Prelude (Underworld Lucian Fanfiction)

23 - Chapter XXIII: The Smell of Forbidden Fruit

London, England. 4:30 pm

It was snowing when they arrived in the city. Daylight outside, but muggy enough that drapes were enough to keep light from entering their carriage. Dressed as a lower-class deck-hand, Raze had taken off, separating himself from their party. As usual, he would make his own way to the den. Kolya had been left behind on the corner of Bishopsgate and Hanbury Street. Two lycans would be responsible for transporting both the box and his belongings to the Exiles' Quarter, located in Whitechapel. God-willing, they would never see him again, though no doubt, he would have enjoyed making his farewells to Reinette.

By the terms of the deal with Vasili Andreev, Nikolai Proshkov Andreev had exactly half a year from the date of his arrival in London to get his affairs in order. Someone would note the date in the exile's log. After that time, the vampire would be thrown out on the street and it would be up to him to find his way in the world. As was the case with most exiles, it became a question of whether he wanted to lurk unprotected in the city or find his way on to the Americas. There was an enormous trade in that, headed by one of the more tolerated exiles living near Tilbury.

Across from his seat, Rena looked uncomfortable, compelled to dress the part of a nursemaid, the starched collar causing her neck to chafe, her hand reaching up every minute to soothe it. Beside him, Sabine was drumming her feet against the floor, moving about the carriage, wanting to look outside. She had never seen London before, but he had been adamant. The sun was all but invisible, but he was in no mood to sweep ashes from the floor. After her exertions earlier that afternoon, Reinette was still fast asleep, looking pale as a ghost, her head resting on Rena's lap. Had she been awake, that might have been a problem. It had been troublesome enough getting her onto the carriage. Several blankets and the use of a parasol had protected her from the waning sun for the ten seconds it had taken to complete the transfer.

Itching to move himself, he was counting the turns, trying to gauge how much longer before they arrived home. The stately home of Mr. Alexander Kerr was just outside the greater city, close enough to allow for daytrips, yet large enough to warrant a stable. Rarely seen in public, Mr. Kerr had not been home for these past three months, double the time it took to complete an inspection of twelve lycan outposts. In truth, Mr. Kerr could have returned in one month, but he had chosen instead to spend two extra months hiding in hotels, comfortable with the notion that every night on the mainland was another night when he did not have to discuss ballet with Jacqueline. He had been thinking about going south when Goar sent him word of some book of unspeakable value in Tanis' possession. Unspeakable value, indeed. It was supposed to be a three-day detour ending with a book, but he had ended up with a woman instead. A troublesome one at that.

He eyed the pendant around her neck, considering whether to check it for the time. He was itching to look at his watch, but the pieces were still in his left trouser-pocket. In a few days, he would visit the watchmaker's shop and have the thing rebuilt from scratch. The most important thing was getting some laudanum in his system; he had run out exactly four hours ago. He grossly regretted having crushed his emergency supply on the wall of that cell in Paris. Surely it could not be long...they had been in this carriage for almost an hour. To his relief, the sound of muddy streets soon enough turned into cobblestones leading up to a house. The carriage stopped briefly for the squeak of an iron gate, before proceeding onto grounds that were more gravel than cobblestone. Finally they halted, Sabine almost falling off her seat in her excitement. They were home. Drawing the drapes by a crack, he saw only shadows. They were in the stable-house.Excellent. They had followed his instructions to a tee.

The coachman came round the side, opening the door and bowing. He was the only mortal in the room, but he showed no fear. There was a slew of lycan stable-hands behind him, half of them too young to work. Poverty was rampant in the city, and any lycan would bend over backwards to get a position in the country, even under a mortal. None of them spoke or looked up, the custom being for most English servants to pretend they were made of air. In their first years of service, he had made an effort to speak to them, but they seemed to take it as an affront to their station.It was the coachman, Henry Fulligan, who had instilled that in them. Seeing it as a new form of slavery, Lucian had been disgusted, until one evening, a pressured footman had explained it as a matter of pride. They were proud of their work and if they could set up a household for him, one as grand as any other house, they wanted to serve it like the other houses, all genteel-like. Those had been the footman's exact words. Since then, he had let them go about their business as they wanted. He stepped from the carriage, smelling the familiar scent of horses and iron.