body if not his mind already preparing itself for what came next. Shutting his eyes. Determined not to make a sound this time. Hearing the steps approaching his cage…and then suddenly veering towards the left.

The unexpected detour taking on meaning as a whiff of the dead animal reached his cage. He opened his eyes to see Hrafn standing in front of Reinette.

He dropped the cat in her lap.

It was dead.

"Drink," the vampire said again. "You must drink, beloved."

Her breath was moving faster. "I am not hungry."

Lucian held his breath.

He knew that smell. The eye turning black as Hrafn's claws reached for her jaw, raising it up. She had to know what was coming. And yet it felt wrong closing his eyes. Listening to the scratching sound of her nails trying to break for the door. Flesh striking stone. Over and over again. So that by the time Hrafn was finished, she drank.

The next part something he was more familiar with. The sound of a knife unsheathed. Keys locking and unlocking doors before Hrafn stood before him. Violence on his scent.

"Will you help me, Mr. Itzhak?"

He kept his mouth shut. Waiting for the inevitable. The numbness of his shoulders lending him favour this time. Helping him grit his teeth and be thankful for a moment that it was only the length of a hand stolen from his forearm. If he was lucky, by the time the last hour came, he'd die from lack of circulation before the skinning killed him.

His muscles stiff as the prison gate shut and the steps once again retreated. Finally giving him leave to cough, spewing the rest of the foul. Smelling the thorns that she carried. The blood strewn across her face and clothing. The woman clambering to her knees, backing away, leaving the carcass where it lay. The cat only a memory of fur.

It would have been kinder if she'd killed it. Wanting to shake his head, realising that at some point, his eye had caught her eye and they were now staring intently at one another. Her smell so uncertain. So afraid of what he was about to say. But that was not his problem. Sabine almost died because of her. Rena was missing because of her. He was going to be murdered in a disease-infested sewer because of her.

"Sabine got out," he said.

The breath went out of her. The tears finally let loose, as though it had all been for that. Her shoulders shaking until with a nod, she closed her eyes, releasing the grip she'd held over her lungs…and then retreated to her corner. Folding in on herself. Too weak to respond…

…and the darkness taking them forward again.

The fourth hour.

A/N: Small change. After re-reading a few old chapters, I realised Exile's Quarter is based in Whitechapel. Kolya was originally threatening to blow up Exile's Quarter. However that is impossible since we're in Tilbury. So NOW he is threatening to blow up Exile's Port, which is essentially the first place exiles land and the last place they leave before heading to the Americas. (One of these days, I will remember ALL the things instead of having to go back and fix them years later. ;))

Thank you so much to anyone who is still reading! I read every review and appreciate every word. I am a little in shock that this story has reached its 10 year anniversary. On the plus side, still writing. Slooowwllllyy...but sureeeelllyyy...we're getting to all those chapters I wrote years ago. Just need to get the filler in. Alright...on we go...