Prelude (Underworld Lucian Fanfiction)

58 - Chapter LVIII: A Grinding of Teeth

April 24, 1900. 10:40 am

The Tilbury Garrison

It took an hour for news to rise up the chain of command, travelling up and then swiftly across the Line, causing lycan transmitters to curse at every dot and dash spelling disaster. The sudden disappearance of the greatest leader of the lycan horde creating widespread panic, and among other things, the possibility of a coup d'état. Whispers said it was only a matter of time before one or more members of the Lycan Council reneged their vows, while they waited for news from the military.

It was said Raze would be leading the next incursion into the tunnels. The autonomy of the London Den swiftly reinstated once it became clear that any charges could wait until all parties were safe in hand. Two contingents had been sent to comb the tunnels for the last known location of the lycan-master. Despite their best efforts, they had found nothing. No blood. No bullet casings. No weapons. As though even now, someone was still cleaning the underworld of their presence. Determined to wipe away every trace of their mishaps.

Weylan sat in an interrogation cell at the Tilbury garrison, waiting for the next officer to tear into him for venturing into the underground without appropriate clearance. He could no longer count the number of times he'd explained what had happened. A sound. Clacking. The lycan-master had ordered him to retreat. Run, he'd signalled. Silent. Back the way we came. Take the first tunnel to the docks. Find a safe-house before the sun goes down.

He was no longer impeccable. His fine hair sticking up and out and every which way, his skin perspiring in the heat. It was true he'd never served in a red zone, he realised. True that he'd been looking to impress when he threw in with the Tilbury expedition. He'd been expecting adventure. A frightened security guard at most.

The youngest advisor to the most infamous lycan in history...and this was his legacy. Fear. Running as fast as he could with Sabine in his arms, the reflection in her eyes serving as a reminder of what he protected. His own skin making him run faster than he'd every run in his life. He'd heard shots being fired behind him. Six shots fired in succession, followed by another six shots...

...he'd wanted to turn around...but he could not. Not until the child was in a safe-house above ground. Not until he'd followed the lycan-master's instructions to the point, he'd told himself. But it was fear that drove him. Fear for his life. Enough to make him think twice on whether it was his scent or Sabine's that stank of piss.

The girl taken from his arms as soon as they reached the safe-house. Useless he was. His arms still covered in scratches, their blood mingling as though somehow her fear had seeped into his veins. He'd felt uncertain for the first time in his life, worrying over her. Picking at the strands of red on his shoulder as they marched him off to the garrison.

But she was in good hands, he told himself. They would be bleeding her...tasting her blood, searching for what knowledge they could piece together. Questionable what knowledge they could discern without a living blood relative to do the tasting...but then he was no expert, he decided.

Since then he'd been locked in a cell, his ears bleeding for whatever news he could scrape together through three walls and a corridor. Scent was the word on everyone's tongue. Voices rising and falling as they discussed what could only be seen as a new weapon, this poisonous gas that could burn away a scent-trail with its presence.

It was the same gas now seeping into the Tilbury tunnels. Forcing all who came upon it to run out of the tunnels, coughing into their hands as though Hades himself had taken residence in the underground. Word had it that Singe was working around the clock, trying to break down the components. Trying to understand what it was made from so they could fight it. A scent made of a thousand scents, he called it.