The Lucas Letters: an introduction

This is my way of giving you, lovely readers and newsletter subscribers, something extra—a little more of the Folkloric series once a month. The Lucas Letters are a sequence of communications between Lucas and various other people, written as he prepares to make contact with Camille, knowing she will be his partner as Keeper of the Bounds between the fae and human realms. They detail his side of things and feature exploits of his own, taking place in the period from before Folkloric Fae, the prequel, to the beginning of Folkloric, book one.

Why letters?

I’m aiming to do something fun and different whilst delving into the murky regions of Lucas’s head. I flirted with the idea of writing Lucas’s point of view out in full, but it didn’t quite fly, possibly because this is Camille’s story, but also because I want to focus on book six, Folkloric Devilry.

The letters can be read at any time

I’m doing my absolute best to avoid spoilers, so other than new material, there’s nothing in these letters that isn’t in the blurbs for book one and the prequel, other than a more detailed look at what’s going on in Lucas’s head at that time, so you should be safe reading at any point. A few characters who feature in later books do appear, but there are no spoilers as to the storylines.

To help the letters’ delivery…

As we don’t all have Slaughter to deliver things, I have to use my mailing list. Let me know you’re enjoying the content by clicking somewhere on the newsletter. This helps as deliverability of this kind of email depends on how many people open and click. So if you click something, anything, even a random link, it helps so much.

Without further ado, the first despatch…

The Lucas Letters: Despatch One

25^th January

My dearest Belomar,

Honeysuckle. That was the scent of her skin. Couteto in the old language.

Wild woodlands. Summer evenings.

I could sense her before I entered the café, and when I did, all I could do was draw her in, my sinews constricting, the monstrous part of me pressing at my fingertips, urging to unfurl, to take hold. Even now, while scribbling this, it is demanding everything I have not to submit to my own dark self, to expand into cord and muscle, to feel the power of what I hide so well rushing through my veins. But I will not allow my drac to form, not now.

Something is wrong. Seriously wrong.

Which is why I’m writing to you, my old friend. Not because I’ll send this. Of course, I won’t. But because something cursed is stirring within, something that has caused me to already snap two quills as I scratch this out, though I barely know why. It is unnatural to me, unexpected, unruly.

The snow flurrying at my apartment window, filling the Avenue de Camoëns and almost obscuring the Tour Eiffel on the other side of the rushing Seine, is usually a comforting sight, but today it is not. Neither is my reflection in the window. Too fierce, too intense, the arrogance others see in me unmistakable. My hair is a mess as usual, along with my stubble, all of it made stark in the glass by the encroaching dusk, a sign I need to grasp this situation firmly, to crush the life from it.

Belomar, all I can do is imagine we’re holed up in a camp deep in Fae, armoured and weaponed to the hilt, awaiting first engagement against some terrible foe. Knowing that we may not see another dawn has a way of loosening tongues and opening hearts. Indeed, I may have to write to you, or pay you a call if matters proceed further, but this is most definitely not that communication.

No, for now, I’m scraping this out as if I can scrape away everything that occurred in Tarascon yesterday because… it is impossible. In no comprehensible way does it make sense. In fact, it’s preposterous.

I returned to the town on the edge of the Pyrenees Mountains for the first time in many years. The towering foothills surrounding the valley were capped in snow that descended to cover the streets and houses, the Tour du Castella wearing a white cap. Tarascon had always been home to me, and the moment I entered the town, the notion rekindled with vigour.

I had no reason to doubt La Vieille. The old lady of the thread who winds the yarn of fate between her fingers is never wrong—she spins the knowledge of all that is upon her wheel. Of course, she had chosen the right Keeper partner for me. Her selections are infallible. The bonds she forges are the strongest.

I’m honoured to be offered the position of Keeper. Me, a drac. Thinking of it, a smile tugs at my lips. All I’ve done in recent years has been worth the effort. The assembly has placed its trust in me, and my posting to Tarascon after the current Keeper’s unfortunate ailment seemed a blessing.

Hence, without a backward glance, I have put everything in motion for my move to Tarascon. Yes, it was a high priority to meet Camille Amiel. I’ve studied her file thoroughly. On paper, she seems reasonably appropriate for the partnership. An amateur yet extremely committed folklorist with a well of knowledge, acceptable handling of a sword, a forthcoming personality.

I’d hoped to observe her before meeting with the town doctor, Hector Fournier, but the traffic from Paris had been hellish and I’d cut it fine. Once Hector and I had thrashed out the details for the sale of his practice upon his retirement, he invited me to Pyrenees Café, a short walk away, to sample the renowned patisserie. And as that is Camille Amiel’s workplace, I accepted without hesitation.

That is where I saw her smelt her first, her scent mingling with cocoa and bread and hazelnuts and coffee.

Unmistakable, sweet, fragrant honeysuckle.

I wore a glamour, so I’d be overlooked by those I didn’t address directly. It meant I could track her unhindered as she wove between the regulars and the parties of skiers heading further into the mountains.

Her face was bronzed a little by the winter sun, her hair tied back in a loose plait, escaped strands surrounding her forehead. And curses, if her figure in jeans and a jumper was all too apparent. Fit, strong, yet with substance. She is no waif.

Her dark eyes darted from cut to cup as she cleared tables, and there was a buoyancy about her, a lightness, a thoughtful attentiveness, her lips pursing as she contemplated thoughts I could almost hear. The softness of her nose belied the forcefulness of her gaze, which made me want to come up against her, to challenge her, to experience her extremes, her anger, her laughter, all that lay within.

As Hector covered some of the finer details of our arrangement, I tracked her as often as I could—as she tidied up, served behind the till, confronted a group of overconfident leches who were hassling her and the staff. She dealt with them by pouring hot coffee into one of their laps.

Even writing it down now, my middle shudders with mirth, hilarity rising from my depths, my fingers shaking around the quill to see their startled expressions.

I can certainly still laugh, for what is life without that?

And yes, it was clear she has gumption, but my trouble was, I couldn’t take my eyes off her, that accursed feeling I couldn’t identify stirring me, disconcerting to my depths.

Belomar, we have fought aside each other many a time. We have faced the worst of enemies, and I have held my ground. What’s more, I have kept my composure in the most dire of political situations. And there I was, in the presence of someone I was destined to partner, with whom I would likely develop a fervent bond of strictly platonic friendship, and I was… unhinged.

As written in the old lore, Keeper partners always constitute a male and a female, a fae and a human. They are specifically chosen because they feel nothing for each other on an intimate level. In fact, it is something La Vieille du Fil and the old lore prohibit. Yet despite all this, I could not drag my gaze from Camille, my body responding to her, my loins stirring.

I have to admit it, my friend, I was… I am physically attracted to the woman.

Damn it, I’ve just broken another quill, then roared at Slaughter who turned up unexpectedly to collect the mail. As always, the foot-high prehistoric Man of Bédeilhac stood his ground, grinning and swinging his axe.

Fuck, I need to relax. Because there has to be a mistake. How could it be anything else? So you can see my predicament, my friend. Camille Amiel cannot be my Keeper partner. I don’t know how it is possible, but La Vieille has made a grievous mistake, and something must be done.

LUCAS ROUSEAU: AMAZON’S RECOMMENDED TITLES FOR YOU

Dracs: A Study (A History of French Fae) by Professor Margo Joly

A fascinating overview of one of the most mysterious of European fae. Dracs are incubi and succubi said to haunt the edge of waterways. A vision of perfection in their human form, this is but a disguise of their hideous true shape. As such, they are said to have two faces, one mischievous and one wicked, the epitome of evil, known for luring people into rivers to their deaths. Renowned folklorist Professor Margo Joly explores the associated folklore of this intriguing fairy race.

The Hut, Charmant

By the hand of Slaughter

La Vieille,

I have had the opportunity to observe Camille Amiel in Tarascon, and I can tell you unequivocally, she cannot be my partner as Keeper of the Bounds. As much as it pains me to admit, I find myself having to quash inexplicable physical feelings for the woman, even on first observation. I understand you strictly prohibit such a thing as these sentiments are impossible in a Keeper relationship. I presume there has been a mistake. Please advise.

Lucas Rouseau

Status: SAVED TO DRAFT

To: FredericNoir@MedecinsSansFrontieres.fr

From: LucasRouseau@MedecinsSansFrontieres.fr

Subject: My resignation

Dearest Frederic,

We have discussed the likelihood of my resignation for some months now. I’m writing to convey that it is time for me to move on to other pastures. Working with Doctors Without Borders has been an honour, not only in Sudan but more recently our work together with refugees in Paris. I will miss the camaraderie greatly, as well as the numerous patients I’ve had the privilege to assist.

I’ve taken a small practice in Tarascon-sur-Ariège in the foothills of the Pyrenees Mountains and will be the sole doctor there. It is certainly a change of pace, but one I welcome. I am due to take my position on May 1st, so I am available to work until shortly before that date.

With much appreciation for all you and the organisation does, and particularly for the Paris team.

Best,

Lucas Rouseau

Thank you for reading! The next instalment will be in a month’s time.

For those of you who haven’t read Folkloric yet, the series can be found here. And the prequel novella eBook Folkloric Fae is available as my gift to you on subscribing to my mailing list.

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