Prelude (Underworld Lucian Fanfiction)

61 - Chapter LXI: Ashes and Lye

It took him a moment to hear it. Garish laughter, the effects of his withdrawal still holding him in thrall, causing him to despair over the sound. Reason telling him it had been over eight hours since his last dose. That he had been skinned, stabbed, crucified—that, needless to say, his judgment was affected. But he had come here for Sabine. Not to be skinned. Not to be burnt alive.

Just Sabine.

His thoughts steadying. The laughter snuffed out like a candle. Allowing him to focus his gaze, the timbre of his voice. Giving him the strength to mask it: the exhaustion on his shoulders, the break in his bones.

He would be damned before he let her see it. Either of them. His attention sliding from one to the other, the danger of the oil forcing him to pay attention...finally...to that which he was so keen to ignore. Trying to keep the smile from reaching his face, though the laughter might have been a clue. "Grace Marsden, I presume?"

She blew out her match, letting its charred remains fall to the floor. Another one ready before he'd taken another breath. "I ought to gut you," she said.

"And I ought to sack you," he said with a tired grimace. Smelling her hatred, knowing its source, and determining in that moment that the truth would see him dead. The bulk of this revelation leaving him with a single option.

Lie.

She rubbed her chin. Seeming surprised by the cavalier attitude. But then it was difficult to know how to respond to such an opening. "You really don't know who I am?"

"Should I?"

She lit another match.

Touché.

He spoke in a rush. "Your name is Grace," he said, keeping his eyes on the flame. "Born in 1830. Employed as a scullery maid by one Charles Andreas Finnegan. At the age of fourteen, you bore him a daughter. In the same year, his death caused the dissolution of the Blackmarks, thereby transferring the entirety of his assets to the Horde."

"Not far off," she said mysteriously. Touching her neck. The face scrunching in thought as her hand lingered over the wound. "You get all that from a bite?"

"And then some," he whispered. Focusing on his pain. Hating with his gaze, wanting to strangle her wretched throat. Even if he had been trying to taste her memories, the most he would have gotten was grief after such a recent loss. But it paid to slip in a lie when someone thought you smelled of truth.

"What else?"

"You're a traitor." He didn't need two hours of research to tell him that. "You believe your daughter should have benefitted from her father's will, so you began to cleave to Blackmark ideals. Now you hate me for dissolving them."

"Wrong," she said, tracing a path through the fuel at her feet. Like speaking through a fog, the woman's attention more on the flame and the oil. The flame starting to near her fingers. "But I'm a generous woman, sir. You tell me why I ought to gut you...and maybe I won't drop this match."

Behind her, the rest of the room had finally woken up. Reinette showing her nature, backing away silently to the farthest wall. As far from the dynamite and oil as she could put herself. Ewan showing his fear, even though the smell had not reached them yet. Starting to edge carefully down the length of the abbey towards them. Perhaps his best chance for escape.

Which meant keep her talking. Adrenaline driving a spur into his lungs. "How many matches do you have left?"

"Four."

"Best out of five?"

She thought about it. Staring at the flame, her eyes callous, but reflecting in grief. The match about to fall...