Chapter XIV: A Sense of Longing
The Sewers, Trondheim
Time: 5:14 pm
Almost thirty minutes had passed and still no manhole.
"Bloods, are we not there yet," Lucian muttered with some frustration, stopping momentarily to squint at the ceiling. Every intersection identical to the one before. Solid stone above and around, the walls covered in slime. Magnus was notably silent on the subject. The water had slowed to a trickle, barely enough to cover their soles. The rotting smell of sewage wherever they stepped, coating their skin and clothing. The compass pointed north, but the blasted thing kept twitching. His sense of direction was becoming skewered in the darkness. He resumed his pace, forced to go left again. Three more turns. Again, they faced north. The ceiling solid and an enormous metal grate blocking their way.
Echoing silence…
Staring at the dead-end, he frowned, considering the path they had already taken. Too many turns for a common sewer. They must be traversing old Trondheim, the portion of the sewer system mirroring the invisible lines of the historic city as it once was. The tunnel beyond the grate providing a potential access point from above…or leading deeper into the city. Pensive, he scratched his beard irritably. It would take strength to barge through the metal gates. Too much for a mortal form...and he was not willing to change unless it was truly worth it. Trying his best to exhale the scent of rotting garbage, Lucian turned around to face Magnus. His companion about three paces behind, crouching with his arms folded, balancing his pack and seemingly resigned to their predicament.
"Any thoughts," he murmured pointedly to Magnus, inclining his head in question.
"We turn around," Magnus replied just as directly, standing up slowly, stooping due to the height and moving closer to the grate. Spitting on his sleeve, the man cleaned a tiny portion of the slimy rods, the metal starting to gleam. A bluish grey tint in the world of shadows. In the dark, Lucian felt his jaw tighten.
"Well, it would be, wouldn't it?" he said bitterly, eyeing the metal with some disdain…reaching his hand out and recklessly touching the barrier for a moment, the quiet sound of hissing where his thumb pressed against the metal. Flame against flesh, burning into his skin. The silver so covered in grime, he hadn't even noticed. Only a small layer, but enough to stop anyone from traversing where they were not welcome. He should have seen the danger. Even in the dark, he should have seen.
Scowling, he turned around, brushing past Magnus. They would have to retrace their steps. The more water there was, the closer they were to the regular system. Purposeful, he quickened his pace, loping down the turns and moving towards the sound of water. His mind working out the foreign abnormalities in his surroundings. Several points which had been bothering him in the past few minutes. They were on level ground. The grate had been tarnished from the moisture, which suggested water normally flowed in that part of the sewers. Strange that things had become so quiet. His ears catching the sound of dripping ahead of them…the incessant noise of slimy water plummetting into a pool.
They were on level ground...
...so why had the water tapered?
Slowing to a quiet walk, Lucian turned slightly, keeping his back to the wall, his hands moving, gripping the knife and speaking a silent language to his comrade. Dropping the curt signals of battle for the more conversational style. "Magnus," he signed, the thoughts moving swifter than the sign-language he used… "The water is slow. Why?"
"Blocked," the man signed back, squinting behind and in front as they walked. "Happens sometimes."
"Surely not here," Lucian frowned, his eyebrows raised in question, brushing his right thumb under his chin and forward. Palms moving back and forth in front. Shaking his head, he returned his attention forward, his blade once again firmly in his hand. Squinting into the darkness ahead, just able to discern the curve of the tunnel ahead of them. They were turning right…another intersection around the corner. Too much sewage to get a good grip on the smells...but then he'd always had a wonderful nose for when things were about to go sour. From the grate, he knew the vampires were familiar with this maze. The lack of water meant something was obstructing the flow. It could be regular blockage...
...yet he doubted it.
Moving his blade to his left hand, Lucian calmly drew the handgun again. Ultraviolet bullets. Folding his left palm behind him, he signed the word "silence" to Magnus, their steps now barely discernable, stalking forward, weaponry gripped tight in hand. Leaning his head back slightly, he allowed his hood to fall back, the peripheral vision of lycans widening his centre field of view. Silent hunters, they approached the sound of dripping. The tunnel around the corner, just before the intersection. Stopping at the edge, his nose started to tense…
Sewage…
Hemlock…
…and…
"Oh for fuck's sake," Lucian thought almost wearily, peering around the corner into the darkness of the intersection. Staring at the bodies piled up against the water flow, the eyes empty of life, sewage piled against the flesh to staunch the blood flow. Guns stuck in another pile along the path. The water below freezing, diluting what plasma had spilled. Another time of year, they might have smelled it earlier. Another time of year, they wouldn't even have been here. Did it have to leave cadavers everywhere? Counting in his head, he calculated the body count…
In the last twenty-four hours, the creature had taken out at least a quarter of Mørkehule's fighting force…
Could it be William?
Throwing the thought aside momentarily, he forced his attention on the practical gravity of the situation. Leaning back against the corner and raising a finger to his lips, cautioning Magnus to silence and edging closer, his ears straining forward. Listening carefully and guarding himself against a sudden change that might betray their presence. His eyes threatening to glint silver. Fangs already growing. It was an ongoing trial to retain every component of the human form when confronted with blood. Bones aching to transform. His mind holding his body and his thoughts in a firm grip. The creature had followed them into the sewers. But for how long? When did the water start to slow? When... Forcing himself to remember, he timed his recent memories. At least fifteen minutes ago. The bodies here for at least fifteen minutes. Inhaling silently, he moved forward into the present surroundings, his eyes darting from the ceilings to the intersecting tunnels. The way they came. Watching, waiting...only silence everywhere. The creature was definitely in the sewers, but for the time being it seemed to have left the kill-site. Pointing behind him, he signalled Magnus to watch his back. Crouching forward, moving on his haunches and approaching the pile of victims…six bodies.
Two scouting teams.
If the creature had not so violently taken to eating its own kind, he might have enlisted it.
A born killer…
…which unfortunately, did not move in his favour.
Keeping an eye on the dark tunnels ahead, Lucian immediately searched for that inkling which had bothered him since seeing the blond vampire's head on the bridge. Every victim they had seen at the well had been torn. The carnal tearing of flesh and sinew, the enemies of a lycan ripped apart in cold blood. On the bridge however…the vampire's head had been lopped off. Already aware of what he would find, Lucian pushed one of the victims' arms to the side with his knife. The stab wound in the heart. About three inches wide. The entry wound somewhat jagged…a broken blade. Not just a born killer then. The creature was a warrior. An assassin from the old age.
Slowly backing away from the bodies, Lucian looked behind him. Magnus crouching silently, his gun pointed at the eastern tunnel. The man nudged his head towards it, drawing his attention to the opening. Rising from the ground, Lucian turned and stared at the gaping hole, his eyes narrowing, the silver gleam of anger crossing his sight. The creature had retrieved the hemlock he had dropped. It had stuffed it in one of three bottles sitting in the corner of the tunnel. The plant worn from the hours it had spent in his pack. The two other bottles holding lures as well...a piece of aconitum in the second. Half a pint of blood in the third.
The fourth piece of the vision.
Old bottles.
The vision was quickening. The scent of aconitum entwining itself through the air, curling itself around him like an old lover. The scent of blood drawing him towards change. Every muscle tightening and loosening itself as he fought to control himself. This was no happenstance...the creature was connected to every step of the Nightrunner's words, dogging his steps, hunting him as quarry. He could feel the gait of a wolf in the back of his limbs…and in the back of his conscience, he could feel Magnus' hand pressing onto his shoulder. Frowning behind him, Lucian shook the hand off. He was in control of his form…he would not change. His head twisting towards the eastern tunnel as the sound suddenly rushed upon his ears.
Footsteps…
...half a dozen yards down the eastern tunnel.
The scent of blood in the tunnels. The hemlock...
Squinting, Lucian took a step forward…his eyes tailing the sound as the creature moved. Down the tunnel and to his left. Barely discernable, the wet sound of boots treading forward. Tempting the hunter to throw himself headlong into the tunnel. Every instinct daring him to hunt. Hunt. The aconitum calling him, luring him. Straining, he took another step forward, watching the darkness, looking deeper into the gaping hole of the eastern tunnel. Long ago, he might have taken the bait, the chase this creature promised him. It knew what he hungered for. The age when lycans had been the hunters. More than daylight guardians, more than wolf-hounds of the ancient world. Blood-hunters. Immortal slaves used for their hunger and their ability to track. This creature knew he could hunt it. Knew he had been the greatest of blood-hunters. The greatest of warriors. The secrets hidden within. The creature in the tunnel. He took another step forward, again shaking off the hand on his shoulder. He would not hunt it...he would not change.
But if they could catch a glimpse…
Abruptly, the footsteps accelerated…
Faster…
…the headlong clatter of a tearing run.
It was fleeing.
Snarling, Lucian flung his pack to the ground and hurled himself into the tunnel, his legs attacking the stones, his wolfish body tearing down the twists and turns of the maze-like sewer, barely aware of Magnus left behind. Faster...faster. Half in the throes of change, he hunted the creature. Left…right…right…left. Never catching up, the creature always just ahead of his run. He was gaining on it. Right…left…right again. He could sense it just around the corner, the knife cold in his hand, his fangs sharp before him, his throat loosing a howling growl which echoed down the tunnels…
The scent of flames…
...fire.
Alone, he skidded to a halt, gritting his teeth against sudden blindness and masking his eyes with his arm. His vision thrown by the bright, burning light at the intersection's centre, his steps darting backwards and slashing the air as he turned. The graceful steps of a warrior versed in the art of fighting blind. Squinting, he forced himself to see. His eyes cracking open and ignoring the pain…adjusting quickly. His boots trampling the fresh sprig of hemlock left on the stone. The space was wider this time…higher. An intersection of four tunnels, a bevy of pipes running along the walls. Another set of bodies piled to his right, the blood warm and gushing from their dismembered limbs. An enormous flame-ravaged pyre burning in the centre of the square room, the smell of leather crisping with hemlock and sewage. The leathery material crackling like a match. A pile of clothing burning upon an old suitcase. The scent engulfing him…flames, leather, and hemlock.
A brown suitcase…
...the fifth piece of the vision.
Footsteps to his left.
Baring his teeth, he twisted, shoving the blade sideways, slashing at empty shadows. Open space…a figure to his right! Breathing into motion, he arched, stabbing through his peripheral vision, the sound of metal glancing off stone. Behind. In front. He stabbed into emptiness, his eyes widening. Nothing. The room was empty. Curling his fingers into the hilt, he snarled, eyeing the possible trails the creature could have taken. One of three facing tunnels, each with a sprig of hemlock hung from the ceiling. The scent masking the trail, the light burning his eyes. The clatter of glass from the left. The splash of water from the right.
The echoing footsteps from the centre tunnel.
Lucian growled at the sound, his eyes turning to slits. This was a trap, and he would follow no longer. Grey eyes reflecting the rage caught within…his gaze cutting through the inferno. The burning pyre. Breathing it in, the glow of heat, the flames licking the charred woman at its centre. Her small body curled into that of a broken doll, her spine snapped. A victim burning before him. The scent of flame…scorching, searing, smouldering. Not only clothing then. The creature dared to burn a dead vampire in front of him.
"What do you want of me?!" he snarled into the flames.
The footsteps stopped.
Silence. Only silence.
Breathing the stench and leaning with his back against the wall, he waited for the creature to move. Starting to slowly twist and turn his blade, easing himself into the sharp meditation of light glancing off metal. His eyes following every corner, every shadow of the room...
Oh he was weary of this creature. Weary of this game. Weary of the brutal rage that lay beneath his cold exterior. Flame, scorching, searing and smouldering. That which followed him always…that which he could not ignore. The hell he had lived in for almost eight hundred years… his eyes upon the pyre. Finally, he had left the flames when she came. The sea sweeping upon the tides, quenching his anger. At times treacherous, her voice harsh, callous and cold. Tranquil when he raged, incensed when he neglected her. Strange beauty from the tracks, she that soothed the pain of his memories. She that gave him that which he had forgotten since the night of his first wife's death.
Enough, he thought, his fangs drawing back.
The skin tightening, the bones of his neck growing taut along the jawline. His face harsh in the smouldering light, shoulders arching against his spine, tearing the coat from his back. The absence of warmth that shielded him from ice and cold. The heat of flame on his skin, his bones shooting upwards, the sharp twist of muscle and sinew. The rage of the past two years eating away his human form as if it were parchment. Over seven feet tall, he rose from the ground, his fur black as midnight, rising from a crest, his skull swelling forward. Twisted yellow claws curling from his hands, his limbs writhing against the heightened ceiling, scratching against the stone.
Complete, he snapped his teeth throught the air and howled, daring the creature to show itself. Challenging this ancient one to leave its hiding place and fight. For he had the rage to fight this creature. Rage that his mistress...his mate would be dead within the month. Thirsty and forced to return to the hell of his old memories, he had watched her dying, quickened her dying, leaving her to the trial, the wolves, the Council. Disregarding and persecuting his lover. Neglecting and ignoring the anguish and the pain. She who might have been his wife had they lived in another life.
He had lost her.
He had betrayed her.
Nightrunner.
The thought inflaming him even further. Again, he roared, challenging the creature. Eager to whet his talons in battle. His fury carrying the unheard words… Alone, he stood in this place. All were gone. The angel was gone. The sea was dried up. Only flames and this creature left. This assassin. He had no doubts it could see him now, this foreign wolf. This unleashed fury. In moments, it would understand fury.
He would show this creature his fury…
Finally, as if it understood his thoughts, the creature unfolded from the darkness. …from the shadows, she emerged, her body wrapped and hidden among her desecrated victims. Her clothing covered in blood and grime. Her eyes targeting him as she stepped into the light. The flames upon her face. She…
He felt his breath catch. She…
She was…
His eyes widening.
The control of his bodily form slipping…
His rage folding under pain…
Groaning, Lucian staggered, suddenly helpless as the Change was wrenched from his grasp. The worst kind of Change, wild and uncontrolled. Pain. The mantle of wolves cracking and twisting him back into human form, the skin slow to follow and forcing him to the ground even as Winter threw herself upon him. The cold biting into his bare skin, the burning pyre barely keeping him from freezing. The knife fallen to his side. Dragging himself to his knees, he curled forward, shivering against the stone and trying to find room in his chest to breathe…unable to control his lungs. The dull ache in his chest…his lips unable to speak. Ice sucking the strength from his arms. His eyes caught by the creature who stood before him.
A woman…
Her face pale as ivory, the curve of her cheek smooth as if sculpted by Pygmalion himself. Her body strong, the muscles taut and well formed. The nails sharp beneath the glimmer of fire, flexing as she turned towards him. Her jaw raised in arrogant pleasure, the soft laughter hinting at the teeth of an immortal. Hair as black as obsidian.
A sense of longing.
It was…
No.
He shook his head forcefully, backing away on his hands and knees. It was impossible. His memories shot. Unable to comprehend. Grasping forward against the stone floor, feeling his sanity slipping, Lucian wrapped his frozen fingers around the hilt of the sharp blade, pointing it towards the woman. Unable to stand and curling himself closer to the pyre. The face was different. She was dead. The face had to be different. He was going mad.
"You are not her," he whispered roughly.
The woman did not answer.
Instead, she took a step forward, her head turning slightly to the side, the locks falling forward to cover one eye. Her lips parted. Hungrily. Gracefully, the lady bowed before him, the trench-coat falling open slightly, revealing the broken blade creeping from her side. Wrapping her fingers around the hilt, she drew it from her belt. Weighing it in her palm before assuming the stance of an assassin.
Begin, her eyes said.
A/N: Well, that was unexpected. Yes, there is a good reason why Áris looks like Sonja, and no, she's not Sonja's mother (that would be wrong on many levels.) Also, due to Underworld III coming out, I'm trying to coordinate any visuals of Sonja with Rhona Mitra. Try watching the Doomsday trailer...still not sure if she's going blond for the film or not. Currently working on Chapter XV. Please do read and review.
JohnnyHasTheKeys, NeverEndingNights, and Kim: Thank you for the latest reviews! They keep me writing.
Additional References: For the purpose of lycan lore, there are several kinds of Change within this story. Most are controlled, and therefore not as painful (particularly as lycans grow older and become used to the process.) In this chapter, however, you get a taste of what it's like to go through an uncontrolled change. Much more painful (kind of like Michael's first change in Underworld.) I would expect Lucian hasn't had one of those for a very long time. (He's usually so very controlled.)