Prelude (Underworld Lucian Fanfiction)

46 - Chapter XLVI: An Evening of Stubborn Ends

January 14, 1900. Six hours later.

In the oldest part of the London den, Weylan was waiting outside a large wooden door with two folios in hand and a small, portable writing-surface under his arm. Papers and ink. These were the weapons of the new world, not the revolver hidden under his jacket nor the silver nitrate he kept on his person. His eye happening on his own reflection. His face dancing in the light of twelve shields that hung on the wall in remembrance of those who were buried below. Although not a vain man, he did have an eye for precision. His hair combed just so. His exterior appearance exuding the charm and delicacy that was often necessary for dealing with Bloods. His quick intellect providing the trust that was necessary when serving his master in the matter of this...woman.

Four months ago, he had spent three solid days at the Lycan Registry, gathering papers, sending telegrams...organising the route of the lycan-master's cargo from start to finish. In all that time, he had never once set eyes on her. The first two months of her stay spent in the restricted East Wing that had once housed the lycan-master's mistresses. The rest of her time now spent lurking in an abandoned catacomb with one of the lycan-master's personal guards watching an unlocked door. A six-foot-tall bull of a man, who had had little to say over the past ten minutes beyond "stay back."

The two of them standing at attention until they heard the sound of boots echoing from the far corridor. Lucian was coming. The master of all who swore themselves to the Horde. Rather than straighten his shoulders, he sniffed, studying the air and piecing together the smells. Faint laudanum. Grass. Horses. Above those three, the tell-tale scent of an alpha and beneath that...nothing. No means of scenting his mood for the master had made it a practice to mask all but the most obvious of indicators.

Moments later, he was upon them.

The master of their existence striding up the hallway with a riding crop. His scowl daring them to say anything of his tardiness. "Eve-ning," he said, lengthening the first syllable. There was a long smear of mud across his waistcoat, something he as usual had either not noticed or did not care to notice. He must have been breaking a horse.

Weylan bent his neck, handing him the second folio. "Sir."

The bull saluted sharply, looking as though he wanted to gore Weylan for addressing the lycan-master first. "Sir."

"As you were," the lycan-master muttered at both of them, flipping through the documents, more concerned with the papers than decorum. "Weylan, you've met Aron, haven't you..."

"I'm afraid not, sir."

The lycan-master looked up briefly, passing a jaded eye over both of them before waving the riding crop left, then right. "Aron, this is Weylan. Weylan, this is Aron." His attention passed from their heads to the door. "Shall we go in?"

"At your leisure," Weylan said, dropping his voice to an understated murmur as the guard walked to the opposite end of the hall. "...and if I may be so bold to ask..." He had to ask. "...why the catacombs, sir?"

"Why indeed," the master reflected, seeming to hold an unspoken grudge against the door as he turned the handle, stepping forward, and letting their vision adjust. A moment in the dark before he turned, smiling his bitterness. "Suffice it to say, the woman you are about to meet is very stubborn," he said, shutting the door behind them. He then raised an arm, indicating that Weylan should go first into whatever hell they were about to enter. The circular steps winding down into the earth, the ceiling at times close enough to warrant ducking their heads. Mold on the walls and an icy draft beneath their feet. It stank of the dead.