Chapter LXXXIV: An Hour of Melancholy
And so it carried, the sound passing over those starting to yawn, the day-shift whose task it was to serve the first meal of night in the dining room. Lingering over the quiet nooks before passing deeper into an attic. A safe world where a girl could hide, arms around her knees, the dress she was wearing covered in cobwebs and dust. No longer a child, yet stuck in that moment for all time. Surrounded by all the old toys. The tin soldiers. Her rocking horse. But the sound pulled away…and on. Through a window. Peering keenly over the shoulder of silence, the tawny-eyed, straggly-haired woman at its centre, polishing a rear-view mirror. And again…moving on. Quickly now. Searching from room to room until it found the target of its hunt.
An echo of its cry, giving it reason now. A purpose for sweeping beneath a door before which a variety of covered trays had been placed, all of them filled with perfection on a plate, save one—which for the sake of principle rather than keeping one's position—still contained porridge. Lucian still asleep in his bed, unaware of its presence, yet hearing a change on the wind. A storm building. Water dripping from above, and each drop preceded by his heart beating. Too fast. His breath coming in fits and starts. On the cusp of being awake. Eyes shut, his body unable to move. But his mind desperately trying to get out. Unsure now whether he'd died in his sleep. Whether every time he woke, it was a dream…and the dream was his reality.
For a moment, remembering where he'd been, his thoughts moving jerkily forward. Still able to hear his boots splashing through the rainwater. Two hundred years old and thinking he knew something because of his age. His prowess. His ability to move a grate. That if he was smart enough to forge a key, then he'd be smart enough to escape. Not just the tunnels, but his mind. The guilt. The memories. Turning back the other way. Knowing it was coming now. Knowing after so many centuries that it always got him.
The last barrel.
It burst into flame. Exploding in his face, burning his screams into the rock. His claws tearing at his skin. Writhing until he was on his knees, his flesh formed out of cinders and ash. Begging before her. Grasping at her feet as their blackened forms began to disintegrate. And he could see her. Dying. And all of it starting again. Wishing it would stop. But it never did. It just started again. Her death taking him forward. Over and over again. Arms cradling her face, screaming for him to help her…
…until he heard it.
Again.
First the wind.
The storm starting to build, the water starting to drip.
Then the statue.
Cracking.
Her feet, her legs…her torso collapsing into itself, like an hourglass sucking on its last grain of sand. Dust clouds rising above her, pushing her neck back. Forcing him to look into her face, even as she slipped from his grasp. The shoulders keeping the neck upright for a full three seconds before her head toppled over, like a corpse without a noose.
Not his wife.
Not Sonja.
Nette.
o…o…o
Fuck.
He sat up.
Sweating. Swallowing.
Awake now, but still feeling the adrenaline. Like he was still there. Hands stumbling to the side of the table, searching for his watch. Not there. And then looking down at himself…
…finally pinpointing the other reason for his discomfort. Seven hundred years of nightmares having resulted in torn sheets, broken bones, and a tendency for him to scream hoarsely until someone came running from the other side of the house. But never…
…that.
His cock was hard.
Blood, that felt wrong, he thought. Forcing himself to lie back and breathe in time with the ticking. Breathe until he had control again. Until his body obeyed, so that he could once again sit up without feeling guilty. Now searching for the source of the ticking. The time on the mantlepiece clock hard to read, but the shadows beneath the drapes already telling him what he needed to know.
The sun already down. The previous evening's activities seeming like a pleasant nightmare, one that did not result in him killing his wife over and over again, but instead left him with the distinct impression, one he preferred not to recall, that words had been said that could not be…
…unsaid.
And yet it had seemed so innocuous. A simple game. Easy enough to win, and a means for calming an itch, that need to keep moving when so many people were around. Naturally, he had not factored in the drinking. Or the amount of heroin already in his veins. The fact that he should have ignored the idiot messenger whispering into Weylan's ear after their daily briefing—a place where a whisper was never a whisper—and instead gone straight to his quarters, allowing his primary aide to handle it. Shut the game down. Send everyone off. Freyja would not have entered the room, Reinette would not have left it, and the amount of vomit on his sheets would have been nil.
Which was not to say he was not used to it. Because the more he lay there, the more it felt as though the aftermath of missing the first afternoon tea of Hangrove hardly seemed to matter now in his list of priorities. His life before all of this…frivolity…seeming like a mirage on the horizon. His head pounding, and his instincts telling him to forget the mirage…and just go down to his forge again. Already eager for it. That smallest trace of guilt creeping into his arm, the place where everything had started to go wrong.
Like he'd been left in a hole.
Falling deeper with every year. No longer able to sustain himself not only with breathing, but the memory of his life before the hole. A life when he could rely on a steady routine to keep himself above ground, one hour at a time. One breath at a time in a world where it was easier to breathe. Breakfast always requiring the additional hour, thanks to Reinette having a tendency for devouring entire chapters of whatever book she was reading…between…each sip from her cup. This followed by the long walk at ten. Unless she was not in the mood for it…
…in which case, he occupied her sitting room, waiting for her to finish explaining…in no small amount of words…that when they started the walks, they were meant to be a light and pleasurable means of diverting themselves…and that she understood that they were important to him…but that did not mean she was in the mood to be be dragged through the forest, precisely at ten, every night, every season, regardless of inclement weather or circumstance.
Her words.
Spoken with an excessive amount of volume. When she could just as easily have said 'less walks' and made more of an impact.
In any event…
…once she was done explaining herself—and they went on the walk—he could expect all botanical specimens to be catalogued directly after they were collected. Which gave him precisely two hours for completing any necessary work in his study or forge. Ten minutes to clean himself up if he was covered in soot.
A light supper followed by the daily ride, but their horses stabled before three o'clock regardless of her thoughts on the subject. Ten minutes to change unless Reinette could not be bothered, in which case, provided they had enough hours before sunrise, he'd suggest they eat outside on the terrace for the sake of the surrounding air quality.
Dinner at four.
Possibly a post-dinner fuck, assuming there was an amenable mistress or guest available. Otherwise he'd spend an hour lounging on Reinette's carpet, playing cards, while trying to convince her of the merit in allowing Rena to clean her riding habit, more than once a century, after which she typically asked him to leave. Straight to his quarters.
A long bath.
Bed.
Sublime.
Until his life took an unexpected turn after they left Oppenheim. Reinette leaving for the north…and the negotiations for the Northern pass keeping him south for the first two years of the war…
…in a bunker.
A dark…incredibly safe…bunker. Raze, Singe, Allegra, and Magnus all assigned to different territories and his job merely to exist until they could arrange safe passage for the exiles without compromising the negotiations. Enough rations to keep him in good stead, but the days starting to wreak havoc on his mood. The tunnels close to one of the first bunkers they'd built, and the sound of supply trains waking him every few hours.
It was a crossing point on the Line. Once a week, the supplies would come in, wait for a day and then be shipped out the following night. And on the same night, once a week, three of the supply runners would sit down for a game of cards just before sunrise. Aware of the demon in their midst and under strict instructions not to engage with him, but his choice to lose as many games as he won making it easy enough to break a rule considering they were all standing in the same shit. He always dealt in blood-wine, and while they only had mortal rations, he seemed willing enough to play for a pack. The kind of thing loved ones sent to the front-line. Most of them carrying cigarettes until he found the odd…gift…from the heavens. Syringes, needles, cocaine, heroin, everything a good soldier needed to withstand the trenches…
And no one could smell it.
Not Raze. Not Allegra. The holes healing quickly and his behaviour without fault, provided he kept his dose within reason. Even Singe was too busy dissecting cadavers to wonder why he was doing so fucking well again. Possibly because the man already knew and had long since given up on his patient.
His need now—not for finding Freyja…or even Reinette—drawing him into his bathroom. Once a pristine haven that might have tempted him with a long soak. But the luxury falling to the wayside when he looked after his own affairs. Roughly trimming his beard and hair. Scrubbing the last of the filth from his face at the sink before seeking out the first shirt on his floor that did not vaguely smell of vomit. Langley having been told to inform Raze that he was indeed cleaning the lycan-master's quarters, while being instructed explicitly to remain outside.
Although whoever placed him in his bed—Weylan or Langley if he was lucky—might already have an…inkling…that his quarters were not as clean as they might have been in the previous month. Initially about to head for his forge…and then thinking it might be…worth…checking on the East Wing in light of his dream. Just for a moment, he thought, pulling back the drapes by an inch and then drawing back with a start.
Snow.
The entire landscape covered in it. The mild appeal wearing off as he realised the implications. Watching the guard rota that was now clearing the walkways. Directly outside his window. Considering whether to make a break through the hallways…but in the end, taking his chances with the less obvious path. Second balcony on the south side of his quarters. Shortest path to the East Wing. Which again…would only comprise of a quick check.
Obviously.
o…o…o
His path taking him quickly up the side of the house. Avoiding the windows, but still able to see inside the great dollhouse in which he lived. A maid chiding a hallway guard. A curtain being adjusted so the lights were not visible from afar. Or perhaps because things were going on behind the curtain that his guests would prefer were not visible to those climbing the walls after dark. Taking his time. Even with an icy wind at his back, the only reminder that he might not be human, but he could still regret not bringing a coat in the dead of winter. His line of sight close to the East Wing, about to pass over Sabine's window, when he found his senses snagged by something odd.
Aware that it was entirely possible that he was imagining it, considering how close their scents were in structure. But in four years of entering rooms a measure too late and peering out windows, it had never occurred to him to actually scale the walls to see where it led. Instead he'd just always assumed that the open window of Sabine's quarters was an immediate conduit to the open window of the East Wing.
But there was a lingering note in the centre between their windows. Recent. His eyes going up…up…up to the top of the house. Careful not to climb too fast lest he make too much of a sound. His nails just below the top of the rafters, breathing a count of three before he looked through the gap. Seeing what was there…
…and watching.
All too aware that she might run.
Or attack.
The moon an ever-present challenge for the youth of their society, even with all the lessons they'd learned as children. Constant lessons in controlling one's form. Even in the face of emotion, the hatred that she so often felt towards him.
But she just sat there. His grand-daughter. All alone. Cobwebs in her red hair. Her dress now covered in the filth of her hiding place. Surrounded by all the old toys. All the dolls he bought her so they could avoid explaining to Allegra that—to his everlasting joy—she preferred the tin soldiers. And his breath held as he climbed through the gap of her hiding place. Stepping joist to joist, nearly silent as he made it to the far wall, still keeping a careful distance so she could flee if she wanted. Leaving the rocking horse between them…
…and then gingerly taking a seat on the dusty floor, four feet away, feeling the slight twinge in his knee. Like it wanted him to remember. All the times he'd failed her. Too slow to act. Too late to believe. Lying to himself right until the moment he walked into that care-house and smelled her scent. In that moment realising that the letter had been real. That he had indeed…had…a daughter. And now a grand-daughter.
And in the years since, it had weighed on him. The loss that came after he first smelled her scent. Unable to give conscience to the feeling lest it overwhelm him. Realising that if he had moved immediately…if he had sent word to Raze…Allegra…anyone, he could have saved them both.
But he had not.
And so they sat, the two of them when there ought to have been three. Until he said what he should have, the words that had been lingering for so long among his fears. "I thought if I pushed you away, you would be safer," he said. Conscious of the irony. That there were scars beneath her makeup. That he was speaking towards an ear that was not an ear…
…because it had been ripped off before her ninth birthday. Because she had not been safe in the lycan care-house. And the creatures who hurt her…did not care…that she was his kin. Only that they could pick on a runt, he thought, reaching out to pick up one of the tin soldiers…and wiping off the grime. Willing himself to speak the truth. Not to the soldier, but to his grand-daughter.
"But I hurt you," he said. Forcing himself to look her in the eyes. "…and I am…very…sorry."
And he knew by the layers in her scent that she was hurting more than he could ever know. By the armour she wore. Thirty-three years old and determined to hide all her weakness beneath the same vices that he had sought. The anger. Like she was sixteen and they were still in that room, arguing at the top of their lungs. The fear. Her mind stuck in that sewage tunnel, forever tied to the horror of her kidnapping. Each fear buried inside a gaping hole that helped her mask it…
…that beneath all of it, she was still that small girl. Starving in a dress two sizes too big. Straggly hair. Eyes that stared too long, searching for danger. And a scent that reminded him of himself. A creature that had to grow up too quickly and never properly learned how to care for someone…smaller…than himself.
And so they continued to sit.
He incapable of doing more than watching and waiting. For as long as it took. A measure of moments before he realised it was time. In his soul, wishing there was a better moment than a freezing cold attic. But knowing it was no longer his right to be carrying her mother's necklace.
Like holding a burning coal, one that she took from his hand and held up to the shadows. Late 17th century. Mother-of-pearl floral relief on a black background. Her thumb passing once over the surface, almost reverently, before she opened it. For the first time in twenty-seven years. Its existence, the silhouette of the girl shaped in ivory, draining her. As though in holding it, she could remember again what her mother looked like. And how loved she once had been. Until her cheeks were no longer wet and she could breathe again. Too tired now to speak, let alone look at him.
And she might not for years, he thought. Realising there was so much more she might want to know. About what he knew…and did not know…about her line. Unable to even tell her who her grandmother might have been. But resolute as he shifted a foot closer, determined never to leave again until she sent him away. Instead examining the tin soldier he was still holding…
…before placing the figure on the floor, approximately a foot from the rocking horse. A figure that habitually represented a "war elephant," though logic would dictate the cavalry as a more appropriate choice. His decision to stop pursuing said point heavily influenced by Reinette informing him—in no uncertain terms—that it was poor form for someone who'd literally been a military commander for centuries to argue historical accuracy with a twelve-year old girl. But he digressed. One at a time, placing the flat figures until he had a small army of blue and red soldiers lined up on the right side. Assuming to himself that Sabine would prefer to work on the artillery formation.
Which she did.
Wiping her cheeks, and then reaching forward to search through a second box until she found the cannons. Placing them one by one. Neither of them having to speak in order to accurately depict the Grand Armée—which did not feature an elephant, but again, he digressed—placing the ranks in order until he found the last one.
Napoleon.
He handed it to her.
And she stepped between the figures, placing it on top of the rocking horse.
Complete.
Snow from the open window collecting on the floor, making him remember how cold it had felt in the end. Bitter and hopeless, waging war among mortals for no better reason than a loss of perspective. And his inability to say 'No' to an old friend. Both of them staring at the battle until she finally found it again. Her ability to speak to him. Folding her arms around herself and turning to look up with just as keen a gaze as the other missing party. Not her mother, but the only one she'd had for so many years. With eyes that did not blink.
"Were you going to the East Wing?"
He wanted to lie.
But he was not going to do that anymore.
Not with Sabine.
"I was."
She already knew. Holding her necklace tight…and then letting it fall, her words more fragile than the ice crystals melting on her cheek. "Are you going to hurt her?"
And he knew what she was asking of him.
Because she knew him.
Not for her sake.
But Reinette.
Looking down at her…
…and wishing they could stay in the attic. Playing with tin soldiers instead of real ones. Sabine thinking only of his capacity to hurt, but he now thinking beyond that. His belief that some day, she could be in charge of it all. That she would need him to stake her claim. The path to the East Wing affecting not only his future, but that of his descendant. Who would lose her inheritance rights if he started on this path.
So he reached out, touching her ear once and shaking his head with a melancholy smile. The agreement sealed, even though she had not asked for it. But better for them all, he decided. Feeling the smile fade even as her arms, once so small, reached around his torso…and squeezed. Resting her head on his shoulder for the first time since she was sixteen. The best kind of embrace. Safe and warm, like a firefly sheltered in his palm.
Not his daughter.
But as close as he'd ever have.
And the moment passing as they climbed out of the top of the doll-house. One by one. Her nails already familiar with the route, climbing swiftly and surely back to her quarters. And he left out in the cold. Waiting on the ledge outside her window until her breathing changed. No longer a tremor but the quiet peace of a girl asleep in her bed.
o…o…o
His path assured now as he glanced over his shoulder at the East Wing before turning back. The climb taking him across the walls and down until he reached his own quarters. Leaping silently from one balcony to the next before pulling himself over the railing…
…where he stopped.
Unable to take another step as there were now occupants on his balcony. Namely Allegra. Draped in fur, she was seated on a wrought iron chair, less than a yard from the balcony door he'd been about to enter. There was a loaded crossbow balanced on her lap. The lady flanked by Magnus and Raze. Her expression resembling the material of her chair, suggesting that if Singe had not been on a research tour, she would have had their resident scientist drug him so they could have their conversation in the Change Quarters.
Fuck.
He really should have brought a coat, he realised.
Glancing over his shoulder…
….and then pushing down the urge to leap off the balcony. Like a beast staring into the eye of the hunter, suddenly able to notice every detail. The amount of snow on her lap, suggesting they'd been out there for more than an hour. The giant tea stain on the hem of her dress. Its existence telling him an entire story considering its wearer…never…spilled her tea, he knew. Scratching the back of his neck. Making a very quick decision based on his options. And his response still sounding incredibly sheepish considering the balance of power.
"Sorry?"
"Are you?"
"I am," he said. Considering whether he ought to have raised his hands fifteen seconds ago. "…and I will apologise to her."
"Freyja?"
"Yes."
Obviously.
The line on Allegra's forehead suggesting she did not think it was so obvious. But it was an overwhelming sense of disappointment rather than anger in her scent. The lady rising to her feet, handing the crossbow to Magnus….and pointing to the wall on their right. "Roof," she said, growing her nails out. "We will discuss this on the roof."
"Now?"
There was no answer. The lady gesturing for them to climb. One at a time. First Raze, always eager to support his wife in her endeavours, starting the ascent without complaint. Then Magnus, giving him an encouraging nod before hoisting both the cross-bow and the iron-wrought chair under his arm. Using the same claw holds. Which left himself…and Allegra. Who by the faint glow around her irises was warning him to move before they had an incident.
He moved.
o…o…o
Thirty-three minutes later.
It turned out to be worse than the Change Quarters. The sight of four pack-leaders with extremely serious expressions on their faces serving as a worthy excuse for sentries to quickly vacate the area. Their capacity to do their jobs apparently suffering in the presence of such a lofty audience. Raze never far from his favourite pastime, this time carving a wooden knight for his chess set, while sitting cross-legged on the balustrade. Allegra choosing to stand, possibly for the sake of stretching her legs. And Magnus now lounging on the wrought-iron chair he'd carried up with him, cross-bow on his lap, only appearing much warmer than the lot of them after having gone in search of a blanket. Which left a rusty iron bench for him. Cold beneath his arse, giving him a sense of how long since he'd last roughed it in the middle of winter.
Probably in November of 1812, he thought, putting his hands into his armpits. "How long are we staying here?"
"Until you explain what is happening to you," said Allegra, serenely choosing her weapon. The temptation too great for Magnus to only bring blankets when they could also be hitting golf balls off the roof. The cold was biting, but their presence was surprisingly making him feel…a touch more comfortable with whatever they were trying to achieve. And perhaps it would be worth it. Having them all together on a rooftop. Raze. Allegra. Magnus. Though it could still be debated how far Allegra was willing to tolerate him while they waited out his answers.
He shifted on his bench. "I overslept."
There was a whack…
…and he immediately felt his balls tighten. Like her practice swing had made contact. Allegra admiring the balance before preparing her actual shot. Excellent posture. Ball on the balustrade. Feet placed precisely so, glancing to her left before swinging the club. The follow-through was impeccable…and the sound of the ball hitting its target telling.
Bull's eye.
Magnus whistled.
She held out the club. "Alright, your turn."
Raze put his knife down. "Where?"
"Dead crow's nest."
It was like having his torturer take breaks. Allegra now crouching before his bench, while Raze took a few practice swings, sinister whistles through the air as his wife asked her next question.
"Is it the drugs again?"
"No."
That he could lie about.
Easily.
"Reinette?"
"Obviously not."
Allegra gestured towards the eastern side of the house. "Then why were you on the eastern wall?"
"Checking on Sabine," he said. Providing just the right amount of harangued irritation mixed with confusion, while keeping his eye trained…away…from Raze's eye. Attempting to once again gain control of the situation by sitting forward and addressing them as he would have done in the council chambers. "Look…is this really the best use of our time?"
"We are improving our game," said Allegra, gesturing towards her husband. She made both him and the game sound royal.
Magnus nodded sagely.
"And what about Langley?"
Raze took his shot.
Another demonstration of how good one could become after five hundred years of playing golf. The nest shattering as it hit the ground. Better than his wife, and the two of them in tandem. The man admiring his work and then handing the club back to his wife.
"He volunteered," said Raze.
Ominously.
In the distance, Langley was struggling to find one of the balls in a snowbank. Despite having grown in stature, he was clearly freezing, wet and close to a millstream where he would surely drown if he took a wrong step. Reminding him again why it was incredibly dangerous for any lycan to cross Raze, despite his reputation as being the fair one.
Shit.
o…o…o
Twenty minutes later.
Allegra had given up on the golf clubs. Instead attempting to get through to his sense of shame by simply channelling herself as the deity of all feminine distress. "Do you know how embarrassed she must have been?"
He knew.
Because she'd described it.
The expressions on everyone's faces. The whispers. The effect on the Lycan Stock Exchange. But there was no way to fix it because immortality did not allow him to go back in time, he thought. Digging his heels in for the long haul.
o…o…o
Twenty more minutes later.
He was still holding out. Langley probably dead by now. But his decision to avoid the East Wing from that point on, giving him the kind of righteous scent that knew they had no reason for keeping him there. Not any longer. Because on the morrow, he'd be attending the second day of Hangrove. The whispers would stop. The expressions would change. And as promised, he would be officially ensuring the stocks corrected themselves by providing Freyja with another token of his affections…
…that being…something…that Allegra would provide in the moment. Probably ivory. Very expensive. Something she could wear that would cause everyone under the sun to feel…calmer…with the state of his affairs.
Problem solved.
And yet they were all still sitting there. His closest friends in life. Their continued presence on the roof suggesting the same determination he'd felt in the attic. Unwilling to leave, even if they all froze to death. Magnus still seated in the wrought iron chair, now cradling a lager that he'd secretly brought with him, while the other two had taken over the better part of the freezing bench.
Allegra still scowling at the state of the affairs, but incapable of holding a grudge for longer than necessary. Particularly when she had a lion's share of the blanket—which she'd naturally sequestered from Magnus. Her torturing methods having a tendency to oscillate between holding a cross-bow and offering one tea. Hence the reason she now nudged his arm, as though she'd not just been brandishing a golf club.
"So explain the hair," she said.
Commanded, really,
For it was an abrupt change in conversation. And clearly a trap. His desire to get the fuck out of there growing in spades, but the topic giving him some hope that they might eventually be warm again. As long as she was allowed to judge something that had to do with his appearance…
…but he was not such an easy target, he thought, returning her question in the same manner he used when providing his thoughts on extraordinarily serious matters. "Apparently she tripped on a pair of shears."
"No, yours, Aleksey," said Allegra, ignoring his tone. Despite being used to his sarcasm, she was looking profoundly irritated by him. One arm linked with Raze, but the other unexpectedly reaching out to run a hand over his head. Like he was a poorly groomed pet. "You can't just cut it the day before everyone arrives and expect no one to say anything. It's been all over the Line Rumour for weeks now."
He knew.
But he was not giving weight to a society rag, he decided, scratching his neck and giving his answer whether they liked it or not.
"It was getting itchy."
"Really."
She'd raised a single eyebrow…
…and she did not look convinced.
"Yes," he said. Giving her his most convincing stare. Because he would be damned before admitting why he'd done it. The temptation to cut his own hair one that came every century or so. Occasionally when he changed identities. But mostly…to take the attention off Reinette's hair—and yes, before she asked, he'd done it himself.
But Allegra did not ask.
Instead turning away from him. One of the brief moments of intimacy between lovers, a wife seeking the attention of her husband. "Raze, darling, should I cut my hair?"
Raze looked down from the night sky. All the constellations that he knew by heart. The poetry of shadow and light. And he shrugged. If she cut it or not, she was his wife. And she was beautiful. Their scents so closely matched now, after thirty years, making it a lonely place for the one left out in the cold.
Lucian watching them from his seat. Trying to understand what he was feeling. Not for Allegra…but the absence where she'd been. A space that had been filled for a measure of time, like two rocks left on a hearth, keeping each other warm after the fire had died away. And all of them thinking they knew what they were asking of him. To talk about it. To explain his problem, the reason why he'd tipped over an edge, drinking himself sick on the night before the event of the decade. The first time he and Freyja would…officially…be seen together, surrounded by the cream of high society. And they were expecting him to say it.
That he had made a terrible mistake. The drugs merely a symptom of his choices. That in tying up his fortune in the North, he had gambled upon his ability to remain unaffected by a life that was no longer sublime. Foolishly thinking that a lie he'd spoken would never be fulfilled. That she—the other rock on his hearth—would never heal from her losses, thereby allowing him to do…what he'd done…over the last twenty-three years. His scent constantly hidden now because to do otherwise would be to reveal how…much…of a mistake he'd made.
Because now she was…different. And he had no…fucking…idea how to interact with her. Because he was seeing it everywhere now. Beads. On his mantelpiece. On the wallpaper. And he was terrified of them. Terrified of going down that corridor because the last time had ended with him running for his life, hours away from losing everything, right before a barrel exploded in his face. Something he'd already done once in his life…
…and had vowed never to do again, he decided. Realising that if he left it up to himself, he would break his promise to himself within an hour. Checking the exact trajectory of the moon before getting off his arse and picking up one of the golf clubs. Seeing his path off that roof as clearly as one could on a night with just enough moonlight to give him an edge.
A wider head.
Looser grip.
"I want you to pick a target," he said. Like a magician about to show them a wondrous sight. Taking his place on the balustrade and indicating the landscape. "…and if I hit that target, then I will explain what is going on with me."
Allegra looked suspicious of his intentions. "And you will aim true?"
"Yes."
And so said his scent.
"Done," she said. Another woman used to his gambles. Speaking in the nonsensical tone that after four hundred years, knew not only that he used to golf religiously, but also what his handicap was.
Or had been.
Raze probably aware of where the performance was going, but as usual, preferring to take a back seat and let it happen. The only one of their number who might possibly know. Certainly not Magnus, deep enough in his drink and only too happy to oblige them all with the challenge.
"Poultry-house."
Cruel.
But unlikely to be a danger.
He swung, waiting for the inevitable sound of nothing as the ball hit the turf instead. Again…and again. Four balls later and it was starting to hit home. The last even failing to hit the turf, allowing him to finish his performance with a gentleman's bow before setting the club down. Jumping down from above their faces, stalking over to Magnus, retrieving the man's lager and returning to the bench again. Taking a healthy swig as he stood there. Waiting now for his prize—the aftermath of throwing a heavy stone into the water they were trying to delve.
Allegra looked shocked, looking first to him…and then Raze for her answers. Raze who had to have known, yet apparently had said nothing behind his back from the way the man shrugged, as though he too had not known. Still loyal to the point of lying for him. Even after all his years of being married to the Devil of Vienna. Magnus who seemed less bothered by the news than the absence of his drink, but Allegra still squinting off into the distance at that which he could no longer target in the dark. Possibly if it was closer. Possibly during the day.
But not in the dark.
Her voice finally breaking the silence.
"You said it healed."
He sunk back onto the bench and raised his stolen lager. "I lied."
"Why," she said. And to her credit, she looked confused. Even hurt. In spite of all the lies he'd told them over the past three hundred years.
And the answer elusive, he thought, taking another swig. Letting the beer take off some of the edge. The awkwardness of…wanting…to share something, while having a significantly difficult relationship with the truth. Even when he knew how important it was…
…circling what he wanted to say.
Unable to reach it.
Only that…
"It felt…" He took a careful step towards the idea. "…safer…if less people knew."
"And you think we are just 'people' now?" she said.
Pointedly.
"No," he replied. Determined to stay the course now. Perhaps for the memory of how their friendship began. A pact made three hundred years ago in their immortality. Or simply the sight of Raze still looking at the stars. Neither pushing nor prodding him…but waiting. Content to wait until he was ready to tell the others. To show them what Raze had known for months…
…that his scent needed work.
For a reason.
His eye following the path of his friend. Staring at the tip of Orion's Belt before travelling to the throne of Cassiopeia. Chained to the night sky, forever doomed to watch others in torment.
"But Singe knows?"
He looked down again.
Allegra's voice bringing him back to earth…and giving him no quarter. Perhaps thrown by his need to spend two decades hiding his injury, using every trick in his book from counting floor tiles to memorising as many scent cues as he could prior to entering a room filled with guests. Controlling the level of light on his right side. Knowing where his exits were. That need—in both of them—to control the situation already pushing her on the offensive.
The answer simple, but still requiring them to go through the paces, he thought, giving a short shake of the head. Because as much as Reinette suspected, he could safely say that Singe did not know. The man's belief in following exact protocols having backfired once they started using sight charts. He only had to memorise the letters once…and as long as his eye responded to the light cues, even if it was slower than the other one, he could pass the annual exam. Or again…
…perhaps he knew.
And simply did not care. But it was different with the other three. Like his seat was getting warmer. Because Allegra was not missing it. The other…secret…he was trying to convey. Causing the lady to make a terse sound before rapidly going through…or rather up…the list.
"Rena?"
No.
But he was waiting for it.
"Sabine…"
Closer, he thought. Swallowing another sip from the beer. Wishing there was an easier way to tell the truth. That which Allegra was sensing, but was still…so problematic…from the way she was staring at him.
Putting the pieces together…
…and then raising her palm in the air as though to steady herself. The immaculate frown taking in the three of them, his closest friends in the world before its bearer found the words. "Aleksey, if your oldest allies do not know," she said, already aware of what he was about to say. "…then who knows?"
He studied his lager, trying to decide if it was still worth throwing himself off the roof. Easier perhaps than telling the truth. Particularly after lying to them for…at least a decade. The question they'd really been asking, which was best handled in the most circular manner that he knew. Looking over at Allegra with a squint, trying to gauge her reaction…
…and then saying it.
"Nette?"
And the response was immediate.
"I'm sorry, Nette?"
"Reinette," he clarified.
Unnecessarily.
"And you told her?"
"Of course not, she just…"
How to put it…
She…
She knew him.
She'd known him for twenty-three years. And of those twenty-three, they'd spent…nineteen…together. Not a few hours in a meeting or enough time to get to safety. He'd seen her nearly every day for fifteen years. No mask. No need to hide his scent. And he'd let his guard down.
"…she knows," he finished.
Unable to hold it back any longer. The…change…in his scent. Allegra perhaps having long suspected his thoughts on the matter, but only now faced with the reality. That in the years that Raze and Allegra had been melding their scents, he had…very unfortunately…done something similar. Something he'd vowed never to do in five hundred years—yes, he could count—but the change happening so slowly that he'd hardly realised it himself until it was too damned late. Like the beads had cracked through his scent mask, his sense of home in Reinette's presence now mirrored just as strongly by an insatiable desire to…be…with her.
Allegra—one who'd once shared his bed and therefore more than most—understanding the notes that made up that portion he always hid. Not only death walking, but an aura of…other…lives beneath the mask. Sonja. There from the beginning. Bess. Her presence only sensed by Allegra in the last decade…
…and now a third.
Her hand immediately going to her mouth. Aghast in her reaction. The kind of gasp that had not only been warning him about that precise possibility, but had spent…years…checking with him to ensure it was not occurring. Time and time again. Confirming that the scent he was now carrying was not the scent he was…actually…carrying.
And the shock giving way quickly to a need for damage control. Which she was now wielding like a burning brand, her hand lowering now from her mouth…before turning to her husband. "Raze, darling…can you and Magnus please give us the room?"
And…
…shit.
They got up.
Neither wanting anything to do with the conversation. Raze picking up one of the golf clubs…and Magnus quickly vacating his chair, likely off to find another lager. Both of them heading to the far corners of the roof. Leaving him in the hands of Allegra, who was starting to smell quite…
…sharp.
The lady having taken all of the blanket now before proceeding to pull out her black book. Flipping to one of her earlier references and then tapping a nail twice against the page. "Do you recall telling me that she was an ascetic?"
"I do."
"Wonderful," she said. Smiling warmly—and yet not so warmly—as though she were picturing him being stretched across a rack while she touched burning coals to his balls. "It will make this talk easier."
No…
…it would not.
"Now I will be candid," she said, starting to flip through her book until she found the page she was looking for. "Originally, after her fall, I'd assumed the two of you would be dabbling with each other's drawbridges within the month."
"Allegra, we are not…"
She raised two fingers. "My primary concern, Aleksey, is the welfare of the ladies of this household, including Reinette. So as of this moment, I must insist that any further…designs…you may have are put aside immediately."
"I have no designs."
"But if you did."
"I do not."
Allegra was no longer smiling. "Aleksey, do not pretend that everything worth knowing is by scent alone. Even if I cannot scent you out…I have known you for four centuries. Raze for even longer—and though he refuses to tell me what you are thinking in this matter, I am fully aware of your intentions. You do have designs…and you will abandon them at once."
"Would it be so terrible," he asked suddenly. Even with his promise to himself. Believing for five minutes that he could do the right thing for his grand-daughter, when everything was telling him to break that promise. Already. Pushed into a corner…and finally saying it on the roof. Just the two of them. The two of them who used to get along so well…
…and what would be the difference?
She was a blood.
He had been with…hundreds of women…in his lifetime. And the only difference was that she was a blood.
"Yes," she said sadly. Sitting forward and managing to cross her legs at the same angle as the bench. "And you would lose…a great deal," she said. "…and even if you did not, I would still caution against it."
"Because of Freyja?"
"No, darling," she said kindly, taking his hand. "Because of Reinette."
He scuffed one of his boots against the iron. "She can make her own choices."
"Of course, she can," said Allegra. "But after twenty years under your guardianship, I am afraid those choices would be poor." She looked troubled by his inability to see it. The perspective she was trying to show him. "Now you once told me to find out what I could…about her past…so I will tell you one thing. Imagine, if you will, that in your mind, she has over a thousand years of experience…" She closed her book. "…and in her mind, certain activities have not occurred yet. Do you understand?"
He did.
Theoretically.
In the sense of being briefly confused by the sentence, and then determining, after a spell of exactly three seconds, that he must have misheard. Twenty-three years of conversation suddenly taking on a problematic light, considering the number of times he'd been…less than…discrete about certain facets of his lifestyle. And his thoughts taking an extra measure before they caught up with his mouth.
"I…"
He squinted.
"…thought that she was…"
He looked over at Allegra, waiting for her to fill in the blank.
But Allegra was not filling in the blank.
Forcing him to make a move.
"…married?"
"Oh yes," said Allegra. By her tone, willing to allow the term. "…but it would seem—like many of us—that she has buried those memories for a reason," she finished. The words carrying an extra dose of weight, for it was not usual for Allegra to bring up her past, but there it was. And the iron immediately tempered by a smile as she again opened her book. "Now I am going to ask you one more time," she said. "…do we have an understanding?"
No.
"Aleksey?"
"Yes," he said quickly.
"Good," she said. Continuing to study both him and his reaction before closing her book. "As to your scent…" The smell of burning flesh abruptly wafted away. The warmth in her scent returned, leaving him with the vague sensation that they were now having tea again. "…how long has it been like that?"
Months.
Years…
"I don't know," he admitted.
"And…" She was being delicate with the words. "…can you fix it…or do we have to arrange a transfer?"
"I can fix it," he said.
"Good."
It was good, he decided. For everyone, he thought. Downing the last of the lager and setting the bottle down. Feeling lost now.
Because that was it.
They knew.
His closest friends in life. A hand signal from Allegra calling the other two back. So that once again they all had their places. Neither Magnus nor Raze saying anything, having little to say as all good men did, but Allegra taking a gentle hand as she laid the blanket out again. Able to see through it now. Not just the mask he wore, but the rest of it. And her scent giving way quite irritatingly to pity as she reached a hand out again. "Oh Aleksey," she said sadly, squeezing his arm as though it could make everything alright. "…you really ought to have told us sooner."
He smiled tightly. "Why do people need to know?"
"Well it changes your guard rota for one thing," she replied, leaning back to rest her head on Raze's shoulder. Kindly ignoring the larger issue in favour of that which she could control. The practical side of the Devil of Vienna having swiftly taken over. "You'll need two more at least. I think Gustav might even have four since he lost his eye."
"Which is precisely why I didn't say anything," he said. Glad that they were finally talking about the thing that they were not talking about. After four years of denials…and the entire world, including the Line Rumour, suspecting what he'd refused to think on for twenty-three years. Even Allegra unable to chide him for the trap he'd found himself in…
…which was honestly not much of a trap considering that Reinette was smelling more and more like she wanted nothing to do with him.
Or his watch.
Allegra patting his arm one more time, and then linking her other arm with Raze as they all leaned back to look at the stars. Like the rest of them, aware that…in the grand scheme of love and war…there was no long game in such an affair. Perhaps if she'd been lycan. Or mortal. But their world would not take a blood.
Not for him.
o…o…o
His melancholy like a weed beneath the surface, starting to grow as he lingered on the iron bench. Free to go now, but no longer hungry. A number of hand-signals occurring behind him while the trio decided who would stay. First Allegra and then Raze going indoors. Leaving him on the roof with Magnus, who apparently had drawn the shortest straw. Both of them staring up at the night sky, one deep in his drink with a blanket and crossbow on his lap…
…and the other trying to understand his path. Where he would find himself in twenty years. And whether he could stand it that long. The tightness in his chest. As though the past ten years were catching up on him. Culminating in a life of afternoon teas where he would be sitting beside Miss Freyja Gottfridsdatter, building ties with his people. Eating with them at an eight-course dinner…followed by a dance…and the rest of his twenty-year engagement. That over time, a lie would become one with his skin…
…and if he was lucky, it would become real. His gaze eventually descending from the stars to the landscape beyond. Searching for the poultry house…and picking up the golf club he'd abandoned on the stones. Climbing up on the balustrade again. Preparing one of the balls. Thinking on all the years he'd lied about his injury, avoiding a game that he loved…out of fear…that someone would notice his weakness.
He swung.
Miss.
He tried again.
Again….and again.
The practice of hitting balls underlining a hopeless frustration. The years of refusing to acknowledge, let alone mourn it. His lost eye. Decades now of living with a lie…and hurting for it. Holding himself back from…anything…that could divulge a truth that he had yet to accept. Lobbing ball after ball at a target he could not reach. His breath held as he suddenly paused before the next swing. Preparing himself this time.
Listening.
To the steps of sentries. An owl swooping on an unsuspecting creature. Wind passing over a metal roof. Dozens of birds asleep in the poultry-house. An entire world of sound that he could pinpoint from afar…and use. If he would just…let go…of what he no longer had. Let go…and accept it, he realised. Staring into the black…
…before letting his shot fly. Swinging as hard as he could, throwing the entirety of his belief into reaching the target. Watching the ball sail as far as he could see it. Like a constellation, high enough to reach the stars before it landed.
On the turf.
Fuck, he thought.
Unable to mask his disappointment. How out of practice he was. His years of hiding behind his desk, throwing himself into that which did not require a second eye, having left him with…less…than adequate results. Nearly a hair from flinging the golf club off the top of the roof. Knowing that if he did throw the golf club off the roof, he would still be incapable of hitting his target.
And the feeling made worse by the hearty spasm of laughter behind him. Because of course, if there was one ally he could trust to add insult to injury, it was Magnus, he thought. Forced to swallow his pride as he looked over his shoulder and scented the man out. Waves of bitter…acrimony…that typically could send most recruits home, crying for their mothers.
"Let me guess," he said, tapping the base of the club on the stones. "…you think I should practice?"
Magnus shrugged, getting off his arse as well now. Drink, blanket and crossbow in hand. Taking a few drunken steps to the balustrade and pointing at the landscape. "I think if you want to kill chickens, you should kill chickens," said his friend, holding out the crossbow. As though he had had his fun…
…and it was time to stop playing in the snow.
The bolt ready.
Lucian staring at it…listening to the sound of his prey…and in a heartbeat, taking the weapon, aiming it towards the sound, his one good eye staring down the length of the shaft…and firing. Hearing a sharp crack as the bolt hit the centre of the target. The abrupt sound of metal ringing out. The scream of fear as a dozen birds were startled out of their sleep. And inside, he felt the adrenaline again. The hunger that no one else could see as he looked out on his kingdom. Letting the crossbow hang and turning towards his friend. Realising it was not going away…
…and breathing out.
"Magnus, is my Danish shit," he asked suddenly. Afraid to hear the answer. Like a supplicant searching for wisdom from an ancient. One who like Raze might have been a king if they'd not all thrown their lot in with a liar. His friend who did not lie, who'd been quiet for most of the night, reflecting on the question. Even as the wind began to pick up, throwing a flurry of snow across his beard. Or in the eyes of Allegra, a drunken lout dusting snow off the top of his lager.
A true friend.
Clapping his shoulder with the answer.
"Yes," said Magnus. Fiercely looking into his eyes as though in all his years, he'd never heard worse.
And it filled him with joy.
His failure.
So that in all his melancholy, he was able to laugh softly. Leaving both the cross-bow and the golf-club on the balustrade. Then gripping his friend by the other shoulder. The one he could not see. Clasping it tight for they were not prone to weakness in the north.
"Thank you," he said.
For his honesty.
For allowing him to see his path again. To which Magnus nodded, waving the gratitude away as though it were nothing. The least he could do for his wolf-brother, he thought. Content to watch his own stars as the lycan-master left the roof…
…following his own path. His own constellation. Like a giant wolf in the sky, his teeth forever guarding the gate to freezing Hel as they waited for the end of the world. A thing that might happen sooner rather than later, thought Magnus, opening his third lager and raising his arms, welcoming the coming storm with a smile. For in the grand scheme of love and war…
…he'd always been more comfortable in the cold anyway.
A/N: Pheew. I wrote the last bit with a mild concussion so if there are mistakes, let me know (I blame the concussion if I missed them). Many thanks to all those who are reading and as always, feel free to read and review!
Celine: Mwahahaha...what will happen next? Also you are amazing! I fixed the "Gustav" error. :heart:
Barbara Dias: That poem was beautiful. (Although please don't die yet, Freyja...I still have more chapters to write!) Hope you enjoy a bit more Raze and Allegra (I love them)...and hopefully...one of these days, Reinette will read the room. SOoooooome day ;)
Malik: He's missing SO much. And when I first wrote the last chapter, I TOO thought it could be Lucian knocking on the door...and then I realised...Oh my gosh, NO...it's FREYJA. And my husband said, "Why did you just gasp?" and I said, "Because it's FREYJA,"...and he said "I don't know what that means." Some day I will let him read the fanfiction that has been with us through our entire marriage. But not TODAY.
Ursiearielw12: Erling is such a snake. He's the snakiest of snakes. Also I love your idea for commemorating the 100 chapters. I'll check the timeline and see if I can make it coincide with a special moment.
ArielThinker: I miss Raze too sometimes (he's always so dependable). Also I too love Morrigan...she seems like someone who's seen a lot. And whaaaat, Freyja and Morrigan having an understanding between them...nooo (Or maybe yesss ;))
Mackenzie: Sooooooo CLOOOOOSE, I promise (mwahahaha)
Sallyster Moon: Welcome back! I am definitely going to try and have some fun with Hangrove (I love...love...love writing about lycan society, so WHO KNOWS what could happen) ;)
BelAyre: I know...I think she still sees herself as old. Also because so many of her memories are fractured, a lot of her sense of self is tied up in the old version of herself. (Also because I still don't think she has any mirrors in her quarters, so when she sees Freyja, she sees beauty.) And don't worry...I do have SOME of the next next chapter written...hopefully it will come quick!
Ella: Very perceptive - they are SO bad at making deals. I think for Reinette, she really wants to avoid that mountaintop. And thank you! That is one of the sweetest things anyone has ever said to me (I do love writing Underworld fanfic, so you are receiving so many hearts from me right now.)
MermaidVampire: Love the thoughts going on here - I too like the character of Freyja. And oh my goodness, YES. Reinette needs to find herself.
Guest: Mwahahahahahahaha...no really. We're "close" :D
Guest: So...many...mistakes. *singing voice*
Hannah-Brietom65: So many emotions! And this one was mostly Lucian, so hopefully...next chapter...we'll see both Lucian AND Reinette? We will see...
LovingBitch: I will post as FAST as I can. I promise. I'm posting with a concussion right now, so you know I will post, come what may. ;)
Storytellingislo: Thank you! And I do have answers. I have not forgotten Sabas (although not in a Horde meeting anymore). Sonja's necklace is definitely in existence and I know where it is (good timing as we may see a glimpse of it next chapter. It also showed up as a sound a couple times — it's in a box). We may know more about Sabine's mother in future. As for Bess, I think the biggest thing about that one is it was the first time he actually connected with a woman after Sonja. And I think Bess left because he had been on house-arrest during that time and when he started working again, it affected the relationship...and she got fed up.
Love in Halsey: Anyyything can happen...but I too hope Lucian doesn't sign! I'm about to work on the next chapter, so we'll see!