Darke Beginnings

Chapter #9

Lucien's head ached horribly, his body was sore, his mind was a fog. He groaned as he rolled over, barely able to open his eyes for the pain that shot through them. The room was dark but barely illuminated by a single lamp that sat on a table opposite where he laid. Other than that, it was devoid of any identifying characteristics. He closed his eyes again and swung his feet over the edge of whatever it was he was lying on, soles hitting the floor as he used his elbow to raise himself up. It was a pallet he was on, barely cushioned, covered by a thin blanket and an overly-flat pillow stained with blood, most likely his and he wore nothing more than his skivvies and bruises. That was a s far as he got before the door burst open and he was confronted by a barrel-chested man in fatigues. “Where am I?” Lucien asked quietly, sure in his near-stupor he sounded mildly drunk. “What is this place?”

The man stayed silent, instead grabbing Lucien by the forearm and foisting him through the open door. Lucien smacked into the wall on the opposite side of the corridor with a sickening thud as the man pinned him by the back of the neck. “Tell me how you did it?” he asked in a thick accent that Lucien couldn't discern.

“Did what?” Lucien asked, his voice muffled by his face pressed into the wall.

The man snarled menacingly. “Cam Marshall,” he commanded, “You were there, we know you did it.” He pulled Lucien away from the wall and threw him on the ground, landing in the corner of the hallway.

Lucien leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes again. He let out a long, deep breath. “You're mistaken,” he replied calmly. “I was there, I will admit to that, but I'm not the man you want.” When his interrogator did nothing else, he opened his eyes and fixed them on the man. “Let me go and I will give you everything you need.” He was in survival mode, now, his reflexes in tune despite the beatings, despite the pain. He felt betrayed by those he considered closest and he knew they would pay dearly for making him out to be a patsy.

Instead of moving to take control of Lucien again, the man crossed his arms and smiled, his teeth gapped and broken, making for even more of a gruesome appearance. “You would betray your friends, then?”

Scooting himself up, using the wall as support, Lucien nodded, his face drawn. “They're no friends of mine,” he growled.

Satisfied with the answer, the man held out his hand to Lucien. “Then you shall have your justice.” As Lucien grabbed his hand, he pulled him into himself. “Now, if you betray me, there will be hell to pay,” he threatened.

It was with that statement that Lucien knew exactly where he was and in whose charge. The accent, while not a dead giveaway at first, had burrowed itself into his psyche until he recognized it. The man with whom he was now allied had been at the party. He was one of the guards employed by the consulate, a close, personal guard of Korsikov. “I understand,” he said under his breath. His reality was now this, working with the enemy. The play that Martin had begun was immediately recognizable and he was astonished that neither this man nor his employer had expected it, but they hadn't. They had only to believe what Lucien told them and he had only to continue his ruse. It was perfect in its simplicity.

As the man let Lucien go, he was led down the hallway to another room. “Shower and clothing are in there,” the man directed as Lucien entered. “You will be expected downstairs shortly thereafter.” He closed the door and left Lucien alone.

Lucien turned the shower on and climbed in, sitting on the floor of the tub with his knees drawn up to his chest, arms around them. The water hit just on his head, soaking his hair and making it kink up before running down his back and over his face. He sighed as the steam swirled around him, hoping it would help clear his head. There was no time for collecting his thoughts; he knew he'd need to be razor sharp if he was going to pull it off. After a few minutes of quiet contemplation, he stood up, using the bar on the wall to steady himself and washed, watching with interest as his blood, ruddy and diluted by soap bubbles, ran into the drain.