A/N: 16 October 2022 — Updated beginning of chapter
Chapter LXXII: The Amendment
Was it easier that she knew, she often wondered. The past left in its iron-clad box, and both of them careful not to open it again. She feigning ignorance over his discomfiture and he purposefully avoiding any sign of it. Of course, he knew she was curious. But in the same way he chose not to dignify her scent with his notice, she chose not to see him flipping through her memory journals. Or ordering a dictionary in her mother tongue. Neither of them willing to dig too deep in the other's company.
The peace reinstated and their nights once again filled with the usual ruckus of trying to amuse oneself when gripped in the throes of immortality. Collections. Cards. Drinking. Attempting to find the tell in each other's play. Rena teaching her how to steer the...metal...automobile. Lucian attempting to take apart the automobile, while assuring them all—given his prowess with metal—he could not break the automobile. Lucian breaking the automobile...and finally agreeing to purchase a new one after spending an evening listening to her say nothing about the matter, while silently judging him.
Life proceeding as normal until he sent her north in the summer of 1914. No one explained what had happened. But she knew a sudden change had occurred. All the paintings, sculptures, and furniture wrapped in white sheets. The books, photographs and journals placed in storage. Likely to be burned if she knew anything about lycan culture. Her clothes packed by Rena. And the farewell as strange as she'd expected when it happened.
His back to her as he spoke more to the horizon than anything else. Her travel arrangements had been taken care of by Weylan. She could trust the box would not be disturbed. Magnus would be there to meet her upon arrival. Even a guarantee that he'd sent some things on ahead—enough to amuse her until things calmed down on the mainland.
His words held like a glowing ember.
o…o…o
"Are you ready?"
She remembered to lie. "Of course."
It was the last drink before sunrise. The last moment of warmth or geniality she'd receive for some time. The frost on her glass, the chill from the ice-bucket, seeming to mock her as she drank…
…and immediately felt her throat tighten, the taste making her balk. Forced to hold a sleeve against her mouth. "Oh my blood." She was trying not to gag. "...what is this?"
For all her discomfort, he was looking remarkably at his ease. Breathing in the night air before leaning back against the balustrade. A self-satisfied gleam in his eye. Like a gambler who'd just won something.
"Guess."
She scowled at him. Swilling the blood before she gave it a cautious sniff.
It smelled…awful and yet…familiar.
Like…
"Seal-voda?"
He raised his glass to her. "I told you it was rank."
Bastard, she thought. Of all the things to feed someone before they were meant to go on a journey. Still feeling like her tongue was refusing to work. "You're supposed to serve it hot."
His laughter was rich. "So hold it over a candle."
"Where'd you get it?"
"Magnus." He handed her the bottle. No label, but dots along the bottom—a system she'd finally noticed after a particularly unsuccessful night of raiding his liquor cabinet. "Apparently it's not an easy thing to find anymore."
She felt like a bird trying to fly out of its cage. "Is this my reward for not stabbing you?"
He shrugged complacently. "If you like."
As though it were nothing—a gesture of good will for one who'd completed their task well, she realised. Although not much of a reward if his opinion was to be trusted. That and the way he kept turning the glass without every sampling it. "Have you never had it?"
"Once," he conceded. Still examining his drink, seeming to wonder if he could somehow warm it into tasting better. "…and not by choice."
Choice, she thought with some cynicism. Wary that it was no longer choice that kept her breathing. That if she could rank all the choices she had made, the worst would be accepting his offer. A lifetime of living with a man that she…
…even to think it.
She could not think it. Or wish it. Not even for a moment. Not in the North. Not ever. So she slung her drink back. All of it. Tasting the icy burn. Feeling it seethe down her throat, the kind of slap in the face that was necessary to stay alive in a world of perpetual sun.
Seal-voda.
That was exactly what she needed.
She plunked the glass down. Ready. Realising only a moment later that he had yet to follow suit. Instead he was staring at her glass with some misgiving, seeming to weigh his dignity against his desire to wake up the next morning without a headache. The eye moving to her face, his expression now inscrutable…
…until with a grimace, he downed his own drink. Grunting at the taste. Setting his glass down and turning for the door as well. "Alright, let's get this over with."
o…o…o
And then it was done.
The trip one of ups and downs, her travel box weaving its way across trains and water until the nails came off. A light shining down on her, causing her heart to beat, her neck to cringe as they studied her. A hoard of strange men, old and young…
…and none of them Magnus.
Instead, she heard the voice of Gottfrid. The one whose turn it was. Speaking of legacy and light. His timbre as harsh as a face that had once been handsome. His cheeks covered in the scars of a pox, yet nearly a mirror to the golden-haired boy who stood beside him. Her eyes at first caught on the father, only to be snared by the son. Erling. Tall in stature, carrying a grace not unlike his sister. Yet savage in the way he looked upon her. As though he wanted her to cower.
The box was shut soon after. The world moving again, finally leaving her to settle after a measure of an hour. The room darker this time, lit by a single candle. And the gargantuan beast, Magnus, reaching forward with an outstretched hand, offering to help her rise. As though fourteen years could make her forget him lurking by her bedside. Like a giant stag on its hind legs, his mask terrifying and his words filling her with doubt.
She spurned it.
Pulling her veil closer as she stood, unlatching the side of the box. The silk interior and its mechanisms much improved since the first time she'd travelled in one. Walking past the man to circle the room. Limestone with a shallow grate in the side of one wall. They were deep beneath the ground, but she could hear the wind whistling through the cracks. Furs beneath her feet. The bed spartan. Her trunks and the majority of her boxes stacked in a corner.
It felt empty.
And dark.
She touched the bars on the door. "I am to be locked up?"
Magnus briefly looked away, but the laughter in his eyes had not faded. "Until Gottfrid is satisfied."
At least a year then, she thought sedately. Going to the closest box and running a finger over the head of a nail. "Do you have a hammer?"
"Only nails," he quipped, using English to set the tone, growing the talons of his left hand as though he expected her to guffaw with laughter.
But it was like the cold had seeped into her bones already. Her ability to cater to his presence stripped when faced with someone she did not know. A man she was meant to trust should something go wrong. All her years of lycan small talk and staring limiting the bulk of her interactions, so that even if she had wanted to, she had no understanding of how to handle his person.
Only that he had the look of a youth perpetually searching for a bone to tease. Perhaps making light of everything around him for the sake of reassuring himself. That and leaving runes for people to find on the night before their execution.
The weight of her stare eventually causing him to cough and then lower his hand. The man now starting to scratch his beard as he searched for another angle of conversation. "Gottfrid and Thore never put much stock in comfort," he offered.
She moved past without responding, abandoning the boxes in favour of the trunks instead. The first—by no small chance—holding all her undergarments on the top layer.
Behind her, she heard a second, more abrupt cough. "Forgive me, I should…" Magnus had started backing away. "…I will…leave you to it then."
The door shut behind him…
…and at the sound of the lock, she let her hands fall. Thanking Rena for her solitude. Reaching deeper into the trunk. Setting aside the golden charm-bracelet from Sabine. The oils and tinctures from Rena. Instead pulling out the small box Lucian had given her before the drink, the one he forbade her from opening until Denmark. Placing it upon her bed and seating herself before it for a measure of time, that which it took her to determine whether she should open it now or in a year. Her choice soon revealing a layer of silk, followed by an intricate series of rings, gleaming as though they'd just come from the forge.
It was a puzzle.
She drew it out, staring at it with some suspicion before reading the note he'd left beside it. 'More than twenty-nine. Less than forty. Try not to get your hands filthy. L.'
And immediately, she felt disarmed. Able to sustain the journey. Able to anchor herself in the notion that she would not see him for two years. That he would be a ghost to her. Able to handle all manner of slights and indignities, but not the words starting to blur as she folded the note. Using a wrist to scrub her cheek before making her choice.
All of it going straight back into its box. The puzzle. The note. Back into the trunk where she knew the wolves surrounding her would fear to delve. Forcing herself to feel the cold. The hardness of the bed-frame. The way it had taken on the scent of animal pelt, as though the furs had not been changed in years. Two years in Denmark, she thought. Staring at the walls of her new home.
Fuck.
o…o…o
Six months later.
She heard a bird cry. Her eyes shut, but the bedding warm, holding her in its embrace. It was unnaturally warm. She stirred in her sleep, pressing into the warmth. No longer furs, but a heart beating. Seeking him out. Feeling her breasts ache as she pulled herself closer. Kissing his neck. His throat. His shoulder where the brand had once been. Daring him to wake…
…and abruptly seeing the scars on his cheek.
Ripples and ridges where the fire had made its mark.
His face was burnt.
Hrafn.
She screamed.
Shoving herself back against the wall and waking in the same instant. The room dark. That faint whistling, the never-ending sound of the wind causing a shutter to rattle in the distance.
The fire was dying.
Gathering the furs around her, quickly rolling out of bed to kneel before the embers. Shivering. All her focus on keeping the flame from going out. The boxes still shut behind her, but the flame telling her to remember. Like a supplicant. Holding on to that dream, the first part of that memory for as long as she could…
As though it were sucking the life from her. The lack of clocks, even the absence of the moon, adding a listlessness to her imprisonment. No way of knowing what time it was. What day. Only that Magnus had visited six times. Once a month. Each time asking if she needed anything. If they had harmed her in any way. Her refusal to complain seeming to confuse him.
But there was something inescapably familiar about being left in a stone room by herself for months on end with only her thoughts for company. Like she'd found her way back to a nightmare dreamt so long that it began to lose its terror. She could have opened the boxes. Told herself that it meant something—that he had crafted the puzzle specifically for her hands or chosen each book with care.
Daily, she told herself they were not there. For hours, staring at walls to see if solitude and emptiness could wake something inside. Wake her blood. Wake her memories. It made little difference to her schedule. Six times she saw Magnus and once every two weeks, a masked man or woman would come, administer the blood, write down the vision, and then leave.
And after six months, all of it made no difference. No memories. No youth. She could feel herself folding again. Sleeping in her place until the fire began to die, the cold began to bite and her world became flame. Tending it. Waking the embers. The cycle repeating itself over and over.
o…o…o
Until the next time she woke, Freyja was sitting in the room. The fur on her neck no longer looking out of place, and the girl watching with the air of a queen. So far from the days when she'd knelt before fires, trying to keep her dignity with the bearing of a stooped back. Enough that under the gaze of one who saw through such things, she kept her place on the floor. Only moving to stoke the fire again. Waiting for it to start.
"My father wants you to feel welcome here."
She put the iron down. "Can you not smell my gratitude?"
"You smell of heartache," the girl responded, starting to remove her gloves. "…but there is no place for that here. Wood is scarce. Blood is scarce. You have both these things, and if you were truly of the North, they would sate you."
It was a different tone than she'd heard in Oppenheim. No longer the quiet bird who sheltered under Allegra's wing, but the knowing huntress. As though in coming home, Freyja had resumed the garb of her people. The garb of those who had been hungry for so long that they could no longer remember how to feast.
"And are you 'truly' of the North?"
"Quite the opposite," she said. "My father sent me south when I was born—I only returned to Denmark when I was eighteen. But I learned quickly to appreciate it."
Hard to tell if it was a plight for sympathy or not. "Did your mother not have a say?"
"Of course not." The girl had folded her hands on her knee. "I exist only for the sake of an alliance. It would be foolish to stand in the way of it."
Not quite a threat.
Or even the chance of a threat, she realised. The thought making her want to scoff as she resumed stoking the fire. "Tell your father to rest easy—I've stopped counting the days until I can leave."
"Good."
And by the warmth in her smile, the girl truly thought it so. Lifting the fur-lined gloves for her to see and then dropping them on the bed. Like feeding a dying animal, a creature that had no understanding of how to survive in the wild. Getting to the point now that the niceties had been dealt with. "What is he like?"
Over her dead body.
"You've known him for seven years."
"In passing."
"I thought you were still teaching him Danish."
"He speaks it fluently now."
"Don't you ride together?"
The girl switched her tongue. "Seven outings does not a couple make."
Nor does saying it in Latin make it wise, she thought idly. Burying the urge to respond in kind. Sticking to Danish. "Has Allegra not told you?"
"She has." The smile was covered in a layer of frost now. "But I want to hear it from you."
"A prisoner?"
"A fly on the wall," said the girl, rising to her feet and starting the obligatory circle of the room. "You've spent fifteen years in the company of a man who is notorious for being difficult to handle, and yet according to Lady Allegra, you do it with ease." She touched one of the sealed boxes. "What is your trick?"
"I was not aware I needed one."
"Of course you do." Even while circling, Freyja had not taken her eyes off her. "You're a woman in exile. You cannot live without a layer of protection, whether that be offering your gifts or attaching yourself to the most powerful creature in the room."
If only her gifts were worth more than wrinkles and a bent back, she thought, gathering the furs closer. Eager to see the girl leave. "Have you tried taking your clothes off?"
The girl gave her a knowing look. "If only he were so simple."
"Well, your dilemma is not mine." It felt like the fire had sucked up her soul. The words no longer affecting her as they once might have. "Maybe if you stop trying to complicate things, then you'll find your answer."
"Simpler than I know and more complicated than you realise," said Freyja, stopping by the door. "…but since neither of us is going anywhere, perhaps it will be easier for everyone if we get along earlier rather than later, don't you think?"
"Meaning what?"
Freyja took a last look around the room. "You'll find out soon," she said. "In the meantime, I will send someone to open these boxes for you. And some furniture—I hear you are an avid reader?"
It seemed useless to fight it. Like the tide sweeping over her, that feeling of emptiness.
"Yes," she said.
"Good."
The door shut.
o…o…o
Every lesson of Allegra softening her resolve. So that for a year and a half, Freyja visited. She had the boxes opened. Bookshelves, dressers, and chests moved into her lair. Carpet to warm her feet. Never forcing her to sway, but so firm in her presence that in time, she began to expect it.
Something comforting about speaking the tongues of the North. The girl bold enough to make the exchange, teaching her all the words she had missed in the past thirty or forty years, yet humble enough to accept correction in the few moments when her Latin was not up to par. Far and few between though Freyja was not as perfect as she had once thought.
The girl held some of the rashness she'd seen in the brother. Too eager sometimes in games of chess and backgammon. Bold to the point of danger, reminding her of that momentary glance, the one that still made her wary whenever he or his father deigned to come and look at her. Erling drunk and boasting to his friends more often than not. Peering through the grate. Pointing at her. Like she was an animal. A strange dynamic between the three of them, the father and son who held sway in the den…and the daughter whose lot it was to follow their lead.
Until one day, the knock happened, she spoke a word and the voice that answered her was not Freyja.
"Reinette," he said. In all its simplicity. The two years up. And so much changed in his voice for the two years had taken their toll.
She put her pen down. Knowing the day had come, but afraid to look behind her lest she wake. "Lyosha."
He looked exhausted. The one eye betraying it, the slight tightening in the corner. Trying to mask it with the cavalier expression, the arrogance of one who had no faults to hide. Clothes of winter on his back. A thick overcoat lined with fleece and a uniform of some kind. No medals. No insignia. Nothing to distinguish him from a common soldier.
He closed the door behind him. Surveying the lay of the land before he elected to sit in the chair where Freyja so often sat. Glancing at the chessboard that sat beside it. "Are you well?"
"I am."
It was hard to be under his gaze again.
The intensity of it, as though in a moment he had seen all that was not there. The missing rings of the puzzle still in its box. Her pendant wrapped away, and no sound of clocks to tell her how many minutes he left to idle before he spoke again. "You were meant to have right of movement over a month ago."
"I have no need of it."
"All the same." His right fingers were starting to fidget. The flask in his inner pocket eventually brought out and the cap set on the table. "I've added an amendment to your contract—it won't be an issue the next time around."
An amendment…
…on a contract she'd never seen nor signed.
The thought adding some bite to her tongue. Wishing she could burn it.
"Thank you."
He knew her too well to miss the barb, but it seemed to glance off his desire to keep things civil. The topic changed before anything could fester. "Magnus says you're hard to read."
"Am I?"
He smiled, but said nothing to that. It was more than just the eye, she realised. Watching him remove the detachable base cap as well, pour the two fingers and set it on the table for her. Already on his feet, starting to amble around the room, flask in hand, searching for things to examine. He'd lost his ability to sit still. And their time too long apart now that she feared to ask it. How long since he started using it again…
…and if they knew.
"Is the war still going on?"
He took a healthy swig. "Has no one told you?"
She shook her head.
"Well, you made an impact," he said, scanning her bookshelf. All the additions that Freyja had brought to her. "We had enough warning to know it was coming, but the extent only became clear in the weeks after we got out…"
"Is Rena safe?"
He looked up. As though it still surprised him that she would ask. "Yes."
"And Sabine?"
He picked up one of the titles and flipped to the back. "Somewhere underground, I should think."
Safe then.
The relief of it. The years of not knowing their fates, her guardian and the child whose voice she often missing, leading her to breathe finally. Able to see through all the layers. "She'll come around."
"I'm not holding my breath," he said. For the first time in two years, gracing her with a laugh. "Though she has taken issue with your treatment here, so if you count official complaints, then technically—she does still write me."
The words drawing up memories of Oppenheim. Watching them play in the garden. The girl growing so quickly. Yet none of it hurting her anymore, like she was watching them from afar, the distance making her see how well Freyja had laid the groundwork. Unable to dance around the topic any longer, the barrier that stood between them. "You said you added an amendment."
"Yes."
"How?"
Rather than answer, he put the first book down and picked up another one. "You really don't remember?"
"What?"
He was still watching her. As though he were waiting for some memory, some knowledge, to suddenly fall through the cracks again. And then he shrugged, starting to flip through the next book. "Your visions."
She shook her head. Wishing he would just tell her. Knowing it was there, that thing he feared she would learn. But it was like trying to remember a dream, the words starting to mingle with each other before an hour had gone by. Or a nightmare.
He'd already moved onto them. The never-ending numbers that made him tick, yet so flippant in his manner when he gave them. "When we left, eighty percent of your visions were predicting a growing 'red zone' across mainland Europe and the United Kingdom."
"A 'red zone?'"
He was on the third book now. "It's the same system we use for arranging transfers," he said. "The darker the colour, the more dangerous the zone. Every vision is marked on a sliding scale, and…from what we could glean, Germany, the Russian Empire, France, Austria-Hungary, the United Kingdom and Italy were about to become increasingly dangerous."
"And the North?"
He shut the book. "Neutral."
She could see them. All the villages they'd passed through on their rides. People whose lives were lived in secret. Terrifying and yet humble in its purpose, the lengths they would take to protect themselves.
"You evacuated?"
"We're calling it a temporary transfer." He put the book down. "Women, children, and anyone we could move without raising questions. Normally the cost would be astronomical, but the Northerners gave us full rights of passage, including exiles, provided we came to an arrangement."
"Freyja?"
Another nod.
She could almost feel the apathy, all the force that she placed into feeling nothing. Wrapping herself in its embrace, more powerful than idle dreams, as she picked up her drink and raised it. "Tillykke," she said in Danish.
He quirked an eye at the choice of language, but raised his flask nonetheless. "It's not for thirty years, but I can appreciate the sentiment."
"She'll be a good fit for you."
He looked about six syllables away from telling her she sounded like Allegra, but the words were more resigned when they came. "I don't really know her."
He was doing it again, she realised. Looking to her for advice. "You have thirty years to figure it out."
"I suppose." He'd abandoned the books. Seeming about to touch the desk and then with a last look around, returning to his chair. "In any case, Oppenheim is no longer a viable option, so you have a choice." He gestured at the walls with his flask. "You can stay here…and however long you stay will take away from the next decade…or you can come with me to Magnus' den and wait out the war."
Another choice.
But she would not be a fool this time, she decided, dropping her gaze and staring into her drink. "She's made it very comfortable for me."
"Yes, I can see that," he said. Reaching forward to examine some of the pieces on the board. "…are you letting her win?"
"No," she said. Wishing it was a lie. Finishing her drink and handing the base cap back to him. "…she really is that good."
"Mm." He took a last swig and capped both ends, tucking the flask away again before he sat back. The hardness suiting him. No cushions in the North. "And it's a definite no then?"
"At least for the time being," she said. Able to smile now that it hurt less than she had expected. "Will you visit?"
"Not really—I'm on leave for a few more hours, but once I go underground, it'll be another year." He hardly seemed bothered by it. More concerned now with frowning over the board. "You do know you can still win it?"
"Only if you make the next move," she said. Watching him idly for the hour that he remained. Like watching a boy play at soldiers, the entirety of his focus on a game that had already been lost, whatever the outcome. The barrier in place, but her scent no longer in turmoil.
His last words before he left. "Did you solve it?"
"Thirty-seven."
He smiled and then shut the door, locking it behind him.
o…o…o
Unaware that her prospects had gone with him.
Her 'right of movement,' as it was interpreted by Gottfrid's den, restricted again once the Council got wind of his intentions. The Horde refusing to grant anything that would endanger such a useful tool of war now that she had proven her worth. Magnus bringing her words of apology on his behalf. That in 'times such as these,' it was for the sake of 'her own safety.' A reward for 'services rendered.'
She even got a medal for it.
A bronze star.
And the moon only visible when Freyja bent the rules, wrapping her in furs and leading her through the limestone caves until they came to a tunnel where the ice and rock had split. Their friendship as cold as the snow on her face, but the two of them connected in their silence. The one waiting for her as she sat for an hour with her face to the sky, watching the stars. Waiting for it to be over.
Always so close to reaching her goal. The nothingness that she craved. As though the dreams were mocking her. Every night of longing, whether it was Hrafn or Lucian, played until she could no longer remember which was real. And his presence only making it worse, so that by the second year, she barely spoke to him. But like Hades in a world turned on its head, every year, once a year, he came. The visit always unannounced, only lasting an hour or two.
Until three years had gone.
Winter under her belt before they told her the war was over. That it was safe. Magnus coming to bring her the good news in the summer of 1919. All of it arranged. The journey to a new home. Her quarters. His expression dumbfounded at her capacity to say nothing at his announcement. Unable to see that she was afraid now.
Afraid to go back to it. The riding. The dinners. The walks. Realising that Denmark had been a boon. A revelation after her years in a golden cage. A place where she'd been alone long enough to question her capacity to handle it. He called her a servant, but there was no end to her bondage. No way of working off her debt. No chance of leaving…or choosing her own path. Like finding herself trapped at the bottom of that cave, only able to see the sky through a crack in her prison.
o…o…o
November 1919.
A whip cracked.
Far off in the distance. Only it was a champagne bottle opened by an amateur. The lights dazzling. A fountain of glasses blinding her as she watched the festivities. The silence, that horrible silence, the only way peace could honour their dead…and now a hundred souls dancing to the tune of victory. Their joy as unfamiliar to her as the balcony of this new home. Scotland. All the turrets that reminded her of war.
"You've been quiet."
She took the proffered glass. "What would you like me to say?"
He had to have sensed it by now. "Reinette, you chose to stay there—"
"How much choice does a 'servant of the Horde' have?"
"Enough that you could have come with me when I offered it." He was keeping his voice down. "Enough that you can go back now if you wish it."
"Walls for walls, lycan-master." Even drunk, she could still put her glass down. "I am obliged to you."
And she left.
o…o…o
The unfamiliar stairs and corridor leading to her new quarters. Like walking through a dream again. Like it was Midsummer. Couples passing her in the night. All of their joy mixed with sorrow. All of them fearful of the morning after…
…until the door was shut behind her. The entire wing to herself. As though he'd added a room for every year. Every inch of her quarters filled with all that she would need for her imprisonment. Chandeliers. Rare books. Fine furniture. An entire collection of jewellery to match her wardrobe. All the dresses and veils brought by Allegra and nary a mirror to find.
For therein lay the issue.
She was old.
An old creature in mind and body. Knowing she was drunk. That she would sleep it off in the morning. That when she woke it would all start again. And yet when she lay back on her bed…
…she was not alone.
Like she had known through all her dreams. All those nights in Denmark, longing for him. So that rather than scream, she reached out to touch his face. His face, once so beautiful, nestled into the silk and velvet of all the surrounding riches. Burnt in its entirety, and only the one eye to tell her who he was.
Kolya.
That vivid shade of blue, the wonderful iris of a creature who'd been burnt into waking. As though the fire had peeled away the ash to reveal his beauty. All the pain and sorrow drawing her deeper into the dream as he swept her up, curled into his arms with her head resting against the stump. Pulling the veil from her face.
A last kiss…
…and a flask pressed into her hand. His promise kept and his head bowing once before he left. Leaving her to choose. Knowing the last of her dreams were ending as she drank. The flask upended. Blood coursing down her throat. All of it. Every drop. And the convulsions taking her in an instant. Until she could no longer feel it. Any of it…
Fading…
…and gone.
o…o…o
Something was wrong.
He'd followed her. Of course, he'd followed her, but her quarters had been empty. The door to her balcony left open. A strange scent on the air. Something so familiar and yet…foreign. Like wood that had been scorched. All of it making the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Searching the house. The gardens. Pushing his way through crowds of unfamiliar people until he reached one he knew.
"Have you seen Reinette?"
Allegra gave a rolling sigh. "Really, Lyosha…" She was dressed head to toe in pearls, but looked liked a girl with her feet dangling in the fountain. "…it's been twenty years. I think if anyone knows where she is, it would be you."
He caught her wrist before she could turn back to the revelry. "She's not in her quarters."
"Oh for heavens' sake, can you stop harassing her…"
But the words were cut off.
A scream.
The crowd suddenly backing away from something. A creature emerging from the house. Burnt. It was the source of that smell. His skin pulled back into the rictus of a smile. His arms raised in surrender…
…and a hand missing.
Hrafn.
It was him.
Everyone caught off guard, but the closest ones recovering quickly. The vampire shoved to his knees by the soldiers who'd fought. A bevy of firearms, knives and claws aimed at his throat. But it was not the shock of seeing him. It was his expression. His eye trained on the space above their heads. The look of someone who'd completed his task. So that immediately he knew it was not Hrafn that he should be looking at…
…but the roof.
Breathing hard, the light shimmering in the water, catching him across the face. The scent drawing his gaze to her and the world suddenly turning to shadow. Even then caught between worlds, an ocean of his people, the ones on the farthest end of the house, dancing and revelling between them.
She was on the farthest turret.
Years of knowing every scent on the hills from the mortar under her nails to the acrid scent of nightshade on her breath. His eyes passing from her silhouette to the ground where Hrafn lay. Knowing that he was too late. That like all of them, all he could do was watch.
She fell.
A/N: Thank you to Ursiearielw12, Love-in-Halsey, Mary Petrova, LovingBitch, Books-n-Harleys, Ella Palladino, Malik, Codenameyikes, MermaidVampire, Timmy, Hannah-Brieton65, Barbara Dias, Sand dan Glokta, Allison Annelize 0000, Eileen, Cassidy and all the guest readers who reviewed the last chapter! The responses brought me so much joy in these wild times. I am consequently VERY eager to get the next chapters edited and posted, so I'm diving right back into writing again. As always, please feel free to read and review. Stay safe!