Prelude (Underworld Lucian Fanfiction)

20 - Chapter XX: The Feast of Idols

The Parisian Den. Noon.

It was their final afternoon in the den. Auguste had insisted upon a feast of farewell, great platters of uncooked beef and lamb on the shoulders of trim serving women, boys carrying hot pitchers of blood for those lycans who required it. Like the olden days, there was a head table at the far end of the hall; Lucian was compelled to sit at its centre, Auguste and Dominique, the den's alpha and matriarch, seated to his left, and his first subordinate, Raze, on his right. Each of them had the choicest cuts of venison prepared by the chef, the blood-wine spiced and heated.

As alpha it was his duty to preside over these festivities, but with every passing minute, his seat was becoming that corner of hell reserved for outcasts. There had been speeches, toasts, laughter, cavorting...every manner of decadent behaviour reserved for celebration, some of it offensive to his eyes. They were his people...they idolised him...yet he no longer identified with them. Instead, he was mildly tipsy, staring at his glass, his finger rotating along the edge, occasionally nodding, while trying to pretend he was having a good time. Dominique held only a quarter of his attention...

"It is an outrage, Lyosha," she declared, mincing words between bones. She was a hard-looking woman, a former prostitute whose bite-wound had formally transformed her from Auguste's whore into his live-in companion. Four decades later and she had wrestled herself into the position of matriarch. "They have had the vote for six years. The very bottom of the earth..." She flicked her hand. "...but its centre? Nothing. We are the dust under their feet, the waste of their..."

"Mon ange," Auguste interjected. My angel, he had called her. "...for the sake of humility, let the master have his room. There will always be space for another outrage..."

Saved by the angel's gaze fixating furiously on Auguste, Lucian took the opportunity to vacate. He pushed his chair back and stood. A serving-boy immediately came forward, holding a pitcher out. It was the same child that had led him to the door three weeks ago. The boy had been following him like a rash.

"May I serve you, lycan-master?"

Serve him?

How many blasted times was this boy going to ask that question?

Logically, he considered the cup in his hand. As long as the cup was empty, he would have to decline every serving boy in the hall. He held it out for the boy to fill, taking a gulp as soon as the top was reached. Hare's blood spiced with nutmeg. At least that could hold his attention. He wiped his mouth with his shirt-sleeve, tersely thanked the boy and then proceeded into the throng to mingle. To his disgust, even though his thanks had been insincere, the boy looked like he had been touched by the hand of God.

Did these people not realise his imperfection? He was no idol...he was an addict, a raging creature that people either feared or worshipped. His worst fear was one day he would wake up and realise he was a tyrant. In the corner of his eye, he could see Raze getting up, making his way through the crowd after him, following in case his drinking tipped from mild into the realm of full intoxication. Just as many eyes followed Raze as himself. They were both legends around these parts. It would be interesting to see how far they could get without being conscripted into blessing someone's forehead.

So began his foray into the Parisian underworld of lycans. His first ten steps were met by exclamations of wonder, the only exception being a shockingly sober young woman who wanted to argue the subject of emancipation. Raze came to his rescue, drawing her aside and severely nodding, massaging his chin as if the subject was actually of interest to him. Complete horseshit. Lycan women had been emancipated since the Dark Ages; if the mortals were a step behind, that was their issue to deal with. He started avoiding the women...though it hardly made his walk among the people any better.