Best Served Cold Pt II

Title: Best Served Cold (pt. II) (formerly 'Blood Feud')
By: Child of Loki
Summary: A twisted tale of revenge in a somewhat steampunk setting. Lady Morgana's thirst for blood threatens to destroy all around her, but drives her ingenuity.
Status: Major WIP...Multiple additions and continuous edits...

Author's Notes/Portions in limbo or edit will appear in violet. Small/minor edits will not be color-coded.

Any and all help would be greatly appreciated!

Newly added sections will appear in blue

I think this "part" no longer has any gaps. (It's only split up because one static item will not hold any more.)  Will probably receive many, many more edits...

"Best Served Cold" 

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Jane had never been in the Lady's laboratory before, not when she was fully awake, anyway. And for once, she was glad that she retained no memory of the place, of what had been done to her there. She cared for Paul no more than the women, but Edward apparently did, and had insisted upon waiting outside the great metal doors in the dark and abysmal cellar hall for any word on the older man's condition.

What once had obviously been a dungeon had been converted to some sort of perverse laboratory, like those of the great universities Jane had only heard of. And she did not doubt for a second that whatever happened in this new version of the dungeon was worse torture than all the centuries of its sordid past.

When the great doors parted, and a brilliant, unnatural light cut a slice through the dank darkness, they were invited in, into the place where her new life had begun, where her humanity had been ripped from her. Her and Edward, she told herself. They were both victims of this malicious place, of these mad people and their demon mistress.

And any lingering sympathy, any hope or belief on Jane's behalf, that within the woman, deep down somewhere, there was still a shred of humanity lingering in that hollow, hollow soul of hers vanished the moment she set foot in that awful place.

The artificial light of Lady Morgana's inventions was bright enough that it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust. And in that time, Jane was struck back by the onslaught of the most repulsive stench imaginable. The stench of iron filled her nose and lungs, and being no stranger to injury, she immediately recognized its source; Blood. But the sheer volume necessary for such a caustic, powerful stench... And it wasn't the worst bit. What turned her stomach was the aroma of cooking flesh, not ashy and charred, but sustained consistent heat applied to living tissue.

She did not have time for her mind to consider what kind of tissue was being roasted before her eyes finally adjusted. Repeatedly she blinked.

Why was the floor still red? Everything else, the cold grey of the stone, the scintillating brass of the numerous devices, Edward's sandy colored hair... It was all normal, right... But the floor!

She took a further step into the great, vaulted expanse of the laboratory, only to discover the floor also did not behave as it should, as stone would feel under one's feet. It sloshed and it squished, and it stuck to her bare feet, and oh, merciful god, it was blood.

The horror of it finally compelled her to truly scrutinize the tableau before her. Stepping out from behind Edward who was making his way slowly to the incapacitated Paul's side, she beheld the dungeon's mistress, kitted out in strange gear, stripping arm length gloves from her olive skin with much difficulty for the coagulated mess of crimson coating them, and her.

But Renette's appearance was far more terrifying. The demure young woman was absolutely drenched in blood, from the neat bun atop her head, to the hem of her skirts. The only visible part of skin was around her eyes, a void left no doubt by her adornment of some sort of glasses or goggles, which had presently been removed. It was as if she had been standing under a great fountain of blood, spraying up high into the air and raining down upon her.

How could a human being bleed so much?

There couldn't be that much blood in the man, no matter that he was above average in height and build.

Jane could not concern herself for long with the impossibility of what lay on a table before her eyes, what was splashed upon, dripping off, and soaking into everything around her before her body physically rejected the reality of it along with what little filled her stomach.

She wasn't sure if she was grateful that supper had been so long ago as she doubled over and began to vomit primarily acid and bile into the massive pool of blood upon the floor.

"The drain is two feet to your right!" Lady Morgana shouted over the sound of Jane's vomiting in an irritated manner.

Jane couldn't help it. She really couldn't. Her fragile psyche had been through enough. Once, she would've been considered among the more hardened specimens of society, but now... Her heaving turned into sobs, and Edward quickly returned to her side, placing hands comfortingly around her, but offering no words.

There were no words.

At least, there were no words for people like them, people who had only recently been separated from their souls.

"Damn!" Lady Morgana's voice cut through the brutal silence. "We don't have time for this. Would you look at this place?! Renette, do something!"

"Mistress, in this state, I believe I would be no comfort to our Jane."

There was a pause.

"Hmm...Well, I suppose you're right, but the sooner they are all out of here and the laboratory cleaned up, the better we shall all feel."

Another pause. Jane could just picture Renette bowing her head submissively. For all that Jane accused Renette of, being an accomplice to her suffering, to unforgivable moral crimes, she knew the woman had a gentle patience to her, that there was only one way of dealing with the moods of the 'mistress.' And such a banal exchange helped alleviate Jane's physical and psychological repulsion a great deal.

"What would you like us to do, mistress?" Jane asked, clearing her throat but still finding her voice hoarse. She knew that in this type of place, with this type of people, if you didn't prove yourself useful, or if you appeared weak, then you were more than expendable, you would be discarded.

"Renette needs help getting Paul back to his room," Morgana instructed. "She can't do it alone with him still unconscious."

"Yes, Lady," Edward replied for the both of them. And Jane was immensely relieved to quit that horrific place, only to discover with much distress that blood had soaked a solid three inches up her fresh shift. So much for changing into something clean...

She threw up no less than twice while scrubbing the offensive, viscous fluid from her clothing. The image of the mangled flesh of the man's arm, of what Lady Morgana had done to 'save' it would fuel her nightmares for many a night...

-------------------

Renette wiped the fevered sweat off the sleeping man's face with a clean, damp rag. He wasn't what you'd call conventionally handsome. His face was easily more scarred than unscarred (and had gained at least one more the other night), and always appeared to be in perpetual need of a shave. His features were primarily average and unnotable. But his jaw line was strong, in the way that Morgana claimed was linked to aggressive males. Given how many fights Paul had been in, Renette was inclined to agree with her on this point. Even if he himself didn't initiate the majority of scrapes of which he was part, he was the target of much aggression.

Perhaps, he appeared intimidating to others.

But she couldn't really understand how he was so readily reasoned to be so hardened... Well there was the big, tall, and wiry appearance... But his eyes. To look in his eyes was to know an entirely different person. Many times, Renette had been pulled down into the depths of those vivid blue eyes. They comforted her like the serenity of looking out over the vast ocean. And they could be stirred to a tempest just as easily, all passion and anger.

So she had to wonder... why did she worry about him? Lady Morgana may have been centuries older, but Renette would swear that Paul had more lives...

But even so, his arm had been torn up to the point of looking like something the butcher discarded, mangled and barely attached to his body. And he hadn't regained consciousness in the day and a half since they captured two of the creatures, and killed the rest. Since then, the mistress had worked tirelessly to save Paul and his damaged limb.

And she had. Renette did not doubt her mistress' abilities. When Paul awoke, he would still have use of his arm. But it wouldn't be the same, it wasn't the same. And she was worried about how he'd react, afraid of what he might do, despite the knowledge flowing through her veins that he could never harm Lady Morgana, and by extension, Renette herself.

His fitful slumber had turned peaceful hours ago, and his breathing seemed steadier. The dreams, or more likely nightmares, also appeared to have left him. And Renette could almost allow herself to believe that it was just like one of the many mornings after a night he had sought her bed. Except, this time she had reason to watch over him and wouldn't be embarrassed if he woke and caught her studying him in his sleep.

The sedate form lying amidst tangled and slightly bloodied sheets stirred, raising Renette's heartbeat with hopeful anticipation. The thought of losing him was almost as terrible to her as that of losing her mistress, an unfathomable agony for the girl who had been lost with no purpose before being taken into the Lady's confidence.

"Paul?" she gently probed, stroking his cheek with the back of her hand. Stirring once more, he moaned lightly. His pain must still have been great. Renette had never seen anyone suffer so much trauma without eventually dying.

"Mmm...Renette?" He groaned, opening his eyes and blinking in the soft afternoon light.

She could only smile at the man, an immense feeling of relief filling her.

"Wh-what happened?" he asked, his voice hoarse. Offering him some water to assuage his dry throat, she helped him to sit up. When she was certain he had drunk his fill, Renette took a deep breath to steady herself. There was no telling how the man would react. In many ways he was as solid as they came, steadfast to the end. But when it came to the Lady and her experiments...

"There were more creatures than we had anticipated. We managed to trap two of them. However, you and Edward were attacked," She tried to ease him into reality, and any possible memories he still retained. His face sobered at the news, and that one line she always identified with his worry made its appearance upon his forehead.

"Edward is fine," she obviated the need for his impending interruption. "A few cuts and bruises, but nothing that will even leave a scar. You taught him well, Paul. He took on one of the Creatures-'Werewolves', the Lady is calling them-all on his own. We got the rest."

She paused, involuntarily swallowing, as she waited for all she had said to sink in.

"What about Jane?" was Paul's next inquiry. And Renette couldn't help but smile at his compassion. Here he had been mauled by a... werewolf and his first concern was for the hybrids. "Did you ever find her?"

"We were cornered by some of the creatures in the wood. Jane saved us," Renette explained. "You should've seen her... Truly one of the mistress' greatest triumphs."

That uneasy look of his passed over his face, a flash of the moral disgust he often felt for their experiments, as well as Renette's faithful and what he had called "blind" acceptance of them.

"I'm sure your training had a great deal to do with it, as well," Renette offered as amends. No use in making him angry with her before she revealed the most traumatic bit of news.

"I'm glad you're all okay, Renette," he said, staring into her eyes. She had to look away. He had retained a passion and sympathy she had lost long ago, if she ever did have. Sometimes, she felt quite hollow inside. So devoid of genuine compassion, she filled the empty spaces with unadulterated loyalty to her friends.

"The mistress is fine, too," she subtly drew attention to his lack of concern for their benefactor. "In fact, she worked through the night, until the following dawn to save you..."

"To save your arm," Renette added quietly. Paul finally looked to his right arm, where it rested somewhat slack in his lap. The dressings remained; white strips of muslin wrapped tightly around the appendage, from the wrist all the way to the shoulder. Only, they weren't so white anymore, large rusty-brown spots marred the pristine fabric in places where he had continued to bleed through. Most of the rest of the dressing was stained off-color from lymph and the fevered sweat which held him in its grips over the past day.

Renette subconsciously kneaded her skirts as Paul studied his bandaged arm. And then he turned his hand about and tried his fingers. Everything seemed normal. And everything would, that was part of the purpose of the bandages, to prevent him from seeing the full extent of Lady Morgana's work. Who could say what he'd do. And it was still in an extremely vulnerable state.

There was a flash of light, the sun reflecting off part of his exposed hand. Renette could see the golden reflection playing over his face as he turned his hand this way and that, searching for its source. She wrung her hands and wiped her sweaty palms on her skirts.

"What is this?" Paul asked, slowly looking up to give her a disturbed glare.

-----------------------

There was a knot growing in his stomach as he twisted his right hand about with his left, catching the dying light of the sun in different directions. It wasn't in his head. It was unmistakably something golden, something shiny...and not on his fourth knuckle, but in it!

"Tell me what she's done!" he barked at the frozen Renette where she sat at his beside. She flinched as he hollered and he felt brief remorse for the outburst. But knowing the woman as he knew her, she no doubt was actively involved in whatever the crazy wench Morgana had done to him.

"Your arm was torn up very badly," Renette explained quietly. That was her way, and it could be frustrating. The more unreasonable you got, the calmer and more patient she became. But her eyes were still wide with fear. She was afraid of him, and that hurt. But he was angry with her. He had to remember that he was angry!

"The creatu-the werewolf ripped most of the flesh right off the bone," She continued. "It was barely salvageable. You were losing so much blood... you were barely salvageable."

"Salvageable?!" He threw the insulting word back at her, frustrated and bemused at the coldness in her who he had found so warm on several occasions. "You make it sound as if I were just a part in one of your blasted machines, Renette!"

"We are just parts in her plan," Renette replied before all emotion drained from her face and she resembled a cog in a wheel more than a person.

"Fine then," Paul snapped back. Sometimes he felt so alone in the large, cold, unfeeling castle. "Since you won't tell me what she's done, I'll just have to see for myself, won't I?"

He began struggling with the tied ends of the dressing located at his wrist. Unfortunately, he was right handed... Then again it gave Renette time to recant her decision to play stoic.

"No! Stop!" she shouted, snapping out of her mindless automaton state, and grabbing his left hand with both of hers, pulling it away. Paul took advantage of the contact, and pulled her close to him, so that her face was within inches of his. The only other times she had been so close, their emotions had been quite the opposite in nature. Briefly, he longed for that warm, passionate Renette. But even the inflamed, fiery one was better than that blank slate she oft became, especially as of late.

"Why?" he growled at her, his voice gruff with restrained fury. "What is it you don't want me to see?"

"It's not that!" she protested. Damn, she was good. He just couldn't tell if she was lying. He could never tell. He knew her so long, so well, and yet, she switched emotions on and off not unlike so many of those insane devices she helped design, there was just no way to read her innermost thoughts.

Her refusal to be straight with him was the final straw. He just couldn't stand this round-a-bout way of doing things. It was Morgana's deceitful way, and now it had contaminated the once innocent Renette as well. Releasing her wrist, he grabbed her by the throat instead. And he may not have been left-handed, but it was still powerful.

Paul never wanted to hurt her, but she had hurt him, and was refusing to tell him the specifics of it. And yet, still he barely held her, applying just enough force to keep her close to him and slightly uncomfortable, incentive to answer him truthfully.

He soon realized that this, too, was an error in judgment. Just as she responded to unreasonable tempers and verbal assaults by shutting down, she became passive in this situation as, well. Instead of straining against his hold, she went limp in his grasp. And instead of fear, there was solid resolve in her eyes when she looked at him again. And just a bit of sadness.

"I'm just concerned, Paul," she said calmly. "The wound is still fresh. If you remove those dressings, you could get an infection. The flesh will rot and you will lose the arm, if not more... And as for the metal rod, some of the bones were nothing but splinters. She had to replace them."

Paul shook his head and ground his teeth in disbelief. He knew there was more, but could not reference any specific reason, any detail that evidenced she was lying to him.

"Paul, please..." Oh, she was good. Now she was playing on his compassion. He could tell she wasn't afraid that he'd actually hurt her. She had been afraid. He had seen it. But he had mistaken that fear. It hadn't been a fear of him; it had been fear for him, for his discomfort, that he would become agitated. And since he was already quite agitated, her concern for him had fled from her eyes. They were blank as she pleaded with him in the fake, helpless way.

But still...

He released her throat, moving his hand softly around to the back of her neck, and resting his forehead against hers, closing his eyes. She frustrated him so...

"You're such a frigid liar, Renette," he whispered to her. "Where did your heart go?"

"You almost bled to death," she whispered back. "Can't you feel my blood running through your veins? In your heart? And her blood, too."

She pulled away from him and got up from the edge of his bed. Without a word, she left him alone in his silent room.

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How could he say those things?!

Renette wiped the tears from her cheeks and wound her way through the dusty, dark halls, her footsteps echoing throughout the largely uninhabited castle until she found her mistress staring oddly into a mirror in the great hall. What did she see in her reflection? Or rather, what was missing?

"What is it, Renette?" the mistress asked distractedly, still intently studying the image in the looking glass.

"Paul is awake," she reported.

"And..."

"He doesn't know yet, mistress," she revealed her betrayal of one friend, her loyal obedience to another. "I saw to it."

"Good," Lady Morgana asserted, still mesmerized by the reflection in the glass. "I know you feel bad about deceiving him, Renette, you are that good. But you know what he might do, the disdain he has for our inventions. It's better this way."

"He'll find out eventually, mistress," Renette pointed out, desperately trying to squelch the sickness she felt in the pit of her stomach, in betraying not only a friend, but someone she was bonded to through exchanged blood...and other intimacies.

"Paul is very adaptable," the Lady replied. "And has a great sense of self preservation. By the time he figures out what we had to do to save him, it will be too late for him to undo without destroying himself."

Renette considered asking the mistress if she thought it had been the right thing to do. But she knew better than that. Lady Morgana did not think in commonly held moral terms of "right" and "wrong." "Right" to Morgana represented something, anything that would help complete her mission. And an incapacitated or disabled Paul would certainly be "wrong" in those terms.

"He may even realize that he is better off now," Morgana commended her work aloud. "With the improvements I made to his decimated arm."

Once in a while, Renette saw clearly what bothered Paul about the mistress. But that didn't mean she could abandon her decision to remain loyal. Loyalty was all she had inside. Without it, she would be empty once more. Briefly, Renette wondered what she would find in the mirror, or any reflection, had she ever bothered to look.

The Lady finally turned to faced her, abandoning the search in the grandiose looking glass for some feature Renette could not fathom. In her eyes, Morgana lacked for nothing. Perhaps a bit more compassion, but she could not lay blame on the Lady when she herself held a great deficit in the same aspect of the human soul.

"Shall we see to our new specimens, Renette?"

"Yes, mistress," Renette replied, following the petite, dark haired woman out of the main hall towards the dungeon laboratory.

Sometimes, Renette was glad of the emptiness. It made the things she did much easier. People like Paul, Edward, or Jane...people with a conscience, they wouldn't be able to follow the mistress with undying loyalty, not like Renette. The mistress did not realize this. But it was not Renette's place to point this out to her. For that was not the action of the type of assistant she needed.

She needed someone who would let her be, protect her from distractions. Even if those distractions were sentient beings, were people who identified themselves as Morgana's companions, if not friends.

----------------

"Let's start by autopsying the big one, shall we?" Morgana informed Renette of her intentions. Humming an old tune from her childhood, she looked over the precisely laid out tools. It had been worth all those hours collecting pints of her own blood, just to have such a servant at her side for so many decades.

Renette was already manning the controls to the Claw, a device Morgana had designed to move larger specimens around her lab. Sure, she had Paul, but he had made it clear that he did not approve of her experiments, and avoided or outright refused to enter her "den of death" on several occasions. Besides, even with his help, some specimens she collected were still too large for them to manipulate the way she desired.

And thus, the Claw was conceived, and straightforwardly named. Renette and Paul had seemed especially impressed with its invention, but it was not among Morgana's favourites. It was a tool, plan and simple, a useful one, yes, but no more so than her scalpels and self-rotating saws. Well, with its intricate systems of pulleys and hydraulics, it was a little more complex than a scalpel, but no dearer to her heart.

The experiments closest to her heart, in the terms of pure scientific fascination, were the organic ones; Paul and Renette's extended lives, the Hybrid Project. Those were challenges. Amalgamating some metal parts into a useful machine was child's play. If it wasn't right the first time, if it failed to run smoothly, all that was needed was (almost a hundred percent of the time) just the tightening of a bolt.

But blood transfusions... how many failures had there been? How much more would the others hate her if they only knew...

Well, Renette already knew. But Morgana never considered her an "other." She was more like an extension of her very soul. Sure, it was a cold, empty soul, and perhaps one she kept naive if only to feel better about herself. But there was that one little iota of conscience clinging to life, barely audible over the roar of her fury. Perhaps, that conscience was only able to carry on because Morgana had somehow incorporated Renette into her being. Perhaps, Renette was that conscience, even though a critical word never passed the woman's lips. Just a look or a thought of her faithful friend was enough to give voice to that frayed moral fiber.

Morgana was startled from disturbingly spiritual thoughts as the body of one of the larger werewolves was released from the Claw with a loud, deadening thump onto her specimen table. She found herself thankful that Renette had talked her into reinforcing the table's supports, as the springs absorbed the shock and adjusted under the weight of the massive Creature.

It was the one that had mauled Paul...

Morgana wasn't sure how she felt about it. Would she take further pleasure in cutting it open, because it had caused physical harm to someone with whom she was acquainted?

True, he openly disapproved of her, of her work. And they were often at odds. But still, Morgana held a rather deep affection for the man, one of her most successful experiments...and one that was becoming more and more useful by the day. And yet, she could not see such an unwarranted instinctual reaction swaying her feelings. She may be driven by revenge, but it was a more civilized institution of righteousness. No one could doubt she had been wronged. But these creatures were just animals following their orders to attack, and it was hard for her to hold malice against them for performing to such spectacular standards.

The pleasure in killing them, in cutting them open was based in the deconstruction of her rival's work, rather than reparations for injury to her companion. And she felt at least not completely detached and lost in the world that she could see herself for the selfish, single-minded monster she had become.

There was no redemption for the likes of her. This was a fact she long ago accepted. All she could do was push forward through the dark, twisted night, leaving havoc and death in her wake, until she reached her goal and welcomed the dawn. The light would probably blind her, burn her skin, but it wasn't a deterrent. It was the goal she sought.

"Initiate the vocal record," she ordered Renette, who placed a fresh cylinder onto and started the phonograph that was set up off to the side of the laboratory. She flipped several other switches on the wall, which filled the workspace with the brilliance of Morgana's oil-less, gas-less lights.

"Specimen is male, about 250 pounds, and 8 feet in height," Morgana announced more loudly and clearly than her normal, rapid speech. "Because it demonstrates characteristics both humanoid and congruous with canis lupus, the term 'werewolf' would not be out of context.

"Cause of death appears to be one silver projectile embedded in close proximity to the lumbar vertebrae."

Morgana held her hand blindly out as she examined the arrow buried into the flesh near the creature's spine. A weight her hand was intimately familiar with notified her that Renette continued to anticipate her needs. Plyers. Perfect for removing arrows from the backs of dead werewolves.

With some twisting, and a primarily squishing sound (although the grinding of bone also could be heard), she managed to work it out of the rigored flesh. She set in a tray proffered by Renette, before she began to examine the small, deep hole left behind.

It was difficult to see the entry wound through all the matted grey fur, but...

"Renette, what do you make of this?" Morgana asked, surprised by what her eyes were showing her.

"Looks like...tendrils...under the skin," Renette said, confusion quieting her voice as she leaned over the same area of the great, stinking mass of dead flesh and fur. "It's hard to tell for all the fur."

She looked up at Morgana whom had found that her thoughts had begun to dance wildly about her mind.

"Shall I shave the area for a more accurate examination?"

Morgana nodded her head, silently issuing the order the subservient woman had suggested. As Renette went about preparing a straight razor, Morgana grabbed a packet off the edge of long workbench and made her way out the back entrance of the laboratory, and outside the castle wall.

She stood with her back to the decaying stone, as a cold wind whipped through her light, indoor clothing, and took in the valley from where the castle stood on its own little knoll. The grass was wet, even though it was midday, and the sky was the drab, mediocre sort of grey she both enjoyed and despised. It was neither cheerful as a blue expanse could be, nor was it foreboding and passionate like an inclement sky. It could be peaceful at times, but primarily it was just dreary. Dreary like her unending life.

Well, that wasn't true. Obviously, enough excitement had happened in her centuries that she found herself on a blood vendetta against a man she could have loved. And more than that, her plans were finally achieving their goals.

She rolled herself a cigarrette from the supplies in the packet she had grabbed before leaving the laboratory. It took a little longer than it normally did for her skilled fingers. Talent wasn't something she would've ever claimed to possess. One just couldn't help but improve their abilities at certain tasks given the chance to repeat them many more times than most. But even the experienced hand shook when the mind was rife with excitement.

Thoughts burst into existence, were analyzed, shoved aside, destroyed, combined with others, all at mind-achingly expeditious pace as Morgana considered what she had already learned from the successful capture of her rival's creations.

After lighting it with a handy little device she had created from a brass tube, flint, and some oil, Morgana took a long drag off the cigarette. The smoke filled her lungs,  and she feltthe chemicals fulfill their purpose, easing the buzz of her nerves to a lower frequency. As she exhaled, she tried to slow her thoughts, clear her head entirely.

Slowly, it began to work, and Morgana took a few minutes just to be. It wasn't something she did very often, and she often wondered if everyone else, people with normal, short lives, bothered to do such an important thing, to just be in the world with which they possessed such brief intimacy.

Many a poor folk would call it a lavish indulgence, but Morgana reveled in grinding the remaining butt of her cigarette into the ground with the toe of her boot, rather than carefully snuffing it out with her fingers and stashing it away for later. Instead, she thought of crushing the dreams of her enemy.

The Fool! He manufactured creatures of legend, right down to their falacies...

--------------------

The castle walls were solid rock, the tapestries were thickly woven, and rendered even bulkier by decades of dust. The halls were seemingly without end and there were numerous rooms abandoned by the negligence of time.

In short, it was the perfect place for a game of Hide and Seek.

Jane had never indulged in such childhood trivialities when she was young. It was not a frivolity she could afford to indulge at the time. But there was something about Edward's ingenuousness that set her neglected inner innocent free.

Bouncing from foot to foot, she could barely contain her glee as she hid behind a large, what was probably once deep scarlet tapestry. Now, with the patina of time and grime, it recalled images of dry, rusty blood more than the rich reds of wealth. It wasn't a pleasant association, given all she had witnessed and experienced over the past few days, but Jane found herself unwilling to let it spoil her fun. For joy was a rare treasure to be found in the twenty-odd years of her life.

Stifling the urge to fidget, she explored her raw nerves, imploring them to calm enough to sense whether Edward was nearby. Shaking with excitement, she took in a slow, unsteady breath, filling her nose, lungs, and throat with the stale air of the abandoned wing of the castle. Dust tickled, threatening a sneeze that would alert her stalker-prey. With much struggle, she stifled the expulsion before it could explode from within her to announce her presence.

And there it was, on the air... Edward. Delicious, delicious Edward

How could she describe his scent? There were no words. It was just Edward. And it brought forth all the memories an emotions associated with him. Always. It was as if he had been mapped onto her brain, into her bones. She was his. And he was hers. And...

"I know your here," his playful voice announced, echoing down the silent hallway.

Despite the fact that she was well aware of his presence, Jane jumped at the teasing challenge. Her heart quickened its pace tenfold and she sprung out from behind the tapestry and sprinted down the hall to the nearest door, and dashed inside. It probably wasn't the best spot, but if he was as crazed as she was, then he might not think of it. Besides he was right on her heels. So she threw herself against the wall beside the door.

He dashed into the room a matter of seconds after her and skidded to a halt in the middle of the room. Quickly turning he saw her, and their eyes met. Both filled with pleasure and a strange sort of anxious fear. It was a game, but at the same time, their instincts behaved as if it were a real chase.

Jane ran for it, and made it several yards down the hall, before he tackled her to the worn rug covering the middle of the stone floor. The landing was eased by the unnatural talents she had gained, but still Jane knew she would have several new bruises.

But it was worth it to hear Edward's merry laugh, to have her own underused one join his. In the past, she had always used the excuse that she did not like the husky sound of her laugh, which was rather unfeminine, for the reason that she did not engage in much merriment. The truth was she never had much reason to be merry.

Edward tickled her until she could scarce breathe, and then he began to kiss her, making her heart beat wildly for a different cause. And she felt the desire grow in her, as it had before, not as urgent as before, but no less profound.

Oh, how he could make her forget all her troubles, worries!

And she had forgotten, it was easy to forget what they had done. But in a few months, there would be no ignoring it, denying what had come of their behavior, behavior like this.

She pushed him off from her, bewildering her lover as she rose to her feet.

"What is it, Jane?"

"Nothing," she sighed, her back to Edward, her hand resting upon her stomach. There was no sign of the creature growing inside of her, not yet. Closing her eyes she tried to sense its presence, but could only hear the own labored beating of her heart, returning to a slower pace.

A hand snaked around her waist, a sharp chin settled on her shoulder.

"What is it that makes you so reluctant?" Edward probed quietly, another hand wrapping about her middle, pulling her into a surprisingly engulfing embrace for the smallish man, who was still practically a boy in so many ways.

"Reluctant?" she feigned incomprehension. Perhaps, she had used the deflection one too many times, for Edward sighed pointedly. But he continued to hug her close.

"Reluctant to be happy, to live..." There was a sadness in his voice that drew out her own deeply buried sources of sorrow. She felt a lump form in her throat over the thought that she had spread her despair to the only person who had really cared about her. She couldn't fathom the reason, but he did. And then he whispered words that tore at her soul.

"Why won't you allow me to love you? What would be so horrible about it?"

She tried to pull away from him. This wasn't a conversation she was ready to have. It wasn't a conversation she would ever have...with anyone...not even him. He caught her by the arm, turned her to stare deeply into her face as tears began to well in her eyes. She avoided the scrutiny of his gaze, looking past him, to the ancient relics filling the decrepit castle.

And then they both froze, their altered senses alerting them to the presence of even the demure, light-footed Lady's servant. Jane was certain that had she still been a normal person, the woman would've been the death of her for her surreptitious manner of approach.

"The lady wishes the pair of you to perform a task for her," Renette's quiet voice pierced the air that once again had settled to stagnation.

There was no emotion apparent on the stoic woman's face, no opinion to glean, and yet Jane instantly felt her stomach tighten, her nerves set on edge. Whatever task her malignant mistress could've sent her to recruit their services, it would not be benign, and most assuredly would be unpleasant.

Jane gave Edward an uneasy look, but he shrugged it off, instead replying to the messenger that they'd happily follow her into the pits of hell to do Satan's bidding, optimistic but disingenuous smile on his face.

----------------

The threat of disturbing thoughts surfaced, and Edward squashed them down. He wasn't intelligent like the mistress of this place, or clever like her assistant. He wasn't honorable like Paul, or moral like Jane. Perhaps, he was just a simple creature. And that suited him fine. He liked those who were kind to him. He loved the girl who placed her trust in him, if not her love.

And so when those who had taken care of him from his first memory, who had clothed, fed, and appeared to care about him, asked him to do something, he obeyed. Even when his first reflex was to gag, bile biting at the back of his throat, he pushed past it. He would do for them who did for him, if only because there was nothing else for it.

He had neither the memory, imagination, or inclination to seek a different life. And no matter the arguments put forth by his beloved Jane, he could not fathom her desperate need to 'escape' their current life. Of course, his failure to make her needs and desires his own pained him. However, it was an aspiration simply beyond his capacity.

Jane's complexion had turned an unsettling shade of green once again, but presently he could not come to her aide as she bounded a few feet away from their work to vomit in a corner. A sympathetic wince contorted his face, but he remained steadfast to the task at hand.

The knives were exquisitely sharp, and they glided along the bone, slicing through muscle and connective tissue with like facility. Edward attempted to focus his mind on the most important directive of their instructions; avoid damaging the bones. The nicks of blades were undesirable, but breaks or loss of any specimens or fragments was entirely unacceptable.

The dungeon-cellar of the castle was generally frigid, especially outside of the laboratory, such as in the dark abandoned section in which Jane and he were currently charged with the task of stripping the flesh from one of the large, deceased wolf-like creatures. However, the discarded bits of flesh, fur and fat, as well as the remaining bulk of the creature (which nearly filled the small cell) served as grotesque sort of insulation.

Besides that, there was the persistent, high-pitched hum of one of the Lady's generator's powering up, no doubt sending out waves of heat in great swirling puffs of mist into the cold air.

Edward had most definitely worked up a good sweat, tugging and pulling at limbs and tendons in a seemingly futile attempt to manipulate the great, rigid (and stinking!) carcass. Perspiration streamed down his forehead, and pooled on his brow, threatening to spill over and sting his eyes. He wiped it away with the upper portion of his sleeve, trying to avoid the viscous blood that had formed a coagulated coating over the heavy leather gloves protecting his hands and forearms.

"You all right, Jane?" he asked, taking a break to watch his lovely counterpart, to make sure the fit of illness was temporary. He wasn't sure if the cause was the child she had told him about, the one growing inside of her, the one they had made together, or if it was the putrid smell and repulsive nature of their assignment that made her stomach disagreeable.

"Do you hear that?" she said in a quiet voice, a rarity for the passionate girl. Edward could scarce believe it possible, but the color drained from her face even further as her eyes grew large and she stood staring at him, frozen with fear.

Perhaps, he was not good at reading people, for he failed to see what Jane saw in the others, but Edward was certain of the access he gained to Jane's thoughts by purely looking upon her face. And she was afraid. But not the same kind of fear he had seen on that night when they baited the creatures. No, her instincts were not urging her to flee. That much was apparent.

It looked to be associated with the far more poignant and terrifying fear that only the mind seemed capable of generating. Whatever she was hearing, her mind was occupied formulating the worst scenarios conceivable for it.

Edward closed his eyes momentarily, attempting to rouse the part of his brain that had shut down in a defensive maneuver, its only resort to combat the overwhelming stench and stomach-churning sight of the gruesome butchery errand upon which he had been sent.

He listened, blocking out the thumping of his heart, the rapid beat of Jane's, and her anxious breathing. There... a buzz, a different pitch than the generators, but undeniably mechanical in nature. He had heard it before. It was the sound of Lady Morgana's saws...frightening conglomerations of steel and brass that made screeching noises as they tore efficiently through their prey. However disturbing those devices were, the noise they made, it wasn't the most disturbing part of the din emanating from that room.

No, the most disturbing to his sensitive ears was the low, eerie rumble. It twisted and grew as he listened, starting as a murmur and quickly building its way up to a discordant yowl. And its source was not unknown to him. He had clearly heard those creatures' howls of agony before, that night, right before they dropped dead on the cold ground before his eyes.

Edward realized he had been wrong to assume that just because he could not fathom his beloved's dreams, he had no imagination at all. For his brain was instantly inundated with horrifying images, fabricating specters in shockingly gruesome detail from the knowledge it possessed and the terrible sounds he heard.

That's why Jane had frozen, her skin ghastly white, her eyes so large they threatened to pop out of her head... it had only taken him a little longer for his mind to arrive where hers already resided.

What in the hell was that?!

He jumped, his eyes shooting open in time to see Jane start at the same clamor that had pierced his ears and the nightmarish daydream in which he had been mesmerized; the sound of metal breaking and a woman's scream.

And now shouting, more clanging and crashing noises, and the deafening howls of a creature.

Edward looked at Jane.

She looked right back.

It was more reflex than anything else, but he took off running towards the source of the dreadful racket, that of Lady Morgana's laboratory. He didn't know whether he could be of any assistance or even if they required it, but he felt compelled to discover if either were the case.

Continued in "Best Served Cold Pt III"