Prelude (Underworld Lucian Fanfiction)

29 - Chapter XXIX: Saffron in the Garden

The Back Door to the Garden. 3:24 am.

Fifteen minutes later, they stood in a shadowy doorway, a light white gusting through the air, only one of them able to look upon a snow-dusted lawn. Blindfolded, Reinette was behind him, her breathing far too soft, her smell far too poised for his liking. She was not speaking to him. Possibly because she had run out of things to say...or maybe...because of his more recent demonstration of how easy it was to choose between sympathy and efficiency.

It had started off well.

...o...o...o...

They had entered the corridor and managed an uneventful turn through the maze that was the East Wing. Dust-covered memories from his past. The drawing room. The pianoforte. The brandy. Only after they reached the staircase did he begin to notice her unease, her boots clamping on the steps, her movements jerky, the blindfold causing her to trip every five seconds. An eighth of the way down, she chose to stop, wrapping one arm around the banister and clutching his arm as if her life depended on it. A vampire. Afraid of falling. Left with no choice, he had surprised even himself when he said, 'Let go,' and picked her up, balancing her for a moment against the banister. She had mumbled her thanks, breathing heavily as if stairs were some heady ordeal that he was rescuing her from. Unfortunately, that was not the case... like any vampire, young or old, she had to learn to trust her instincts.

There was no time for her to scream. Two stories below, she landed on the balls of her feet, her limbs bending into the fall rather than away from it. The dress spreading like a pool of black, almost imperceptible from where he stood. From so far above, it was a beautiful thing to watch. Graceful even. Like throwing a fish into water. A second later, he landed beside her, taking in the blinded look of shock on her face...the open mouth. The wonder you sometimes saw in a child taking its first fall. Taking her wrist, he forced her to stand and walked on before she could catch her breath. He had known she could do it...the only thing holding her back was fear.

The real problem started afterwards, as they were walking through the house. They had been walking on carpets for so long that at first he did not notice when they stepped onto the floorboards. Hollow wood. Creaky steps. The sound of leather boots. There should have been something, but to his surprise, there was only silence as she walked. More, she had stopped bumping into him. He found himself studying her movements, watching as she became more efficient, more fluid as though her body were remembering things it had forgotten. Habits of stealth: walking with the heel, rolling the feet, breathing in slow, measured breaths. She stilled when he did, she stepped when he did. All with nary a sound. So that by the time they reached the back door of the kitchens, he felt like she had absorbed his shadow. Like he was being stalked by his own personal deathdealer. He had enjoyed the feeling once, but so much time had passed that he did not relish it any more.

...o...o...o...

He reached behind, but her hand was already reaching forward. She was listening for the same signs. Steps. The crunch of snow. The count of the patrol. He was quite certain now that in her past, she had been trained in more than just bloodsight. He frowned and then took her outstretched wrist, stepping forward onto a stone path as the patrol turned the corner. The chill of the outdoors hitting him, the falling snow covering their tracks. Ahead, there was an old wooden gate leading deeper into the garden. A sighting would be unavoidable, so for propriety's sake, he slipped Reinette's wrists behind her back, forcing her to walk in front of him. Like the prisoner she was.

On the other side of the gate, he made a short-handed signal and almost in the same moment, a very sombre-looking, black-haired lycan uncurled himself from one of the evergreens above their heads. He and four others landed under the cover of falling snow, bowing and then leaving in silence. Come morning, there would be five different stories circulating the den, all of which would begin with the words 'you will not believe what the lycan-master was doing last night.' All stories would end with the words, " ...and she was old.'