Disclaimer: I don't own 39 clues!

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Morbid Curiosity

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"It's about damn time you showed up!"

"Great to see you too, old Mum," he says, flashing that sly smirk of his. He knows perfectly well that the pet name irritates me, "You've been keeping well, I see."

I snort dryly, lifting up an arm to show the tubes and wires dangling off my skin. Keeping well, is that what this is? Confined to a hospital bed, unable to stand or move enough to feed myself or go to the bathroom. It isn't the way I would have chosen to go out of this world, but here it is.

"I'm dying, you disgraceful excuse for a Lucian!"

"Shame that."

"—And I sent for you four days ago! Where have you been?!"

He shrugs indifferently, setting himself down at the foot of my hospital bed, "I've been busy. Business affairs and all that. Don't tell me I've kept you waiting…"

I scowl at him, not needing the machine next to me to tell me that my blood pressure just spiked. He's known I was terminal for a month now. And yet this brat refuses to show even a modicum of respect for me—after all these years! After everything the three of us – him, Amy and I—have all been through.

"As a matter of fact, you have," I tell him through gritted teeth.

Ian quirks an eyebrow, "Really? Well, I'd have been here much sooner if I'd known you'd hurry up the dying process a little."

"You're a rotten child!" I screech, unable to maintain my calm, "I'll be gone by tomorrow and this is how you speak to me? This is how you speak to your mother—?"

"You're not my mother, Irina," he tells me with a steel-edged tone. His dark eyes have narrowed and I can tell I've struck a sore spot. Good.

"You owe me the same respect," I scold him, watching as an indignant look appears on his face. He's twenty-three now, but I swear that I saw the same look in his eye at fifteen, "I've made you what you are."

"Tell yourself that," he says and stands abruptly, looking as though he has the intention of storming off before I've even had a chance to speak my peace.

"You're not going anywhere," I tell him commandingly, my voice rasping as I speak the words. He pauses and eyes me distrustfully, "Not until we've discussed a few things first."

"Sorry, I'm not one for teary good-byes," Ian says coldly, his hand on the doorknob, ready to leave.

"One being my will…"

That stops him. I smile to myself; Lucians are all too easy to manipulate. One whiff of money and they yap at your heels like an obedient dog. Ian may be a special breed, but they're all canine at the heart of it. He turns slowly, his expression is more than a little perplexed, but it is still as though he's evaluating me.

"Don't tell me you're leaving me a little cash?" he says with suspended interest.

I nod, "Wouldn't seem fitting if I left you nothing."

He sighs to himself, "Why does it sound like there's a catch?"

"A small one," I concede, unable to stop the grin that plays out over my lips. I know I have his full attention and he's not about to walk out the door without hearing me out, "I'm dying, Ian. I'm content with how I lived my life, but there are a few mysteries that have always plagued me. Things I never hoped to know before—"

"--Do get to the point."

"I want you to tell me how you managed to convince Amy that a slimy, arrogant punk like you was anywhere near worthy of her."

The boy looks stunned, "You want to know how we got together?"

"Precisely."

"Why?" he asks me.

"Call it… morbid curiosity," I say with a shrug, "A union so against nature as yours is fascinating."

He's glaring at me as though he suspects there's more to it than that. His suspicions are wrong, but that doesn't mean he isn't entitled to a healthy dose of fear. I've jerked him around plenty in the past—nearly as much as he's done to me. I settle back against my pillows and watch as he begins to draw his own conclusions. In another life, I might have delighted in goading the poor boy with this mental anguish knowing that he fully deserved it. But whether I've found some sage, benevolent wisdom in my final years or his close relationship with that clever girl has endeared him to me, I don't revel in this nearly as well as I once did.

"You called me all the way up from London to tell you that?" he sounds a little put off by the inconvenience, "Ever heard of a phone?"

"I'm dying; you don't get to question my judgment."

He seems to make peace with that, as illogical and unreasonable as it is. It makes me wonder if he really is as reluctant to come see me as he seems. Perhaps the boy has more of a heart than he lets on. Sinking back down on the bed, he shrugs his shoulders at me in a hapless gesture.

"You know all about Korea, right?"

"Yes," I answer, "Amy told me your history before we even contacted you about striking the deal. Such a wise young girl—you on the other hand… "

"A disgraceful excuse for a Lucian," he mocks me in his usual impudent way, "Yes, I know. Do you want to hear the story, or do you want to insult me?"

I harrumph at him, but keep quiet as he begins his sordid tale. It's a story I've always had a strange interest in, since the day he came to me with a handful of revisions to our agreement; all aimed at safeguarding the one person in this world I thought he hated most.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. And this is his story, not mine; best to let the boy tell it in his own words…

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A/N: I apologize if this is a little confusing. The woman in the hospital bed is Irina Spasky, NOT Ian Kabra's mother. The references to that will become a little clearer with the next chapter, if there's enough interest for me to post it.