Prelude (Underworld Lucian Fanfiction)

33 - Chapter XXXIII: An Inquiry of Blood Spatter

The next day...

Exile's Quarter. Whitechapel. 19th November 1899.

It was two in the afternoon. Nikolai Proshkov Andreev was earning his keep, seated on the edge of a metal washbasin, his hand clamped around a rusty old lamp in need of fuel. There were sounds around him. Steam whistling, the clank and clatter of machinery, the hum of a society swallowed by trains. For just over a week now, he had lived in Exile's Quarter, helping where help was needed, doing what needed to be done. He shared a bunk with three others, his few possessions kept in a trunk without lock or key. Like all the exiles, he had been given a scent card, his name scrawled on the back, the material instilled with a scent for which he did not have the nose. That scent was the only thing stopping the street-lycans from mauling his throat. Something that let him walk free on the streets of London...

...it also made certain the Blackmarks knew exactly where to find him. He heard footsteps entering the room. Cloth catch upon a nail, a curse before one of his visitors tore free and strode forward to stand behind him. Breathing down his neck the way she liked to do...

"Fancy yourself a killer, Andreev?" Her voice was non-descript. Monotone.

From farther below, a second voice piped up. "Yes. Fancy yourself a killer," the little one asked. High-pitched. Like glass shattering into a hundred pieces on the floor. The entire room going up in flames after a match struck the oil.

The screw came loose. He was awake. The dream had not happened yet. The match was still in his pocket. He continued to hold the glass in place, his free arm too far to reach the floor. "Please," he said politely, smiling down at them. "...for you to call me Kolya..." Lacking the word, he pointed at the item he wanted. "...and for you to hand me...da. Yes," he nodded as the little one picked up the canister. She gave him the fuel. "Thank you," he said. Paraffin oil.

The big one sneered in reply, pushing his tools off the basin edge. They clanked against the metal siding. "Did you hear what I said?"

"I hear, but I am not knowing what you mean." In the dream, he had taken Sarah Henderson from behind. A naked woman smelling of blood-alcohol, rolls of fat beneath her chin, his fangs digging through the flesh. "I work, I help. I am thinking this makes me friend, not criminal." Concerned to finish his work on time, he began pouring the paraffin into the lamp-hole.

"Mary Parker. Sarah Henderson," the big one whispered. "You murdered them. Left them on the street for the roster to find. But me and my lycans...we found 'em first. We own these streets. This is our territory, and we know what goes in and what goes out." She smiled, showing her missing teeth. "...but I like you, Andreev. Killin' your own kind don't faze you, does it? You a natural born talent...so I come here with a proposition." She tapped his cheek lightly, almost caressing it. "We keep your pretty face out of the mud...and in exchange, you give us a little income tax, if you know what I mean."

"There is no need for income tax," he said, pausing to think of the next word. Vasili had taught him enough English. "I have...how do you say it...strong alibi. They question me, but I have nothing to say. Nothing to remember for them."

"You have an alibi because we gave you one, Andreev. You might be able to fool the Blood-sweep ..." She took hold of the scent-card around his neck and pulled, forcing him to lean down so his face was an inch from hers. Scars on her face. She smelled of soap. "...but you ain't foolin' me. You live because my Blackmarks let you live. One word from me, and your whole world comes crashin' down. No more clean-up. No more alibi. No more Exile's Quarter. You hear?" She let go of his scent-card and licked her teeth.