by Jackie Ivie
Lucien sighed. “What do you want?”
“Your presence is requested. Topside.”
“Negative.”
“Hey. It isn’t me asking.”
“It’s still a negative,” Lucien replied.
“Very well. We will just come down then.”
It was Akron who answered. Akron didn’t wait for a reply. The speaker squealed momentarily as it shut off.
What did Akron mean...we?
Lucien slammed both hands to his conference table, splitting it across the center. He watched it separate with an immense groan. Manuscripts of all sizes and ages went flying, some landing with a thud, some sliding across his slate floor, others rustled as they flew, while unattached papers glided to a rest in the aftermath. Lucien hadn’t stayed for the destruction. He was in his private alcove, donning a roughly woven wool robe and tying the belt with a vicious yank. He then pulled the hood over his head, shadowing what he didn’t want seen. Hiding what those bastards had done to him.
He didn’t have to wait long, but at least Akron knocked. Or something that made the area thump with sound three times. He didn’t wait for the invitation, either.
Lucien had just finished piling his mistreated papers and manuscripts into a corner when his double doors opened inward, creaking slightly. Akron walked in. He brought morning mist in with him. It shrouded his ankles. He was carrying a large duffle bag in one hand and a large, odd-shaped lump slung across his opposite shoulder. That one was covered over with his cloak. It was probably a woman. The long braid of reddish-brown hair that trailed along Akron’s hip looked feminine enough.
“I assume that’s a woman?” Lucien asked.
Akron smiled. “Most assuredly. Sharp eyes, Lucien.”
“Is she deformed?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“Hump on her back.”
“Oh. I believe that is her skydiving apparatus. Parachute pack...containing chutes that didn’t open last night. And this is her clothing. From her hotel. Might as well have some real mystery to this missing person case. Yes?”
“Didn’t you change her over?”
“Of course.”
“Then what’s wrong with her?”
“It’s morning.”
“So?”
“Come, Lucien. Surely you remember your first day as an Undead. It’s draining. She’ll need a bit of rest.”
“I don’t allow women in here.”
“Call it true, Lucien. You don’t allow anyone in here. That’s why you had it dug beneath an ancient burial mound in the first place. Well. I think it’s time for a change.”
“No.”
“She needs your help.”
“No.”
“She was murdered last night.”
“So?”
“I promised her revenge. And for that she needs a laboratory.”
“You brought her here for my lab? Mine?”
“You’ve got sleeping arrangements in here still?”
“Don’t take her in there.”
Everything he said was a waste of newly acquired breath. Akron was already in Lucien’s private alcove. He watched without expression as Akron sprinkled something atop Lucien’s pallet, and then placed the woman atop it. She stirred, parting the covering enough to show a slice of clear, unblemished skin; a lengthy dusting of lash; a cherubic shaped cheek. Something deep in Lucien’s belly gave a twinge. He stifled it. Oh, no. No.
“There. She just needs a bit of rest. You will call if you need anything?”
Akron was back in the main room. He had a blank expression on his face, but it didn’t disguise the smile behind it.
“What did you just use on my bed?”
“That’s not a bed, Lucien. It’s a length of woven hemp around a smattering of old straw. It now contains a few specks of dirt you won’t even note. Especially after you alter your attitude toward luxuries...like sheets. Pillows. Real mattresses. I’m guessing that pallet of yours will fit snugly beneath a down-filled mattress cover. Oh. And before I forget. Here’s the rest. Don’t lose it.”
He lifted a small glass vial. It looked full. Akron’s lips twisted oddly as he looked over the remnants of Lucien’s table before setting the vial on one edge, right between joists.
“You knew, didn’t you?” Lucien asked.
“Knew what?”
They spent several long moments studying each other, while torches sputtered in the unwelcome dew-kissed morning air. Lucien spoke first.
“I’ll call if I need anything.”
“You do that.”
Akron was definitely smiling as he exited, closing the doors silently behind him.
CHAPTER FOUR
The destruction wasn’t as bad as he’d envisioned or deserved. He’d gone insane. These writings were irreplaceable! Priceless! Some of them were his own notes, taken down in the late sixteenth century, when he’d barely reached his teens. Some of them even contained postscripts by his master, Bruno. And he’d tossed them as if they were pig offal?
It was enough to make his heart pound. Harder. Again. As if reminding him that it could beat. And did.
Lucien slanted a glance toward the alcove where she still rested. This was all her fault. He would never have acted so recklessly and passionately except for her. Lucien added to it. Everything was her fault. He couldn’t seem to rest and he couldn’t work. He was having trouble concentrating. And he couldn’t keep still. Demons must be in control of his intentions while mischievous sprites played with his self-control. He’d even lost out on his refusal to check on her. Twice!
Both times were wasted. She hadn’t moved. There wasn’t anything more to see. Little more than a glimpse at her face. And nothing of her form. He wondered if she was pretty. She was probably curved. With ripe breasts. Small waist. Nice...hips and thighs. Shapely legs.
Oh. Hell.
There went the demons again. What was wrong with him? He was immune from thoughts of the flesh! He always had been. And yet right now he was dealing with cravings beyond those he’d stifled back when he’d lived. His rod was even hardening, and lengthening, and causing an itch beyond his experience. Or ability to control. He really needed to stay busy. Occupied. Intent. That was the sure cure for sexual frustration. He’d thought that lesson learned so long ago, it should be ingrained. Four hundred years shouldn’t change it. Or him. But this was unbelievable.
That’s why he’d gone to his stack of books and papers, assessed the damage, and gotten to work. He could re-do most of the blurred and torn writings. He knew them all by heart. But he’d need a fairly thick ink. If he used the medieval recipe for iron gall, it might consume some hours. And his attention.
Lucien shoved the hood to his shoulders and rolled up his sleeves, found the ingredients, and started his task. He usually kept crushed gallnut in a flask, already infused with white wine. He liked to cook it at extremely low temperatures, rather than steep the mixture in sunlight. The second ingredient was green vitriol. He also had that on hand. It was created by pouring sulfuric acid over rusted iron nails, and filtering the resultant liquid. The last ingredient was gum arabic from the acacia tree. Once the dried sap was ground into a powder, it was added to the mixture bit by bit, not only for its adhesive qualities, but it made an excellent thickener.
He got another dose of his new existence as the pungent odor of his concoction hit his nose. Odd. The smell wasn’t at all pleasant. He didn’t remember that facet of it. He looked over at his alcove, wondering instantly if she’d smell it. And if it might awaken her. And what she’d say. How she’d look. And if she was as pretty as the small glimpses of her displayed.
Blasted demons!
Lucien returned to his concoction. The ink was ready. And he needed to stay occupied. That meant repairing his table. But first, he had to find a secure place for her vial. Lucien tipped it, watching the grains slide before moving it to a shelf; one of the highest ones, where he rarely even bothered to dust.
The table pres
ented a puzzle, but a bit of moving, adjusting, and stacking of logs, and it appeared stable enough. All he’d needed was a series of like-sized, interlocked logs for the surface to rest atop. It should hold...depending on what weight and strain he put on it. He glanced more than once at his alcove, each time conquering the urge to check on her. She certainly slept soundly. Even through his furniture repair. Maybe he should look in on her. She might need something...
No. Lucien. No.
He prowled the room next, pausing at the alcove. Where she rested. Snuggled in Akron’s cape. Lucien moved on, stopping at his double doors. He stood considering them without really seeing anything. And then he bolted them. A moment later, he pulled the bolt back up. Was he already admitting surrender? Another circuit of the room brought him back to the alcove, where he again fought the longing to peek. He spent some time stifling it before striding to the doors again. This time when he shoved the bolt down, it emitted a solid scraping noise. A glance toward the alcove showed she hadn’t reacted.
This was insane.
Mating was a difficult thing to fight. Hard to subdue. Impossible to ignore. He didn’t have the weapons to deter, or even subdue. But he made it more difficult every time he looked toward where she rested. Alone. Accessible. Fresh. New.
His.
“Ah!”
Lucien put his head back and howled until he ran out of breath. Then he brought his head back down to glare in her direction as his cry echoed back at him. Nothing moved. Nothing stirred.
He wouldn’t look again. It was a vow. That meant he’d get to work, sitting with his back to the alcove. He scooted a stool over to his table, fetched his ink pot, but when he set it down, it slid six inches before stopping. Lucien squatted and checked. Damn. The surface wasn’t level, although it wasn’t off by much. Maybe he should get a bit of kindling. Work on leveling it. He stood, and fought a pure physical urge to check on his alcove, and won.
This was ridiculous. So his repair job wasn’t pretty, it was still workable. It shouldn’t bother his penmanship. He’d toiled on worse surfaces in the past, and he was stalling. Besides, he could always figure out carpentry later, if repairing his manuscripts didn’t suffice at controlling the demons.
He piled his books and papers on the table next, sorting through them for the most critical ones. Setting aside those he’d find bookshelves for. Reading one hypothesis he’d completely forgotten.
Wait! Was that a sound?
He swiveled, cocking his head toward his alcove, and waited several long moments. Had she moved? Was she even now...stretching? Finding his pallet uncomfortable? Or maybe she wouldn’t even notice it through the paraphernalia she still wore on her back. Maybe he should’ve taken it from her. Released her from that hump-thing. Made her more comfortable. Perhaps he should...
No, Lucien. Stop.
The only sound was the continual thump of his heartbeat in his ears. Reminding him. Tormenting him. Tempting him. Was it the same as hers? Dare he check?
No!
His hands curled into fists and his arms crossed with bruising strength against his chest as he fought what was becoming truly demonic. He’d never dealt with such a thing. He had to find a way to calm it. He needed to stay busy. Concentrate harder. Lucien worked at unwinding his arms and then flexing fingers. He picked up his quill. Dipped it into the inkpot. Started the top swirl of a capital letter. Outlined it. Painted. Filling in where it had faded too much to see, except with his memory.
“Uh...hello?”
Lucien jumped at the voice behind him. The quill flew, landing some distance away, putting a splotch of black on his tabletop before it rolled to a stop. His eyes went wide as he watched it. He didn’t even have his hood up! There wasn’t anything to hide behind. Nothing to shadow the scar in his cheek, misshapen because his tormentor had been shaking, and Lucien hadn’t stayed still while they applied it. They’d been branding him with what was supposed to be a cross. Instead it was an “X” shape that started at his temple and bit into his cheek, one end just touching the corner of his left eye while the other reached the bottom of his ear. He’d seen it once. Long ago. Back when he’d had a reflection. It was puckered at the edges, dark red, and very deep.
Ugly.
“Are you Lucien?”
He turned toward her and immediately swiveled back around. Oh, no! His afterlife just got harder to endure. One glimpse was too much! His mate wasn’t just pretty. She was beautiful! Exquisite. And immensely womanly. The sound he’d heard earlier must’ve been her removing whatever disfiguring attire she’d worn. There wasn’t anything about her curves except a skin-tight outfit of some kind. He started shaking. And absolutely nothing stopped it.
“I’m Ashley.”
She was immune to his sufferings. Or blind. Lucien kept his head turned from her, hiding the left side as she walked past the table. He heard her movements as she found his other lab stool – the taller one – and brought it over. He supposed she perched atop it next. He squashed the urge to check. But nothing prevented him from watching as she picked up his quill and brought it toward her perfect nose as if examining it.
“You are Lucien...aren’t you?”
He grunted something. It was the best he could manage. Anything else would contain a shuddering that wouldn’t cease. And there was a knot in his throat, capable of blocking sound.
“I’m going to say that’s an affirmative answer and go from there. Wow. That Akron needs a bit more description to his words.”
“Akron?”
The knot shifted. Pained. He had to swallow around it. But something resembling his voice came out. It was rough-edged, and gruff, but it worked.
“Yeah. He said you studied alchemy under Giordano Bruno. Back in the middle ages. He didn’t say you were stuck there.”
“I’m not.”
He’d been right. The words contained a hint of trembling. He should keep to one word answers. But she didn’t seem to notice or care. Or even seem affected.
“Well. Lucien.” She rolled his quill between her fingers, dripping more ink onto his table surface. His back straightened at the abuse. “I have to tell you. Typewriters were invented...oh, a century or so ago. And then we moved onto computers with keyboards. And believe it or not, you don’t even need those to write anymore. You can just talk into your phone.”
“Really?” He finally answered.
“Look. Lucien. Let’s clear the air, okay? I understand you want your solitude. And I get that you’re territorial. Trust me. Anyone messes with my graduated cylinders and Erlenmeyer flasks, and I’m totally ticked.”
“You know lab equipment?” It was getting easier to talk. He didn’t wonder at why. He was just grateful.
“I’ve got my bachelors in forensic science. I’m going for my PhD.”
“But...you’re a woman.”
“Oh. True. I am. That’s what happens when fertilization happens with an X chromosome, rather than a Y one. Anything else?”
Lucien blinked. Focused on the letter he’d been working on. He didn’t know what to say.
“You’re not one of those misogynist guys, are you? Because I have to tell you, inequality of the sexes went out with the quill and ink stuff, too.”
“Inequality?”
She laughed. His entire body lurched toward her at the sound. Lucien tightened every muscle against it and clamped his legs to the stool. It moved more than an inch before stopping. She didn’t seem to notice that, either.
“I thought you were a victim of the Inquisition. Not a member of it.”
“Akron told you...of that?”
“Among other things. So, ‘fess up already. Were you a member of the clergy? And is that why you have such a slanted view on women?”
“I was schooled in a monastery.”
“Right. I’m going to guess that was before you met up with Bruno. I’m going to also guess that means you’re steeped in the nonsense that woman are the root of all evil. I don’t suppose you’re open to a debate
over it?”
“Debate?”
He was answering in small sentences that disguised any intelligence. He just hoped they hid the surges he kept making toward where she sat. Perched on a stool on his right. Slightly above him. Sounding blissfully unaware of what was turning into raging need and rampaging desire. He’d never dealt with such things before. His teeth were even elongating, lifting his upper lip for room. And if he couldn’t control his own body any better than this, he certainly wasn’t going to win any debate. Or even present a challenge.
“First off, we need to ascertain what evil is, and if such a thing exists. And then we can argue who, or what, is behind it. And then we can go into the debate over intelligence and strengths of the sexes. Or lack, thereof. I’m warning you in advance, Lucien. You are not going to win.”
Win? He was struggling for control over the basest of urges. Winning anything verbal was beyond comprehension at the moment.
“No answer? Again? Why do I bother? You’re probably still trying to change lead into gold. But Akron said I could use your lab. So. We need to figure out how to make that work. If – of course – you even have a lab worth using.”
Oh. That was pure insult. She meant it that way. Somehow that sent a drop of cool onto what was becoming an inferno. It wasn’t much, but it helped.
“Why on earth am I still talking to you? You won’t even turn and face me.”
Lucien narrowed his eyes and turned toward her, knowing the torchlight illuminated his scarred side. Oh. She was gorgeous. She still had her hair pulled back into a braid. That just highlighted her perfection. There wasn’t a scar or pock or blemish anywhere on her. She had green-colored eyes. They were wide and surrounded by lashes that cast shadows onto the cheeks he’d noted earlier. And those cherubic cheeks were tinted pink. She had a perfect mouth, too, the lips full and lush. He watched them to see if her jaw dropped. It didn’t. Nothing on her looked like disgust. Or dismay. She didn’t appear to have any reaction to him at all.