Prelude (Underworld Lucian Fanfiction)

32 - Chapter XXXII: A Drop of Reassurance

Outside the Lycan Prisons. 12:27 am.

It was a case of clouds and thunder without the rain, the driver notably absent, the horses silent, raised with the scent of blood so even a murder would not make them whicker. Lucian could see the hansom cab waiting at the far end of the street, one of the few that would linger regardless of time. Time and money swept aside by a higher order...and Londoners often wondered why their cab-drivers looked so rough. Careful not to let the grime touch his suit, he turned back to the task at hand, crouching down, sniffing the air beneath the tainted carriage, combing and discarding the various scents. Blood. Perfume. Axle-grease. Sodium hydroxide. Melted flesh. His eyes swept back to Sarah Henderson, the fat, middle-aged chambermaid whose dearest friend was the murdered Mary Parker.

Someone had propped her against the wheel, pouring lye over her neck, making it difficult to find a solid bite or claw mark. No sign that Henderson...no, the victim...better to call her the victim. No sign that the victim had moved after its application, death occurring before the lye, the throat resembling nothing short of a charred waterfall spilling onto the street. While the shirt-collar... He frowned. The shirt-collar was only mildly stained, the red stitches readable. All of these clues adding up to something. Gingerly, he let his nails grow by an inch, unpinning the scent-card without disturbing the body.

Three points.

One, the killer wanted the body found, yet felt compelled to mask his or her bite. Two, the killer knew where the lycan prisons were and that he, the lycan-master, would be visiting at this precise hour. Three, and most peculiar of all, Sarah Henderson had not been wearing that dress when she died. Yet why, out of all these things, did that third point trouble his brain the most? Why should it bother him that the killer would redress his prey after pouring the lye?

"Sir?" A young, grimy-faced lycan guard was kneeling beside him, breathing too fast, his nerves starting to spike. The rest were checking the alleyways, searching for the driver, making certain no one else came this way. "Should..." He grimaced, the blond scruff on his chin not quite doing the trick. The boy had clearly lied about his age before joining this regiment. Probably lied his way across the Atlantic as well, judging by his accent. "...should I just...keep holding it, sir?"

"Just keep holding it." Some needed a hard hand, others needed reassurance. From his pocket, Lucian retrieved his last empty vial, holding it momentarily between his teeth. Always carry extras. He could have sworn he had a syringe in his left pocket...

"Like this?"

"Exactly like that," he remarked without looking, searching with both hands for that syringe. "...you're doing very well, soldier. Very dedicated." He was speaking around the vial. Not every lycan's dream, holding a cadaver's head while the lycan-master attempted to retrieve a sample. Ah. He found the syringe in his outer pocket, the right rather than the left.

The guard swallowed, a touch more nervous now that his grip had been critiqued. No one wanted to fuck up in front of the lycan-master, least of all a sixteen-year old Irish-American pretending he was twenty. "Thank you, sir."

Lucian did not bother to answer, concentrating on puncturing the exterior jugular vein. Sample retrieved. Two vials in the right pocket. Sarah Henderson in the left. Jacqueline on her way home already. He stood, having taken everything he needed from the scene. "You can put the head down."

"Yes, sir." There was a note of relief in the guard's voice, one for which he could not be blamed. Fine to be comfortable with hunting for food, killing for survival, hating those who hated you; but a murdered chambermaid with lye poured over her neck had nothing to do with survival. This was den-politics...and they only needed to look at France to see what could happen when den politics spilled onto the streets. Utter chaos. The left wing versus the right. Even after a century, Benoit and Auguste were still at arms, though he hoped to change that in the next year.