Lucian (Month Six)
Lucian stood in front of his cracked mirror, clean-shaven and properly dressed. Over and over again, he practiced saying her name to his reflection without reacting—until he didn't. He had succeeded, and it terrified him.
Lucian had developed a rigid morning routine: the same walk through the kitchen, the same book, the same route through town. He'd grown into this life. He had cleaned his house, changed his clothes, and drank less. Discipline dulled his memory. He'd found work, though it was shady. Every night, he had a new target. He would receive a call on the kitchen telephone; all he'd hear was a name and a location. He didn't ask questions.
He would throw on a black suit jacket and a dark newsboy hat, tying a scarf around his neck and pulling it over his mouth until only his piercing blue eyes were exposed. Once he reached the location, he moved swiftly. Usually, the target was an enemy of a client, but he never cared to ask for details; they only fed him what was necessary. Once he had the target in his sights, it was only a matter of moving fast.
Lucian had learned to handle violence efficiently, but he had become emotionally flat. He no longer flinched when blood hit his hands, and that terrified him more than anything. Although he had fought tooth and nail to isolate himself from the Coven, he still heard rumors. He heard Jules was rising fast and growing stronger.
It didn't surprise him; she had always adapted easily. But Lucian realized his absence was the best thing that could have happened to her. She didn't need him. What they'd had was proximity, not fate. He'd never even told her how he felt, so why would it matter now?
One night, while he was out on a job, things got messy. A gunshot rang out in the alleyway, sending a silver bullet right through Lucian's hand. He winced in pain but finished the job anyway, even with only one hand. If anything was going to help him manage the aftermath, it was a strong drink.
Lucian walked the damp city streets until he reached a small tavern. Music blared from within and candlelight flickered in the windows. Having no other options, he pushed open the door and stepped inside. He was met with the hum of the crowd and a blaring piano—and then his eyes stopped.
A server stood behind the bar, her dirty-blonde hair tucked behind her ear. She had a warm smile, and something about it drew him in. He sat carefully on a stool, trying not to smear blood on the wooden counter. The woman looked up from cleaning glasses. She tossed the rag over her shoulder and leaned her forearms against the bar.
"What can I get for you?" she asked softly.
Lucian was caught off guard. Her emerald eyes and the freckles dancing across her nose and cheeks made him freeze. Before he could speak, her eyes shot to his hand. Her expression shifted.
"You're bleeding."
"I'll manage," Lucian replied.
The woman made a face. "I'm sure you will." She paused. "But you're bleeding on my floor."
Her eyes narrowed at the tile, now painted with droplets of scarlet. Without asking permission, she walked out from behind the counter and knelt in front of him. She grabbed a clean rag and snagged a bottle of liquor from the back shelf. She drenched the cloth in the spirits, the thick scent of alcohol making Lucian's nose crinkle.
"You're not afraid," Lucian observed.
The woman smiled. "Of blood? No. Of men who don't notice they're hurt? A little."
Once she finished cleaning the wound, she headed back behind the bar and grabbed a bottle of whiskey. She poured the amber liquid into a glass and slid it across the wood to him. "This should help ease the pain."
Lucian thanked her and pressed the glass to his lips. She wasn't wrong. Before he could say another word, she got right back to work, acting as if they'd never met. When she neared him again, he caught her eye.
"How much do I owe you?" he asked, reaching for his wallet.
"Just your name," she replied sharply.
The directness caught him off guard. "Lucian," he said, extending his hand. "Lucian Corvus. And you?"
The woman shook his hand. "Clara Meadows."
"It's nice to meet you, Clara."
"Likewise."
For the next few days, Lucian felt a new motivation. Something about Clara made him feel safe, as if he were exactly where he was supposed to be. When the sun set, he knew exactly where he would end up; it was the same place he'd gone every other night for the past month.
He stepped in front of his cracked mirror, pulling his black suit jacket over his button-down and dark vest. He straightened his tie and headed out the door with a cigarette in hand. The air was cold, and snow fell on the gravel streets, painting the world a soft white. The silence made him feel like the only person in town.
When he reached the tavern, he saw Clara through the window serving drinks. The patrons seemed fond of her—as if they'd known her forever. Lucian wondered if she had that effect on everyone. When he pushed open the door, a gust of cold air followed him in, catching Clara's attention. She wore a pink silk dress and black stockings, her hair pinned back into a ponytail. Lucian took his usual seat at the bar.
"Unfortunately, you've arrived at the end of my shift. I'm about to go home," Clara said, wiping the counter.
Lucian paused, then asked impulsively, "Well, may I walk you home, then?"
Clara stopped mid-motion while putting on her coat. "Sure," she smiled.
He waited for her to finish closing up, and they headed out into the night. Walking side-by-side, Clara noticed that Lucian was more of an observer than a talker.
"You don't talk much," she said bluntly.
"I talk when it's necessary," he replied coldly.
She paused, considering her next words. "Then this must be peaceful for you," she said softly.
That landed harder than a question. "It is," he admitted.
Clara stopped to look at him. "Good." She smiled with her green, doe-like eyes. "People forget peace is something you can choose."
When they reached her apartment, Clara unlocked the door. Lucian remained on the sidewalk, careful not to cross a boundary or make her uncomfortable. Clara noticed his hesitation.
"You can stay. If you want," she said sweetly.
"You don't know anything about me," Lucian replied quietly.
Clara smiled warmly, framed by the doorway. "I know you don't sleep much. I know you flinch when voices get loud. And I know you leave before dawn even when you don't have to." She looked at him gently, her voice steady. "That's enough."
Lucian realized she wasn't trying to save him or "know" him in the way others did. That was why he stayed.