Author's Note: So, dear Chapelites,  this chapter hasn't ended up quite as I'd planned, but it was already close to 7000 words and if you're going to end a chapter, you might as well end it like this. If you're a member of the Facebook fan group, The Chapelite Asylum, you might have been expecting something else to happen, but hey, plans change and we authors are fickle, horrible creatures who change their minds quicker than most people change their underpants. So anyway, as always, thanks for your patience and support, I hope you enjoy the chapter, please do hit that little star button and leave a comment if you do. This fickle, horrible author will be most grateful xxx

He'd stolen kisses whenever he could.

Always with declarations of love, coupled with that hungry, desperate look in his eyes that left me a bit fearful, he'd demanded them from me at every opportunity, whenever we were alone, whenever members of his clan were not around to see. Not that he cared what they thought and they'd never have dared to protest otherwise, he was the Great Wolf after all, but it was something he kept hidden, something he did in secret, because somewhere inside, he knew it was wrong, he knew it went against his very nature. I could see it in his eyes every time his lips left mine, when he was still so close that I could see the workings of his mind and his tortured conscience whirling around behind the amber sparks. Those never seemed to fade now either and I couldn't help but wonder if they were now instinctually installed for my benefit whenever he was in my presence, as if the beast inside him wanted to remind me that it was always there, just waiting under the surface until the time it would take control and finally destroy me.

This thing inside me, it's going to kill you, Megs. It wants to kill you and I don't think I can stop it again.

For now, the human side of Brandon was winning, but I knew it was only because I had somehow convinced him that this was what I wanted too. I wanted to tell him that he was languishing in nothing but fantasy, I wanted to scream it into his face until my throat was sore and inflamed. But the truth was, I needed him. Probably more than I ever had in my whole life. I needed him to want me. I needed him to believe I wanted him. And I needed him to stayed locked in whatever sick fantasy he'd dreamt up, because while he was there, while he believed it to be the truth, then I was one step closer to reaching Lucius before it was too late.

But that didn't mean I wasn't struggling with his kisses and his little experiments, for with every kiss, came something else. His lips against my throat. His hand too heavy on my thigh. Fingers that seemed too keen to explore. He'd even begun to lament the fact he'd had to bind me with the Chains of the Abyss, because the chains meant restricted access, to him the chains meant he couldn't touch me how he wanted to and if it was one thing that Brandon hated, it was having his tail clipped and his leash tightened. My stomach had somersaulted with the rush of butterflies when he'd mentioned how much he wished the chains were gone, an adrenalin-filled spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, he'd consider removing them completely, even if only for a few minutes. That hope faded as quickly as it had come, when he'd dismissed the notion with a shake of his head, his face darkening with rage and he'd left the room abruptly, slamming the door back against the wall and leaving me to watch little clouds of plaster dust float down from the hole the handle had made.

I wouldn't let the hope die though. I couldn't. And with each kiss, with each touch, I let the embers of hope burn on, waiting for that moment when I could ignite them again. The problem was I didn't have much time and the longer this went on, the more chance there was of Vánagandr taking control of Brandon again and fulfilling its own fantasy of tugging my guts free from my body and feasting on them as I took my last breath.

I'd been held here for two nights. In between, I'd watched the daylight peeking around the edges of the blinds that had been newly installed in the kitchen, the only things seemingly not covered in the dust and grime that had taken hold of a house apparently no longer lived in. I wasn't sure where Brandon actually lived now, I guessed it was whatever new compound he'd found so he could dwell within the protection of the clan, drawing them to him as the Great Alpha should. Although I had no doubt that he was more than capable of looking after himself, he seemed to always have a close contingency of Varúlfur with him, apart from when he sought to be with me alone.

Since my capture, I'd only seen the two Varúlfur from the van, but I knew there were more. I'd heard them in other parts of the house, smelt their foul presence wafting through the gap under the kitchen door and hated that they were here, in the house I'd once adored. The two from the van, who I know knew to be called Lewis and Simon (or Si, for short) were the only ones who'd been allowed access to the kitchen. Lewis, the tall brutish one who'd left me with a very tender bump on the back of my skull, was surprisingly okay about having to be in my company. He'd even spoken to me on a few occasions, no great profound conversations naturally, but he'd at least uttered a few words that hadn't left me feeling cold and afraid. Si, however, well, he couldn't vanquish the disgust he clearly felt for me and the one time I had tried to engage him, he'd walked over to the blinds and stared at me with pure malice as he'd toyed with the adjuster, threatening to flood the room with daylight and stunning me into silence as I'd watched the light desperately trying to creep through the slats. The threat of being burned remained with me for the rest of the day and I almost breathed a sigh of relief when Brandon returned, even though I knew what that meant for me.

On the second night, Brandon had appeared early, not long after the sun had set and the shadows had started to banish the light at the edges of the blinds. I'd watched the last of the evening light retreat and felt my muscles relax only for them to tense again when he burst through the door of the kitchen, relieving Si from his security duties with a dismissive nod. He'd looked agitated which immediately piqued my panic as a hundred different possibilities flooded my mind as to what might have made him so tense, what might have gone wrong. Was Lucius okay? Would I still be allowed to see him? Had Vánagandr decided that Brandon didn't need me after all?

I wasn't ready for him to fall to his knees in front of me, clutching hold of my thighs and resting his head on my lap. I wasn't ready for the anguished moan, so thick and heavy with pain and torment. If it had been before, when I was her and he was just my husband, I would have stroked his head. Probably would have run my fingers through his hair, playing with the thick dark tousled curls that always smelt so good. I would have eased his fears with soft, soothing words. Instead, my hands remained gripping the sides of the chair, my back tense, my breath hitched in my throat as I mentally willed him to get up, to get away from me. To just stop.

"W-what is it?" I stuttered, finally finding my voice. "What's wrong? Has something happened?"

"I just want this to be done," he groaned. "I want this to be over. I'm trying, Megs, I'm really bloody trying..."

I froze. "What do you mean?" I whispered.

"This. Everything. If it doesn't happen soon, I don't know what I'll do." He nuzzled further up my lap, his fingers kneading the tops of my thighs.

He couldn't. Not yet. Not now. 

"I know how much the thought of what has to happen upsets you," he said. "I know it's hard but once it's done, once he's dead...."

Lucius. He was talking about Lucius.

"Once it's over, we can concentrate on us, on this," he continued. "But the wait is killing me." He shifted, forcing my legs apart so he could get closer and I almost did it then, I almost cried out when his fingers found the hem of my shirt, lifting it up to expose my stomach which he then pressed his face against.

"Fuck," he groaned again, smoothing his lips over my skin. He began to fumble with the snap button on my jeans and I knew if he did it, if he carried on, then that would be it. I wouldn't be able to hold back the scream and everything would be over.

"Bran," I whispered, desperately trying to keep my tone as calm as possible. "Not now, not here. Please."

He looked up at me and blinked. "But this is our home, Megs. Where we belong. Together. Why not here?"

"Because they're here," I said, gesturing to the door where, on the other side, the other Varúlfur were waiting. "And because she was here, in our house, in our bed. I can still smell her. I want this to be our home again, I really wish it could be, but she ruined all of that. You must understand?"

My eyes misted over but not because of Clara. Because of this. Because of us.

Realisation flickered in his expression. "Right," he said, nodding as if I was being perfectly reasonable. "Yes, I understand completely. I'll start looking, soon, once this is finished. I'll find us a new home. It'll be perfect ... it will ..." He trailed off, his gaze intensifying as he scrutinised my face, searching, finding. "You don't believe me," he said accusingly, his eyes narrowing. "You don't think I can make everything perfect."

I swallowed. "It's not that ... it's just ..."

"What?" he demanded sharply.

I shrugged and shot him a small nervous smile. "It's just that I can't imagine the kind of world we will have once this is done. It scares me. Everything will be different."

"Everything will be better."

"Is that you talking? Or Drachmann and Lucifer?"

He looked at me then and for a moment I caught sight of the young Brandon, the one so full of fear of a world away from his family, of cutting a path out on his own and yet so desperate to be his own man, to be himself. He'd been lost back then, just as I had been lost. Maybe that's why we'd clung to each other, so in need of something to hold onto, adrift at sea and gripping desperately onto shipwreck debris bobbing on the waves. Nothing had changed for him, not really. It was ironic really that he should always seek to follow the same pattern – the Great Wolf, supposedly a God-slayer of all things, and yet unable to act, move or think without the say-so of another.

The cogs turned, my plan formulating.

His nose wrinkled with irritation. "It will be a better world, Megs. It will be a free world. Free from constraints and judgement, free from the commandments and rules that stifle us."

"How can it be when you will follow the commandments and rules of Lucifer? You'll just be swapping one god for another, one master for another. Is that what you want, Bran? You're Vánagandr. You're the God-Slayer. You're not their puppet, you're the key. Without you, they have nothing. And yet they're still acting like they're above you, like they own you."

A growl emanated from deep in his throat. "Nobody owns me."

I gripped his hand in mine. "No, that's right, they don't. You're better than them. If anyone deserves this new world, it's you. You're the one that will help create it. You're the one that should be sitting on the throne, instead of languishing at the feet of Lucifer like you're nothing more than his pet. Do you know what I've been told so many times now that it's starting to stick in my gut every time? Some things just are. Like there's this set plan we have to follow, like we're nothing but pawns in their great game, dutifully running here and there, following orders, doing what we're told, like we have no choice. But we do, Bran. We do. Your destiny is to be the God-Slayer. Mine was to have the powers of an archangel. And as crazy as that sounds, the more I think about it, the more I realise that the fact we found each other, the fact we were together, actually means something. It's no coincidence. No luck of the draw. It was meant to be; don't you see? Together, you and I can change the rules. We don't have to do what they tell us to do. We can create our own world. I don't want their world, Bran. It scares me, in fact it terrifies me."

He raised himself up on his knees, cupping my face in his hands, his gaze serious and full of concern. "You don't have to be scared, Megs. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. You're mine and I'd die before I let them hurt you."

I wasn't about to mention how he'd let his clan hurt me. How he'd hurt me.

"Drachmann wants me dead," I said instead.

"Oh, don't worry about Drachmann," he spat, dismissively. "He's just one of many, nothing special."

"Don't underestimate him, I know him, I know what he is. I've dealt with one of his kind before and trust me, they'll do anything to destroy me. He's going to hurt me. I just know he is ..."

Just the right amount of trembling. Just the right amount of lip wobble. This was Megan Walden at her finest. Her most pathetic, needy finest.

Brandon's face twisted with anger. "He will not hurt you. I won't let him, do you hear me, Megs? I'll tear his miserable head from his body if he so much as touches you. I'll rip his body into pieces and send him back into Hell. He's nothing and I'll kill him like he's nothing." He pressed his forehead against mine. "Don't be afraid, darling," he whispered. "You'll never have to be afraid again, I'll make sure of that. He won't ruin this. No one will ruin this."

He crushed his mouth hard against mine, hungrily, possessively.

"Everything will be okay, you'll see," he said, caressing my face. "I love you."

After he left, promising to return before sunrise, I closed my eyes and wept.

******

Brandon did return, as promised, not long after the first touches of light turned the enticing blackness into a dull grey. He came back in a flurry of action and noise, throwing open the door of the kitchen and marching in with Si, Lewis and one other I didn't recognise flanking him.

Crouching in front of me, he gripped my chin between thumb and forefinger. "We're leaving now. Keep your eyes to the ground as we leave the house. Don't make a fuss, just get straight into the van. Can you do that for me, Megs?"

I nodded dutifully, my gaze shooting towards Lewis as he came to untie the ropes binding me to the chair. The chains remained, of course, but a coat was draped around my shoulders in an effort to hide them, after all, it was one thing to throw a woman into the back of a waiting van, but another to have her leave in chains. I was led out of the kitchen to find the hallway lined with Varúlfur. Quickly counting ten in total, including Brandon, I passed through them all, feeling their hatred dogging my every step. The air was thick and heavy with their stench and crackled with tightly-coiled tension that was frenetically bouncing off the walls.

I stopped at the open doorway, seeing the pre-dawn skies stretching out above and feeling the weight of them pressing down upon me. It seemed like forever since I'd been outside this close to sunrise, in fact the closest I had got to seeing the daylight since I'd been transformed was when I'd been foolish enough to peel back the cardboard covering the window in Harper's dingy house. I still remembered the touch of the sun's embrace on my skin, burning my face, still remembered the searing hot pain as my flesh sizzled. Still remembered how he'd bathed my burnt face afterwards. 

"Keep moving," growled Si from behind me.

Carefully navigating the steps outside the house, I kept my eyes lowered to the ground although I was itching to glance up and look around my old street. I wondered if it still looked the same. I wondered if Joanna and Aleksander still lived next door. I wondered whether the curtains were twitching, even at this hour, as I was marched from the house I'd once lived in. Brandon had taken a risk bringing me here – a big risk. I was meant to be dead after all and yet here I was, walking around as if the whole thing had just been a bad dream, some crazy story dreamt up by scriptwriters for a TV show. Maybe he didn't care, maybe he'd figured that once he'd opened the Gates, in his new world, he could do whatever he wanted – even raise his dead wife from the grave.

Whatever his reasons, I didn't get to see much of the outside world as I was pushed and prodded to get straight into the back of the waiting van, with its blacked-out windows and pervading odour of blood and diesel. Si climbed in after me and I steeled myself for the strike, but it never came, instead he loomed over me and secured a gag over my mouth, screwing up his nose in a hateful sneer as he tied it too tight, making me wince as it cut into the sides of my mouth and pinched at the back of my head. The last thing I saw was the impending sunrise threatening overhead and Si smirking at me as he closed the doors to the van, plunging me back into the gloom.

Inside the van, it was impossible to fathom in which direction we were travelling or how far we had gone. All I could do was remain in the far corner, having to slide my back down the inside of the van so I could ease myself into an upright sitting position and try to brace myself the best I could, so I wouldn't end up stuck on my side with my face against the dirty floor. Pressing my ear against the partition between the cab and back of the van, I tried to listen out for some sound or clue on the driver's side, but my efforts were in vain, thwarted by the layer of plywood that lined the whole van, probably more in an effort to prevent any sound from escaping as opposed to allowing whoever was inside from hearing anything. The wood was painted matt black, making the confined space even darker, although my keen sight detected areas where the insulating layer was stained with what might have once been large damp patches, making the ply swell and bubble. On and on the van went, the motion vibrating up my back and I closed my eyes and focused on how, hopefully, I was getting closer and closer to Lucius the further we went, even though I knew that meant I was getting further and further away from Harper.

When the van began to slow and eventually stop altogether, I opened my eyes and stared wildly at the doors, knowing that by now the sun had most definitely arisen to claim the skies and fearful of the light that would come streaming into the gloom, desperate to expose every dark corner. I tensed, alert, pressing my back against the van walls. The lock clicked loudly and the door was yanked open, but instead of looking out at the burning glare of daylight, I was surprised to look out at the inside of what appeared to be an old aircraft hangar.

"Out," barked Si and I warily approached the open doors, hesitating so I could cast my eyes around.

It was a fairly small hangar, probably once used for light aircraft and now home to an array of sleek Mercs, BMW's and Lexus's, all typical Varúlfur transport. It was brightly lit, so much so that I had to momentarily blink to adjust to the change in light. Not far away, Brandon stood in consultation with a small group, one of whom happened to be Stephen, the Varúlfur who had kept a tight grip on me at the farm compound. Brandon was gesturing at him, pointing a finger as if issuing strict orders to a child and Stephen was nodding, his head bowed in deference. I resisted the urge to smirk at seeing him getting a dressing down.

"Come on," snarled Si, grabbing hold of my arm and pulling me roughly out of the van, warranting a dark glare from Brandon, whose head had whipped around at the sound of his sentry's voice.

I stepped down, dust billowing up around my feet as I slowly turned full circle, taking in my surroundings and my spectators, most of whom had stopped what they were doing to stare at the lone vampire in their midst. The gag was released and Si dropped it to the ground, wiping his hands on his jacket as if having to touch it disgusted him.

The place was teeming with so many Varúlfur, the atmosphere felt oppressive with their presence. I exhaled a breath as subtly as I could, fighting to keep that instinctual panic in check as my blood raged beneath the surface, that genetic thrust of alarm and fear threatening to boil over and either send me fleeing or knocking me to my knees. I swallowed, my gaze flickering over faces, wondering how many of them I'd blinded back at the compound, wondering how many of them had awoken with their eyes sutured shut, their skin an angry swollen mess. They watched me now, keen-eyed but with a wariness that hadn't been there before and I returned their stare, refusing to back down and cower before them all.

Brandon started to walk across the hangar, gesturing at Si to follow and I was forced to walk in line in front of him, with four more Varúlfur on either side of me as Brandon headed for a door at the far end. The size of Brandon's security unit seemed overly excessive and I felt small and puny in amongst their tall, muscular forms, but I guessed they knew only too well what walked amongst them, even if I was bound in chains. Through the door was a windowless corridor with an arched ceiling, its structure a long narrow duplicate of the hangar we had just left. Hemmed in on all sides, the corridor seeming to get thinner with every step I took, even though I knew the walls weren't closing in on me at all and it was just the claustrophobic crush of being in amongst the beasts that was making my throat constrict and my stomach clench. As I walked, I kept my eyes fixed ahead, my peripheral vision taking in what I could, although I could feel their eyes on me, burning a hole into my flesh with their loathing.

Reaching the end of the corridor, we entered another building, this one a normal brick structure, possibly an administration block and Brandon, still leading the way, headed towards a stairwell and took the route downwards. He glanced up at me as he descended, his cheek muscles taut, lips pursed, an uneasy tension in his eyes that made my already on-the-edge nerves begin to fray Had I misjudged him? Had I misjudged this whole thing?

What if he doesn't do what you want? Your faith in his love for you is your Achilles' Heel. 

No. I hadn't got this wrong. I hadn't got him wrong. I'd seen it in his face, so clear and so strong, he might as well have tattooed his love and desire onto his skin. And yet ... I couldn't forget Josiah's words. Tiny seeds of doubt took root in my belly, twisting vine and leaf around my core.

The staircase was wide enough to allow three in a row side by side and it reminded me a little of the type of stairwells you saw in hospitals, with its clinical cold green walls and dim bulbs encased in eighties-style circular casing with frosted glass. Our collective footsteps echoed loudly, the noise peeling upwards like the distant roll of thunder. We'd descended five levels already, each one marked by a large black stencilled letter painted onto the wall and now faded around the edges. With each level, the stench of blood – vampire blood – grew stronger, drifting up the centre of the stairwell, the natural air shaft acting like a flume for all the sounds and smells creeping up from below. Whatever lay below us was not going to be pretty, I knew that for certain.

Finally, reaching the bottom of the stairwell, Brandon took the only door leading from it, which revealed a small lobby area, with glass-fronted rooms on either side, although a couple had no glass at all, apart from dangerous-looking jagged fragments still stuck in the wooden frame. One window had a large fist-sized hole, the edges of which were stained with blood and large cracks spreading outwards in a vein-like web pattern. Inside the room, bloodied smears smudged the dirty tiles. A broken table lay upside down, one of the legs was broken almost in half, splinters of wood scattered nearby. I didn't want to think about what these rooms were used for, but I had a feeling I was going to have much of a choice but to think about it very soon. Down here, the air felt suffocating with the scent of so much vampire blood, as if they'd painted the walls with it.

Ahead was a ceiling-to-floor steel gate and a sentry box on the other side which marked the entrance to what I could only imagine must be a cell block. A Varúlfur guard stood by the door to the sentry box, his expression expectant and decidedly anxious as he clocked Brandon approaching. Unlocking the gate, fumbling with the keys as he did so, the Varúlfur guard pulled back the heavy iron bars and Brandon swept through without barely acknowledging him. Once everyone was through, the gate was bolted once more, the sharp metallic clang of the lock closing sounding like the ominous tolling of a bell. The space in which I found myself was small and warm bodies brushed against mine, their bristling anger and excitement crushing me. Automatic warning rumbles in their throats were silenced by one dark, menacing look from their leader.

"Stay here," he said to them all, before motioning for the guard with the keys and for me to follow him along the corridor.

I didn't have to go far to find the source of the blood scent.

Stopping to look into the second cell along the row, I wasn't sure what to feel as I looked at the mutilated body of Charlie.

I should have felt something. Disgust. Fear. Nausea. Something. Maybe I should even have felt revenged in a strange sort of way, even though I was looking at the dead body of a vampire who had been horribly slain by our enemy. But instead I just felt ... numb. Numb looking at the vampire that had betrayed us. Numb looking at the vampire that had taken Lucius and handed him to the wolves in return for what? Death? It had been for nothing. He'd taken my heart and it had all been for nothing.

The room did actually look as if the walls had been painted in his blood. It was sprayed up the walls in wide, sweeping arcs; brush-strokes of blood that were so thick in places that drips had run down the sickly green paint. Some of it had even reached the ceiling, with was splattered in places with polka dot patterns. Puddles of thick, congealed dark liquid pooled on the floor beneath where he had been suspended from the ceiling by rusted brown chains, his head drooped onto his naked chest, his stomach ripped open, thick stringy intestines trailing out of the bloody hole. Claw and tooth marks ravaged his limbs, leaving deep ugly welts in his flesh. On what was left of his right hand, three fingers were missing and on his left leg, which had been clearly broken, a small nub of bone protruded from where the flesh had split open over his knee-cap.

This had gone beyond sport. Beyond torture. This was pure, unadulterated rage.

A light touch to my shoulder made me flinch.

"He despised you, you know," Brandon said, his mouth a little too close to my ear, his hand lingering on the small of my back. "He said you weren't really one of them, never would be. In fact, he was very disparaging about you on all fronts."

"What did he want in return for Lucius?" I said, dragging my eyes away from the horror to look into Brandon's eyes. "Just how much was the child worth to him?"

"This," Brandon replied, nodding into the bloodied cell. "This. For you. He wanted you on your knees, begging for your life. He wanted to watch as we brutalised you. Over and over again. He wanted to see you broken and so I took what he offered and broke him instead." He brushed away a loose strand of hair that had fallen across my face. "See what I am willing to do for you?" he whispered.

He walked on, but I remained there for a few seconds, studying what was left of Charlie.

Since he'd fled with Lucius, I had wondered so many times what could possibly have tempted him so much that he would be willing to betray his own kind, yet never would I have guessed that the only thing he had wanted was to see me slaughtered by those he had fought against his whole vampire life. Lucifer had been right. Every man really did have his thirty pieces of silver, but not once had I ever imagined that I would be Charlie's.

"Megs," Brandon said impatiently, mild irritation crinkling his brow.

I turned to look at him, at the man who had twice now killed those he felt had overstepped the mark when it came to me and wondered how we had ever reached the point where gifts of designer bags and luxury holidays had been replaced with gifts of death and blood. Without another glance at Charlie, I followed Brandon along the cell block, marvelling at how there had once been a time when I loved to watch him walk, the way he carried himself, his confident swagger, the sublime muscle tone in his back and thighs that never failed to turn me on. He was still sublime now. Still beautiful. Still so confident that he thought he knew exactly what I wanted but the problem was he had never known what I'd really wanted. I'd never wanted expensive gifts and holidays in the Maldives. I'd wanted him. Us. I'd wanted the one thing I'd never had. A family. The one thing he never could give me.

And now? He still didn't have a clue. I didn't want Felix's severed head or Charlie's guts on a silver platter. I didn't want declarations of love and stolen kisses. I wanted what I had no right to claim – shouldn't have claimed – and yet had claimed anyway. I wanted what I had come here for. I wanted what was mine and yet wasn't meant to be mine.

Lucius. Mine. My Lucius. 

My Lucius was standing in the middle of the cell at the very end of the block.

Thankfully this one was not painted with blood, but was in fact, relatively clean, if not tainted by the smell of stale air and Varúlfur stench. It was empty, save from a small cot bed in the corner draped in a thin tatty blanket and of course, save for Lucius himself.

The little boy stood with his head tilted slightly to one side as if he had been expecting me, which I knew he most definitely had. He'd known I would come for him and I felt a pang of sadness sweep through me when it dawned on me just why he had known. He was, after all, part-angel himself and that meant he possessed a deeper understanding of the angels than I had ever even begun to imagine he did. He knew what they were. He'd always understood. Always known.

"Hello, Lucius," I said.

"Hello, Megan," the little boy replied. Our eyes met through the bars, the acknowledgment of our entwined destinies hanging in the air between us.

The guard unlocked the cell and Brandon swept in, walking over to where Lucius stood and placed a hand on his shoulder, giving a small squeeze. To anyone else, it might have seemed a comforting gesture, fatherly even, but I saw nothing comforting or fatherly about it. All I saw was a beast with my child in his grasp. A monster with claws who would smile as he bled the life out of him. My breath caught in my throat, a tiny gasp burst free from my mouth, betraying me.

Brandon's sharp eyes found mine, a frown darkening his face.

I quickly smiled, a wide, thankful smile full of simpering gratitude. "He's fine," I stammered. "You looked after him, just like you said you would."

The smile he returned was weak, framed by an uncertainty that lingered in his gaze. "I promised, didn't I?" He looked down at the Lucius and for a moment, I was bombarded with a barrage of horrifying images, of Vánagandr great mouth opened wide, its slavering jaws wrapped around Lucius' head, of its saliva-saturated snout buried deep in his gut, just as it had been buried in Charlie's.

Get away. Stop touching him. Please. 

"Th-thank you."

He motioned for me to enter the cell, which I did, stepping just inside the door and wishing I could reach out and drag Lucius' away from him, but instead having to make do with standing there, my hands balled into tight useless fists by my side. I almost sighed with relief when Brandon did do as I'd silently pleaded and left Lucius to approach where I stood, but I knew I had to keep up the pretence, as fragile as it felt. More cracks would appear soon, cracks that I wouldn't be able to stop splintering across the glass, cracks that would destroy everything.

I smiled again as his palm found my cheek, as he forced me to look at him and only at him. I drowned him in adoration, allowed my lips to move against his as he claimed a kiss so territorial that I knew it exactly for what it really was.

He was jealous of Lucius. Of a child, for goodness sake. And in that moment, I knew Lucius would never be safe from him, that even without the fact of needing Lucius dead to open the Gates, Brandon would never let him live anyway because the boy stood in the way of us, of the little fantasy family and the perfect world he had dreamt up in his screwed-up head. He would never allow me to love anyone more than I loved him. Never. 

And that only made me more determined than ever to see this through no matter how much it hurt.

"I can't give you much time," he said, his tone almost apologetic, even know I knew he didn't care much either way. "Drachmann will be here soon; we have much to prepare for. I'll be back for you as soon as I can, but do me a favour and be a good girl, okay? Say your goodbyes quickly so my man here can get you out and into a cell of your own. It won't be for long, I promise."

He glanced over at Lucius who returned his stare with a blank expression, his pale face devoid of any fear.

"This will all be done with very soon," Brandon said with a small, triumphant smile.

******

We sat, cross-legged, facing each other as we had done so many times before.

The Varúlfur guard stood outside the cell, the door once again locked. Good, I thought, mentally counting the seconds it would take for him to open the lock. Would it be enough time? Maybe it wouldn't even matter. I hoped not.

"You knew," I said to Lucius, keeping my voice low, but not so quiet that it might arouse the guard's suspicion. "You always knew, didn't you?"

"Yes," the boy replied. Yes. As if he was answering if he wanted a drink. Yes. As if he was agreeing to have sausages for dinner or that he wanted to go outside and ride his bike. I shook my head in morosely-tinged awe.

"Were you never scared?" I asked. Of me, I meant, unable to say the words out loud.

"No." He knew what I meant, almost as if we'd had this conversation a hundred times. "Never. It's just the way of things." He shrugged.

"But it shouldn't be," I said, bitterly. "It's not fair. It's not right. You're just a child, you never asked for any of this. Why should you suffer for something that's not your fault?"

"Most people suffer because of things that aren't their fault. Why should I be any different?"

"Don't do that," I said, the ache in my chest becoming more painful by the second. "Don't try and justify this like it's all okay. Like it's nothing. Don't try and justify their actions and their decisions. I don't want this to happen."

"I know. But for what it's worth, I'm glad it's you."

"Please, don't," I whispered, my throat tightening. "I don't want this. I don't want any of it. I love you, you know? And I know I shouldn't, I know it's stupid because you're not mine and because none of this has anything to do with love, because they don't have the first idea of what it is to love, to really love. Because they'll exist for eternity and never have one ounce of understanding how it is to feel like your heart is being torn into a thousand tiny pieces, they'll never know what it is to hurt like this. Because they have nothing inside them but this dark, empty void that's so black and so twisted that they have no concept anymore of what's good and what's evil. Was it always like this, Lucius? Or did they become so screwed-up over the centuries that they are now just eternally blind to the truth?"

"It was always this way," he said, almost sadly. "Always. You cannot change what they are, Megan. Just as they cannot change what you are. Not really. You will remember that, won't you? Don't be like them. You don't have to be, no matter what they say."

I frowned. "I don't understand? Lucius, I am one of them. That's why I'm here. That's why I have to do this."

"Yes," he replied. "That is why you are here. But you are you. You have always been you. That's what makes you different. That's why you are the only one who ever made it this far. And that is why I'm glad it is you."

He glanced over my shoulder, a fleeting, barely-there glance, as he began to slowly tug at the fingers of his gloves, a movement so subtle that with my back facing the guard, he did not even see what Lucius was doing.

"Are you ready?" Lucius said, placing his hands on my knees, palms facing upwards.

"I'm scared."

He smiled, that wide toothy-grin that broke my heart all over again, dissolving it into nothing.

"I know," he replied. "But it really will be okay."

My fingers twitched over his. I couldn't. I couldn't do it. 

"I love you, Megan," he said.

And grasped my hands tightly in his.