A letter sealed with black wax

The letter comes, and it is sealed with black wax. This immediately strikes Jonathan as something vulgar, something too pretentious even for the leader of the Ascalon Club, and yet oddly fitting. He puts the letter in the little tray for correspondence, promises himself to take a look, and then forgets about it completely. He has a good reason to. In fact, he has several reasons ranging from the ones connected with the Hippocratic Oath he took to the group of Guards of Priwen that are unnecessarily violent with him. This all could end ugly, and doctor Reid takes every precaution against the undesirable outcome. When morning comes, Jonathan succumbs to sleep the way victims of wild skals succumb to their grave wounds. The bed embraces him, and there is no rest — no rest for the wicked, as they say, — but there is a kind of void that eagerly pulls Jonathan down. His limbs get heavy, his heart stops pretending, and the good old doctor isn’t simulating life any more. There is odd comfort in being dead, at least, during the day.

***

Another letter finds him three days later. It is also sealed with black wax, and Jonathan examines the seal instead of breaking it on spot. Just like the previous one, it has the Ascalon Club coat of arms, the lions that were meant to be regal look ridiculous, as if they’re kittens playing with the ball of yarn. The crown above doesn’t make it any less pretentious. Jonathan Reid has all the respect for the crown a British subject that fought for his country should have but this blatant posing leaves such a bad taste in his mouth that even the rats he ends up tearing with his fangs can’t compete with. He doesn’t open the letter because he obviously has more pressing issues to attend to than any note bearing a seal. For instance, influenza that keeps ripping poor old London off its citizens even more effectively than skals and Guards of Priwen do. Jonathan made the Hippocratic Oath, the oath to make people no harm willingly. He can’t remember making any oath to feed the ego of any egomaniac who has all the time at his disposal to actually find the black wax in the city set ablaze by influenza.

***

It becomes an issue when Edgar, good old Edgar, calls him to his office. “I believe we have found ourselves in a very peculiar spot,” he begins politely and already armed with that charming smile, the one he’s so generous with when doctor Swansea needs something. “Do tell me about that, Edgar,” Jonathan takes his seat in front of the desk and stretches his legs out. Maybe that is not a proper way for a gentleman of his upbringing to carry himself but Jonathan is tired. The dawn is slowly creeping on the sky, and even the smog of London can’t shield doctor Reid from this slow conquering. He feels tired, he feels old, more and more ancient with every passing second. Because the creatures of night are not supposed to suffer through the day. They need their beauty sleep, as McCullum had once growled. “Three more cases in the East End, and one seems to be a lost cause…” “Tragic,” Edgar is so very much not interested that it makes Jonathan raise his left eyebrow. So much for the Hippocratic Oath. “Yet that is not the issue I was referring to… We have another sort of a… complication.” The utterly charming thing is that it is always “we” and “us” when it is about problems, and Jonathan would have smiled if he didn’t know any better. These days his smiles are unnerving. Too many teeth. “The Ascalon Club contacted me today.” “They did not,” Jonathan shifts in his armchair, and this makes Edgar slightly uncomfortable. He doesn’t show it, a gentleman he pretends to be, but Jonathan senses everything he needs to know: prey is unnerved by predator’s movements. Jonathan feels a gush of guilt, Edgar is no prey, but the sky is getting lighter by the second, and doctor Reid finds it more and more difficult to focus. “Not in person, no. But I received a rather… demanding letter. And it seems like they have been trying to contact a certain doctor in Pembrook… to no avail. And they are expressing their hope that our doctors are not overworked too much.” “They.” Jonathan isn’t the man to show his scorn, but he can’t control his upper lip twitching with disdain. “Jonathan, look… I know this might be very unpleasant for you… but I am sure even Lady Ashbury agrees that it is unwise to ignore the Club…” “Last time I checked, I was working for Pembrook Hospital not for the Ascalon Club.” “Don’t you want to see at it, at least?” sighs Edgar when Jonathan rises himself up from the armchair. It feels an almost impossible task to move. “You swore to help people, and…” “And there are no people in the Ascalon Club, Edgar. Only Ekons.” “Still…” Jonathan doesn’t let Edgar finish the sentence. He is quickly fleeing the office, a minute away from being unconscious in Swansea’s armchair. He leaves as a dark mist to make it to his bed. Edgar does not approve.

***

“I would prefer you stop harassing me at my workplace,” Jonathan says as he enters the room. It could have been a civil conversation if he didn’t enter through the window but the whole process of pretending to be human and to knock on the doors of the Ascalon Club seemed too much of a wasted effort. Jonathan wasn’t going to play by the rules or exchange the necessary pleasantries with the man in question. “I would prefer you stop entering through the windows. Alas, we don’t live in the best of the worlds,” Lord Redgrave has the nerve to smile when he puts away the newspaper he was reading. “If we were…” “Do we have to do this?” Jonathan raises his eyebrow. “I can assure you that I have more pressing matters to attend to than to exchange pleasantries and theories.” The older Ekon crosses the room and shuts the window Jonathan entered the room through. He moves just like an ordinary man of an aristocratic upbringing. No rush, no worries, perfect posture and pace. “I sense you are upset.” “You sense it right. There is no need for the Ascalon Club to bother Pembrook with fancy letters. We have an influenza outbreak, for crying out loud!” “I had no other way of contacting you, Jonathan.” The nerve of this man! Jonathan huffs in disbelief. “And I did not want to come there myself… or to send anyone associated with the Club. I believe the Guards of Priwen would not have taken that lightly,” Lord Redgrave comes closer but slowly. His movements are all measured as if he is still a tad unsure if his guest to be trusted or not. “You surely understand that.” “I surely understand an old cunning fox when I see one, Richard.” “Old!” Redgrave exclaims as if it bothers him, but there is a shadow of a smile in the way his lips look now. “That is…” “What?” “Neither here nor there. Age is nothing but a number.” “If you send me a letter sealed with the Ascalon Club seal, then you should expect me to react accordingly.” Jonathan doesn’t move when Lord Redgrave places a hand on his chest. “I despise the Ascalon Club, I told you and your minions that much.” “You did. And sometimes I forget how youth reacts to…” “Isn’t age but a number?” Jonathan interrupts, and that bastard doesn’t even have decency to keep silent. He starts laughing, and this is a rich sound that reminds of alcohol that aged well. “Touche, good doctor. Now, as the night isn’t getting any younger…” “How did I end up like this?” Jonathan thinks when the older man undoes the buttons of his vest and shirt. Yet, it feels like a nice change to be desired, worshipped, and the night does grow old on them. Jonathan prefers to forget that he is not a human anymore as long as it is possible because he doesn’t find anything fascinating about his nature, his raw strength and instincts. Unlike someone. Lord Redgrave forgets that he is a lord and pulls Jonathan to himself, onto himself, he warns. “I am not staying the day in the Club.” “It is perfectly safe… but, if you are so unwilling to…” “I am.” “We can move to my manor after… we are finished here.” “Tell me William Marshall didn’t fuck you in your mannor. Please.” “You are not William Marshall,” Richard lowers himself of the tackiest bearskin in front of the fireplace Jonathan has ever seen, and it’s a miracle that Jonathan notices all that only after he is on top of the man. “And no, he did not. Our relationship was very platonic… unlike you and me.” “Do you ever stop talking?” Jonathan asks exasperated, presses his lips to the other man’s throat and smiles when Richard tenses. They do not trust each other enough to allow gestures like that but, apparently, they do enough to fuck on a bearskin in front of the fire. “Make me, young Ekon.” Lord Redgrave has no friends to call him Richard, safe to say Dick. But he surely is one.