Author’s Note: Take a hike with Mills! Mills is named Nicholas in my canon. As usual, edits by the wonderful @kyloremus!
“You’re taking advantage of my offer to go hiking and camping with you,” you grumbled at the broad back of Nicholas Mills as he walked ahead of you up the winding trail. The sky was crystal blue, the air was crisp, the scenery was breathtaking. And you hated every goddamn step. “’Hiking’ means a pleasant stroll during which I don’t break a sweat. Something that a rational person could call romantic.”
“It’s not that far.” Nick smiled as he stopped and turned back to you. He was barely sweating and his hair still looked great. It made you want to slap the smile right off his smug lips. “We haven’t even been hiking more than twelve miles or so.”
“Gee, that’s hardly more than a vigorous day at the mall,” you said with narrowed eyes. “Do I actually need to explain to you that there is a directly inverse relationship between every step I take and the likelihood of you ever getting to have your way with me again.”
“Just wait until we get there.” He backed up the trail as you closed the distance between you both, keeping several paces ahead. Out of striking distance. “You’ll be awed by beauty and I’ll turn on the charm. You won’t be able to resist.”
“You’re going to carry me back down from this hellscape tomorrow,” you threatened. “I better not hear any whining about your back or knees while you do it, either. One way or another, you’re going to be as sore from this torture tomorrow as I am.”
Nick winked at you like a jackass then turned and continued walking ahead. He walked slow, utterly lackadaisical in fact, to make it easier for you to keep up with his long stride and fit lungs. The ease with which he carried himself made it even more infuriating to follow behind him with your legs cramping, lungs burning, and feet getting rubbed raw by your boots. Despite the altitude high in the mountains, it was hot. Too hot for comfort after one mile, let alone ten, or twelve, or twenty, or however many remained on this death march.
“Do you know how stupid I feel right about now?” you asked sarcastically. “Back when I wondered how a guy like you could be single? Now I realize every other woman you hounded after was a lot smarter than me to escape.” You paused, breathing hard. “When does the fun start, exactly?”
“I’m having a helluva good time myself,” he laughed at your rancor, making it burn hotter.
The narrow trail wound around the grassy side of a snowcapped mountain until it passed between two peaks and then descended down toward a small bowl surrounded by a stand of towering pine trees. Around you the scenery grew progressively more beautiful as you walked deeper into the forested mountains. Not that pretty scenery mitigated the level of misery imposed by hiking. It was truly unfair how effortlessly Nick outpaced you on his long legs, despite being heavily laden with supplies. His pack alone had to weigh over fifty pounds, and he had added a rolled canvas tent on top of it. An occasional glance over his shoulder preceded a stop so he could turn and look around at the views offered by the wilderness around you – while tactically allowing you to catch up with him, and still staying outside of arm’s reach in case you decided to slug him.
“Are you doing alright back there?” Nick asked, smiling at your exertion. “You haven’t threatened my life in a few minutes, I’m getting worried about you.”
“They make animals for this,” you said, glaring at him. “Aptly named beasts of burden. If you want to do things like this, why don’t we have horses? They can do the trudging.”
“Horses are for next time,” Nick teased. “Once you graduate from hiking on your own, you get horses.”
When he finally came to a stop it was in a shaded, grassy bowl, populated with pines. Sunlight streamed down through patches in the canopy of trees above you dappling the emerald grass with spots of peridot. Nick shrugged out of his heavy pack and propped it against the thick trunk of a pine tree. He stretched his back, looking even taller and broader as he did. Only a few yards ahead of you was a tiny lake nestled in the apex of a valley between the two mountains. Its crystal-clear water shimmered with beads of sunlight. The water was so clear that the light and reflection of the nearby trees were the only barrier preventing you from seeing the bottom of its depths. You had seen pictures of mountain lakes before but nothing truly compared to the real thing, you realized as you took in the beauty before you. Even the smell of the air coming off of the water was fresher and crisper.
Naturally, you couldn’t give him the gratification of knowing that you found it beautiful. And it was debatable to say the least whether a pretty pool of water was worth a fifteen or whatever mile hike.
Looking at you instead of the view himself, Nick smiled broadly, knowing you were pleased with the view, even if perhaps not with him.
“I’m glad you like it,” he told you proudly. “It’s the only spot I could think of that’s even half as pretty as you are.”
“There’s liking something, and then there’s liking something enough to spend all day trudging to it,” you said defiantly.
Ignoring your narrowed eyes and crossed arms, Nick grabbed the waistband of your pants and pulled you roughly to him. When you collided with his powerful chest, Nick leaned down to kiss you sweetly, smoothing his free hand down your back. After a few moments, you relented, parting your lips to deepen the kiss. His arm tightened around your waist, pinning you against his hard body. Bending at the knees, he playfully hoisted you up in a bear hug, easily lifting you off the ground as though you were nothing and smiling against your lips. Nick’s kisses were the best you’d ever experienced. He kissed you like you were the most important thing in his world, like kissing you was the last thing he would ever do. It felt like a loss when he finally returned you to the ground.
“Are there animals out here?” you mused as you looked around the forest.
“‘Course there are,” Nick affirmed, shrugging out of his overstuffed backpack.
“Are there bears?” you asked, thinking of the large cooler of food Nick had carried with him.
“Bears?” He huffed a laugh, smiling warmly at you. “Just me, darlin.’”
“What kinds of animals?” you persisted.
“Oh, the usual,” he teased. “Werewolves, Skinwalkers, Bigfoot.”
While you admired the beauty surrounding you, watching the sunlight dance in patches on the pristine water where it peeked between the trees, Nick knelt and began pulling some things from his pack. He unpacked the canvas tent roll and a paid blanket that was rolled into it. He plopped down onto the blanket and patted the spot beside him. You followed his silent command, but only because your legs were tired.
“Is that the only tent we have?” You eyed the tattered canvas skeptically.
“What’s wrong with it?” he asked with a confused frown.
“Not much other than it looks like it will leak, and I’ll be able to smell everything that’s been inflicted upon it over the last decade.” You weren’t joking. “I can’t imagine what all the mystery stains are from. I’m sure each one has its own little lurid story behind it.”
“It doesn’t leak.” He pointedly didn’t address your other concerns. “We can always just sleep out under the stars. Under the stars will be romantic. Tents are for lightweights, anyway.”
Nick fished some packages of food out of his pack that had miraculously remained un-squished. He somehow produced some baggies of fresh fruit and enough small sandwiches to feed at least two Nicks. They looked delicious and even a little artisan, not a redneck bologna and miracle whip special. It was obvious he had taken special care with the meal. You were shocked to find that some sandwiches were actually prosciutto with fig spread and mascarpone, others were bacon with maple spread and brie.
“Honestly, I would have bet against you even knowing what prosciutto is,” you teased.
“I may have googled some fancy fixin’s for today. A sandwich is easy enough to put together no matter what kind of uppity ingredients you use,” he replied with a smirk. His huge chest swelled even larger with pride at having surprised you so pleasantly. “Wait for the final touch.”
He retrieved a large thermos and two red solo cups from inside his pack. Handing you a cup, he poured the contents of the thermos into it, filling your cup with a pleasant Rose.
“You carried a thermos of wine up that horrible mountain?” you asked, laughing.
“You make it sound like my pack was heavy or something.” He winked at you over the rim of his cup as he took a drink.
“It’s not completely terrible,” you told him as you sipped the Rose that was still pleasantly cool and took a bite of one of the exquisite sandwiches. It was the best praise he would get for a while.
Throughout lunch, your eyes kept drifting to the clear, inviting water. Nick was more calculating than he let on. Today had the perfect oppressively hot weather to entice you into ripping all your clothes off and plunging into the cool water. The wine made that idea even more appealing. He was no doubt counting on it. It couldn’t be that easy for him. Thankfully, you had an idea.
“Why don’t you go make a circuit and make sure there are no bigfoot or werewolves in the immediate vicinity?” you challenged around a sip of mimosa.
“Really?” he laughed at you.
“Do you want me relaxed later or wondering what creepy crawlies are watching me?” You raised your eyebrows at him.
Shaking his head, he complied and pushed up to his feet to perform a quick reconnaissance. The trees swallowed him after only a few steps. As soon as he was out of sight, you jumped up and quickly stripped out of your clothes. You bounded naked toward the lake. You gasped when your feet plunged into the cool water, moving rapidly up your body as you waded deeper and deeper into the lake.
By the time Nick returned, you were treading water, only your head and shoulders showing above its surface. He looked around for a moment, confused at your absence. It was your laughter that alerted him to your whereabouts in the lake.
“Getting started without me?” he asked with a lascivious grin.
“Give me a show,” you said as you edged just close enough that your toes touched the sandy bottom.
“I usually only do that for tips.” He smirked.
“No tip after forcing me to toil up a mountain.” You cocked an eyebrow at him. “I’m waiting.”
Shaking his head again, Nick squared his body toward you and puffed his chest. He deliberately unbuttoned his cotton shirt and made a show of peeling it away from his powerful torso. He moved slowly, letting you track every ripple of heavy muscle. His chest glistened with a faint sheen of sweat. He kicked off his boots, hooked a thumb in the waistband of his jeans, and smirked at you.
“If you want to see the rest, you’ll have to come take this off yourself,” he challenged.
“Who do you really think will win this little test of wills?” you mused sultrily, wading closer to Nick. You approached the bank until the water settled around your waist. Fixing your eyes on his, you ran your hands up to your breasts and squeezed them, letting out a whimper as you did. You could see his cock swelling in his jeans from several yards away and you laughed. You trailed your hands slowly down your sides until they disappeared beneath the water. “I suppose I can take care of myself if you don’t want to come join me.”
“You’re the fuckin’ devil,” Nick grumbled. He fixed you with a formidable scowl and charged into the water without bothering to remove his jeans. He dove forward when the water was around his hips and came for you with an aggressive breaststroke.
You laughed and parried backward. When Nick reached you, you used all your weight to shove him deep down under the water and push yourself further away at the same time. Erupting from below the surface, sending water splashing wildly, Nick’s laugh carried across the lake as he wiped the water from his face with his right hand and shook his head back and forth like a shaggy dog, his thick mane of dark hair slinging water in all directions.
Leading with his right arm outstretched in the water, he lunged for you again and caught you. Wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you toward him, he crashed his large nose into your cheek in a sloppy, goofy kiss. “You really make a man work for it.”
“It never occurred to me to do anything else,” you laughed as he nuzzled, tickling you with his goatee, and placing a series of smacking kisses across your skin when you turned your body into his. Looping both arms around his neck, you pressed your naked body against his.
A harsh grunt escaped his lips against your cheek, like you’d just punched him in the gut, and every muscle in his body tensed rigidly at the feeling of your tits pressing against his chest. Even though he was expecting it, it still made him react primally. He hooked an arm behind your back, pulling your body even more flush to his, as he brought his lips to yours.
His kiss was searing now, his whole being ravenous for you. Nick was a man of passion and he lavished you with it intensely, both of you turning in a slow circle in the cool water from his right hand keeping you both afloat.
Beneath the water, you felt his cock swollen inside his jeans, nudging insistently against you. Bringing one of your legs up around his ribs, you rubbed your center against his cock, teasing yourself from the friction his jeans gave you. Nick groaned into your mouth at the feeling of you rubbing him, the feeling of your desire for him, the feeling of his effect on you. He felt feverish with desire thrumming through his body as he kissed you and held you tight, a high that he’d chase forever.
Slowly, Nick swam you both back toward the bank, his lips and tongue continuously building your arousal. His feet hit the ground first, your body still fully suspended in the water. Pulling your legs around him to lock around his waist, Nick wrapped one arm under your ass and locked the other around your wait, pinning you to his chest. He walked you both out of the water like that, carrying you back to the picnic blanket without breaking the kiss like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Without setting you down, he dropped to his knees on the blanket, never breaking contact with your lips. Bracing himself with his right hand, he gently lowered you down onto your back below him. Instead of following you down, he broke your kiss, pulling away to sit back on his heels and admire the beautiful view of you spread out before him. He shoved his wet jeans down his thighs, letting his giant cock bob free. His cock stood thick and long and proud, arching upward in anticipation of finally being hugged tightly by your hot silken embrace.
Sinking to his knees between your open thighs, he lifted your left leg and brought your heel to rest on his shoulder, turning to kiss at your ankle while his right hand rubbed and kneaded its way up your thigh. His goatee tickled your skin as his hot mouth trailed its way down the inside of your calf and knee. Moving to your inner thigh, his kisses turned to licks and bites, growing more heated by every inch he descended as he slowly lowered himself to the ground.
When his lips reached your pussy, he kissed you the same way he kissed your lips while he positioned himself resting on his elbows between your legs. Shucking your right leg over his shoulder, pinning his head between your thighs, he pulled your hips closer to his face, eagerly diving in to run his hot tongue through your flesh. Shuddering at the feeling, your hands flew to fist into his dense hair to pull him impossibly closer.
“You’re sweeter than a peach, darlin,’” he growled low into you, the vibrations of his deep voice shooting through you. “I could eat you for hours.”
When he felt you begin to writhe beneath him from your building pleasure, he circled his tongue around your clit. Moving his hand from your hip, he reached down to plunge two thick fingers into you, giving your pussy something to squeeze as he worked you closer and closer to the edge. The light scratch of his beard against the slick of your pussy sent electric shivers through you with every rub as he sucked at your clit while you moaned and squirmed beneath him. Every sigh and whimper he pulled from you was music to Nick’s ears, and every sharp tug on his hair and buck of your hips against his face was his favorite commendation.
It was the pleasured groan vibrating through your core from Nick’s lips as he sucked at you that pushed you over the edge into a blinding pulsing orgasm. Your pussy seized around his fingers as they curled and stroked inside of you in clenching bursts of pleasure in time with the electric pulses that coursed through you. Nick kissed and licked you until your thighs loosened their vice-grip around his head and rested limply on his shoulders. He flashed you a wet gleaming smile before returning his lips to your skin, kissing his way up your body as he crawled over you. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer against you, as he rested his forearms on either side of your body, caging you beneath him.
The thick velvety head of his cock nudged against your entrance, slipping inside of your wet heat easily when you raised your hips to meet his firm thrust. Despite your dripping arousal, the stretch of his enormous cock was always intense. Even a little painful in a way that was bound tightly with pleasure. His lips caressed your cheek as he waited for you to adjust to his size, hips rocking gently against you for several long moments. When you turned your head to capture his lips in a needy kiss, he began thrusting into you, rocking your body with his every powerful motion.
Already sensitive, your entire body on fire for the huge man above you, you felt every slam of his cock push you closer to another gushing wave of pleasure. Nick’s pace grew faster and rougher the closer he brought you both to the peak. Soon, he was propped above you, looking down at you with a feral tooth-baring grin, his hair falling wildly around his shoulders and face, jostling with every hard thrust.
Your head pressed back into the blanket, your back arching into Nick’s chest and hips rolling in time with his rhythm. Nails digging into his muscled shoulders, his name fell from your lips in a lewd moan that echoed through the mountains and across the lake. Nick was huffing now with each rough thrust, panting above you like a wild animal.
“You gonna cum all over my cock, darlin’?” Nick growled huskily and looked down at you with a pleasured grin.
Your second orgasm hit you even more intensely than the first, crashing over you in heady waves of ecstasy, your pussy tensing hard around his cock, trying to pull it in impossibly deeper. Nick’s jaw clenched tightly as he fucked you through your aftershocks, a growl rumbling deep in his chest. Nick pounded his cock hard into you until his hips stilled, burying his cock as deep as possible. A rush of heat spread through you as he pumped you full of hot cum.
With a heavy sigh, he relaxed some of his weight down on top of you, panting as he regained his breath. Stroking your hands along his densely muscled back soothingly, you reveled in the feeling of his massive body resting on your own. After a moment spent catching his breath, he leaned down to meet your lips in a tender kiss. Nick kissed you slowly and deeply, bringing his hand up to stroke your cheekbone sweetly, unable to keep a grin from tugging at the corners of his mouth. You ran your fingers through his damp hair and traced your nails along his neck and shoulders, making him only grin wider.
When Nick pulled back to look down at you, a huge toothy smile beamed across his face. His eyes were full of pure unadulterated adoration as he regarded you. His voice as gravelly when he told you, “I love you, darlin.’”
“I still hate hiking,” you replied and pulled back to your lips again.
Warnings: NSFW. Action. Graphic Violence. Gruesome Horror. Romance. Old Timey Sexism. Hot Toxic Masculinity. Conniving Bitches. Victorian Setting. Vampires. I play a little loose with time and events, but they are all within a couple years if not a couple weeks. But I also play a little loose with vampires and cowboys, so whatever.
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I'm finally catching up on some old requests. This is one from @napiersmirk that I probably bastardized totally, but hopefully there's some fun stuff in here. This is basically a 30k shitshow with Victorian Vampire Jacques and a Cowgirl.
Once upon an autumn dreary. Sir Jacques Le Gris modified the words to one of his favorite poems to suit his surroundings and mood, hearing it as an internal monologue as he strolled down Martin’s Lane toward Trafalgar Square. The nighttime air was cool and humid, the stars hidden behind a stormy veil. Mist crept low, slithering through the streets. It was the kind of weather Jacques loved most, when his breath fogged from his lips like ghosts wrought upon the darkness. In high spirits, he gave his ebony cane a twirl, letting the silver grip in the shape of a wolf’s head turn in palm. The streets were unusually vacant. Those damned Ripper murders were keeping people inside at night. Not only did the Ripper have the nerve to frighten the ladies of London, but he also had the gall and plain bad form to stain Jacques’s name. He went by Jack occasionally, usually when dealing with English and Americans, it seemed simpler for them. Jacques pondered solutions to this nuisance, as he had many evenings before. The best solution to the problem, both society’s and Jacques’s, was likely the simplest – for Jacques to hunt the hunter, victimize the villain. Bleed the butcher dry. He grinned at the thought, his tongue subconsciously tracing the peak of his canine.
But that was a game for another night.
Tonight, Jacques was on a simpler mission. Priding himself a champion of the arts, Jacques took pleasure in seeing the arts and the shows London had to offer. He was a man who enjoyed a spectacle, even if he was not partaking. Although he greatly preferred the latter. It was a wonderful time to be alive, Jacques knew better than most. From P.T. Barnum’s great circuses to group seances and magicians performing grand stage acts, spectacles were all the rage. Queen Victoria was celebrating her fiftieth year on the throne, drawing in crowds from across the empire and motivating every performer to put on his best.
Lithograph posters advertising performances of all varieties were plasters to the sides of buildings, ranging in size from a common portrait to as large as a bedsheet. Smaller letter-size fliers clung to every pole within reach of the urchins who earned a pittance by scattering them about the city. The posters called to Jacques as he strolled past. Thoroughbreds raced across a field of green on a poster for the Epsom Derby. A darkly handsome man stood in front of a gilded portrait advertising for the play The Picture of Dorian Gray. A snarling tiger faced a roaring lion on a poster for P.T. Barnum’s Circus. The infamous magician, Kylo the Malevolent, wore his signature black tailcoat and held a ball of flame in one hand while he conjured dark forces with the other in the poster for his show at the Royal Albert Hall. Even the wanted posters for Jack the Ripper were lost in the collage of lithographs. A Bohemian freakshow was passing through London this week on its way to Paris, the posters advertising its oddities littered across buildings and walls. Jacques saw a poster for the World’s Strongest Man displaying a burly man in a singlet with simian body hair flexing a monstrous arm. Next to him was a poster for a man labeled Ink Well who was tattooed over every inch of his skin.
Jacques stopped in front of a haberdashery he frequented. He had even purchased the tophat he wore at present there. Instead of the usual tophats, canes, and derbys that regularly filled the display window, there were now American style cowboy hats with different shaped crowns, and even two pairs of western chaps, one crafted from thick woolly sheepskin and another from splotchy grey sealskin. On either side of the display windows, the building was plastered with posters, unique from the others, that caught Jacques’s eye. Galloping horses, stampeding buffalo, cowboys with six-shooters, cowgirls with lever-actions, and a lively white-haired man with an impressive Van Dyke made the wall come alive with the spectacle of the American West.
In celebration of the Queen’s Golden Jubilee, Buffalo Bill was bringing his Wild West Show across the ocean to perform for her. Buffalo Bill was rumored to travel with well over one-hundred people, including gunslingers, Native Americans, sharpshooters, vaqueros, trick riders, and musicians. A menagerie of animals was also part of his troop: horses, mules, and longhorns, naturally, but also domesticated wildlife including buffalo and elk. Jacques wondered how much of that travelling zoo would accompany Buffalo Bill on his visit to England. Jacques hoped the store owner was getting a commission from Bill for all this free advertising. He decided he would purchase a new hat for the occasion and encourage his friend, Pierre to do the same. The comically large ten-gallon cowboy hat center stage in the display window would call to Pierre as seductively as a Parisian courtesan. Pierre would be an easy sell, always eager to parade new trappings that might impress the ladies. When Jacques had informed Pierre that he had secured the company of a pair of prima ballerinas from the Russian ballet to accompany him to the Wild West Show, Pierre had boasted that he would be attending with a trio of blondes from a theater troupe.
Smiling at his schemes, Jacques tapped his cane on the cobblestone and continued on into the square in the brisk, long strides he favored when he wasn’t ambling slowly in consideration of a female companion. Only a handful of people walked through the square, mostly couples and one raucous group of obviously drunk young men. There wasn’t enough traffic to keep the light fog from settling over the cobblestones, and it draped them in a spectral haze. With the Ripper at large, it was rare to see lone women and even lone men out at night unless it was unavoidable, or in the areas of town where the three-penny-uprights conducted their business. Jacques was surprised to see one lone woman in the square, standing at the base of Nelson’s Column. So surprised that he stopped short and simply stared at her for a long moment. She faced away with her neck craned to look up at the column, and a lovely neck it was. The grey coat she wore hung down past her knees and its black astrakhan collar rose nearly to her ears. The only bit of skin to be seen was a narrow satiny strip above the fur collar and below her hairline; her hair was piled on top of her head in an intricate bun, courteously enough to allow that tantalizing peekaboo of skin. She wore no hat nor fascinator, and was likewise free of a bustle in a rather risqué defiance of custom. Jacques’s eyes were well-seasoned at discerning ladies’ figures, and he could tell this one was shapely and alluring.
Jacques was striding toward her before he knew he had commanded his feet to do so. In the midst of the Ripper murders, he felt compelled to offer his company. That’s what he told himself. He might be every bit as violent and villainous as good ol’ Jack, but he was also a gentleman. Hearing his bootsteps on the cobblestone, the woman turned to face him, fixing him with a level gaze that speared straight into his eyes. There was nothing soft or demure about the way she looked at him, it was almost enough to freeze him in place like Medusa’s stare. Her eyes were luminous, seeming to catch all the scant light and reflect it back like starlight in the foggy night. She cocked an eyebrow at him when he came to stand beside her, silently but icily inquiring as to his purpose.
Most ladies would have looked away from him after so long a glance, or have broken the silence with a giggle or a pleasantry. This woman allowed the silence to spark in the air around them while her eyes appraised him mercilessly. She was terrifyingly beautiful, and her bold countenance beguiled him into smiling.
“I, too, find the sights more pleasing when admired in darkness,” Jacques said, feeling foolish for allowing himself to lose this small battle of brinksmanship.
“The solitude of darkness is what I find most pleasing. The solitude you’re intruding upon, I might add,” she answered. “I cannot abide crowds and mulling herds of humanity.”
“London seems a poor fit for you,” Jaques returned.
“I’m only visiting.” She smirked. “Admiring the sights, as you said.”
“As a visitor, you might not be aware of the dangers,” Jacques said more seriously than he preferred when speaking to an alluring woman. “Have you not heard of Jack the Ripper?”
She made to roll her eyes, but stopped herself and sighed instead, “I hope you’re not going to tell me that a lady shouldn’t be out alone at night. It’s very tiresome advice.”
“Of course not,” he lied. He was absolutely going to offer that exact advice. Instead, he added, “I am never tiresome.”
“Oh dear, you’re not waiting for me to agree?” She smirked again. Jacques liked that smirk, even if it was at his expense.
“No concern for the Ripper, and no concern for your reputation, being out at night without a chaperone. A lady should be more cautious.” Jacques grinned back at her. “Your wit may be rapier, but it won’t save you against such dangers.”
“Between my rapier wit and my derringer, I feel quite safe.” She patted her coat pocket. “My reputation in London doesn’t concern me.”
“Ah, yes, you’re only visiting.” Jacques took a step closer to her. Her scent curled into his nose, something sultry and sweet like roses and cinnamon. “How long is your visit?”
“Perhaps I should be flattered by your attention.” She sounded entirely un-flattered. “But I am intentionally alone. I am not desirous of company. Hence the hour and my relaxed state of dress.”
“If not this evening, perhaps you would grace me with the pleasure of your company another time.” Jacques flashed his handsomest smile. “Only this evening, I was thinking how grand a night at the Wild West Show will be.” He would cancel his rendezvous with the ballerinas in a heartbeat in favor of her. He inclined his head and said simply, “Join me.”
A smile bloomed on her lips, then she laughed lightly. “I already have an invitation, I’m afraid.”
“Decline whatever other invitation you have and accept mine,” he pressed. “You will not be disappointed. You have my word.”
“Mine is an invitation I cannot decline.” She smiled wider. “Besides, no seat is closer to the action than mine.”
“If the Wild West Show doesn’t strike your fancy, I can show you the sights,” Jacques offered. “Dr. Ren’s Cabinet of Curiosities is all the rage. Have you ever seen a satyr skeleton or a book bound in human skin?”
“A book bound in human skin? You know the way to a girl’s heart,” she laughed. “But my Saturday engagement must stand, I’m afraid.”
“Then permit me to walk you to your lodgings,” he countered. “Where are you staying during your visit?”
“I’ll permit you to say good evening right here.” Her demeanor was pleasant now, but she pointedly ignored his question on where he might find her again.
“May I at least know the name of the lady who is so immune to my charms?” Jacques asked as he took off his tophat and shook a persistence cowlick back from his face.
“Georgette,” she answered, offering her hand.
“Jacques Le Gris.” He introduced himself with a flourished bow, then kissed the back of her hand.
“Good evening, Jacques Le Gris.” She gave him one last smile, turned, and walked away.
Jacques followed her with his eyes as she departed. The sway of her hips was almost hypnotizing. He waited for her to look back, but she didn’t. Their small exchange replayed in his mind, her bold and beautiful face already imprinted on his memory. A rare and radiant maiden, indeed. He waited until she turned down a street and then he followed her anyway, gliding almost soundlessly over the cobblestones. He was as at ease in the darkness as any creature of the night, and he knew how to use the foggy gloom to cloak his movements. He would make sure she was safe during her foolishly imperious stroll. And he would know where to find her again.
Trailing the woman at a discreet distance, Jacques could savor her scent as strong and lovely on the air as the smell of a flower shop with fresh blooms. It required a heroic effort of will to restrain himself from chasing her down and snatching her up in his arms. He attempted to keep the thoughts and images of what he wanted to do next out of his mind, but that was a hopeless endeavor. He watched her until she safely entered the Grand Royale Hotel, and contemplated his next move. It was within his ability to compel her to come to her window and see him again in whatever light he wished, even to do after she undressed for the night.
But such parlor tricks would cheapen the hunt.
Big Ben had not yet tolled midnight. The night was young and Jacques was on fire, his senses alighted by the woman and desire burning through him in a rage. Frustrated and ravenous was no way to spend a perfectly dreary evening. He gave the cobblestones a decisive tap with his cane and walked toward a less upscale part of the city. His destination was far enough to warrant a carriage, but Jacques enjoyed a brisk stroll and it would be unwise to create any witnesses who knew of his haunt. A man as illustrious as Jacques had airs to maintain. Not that Pierre ever bothered with discretion. Jacques grinned and shook his head at the thought. How that philandering bastard hadn’t outed them both yet was a miracle.
Heading West, Jacques met few people and no other women. A few men returning late from their jobs passed him, their faces streaked with coal and grime. One rough-looking man in a bowler hat loitered in a doorway, holding the leash of a Bull Terrier. The man watched Jacques, appraising him, no doubt calculating his odds of successfully mugging the much larger man. Jacques hoped the man would try, it would be a fine bit of sport for the evening. The terrier knew better, whimpering and hiding its white face against the man’s leg. Animals always sensed Jacques’s nature more quickly than men. He again cursed the Ripper for bringing increased scrutiny to the streets and the bobbies out in force. This was the sort of hooligan who wouldn’t be missed, easy prey for Jacques to remove from the streets and perform a public service at the same time.
His destination was near Holborn Hill. Jacques paused to admire the shop’s sign, a fine piece of reverse glass depicting a green serpentine dragon with long whiskers and a fanned tail coiled intricately through gold letters that spelled Snap Dragon. The dragon’s clawed hands clutched the D and its head reared above the letter, snarling at incoming patrons. The Snap Dragon was an apothecary that stocked the rarest compounds and elixirs to be found in England. Rumor had it that Prince Albert purchased tonics there known to cure the pox and other maladies.
Now nearing midnight, the apothecary was closed when Jacques strode past its door. He turned down the narrow alley that separated the apothecary from the butcher next door, as black as a crevasse in the foggy darkness. He descended a set of stairs and stopped in front of a recessed iron door that appeared neglected and disused. Jacques rapped his knuckles on the iron in a peculiar rhythm and waited. The door swung in on well-oiled hinges without a squeak, admitting Jacques into the real business of the Snap Dragon. The apothecary, lucrative though it was, was a front for an opium den – a far better business than herbal remedies. Prince Albert also frequented this side of the business, and heartily enjoyed the expensive courtesans who could be enticed to entertain the delirious patrons for a fee.
Gossamer green haze wafted through the darkened parlor. It was a trick of the lighting, achieved with candles hidden inside green silk lanterns, sneakily engineered to give the ever-present smoke an ethereal quality. The effect was eerie, especially when paired with the dozens of barely conscious men reclining on futons and pillows, crooning, laughing, coughing, draped in smoky green gloaming. Most of the movements inside the den were languid and hazy, save for the sober attendants and one topless courtesan who bounced eagerly on the lap of a nearly unconscious man, determined to earn her fee whether or not the man was aware when he crossed the finish line. The first few breaths inside the den were always terrible for Jacques, as his heightened senses acclimated to the pungent scents of opium, unwashed men, and overused women.
A tall, sinewy woman wearing a brocade dress embroidered with dragons and flowers materialized out of the haze and fixed her black eyes on Jaques. Her smile was razor sharp when she greeted him. Jacques had known her a very long time, since she had been a dancer in Bohemia, long before her latest trade helping men chase the dragon. She had been beautiful then, long ago, in her former life. Pierre had been fond of her all those years ago, and she was eternally indebted to him for the gift he had bestowed upon her. Now, she was seen by most as exotic, with her abyssal black eyes, gaunt features, and straight jet hair that contrasted starkly with a completion that was almost translucent in its paleness. She looked to Jacques a bit like a dehydrated corpse. It was enough to unnerve a brave man when she smiled her shark’s smile at Jacques and told him to make himself at home.
Jacques threaded his way through the parlor to a private room hidden away in the back. Before entering, he could hear the familiar laughter of his oldest friend and the giggles of several women. The door was closed, but Jacques didn’t bother knocking. It had been many years since Pierre had managed to shock him.
Tonight was no different. Pierre D’Alencon bolted up from the large futon in the center of the room, ready to chastise the intruder. His blonde hair was disheveled, his pale chest flushed, but he smiled when he recognized Jacques. Wearing only an open kimono-style robe that did nothing to conceal his naked body, nor the tumescent evidence of his antics with the eight naked women flitting around him. He didn’t bother to cover himself when he gestured magnanimously and said, “Come in! Take your pants off!”
“Are any of them still fresh?” Jacques asked as he shrugged out of his overcoat and tossed it over the back of an obliging chair. His cane and tophat followed.
“Yes, you’re in luck. I’ve only just begun to defile them,” Pierre answered and the women laughed. “Where in the blazes have you been? I expected you hours ago. Now, we’ve only a few hours left before dawn approaches in all its intrusive goddamn glory.”
“I met a rather striking woman enroute.” Jacques smiled, picturing her.
“Oh, good. Is she here?” Pierre made to look around Jacques’s body toward the door.
“Certainly not!” Jacques laughed. “I barely got her name. She was most –"
“Did you hear what I said?” Pierre cut him off. “You’re burning darkness yammering on about some strange woman who wouldn’t give you the time of night. I won’t allow it! Get in the proper spirit of the evening or take your doldrums elsewhere.”
Two of the four women approached Jacques, sashaying their hips. They stroked his chest and began untying his ascot then unbuttoning his vest and shirt. Jacques continued talking to Pierre, unbothered by the women caressing his bare chest or Pierre maneuvering his selection of women back toward the futon. “You haven’t seen this one, my friend. Beautiful and strong. The kind of woman who could use some evil inside her.”
“Talking of only one woman while you’re in the company of several fine others is blasphemy,” Pierre said as he fell upon a pair of women on the futon, his kimono fluttering above his comically pasty ass.
Jacques persisted in telling Pierre about the mystery woman, paying the women in his present company little mind until the most ambitious of the two began shoving his trousers down his muscled thighs. When she traced her nails along his rapidly swelling cock, he decided he could continue this conversation later. He led the women toward a larger couch set against the far wall and fell back into the center of the push cushions. Another woman sat at the end of the couch, draped over the armrest, pale and delirious. Blood was smeared across her neck from her jaw to her collarbone, still oozing slowly from a pair of twin puncture wounds.
“You’ve been careless with that one,” Jacques said to Pierre as he gripped the hips of the nearest woman and assisted her in settling over his lap. He thrust up into the woman and added, “Best show some restraint with the others.”
“She’ll be as good as new after a good night’s rest and a good meal,” Peirre replied nonchalantly as several women crawled over him. “I’ll pay her extra. There are no surprises when they service us here.” He looked at one of the women and asked, “Are there, dearie?”
In response, she held her wrist up to Pierre’s lips, inviting him to drink from her.
Jacques found himself distracted from the task at hand. Despite being buried to the hilt in the woman writing in his lap and with another pawing at him from beside, his mind was still filled with thoughts of the woman he had met earlier, his nose still filled with her extraordinarily alluring bouquet. A most unnatural feeling came over him, one he hadn’t felt in ages. He felt a pang of guilt now, which was wholly unwarranted since he was beholden to no one. Certainly not to a woman who didn’t even want him to walk her home like a gentleman and who had given him a rather decisive brush off. In defiance, he thrust up harder into the woman straddling his lap. But if there was any doubt in his mind before that he wouldn’t seek out the beautiful stranger, he was now filled with resolve to find her again.
Trailing his hand up the woman’s back, he gripped the nape of her neck and drew her closer. His canines had descended in razor points, as eager to sink into warm flesh as the rest of his body. He didn’t bother to kiss the woman’s skin or entice her before he bit into her neck. He didn’t have to give, Pierre had paid her well for them to dispassionately take. It was always difficult to restrain himself when the first rush of blood coated his tongue. The primal part of him wanted to rip into her soft flesh like a wild beast; to feel muscle and sinew tear in his mouth; to feel hot blood coat his lips and drench him down to his chest. But he restrained himself, sipping the woman with gentlemanly care and only taking enough to sate himself for a while.
Restraint was the most important skill any vampire who wanted longevity must learn. Many vampires would say that either anonymity or community were of paramount importance. Vampires who prospered outside of cloistered covens or seclusion were the rarest of all their species. None had prospered better nor more infamously than Jacques and Pierre for nearly five-hundred-fifty years. Jacques attributed this to restraint more than anything else, not being glutinous or wanton when it came to prey and hunting. It was one of the few areas in life he exercised restraint at all, and it had taken him more than a century to master.
If one asked Pierre the key to survival, his answer was simple. Joie de vivre! If a man isn’t enjoying life, every moment can be agony. Immortality would be a terrible curse for the poor bastard who doesn’t live life to the fullest. Pierre had lived by this creed for centuries, flaunting his lifestyle to the more conversative of their species. He even made it a personal game of sorts to seduce the hunters who would find them on occasion. Most could be seduced by money or pleasure, and Pierre was generous with both. Jacques had a hotter temper and less patience. He enjoyed tearing apart anyone who threatened him or the small handful of people for whom he had genuine affection.
The grunts and whimpers coming from the futon creaking beneath Pierre and three women indicated that he was indeed living life to fullest at present. Jacques allowed himself to finish quickly, not bothering to hold himself back, and sipped from the woman as much as he dared. The woman’s body was limp and her head lolled sideways when Jacques lifted her off his lap and maneuvered her onto the couch beside him. She slumped against the semi-conscious woman Pierre had used earlier. Jacques watched her for a moment, satisfying himself that she would recover after a few hours. Turning to look at the unused woman on his other side, Jacques grinned and patted his thigh as an invitation. He was more eager to drink from her than fuck her, but those pleasures were best when paired together. Sinking back deeper into the couch, he gripped the base of his cock, positioning it for the woman as she smiled in delight at his impressive size then kicked her leg over his lap.
Vampires needed only seconds to recover between bouts. Jacques could do this all night, until all the women were spent or he became bored with them. The latter had been an increasing problem over the last century. His body was willing, but his interest was waning. Whereas Pierre never grew bored so long as he kept a variety of women parading through his sheets, Jacques had long ago grown weary of much of humanity. The fleeting, meaningless interactions he had with them bored him and left him deeply unsatisfied. Sometimes, he still found humor, even joy, in humanity. Other times, he felt as though they were a plague crawling over the earth like maggots on a carcass. Vampires were even worse, a macabre and morose lot whose tastes tended toward one perversion or another. That was a point on which Jacques and Pierre had always agreed, hedonism is far superior to perversion, and also just simpler.
After finishing with the second woman and using a third, Jacques reclined in a chair as he ruminated on these matters that were never far from his thoughts. He hadn’t troubled himself to redress fully and sat in his trousers and unbuttoned shirt. He swirled a glass of smoky green absinthe, his gaze fixed pensively at an unremarkable patch of floral wallpaper, unbothered by the raucous sounds of Pierre and the last pair of conscious women.
It wasn’t the Green Fairy that danced in his mind, but visions of the mysterious woman and her addictive scent. That she was beautiful didn’t hurt matters at all, but that fact alone would have held little appeal to him beyond wanting to possess her for a few evenings. When a man had centuries to hunt, even beauty grew common. Rarer than beauty was wit, and rarer still was nerve. Jacques had assessed her as having all three attributes. It may have been a hopeful guess, but he was rarely wrong in assessing women. He considered himself something between a connoisseur and a sommelier of fine ladies, and hers was a vintage like nothing he had tasted in ages.
First he had to find her again, and he would. He thought through what he would do to ensnare her, captivate her the way she had so easily captivated him. Jacques didn’t want to get her by crook or by hook. He had no qualms about employing less than savory techniques to lure a woman into his bed for an evening, but he had always maintained a personal ethic when it came to the few substantial women who had piqued his interest more deeply over the many long years of his life. He wanted her, craved her even, but he wanted to win her fairly and by his own merit.
Shortly before dawn, Pierre finally finished his escapades. He let his last woman flop onto the futon and donned his kimono, then joined Jacques in an adjoining chair. Jacques offered to pour him a drink from the decanter filled with green.
“Vile drink, absinthe,” Pierre declined and waved his hand toward one of the naked women strewn across the room like casualties on a battlefield. “How you can chase a perfectly fine vintage with that noxious green ooze is beyond me.” Instead, he lifted an opium pipe to his lips and inhaled deeply. He looked at Jacques fixedly and said, “Oh God, you’ve got that look. Don’t tell me you’re pining after that woman you saw tonight. It’s very tedious of you.”
“Pining?” Jacques frowned. Whatever he was doing, he certainly was not pining.
“Yes, yes. Pining.” Pierre glared and took another puff. “I’ve had to endure your pining over the occasional woman during the last few hundred years. It never ends well. Either the pining leads to sulking when you frighten them away or, far worse, it leads to that terrible sentiment I wish you’d purge from your emotional arsenal.”
“Which terrible sentiment is that?” Jacques smirked over the rim of his glass as he took a drink.
“I try not to sully my tongue with four-letter words,” Pierre said, acting offended.
“I’ve barely spoken to the lady,” Jacques replied dismissively. “I’m merely intrigued by her.”
“Ah, yes, I remember the last time you were intrigued by some strumpet.” Pierre grimaced at the horrible memory. “Dark times. You were the worst possible company during your infatuation. Then when she rejected you – as they all will when you want a taste of them – you had the morbes for years! You were utterly intolerable. If I were a lesser friend, I would have left you to wallow in your misery alone.”
“You hold a grudge as tenaciously as a scorned woman! That was over a century ago,” Jacques scoffed. “I should have known better with her anyway. All the ladies in Versailles laced their corsets so tight for King Louie, it deprived their brains of oxygen. Hardly her fault she was so fickle.”
“And the one before that?” Pierre raised his eyebrows. “She was wickeder than you and, tragically, far crazier to boot.”
“Ah, the Countess,” Jacques said fondly. “She was a marvel.”
“Marvelously batshit crazy. Batshit Bathory.” Pierre shook his head. “Imagine how deranged a mind must be to have a genuine vampire in the palm of her hand, yet believe the true path to immortality was bathing in the blood of servant girls. You’re better off without that raving harlot.”
“It’s been far too long since I’ve indulged in a nice blood bath.” Jacques smiled at the memory.
“Now that can be arranged!” Pierre said excitedly. “We’ll take in that Wild West Show, which cannot be anything but a wondrous spectacle. Then we’ll fuck some women, and soak in blood until your heart’s content. That should take your mind off this absurd infatuation with whatever wayward tart happened to wander in front of you.”
“You assume I want to take my mind off of her?” Jacques cocked an eyebrow and took another drink.
“Can you not think of me for once instead of pursuing this selfish course that invariably leads to misery?” Pierre sighed theatrically. “However it ends for you, it will be dark times for me, my friend.”
“You’re worse than a jealous damned wife,” Jacques laughed.
“Yes, insufferable, aren’t I?” Pierre agreed. “Best steer clear of the real thing.”
“The real thing would have assets that compensate for the times she’s insufferable.” Jacques smirked lewdly.
Pierre sighed exasperatedly. He looked at the window and visibly started when he saw the red drapes glowing pink around their edges with the coming dawn. “We’d best continue this debate in my carriage. Unless you’d prefer to stay here throughout the day. Actually, let’s do! I’ll buy us more women.”
“Put your goddamn pants on and get a move on,” Jacques laughed. “I’d brave a stroll at high noon before I find myself locked in an opium den with you all day.”
It had been Jacques’s nature as a man before he became a vampire that he slept little and found the darkness rousing instead of calming, so his vampiric nature paired well with that natural proclivity. Sleep wasn’t needed for its restorative benefits and Jacques couldn’t remember what actual sleep felt like. He spent the brightest hours of the day languishing like a cat, indulgently laying around as he pleased and lightly napping occasionally. Since his encounter with the captivating woman in the Square, he hadn’t been able to settle his mind or have a reprieve from his thoughts of her.
It was not unusual for Jacques to spend the nighttime hours restless and alert. It was, however, highly unusual for him to spend his nights alone. He was never in want of women to fill his bed, but now a woman of no consequence sounded as appealing as a mouthful of ash when he was salivating over filet mignon.
The halls of his manor were dark and cold, feeling almost unwelcoming as he roamed them restlessly in his dressing gown. He paused by a tall arched window in his library that overlooked a manicured garden. The moon was a perfect cat’s eye crescent, bright as firelight, beckoning him out under its glow. Without a plan or any intention beyond following his feet, Jacques dressed quickly in trousers, a loose white shirt with no vest or cravat, and an overcoat.
Minutes later, Jacques sat in the back of his carriage as the cadence of the trotting hooves of his team of black horses carried him away from his home. Jacques’s driver was always at his beck and call, no matter the hour – a creature who was once a man horribly disfigured by leprosy before Pierre benevolently turned him into a familiar for them both to share. Carroughes never had much of a brain in life and was much happier now in his eternal existence as chattel.
Something between nostalgia and hope directed Jacques back to Trafalgar Square. He didn’t realize he had leaned forward in his seat, nearly pressing his large nose to the window as he looked out to the place he had met her. The carriage hit a thick cobblestone, making Jacques bump his nose on the glass. Falling back in his seat, he rubbed the bridge of his nose, finding nothing there but the usual crooked bump, and cursed himself for being so foolish. Of course she wasn’t there again. It had to be nearly two in the morning. No one with any sense was out prowling the streets at this hour. She was almost certainly in bed asleep. He immediately shut his thoughts down when they began to careen into the terrible territory of imagining that she wasn’t alone in her bed.
Looking at the façade of her hotel would do nothing to satisfy his curiosity nor sate his desire, but he grumbled to his driver to take him there anyway.
Every window above the first floor in the stone face of the Grand Royale Hotel was black, looking down on Jacques like merciless eyes. On one of the higher floors, one lone window flickered dimly, no doubt some restless guest reading by the light of a single candle. Jacques eyed it curiously out of the window of his carriage but paid it no mind. His thoughts were occupied with an image of a beautiful woman with luminous eyes and a teasing smile. Picturing her in his mind, he barely noticed the light moving and growing slightly brighter as the person inside picked up the candlestick and moved toward the window.
Jacques felt a rush of hope that made him feel foolish. Like a fool, he stepped out of his carriage to get a better view of the high window. A cold breeze fluttered his hair around his shoulders and his coat around his knees as he stood alone on the street, craning his neck upward. He felt even more foolish holding his breath as he watched the light move closer to the window. But all his foolishness was burned away when the window opened and the beautiful woman from his thoughts leaned out over the railing. It had been a long time since Jacques had willingly watched a sunrise, but he couldn’t remember one ever warming him the way her smile did now when she looked down at him. Gilded by moonlight, her hair free and dancing on the breeze, she was the picture of an ethereal specter haunting him.
Although he didn’t know what had summoned her to the window at such an hour, her smile told Jacques she recognized him. Forgetting any sly reserve, he waved brashly at her and took several steps away from his carriage until he stood in the center of the empty street.
“’Tis the West, and Georgette is the moon!” Jacques called to her teasingly, uncaring if he woke the entire hotel. “Descend, fair moon, and let the stars envy you while you dance in my arms.”
“I never thought I’d see a wolf howling up at the moon in London,” she teased back. She didn’t need to raise her voice for Jacques to hear her clear as a bell, just as he could clearly see that she wore only a diaphanous gown under a velvet robe. His senses were as keen as the other creatures of the night.
Jacques could get to her easily and within minutes. Hell, he could scale the outer hotel wall if he wanted. But he wouldn’t risk frightening her. It was too soon to reveal the monster to the maiden. He could summon her down to him using his vampiric powers of persuasion, but he wanted her to come to him willingly.
“What will entice you down from your tower?” Jacques placed his hand over his heart in a gesture of sincerity. “I can tell you many wondrous reasons, but they are better shown.”
“Perhaps you’re more devil than wolf, trying to tempt me into risqué scenarios with your silver tongue.” She leaned her forearms on the rail, gazing down at him with moonlight glinting in her eyes.
“Rest assured, howling wolf and silver-tongued devil are both equally within my repertoire.” Jacques grinned devilishly. “Is it teeth or horns that you prefer, ma belle?”
She laughed heartily, a melodious sound to Jacques’s ears. She retrieved a handkerchief from the pocket of her robe. Holding it out over the railing, she let it catch in the breeze before releasing it. As the handkerchief danced lazily through the air on its slow ballet to the ground, she said, “Find me again on Sunday and perhaps I will listen to more of your howling. If you’re lucky, maybe I’ll even have a dance with the devil underneath the crescent moonlight.”
Before Jacques could respond, she flipped her hair and ducked back inside her room, closing her window and leaving her balcony as empty and bleak as all the others. Still, Jacques grinned like a dumbstruck fool as he watched the handkerchief float slowly down to him like an autumn leaf. Either her aim or fate directed the little cotton square true, because it drifted right down to Jacques where he stood in the street. He plucked it from the air above him before it settled neatly on his chest.
Bringing the delicate handkerchief to his nose, Jacques inhaled deeply. The woman’s alluring scent flooded his bloodstream faster than any dragon he had ever chased. From her scent alone, he could picture every nuance of her as clearly as if she stood in front of him, feel every luscious inch of her body as though she were pressed against him. He closed his eyes to better savor her perfume and groaned lewdly on the exhale. He grinned as he tucked the handkerchief away safely inside his pocket.
She was an affliction and Jacques was infected with her. Tonight, he knew he was powerless against succumbing.
Saturday afternoon was blissfully overcast and foggy, shielding Jacques and Pierre from the sun as they strolled toward the exhibition hall at Earl’s Court to watch The Wild West Show. Each man had a pair of women draped on their arms. A pair of redheaded ballerinas laughed at nothing and smiled up at Jacques. He had always been fond of redheads. Pierre, who liked variety, was accompanied by a very pale brunette and a tan blonde. The women chattered as they walked past a colorful carousel playing cheerful music while its painted horses circled round and round. An army of other spectators crowded the streets as they too made their way toward the show. Tickets were sold out and Earl’s Court seated twenty thousand.
“Peasants. Commoners.” Pierre grimaced as he used his walking stick to shove a small man in pinstriped pants aside. “Commoners everywhere. I miss the good ole days when we didn’t have to mingle with the commoners just to go about our day.”
“Ah, but today we don’t have to worry that every third one of them might have the plague,” Jacques said with a laugh. “I don’t ever remember you complaining about common women.”
“The men are certainly more objectionable.” Pierre brandished his walking stick at a teenage boy who waved a newspaper for purchase too close. “Mustaches and damned bowler hats everywhere you look.” He made a sweeping gesture with his cane. “Look around. It’s a veritable, black, blunt sea of bowler hats.” He purposely knocked off the hat of the nearest man with his walking stick, then smiled falsely at the bald, offended man who had been wearing it. “Terribly sorry. My stick has a mind of its own.”
“Frequent problem for you,” Jacques muttered out of a sideways grin. He paused at a food cart and traded a few coins for a bag of roasted chestnuts.
Several women in nice but plain dresses approached them, waving pamphlets. Suffragettes. Three of them smiled invitingly at Jacques and the remaining two thrust their papers at Pierre’s chest.
“Women voting? What a bizarre idea!” Pierre laughed. Then, just to irk the women and help shoo them away, he added, “This is no way at all to go about getting a husband, dears.”
One of the feistier suffragettes handed Pierre’s brunette a pamphlet and told her scathingly, “Don’t let him seduce you. Marriage will make you nothing but his property.”
Pierre looked at Jacques and scoffed, “They think we want to marry them.”
“If you really want to keep the suffragettes away, just tell them about your brilliant investment ideas,” Jacques suggested wryly. “In only seconds, their eyes will glaze over and they will take flight like a covey of doves.”
“Look down that crooked nose of yours at my investments all you want.” Pierre gestured with his cane like a pointing finger. “But mark my words, the Zeppelin is going to make me a mint. I will accept your apology when you come begging me for money after you lose all yours on that ridiculous motorcar investment.”
As they neared the entrance to the exhibit hall, they passed a gallery of lithograph posters for the Wild West Show, each advertising a different act. Pierre paused to study a poster of Chief Sitting Bull, the legendary Sioux warrior, while the women debated whether the tall King of the Cowboys, Buck Taylor, was more handsome or the bright-eyed trick rider, Fearless George. Jacques was most excited to see Annie Oakley, the pint-size lady sharpshooter heralded as one of the finest shots in the world. Jacques stopped counting performers at twenty. The show was enormous. Even some of the animals in the show were famous enough to have their own posters, from Buffalo Bill’s famous horse, Old Charlie, to wild bison and elk who had been shipped across the sea, and a proclaimed flying black horse called Faust.
Pierre accosted at least another dozen people with his walking stick on the way to their seats. A private balcony booth awaited them, offering both privacy and an excellent view of the center of the ring below. One end of the ring was covered by a tent, like a big top, but its canvas was nondescript and sand-colored, covering about ten square yards of the area. Jacques thought it was odd, but he assumed it was for an act and his attention was quickly diverted elsewhere. They were close to the action, close enough to count the buttons on a man’s coat and clearly see his expression when he stood in the center of the arena. Jacques was very interested in watching the show. Unlike an opera he knew by heart or a play he had seen too many times to count, everything in the Wild West Show was new to him. It had been on his mind the last few decades to visit America – to see for himself all the cowboys and mountain men and wild horses that were ripe fodder for the Penny Dreadfuls – but he had yet to make the journey. He figured that tonight would serve to either turn him off the idea of gunslingers and rough riders, or whet his palette and leave him wanting more.
Because Pierre knew this, he refrained from sampling his women as he usually did for his own private preshow. Instead, they discussed the snippets of American West news that made it to them across the sea while Jacques largely ignored the ballerinas pawing at him on either side.
A young, pimply-faced usher came to their booth to see if they wanted any food or drink before the show. Jacques slipped the kid a whole pound, making the youth’s eyes wide and his smile dopey. With an air of secrecy and importance, Jacques told him, “These fine ladies’ husbands might not look kindly on our taking in an innocent show. I can trust you to tell us if you see any suspicious men nosing around near our booth or inquiring about us?”
“Of course, sir,” the usher promised eagerly and bowed awkwardly. “I’ll keep a sharp watch out.”
Jacques thanked him and Pierre spoke when the usher was gone, “Can’t be too careful these days. Is it just me, or are there more and more hunters after us every year?”
“They multiply like rats in a sewer,” Jacques agreed. “I blame all the free time this younger generation has. They don’t have to toil in the fields like they used to, so how do they occupy their time? Hunting vampires down like trophy stags.”
“Between bowler hats, women campaigning to have the vote, and vampire hunters, society is really going to Hell in a handbasket.” Pierre shook his head.
“Well, we do our part to keep the hunters’ numbers down.” Jacques grinned wickedly and tipped his glass toward Pierre.
“And we have such great fun doing so!” Pierre cheered him back just as an announcer’s voice boomed over a loudspeaker that the show was about to begin.
The crowd cheered when Buffalo Bill himself rode into the ring to greet the many Londoners who had come to see his show. The man was dressed as flamboyantly as an American wildman could be, wearing buckskins with draping fringe and thigh-high boots, and his horse wore a bridle and breast collar set with shining silver conchos. His brown horse, Old Charlie, was as famous a character as any of the other performers and rumored to have the intelligence of a man. Buffalo Bill rode into the center of the ring, jumped off Old Charlie, greeted the crowd and gave them a knightly bow. Remounting, he raced Old Charlie around the ring at a dead run, save for the closed off corner, to give the opening signal for the show to begin. As the horse circled round the ring, they were joined by other performers, all following Old Charlie until they were tantamount to a stampede. The Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapahoe came out first after Buffalo Bill, a kaleidoscope of color in their feathered headdresses riding painted war horses and shouting whoops and war cries. Vaqueros from Mexico wearing sombreros and huge-roweled spurs followed, then the cowboys, all firing their six-shooters into the air. The cowboy band played the “Star Spangled Banner” as loudly as possible, trying to outdo the shouts and gunshots.
The opening was a wild scene to the Londoners, riling spectators to stand up in their seats and shout encouragement to the performers. The English had their own style of performance horsemanship, focused on control and refined power. Many had never seen this brand of American horsemanship that seemed to focus on wild abandon and unpredictability as they raced and bucked and kicked around the ring.
Jacques watched raptly, enjoying the wild spectacle. He cheered along with the rest of the crowd when Annie Oakley made her entrance and blew apart several dozen glass balls and clay pigeons thrown through the air by cowboys who rode around the ring at a gallop. She then shot playing cards flung in the air and even hit the bullseye while holding a rifle backwards over her shoulder, using a handheld mirror to aim and fire behind her. For her finale, she called her husband into the ring and shot a cigarette from between his lips.
“See the sort of things a husband must endure at the cruel hands of his wife?” Pierre said to Jacques. “Think better of it, my friend.”
“Yet the poor bastard keeps coming back for more,” Jacques said as he clapped for Annie. “Tells you the reward is greater than the punishment, doesn’t it?”
“My methods ensure a man is only on the rewarding end of women and never the punishing,” Pierre argued, stroking the thigh of his blonde. “I’m certain I can find you plenty of amiable distractions until you’re over this infatuation with your mystery woman.”
At Pierre’s suggestion, one ballerina began caressing Jacques’s thigh and the other trailed her nails down inside his collar. Jacques plucked their hands off him, frowning as he tried to watch the next act. “Good things come to those who wait, ladies.”
“Good God,” Pierre said mostly to himself. “It’s worse than I feared.” He elbowed Jacques in the ribs as a covered wagon was pulled into the ring by a team of eight horses, a dozen cowboys with lever action rifles covered it like spines on a hedgehog. “Where do we find this mystery woman of yours? If you must, I’ll help you fuck the taste of her out of your mouth and then we can fuck other women to get over her. Deal?”
“No.” Jacques grinned and added. “And if I knew where to find her, she’d be here with me now.”
Hot on the trail of the covered wagon was a troop of twenty bandits, all firing live rounds into the canvas wagon cover and near the horses’ hooves. The wagon driver whipped the team of horses into a run, making figure eights inside the ring as the bandits choused them. Both sides fired their rifles and pistols until the air was a haze of dust and gunpowder that stung the eyes and smelled of sulfur and horse sweat.
“Spectacular!” Pierre exclaimed, looking at Jacques.
“Makes me miss the days when I was the one riding out on the tournament field, lance in hand,” Jacques reminisced.
“I always envied the way you handled your lance,” Pierre remarked and pinched the brunette’s thigh to make her squeal.
When the covered wagon had triumphed over the bandits and the dust had settled, the announcer introduced the next performer. “Now that your blood is pumpin,’ raise the roof for our trick rider and one of the Wild West Show’s top all ‘round hands when it comes to ridin’ anything with four legs! Fearless George and Faust!”
An enormous jet-black horse shot into the ring at a dead run, mane and tail blowing out behind him like pennants. The horse was so large as to make the rider look tiny. Jacques wondered how the rider kept the cowboy hat on his head while riding at such a pace. The rider waved to the crowd and with apparent ease, hopped up to stand on the animal’s back as the horse continued to run. The rider was dressed in buckskin pants and a blue shirt, wearing a hat and gunbelt. Fearless George waved to those in front then turned and waved behind him, all while standing on Faust’s back as the horse ran. Still facing the horse’s tail, George dropped back into the saddle, riding backwards for another half turn around the ring. As easily as adjusting his seat on a bench, George twisted his body so he sat sideways in the saddle with his legs crossed demurely to wave to another side of the crowd. He flipped his legs over Faust’s rump again to face the opposite, cross his other leg and wave to the other side of the ring.
Faust still ran at a full gallop when Fearless George dropped from the saddle casually but kept hold of the metal pole that was fixed in the pommel in place of a saddle horn. George took a few bounding strides beside the horse, his feet barely touching the ground as he was carried along by Faust. Using the pole and Faust’s momentum, he bounded back up into the saddle with ease. Faust had now made several passes around the large ring, his black coat glossy with sweat. George pulled him into a sliding stop that threw clumps of dirt from the ring twenty feet out in front of his hooves and dug trenches behind as he skidded to a stop. Faust reared high, almost vertically, and pawed the air with his hooves. George waved to the crowd, but unlike Buffalo Bill and Annie Oakley, he did not remove his hat in a more formal greeting.
While this was happening, a few crewmen pulled a large wooden object into the center of the ring. It looked vaguely like a trebuchet, but Jacques recognized it as a quintain that was used in training for jousting. The large contraption was fitted with a shield painted with a bullseye on one end of a long swinging arm, the other side held a large heavy bag like a punching bag. To practice timing in the joust, a knight would have to strike the center of the shield, causing the arms to spin and the heavy bag to swing around towards the knight’s head from behind. If the knight didn’t have correct timing, the heavy bag would knock them off their horse. The crewman positioned other smaller shields around the ring, propped up on tall wooden posts like road signs.
The announcer told the crowd, “We have a new trick for you as a nod to the culture of our country and to yours.”
A very tall black-haired cowboy in a red shirt entered the ring holding a lance high. Fearless George spun Faust to face the cowboy and kicked him into a gallop. The cowboy threw the lance to George when he was close and George plucked it out of the air easily. Jacques suspected the lance was made of a light metal and was probably hollow. It would have been quite a feat for him to catch a solid wood lance midair with one hand and make it look simple. Fearless George did not have the build of a strong man and sat lightly on Faust while spinning the horse around again and positioning the lance.
The crowd cheered when George charged at the quintain, lance aimed across Faust’s neck. Even Jacques watched avidly, leaning forward in his seat with excitement. It had been ages since he’d seen anyone wield a lance properly. Faust arched his neck and picked his hooves high as he charged the target, looking every bit the destrier. George held the lance with a steady aim with the correct balance of firmness in the shoulder and give in the torso. He struck the target dead center, exploding the wooden shield and causing the quintain to swing around fast with the heavy bag. George dropped the lance and in the same fluid movement, flipped around in the saddle like he had done previously as he drew a pistol from its holster. Before the heavy bag could reach him, he fired a shot into it, bursting the bag also in a geyser of sand. The crowd hollered and Jacques laughed at the mix of weaponry, as George flipped back around in the saddle to face forward.
George put Faust’s reins in his teeth and filled his left hand with his other pistol. With a gun in each hand, he charged around the ring firing at the other shield targets that had been set out by the crewmen. George weaved Faust between the targets, firing left and right and filling the air with gunpowder and wooden splinters. It was a relatively simple feat of marksmanship for a competent shot, but the horsemanship was exceptional for Faust to comply with such a ruckus.
Pierre squinted his eyes to focus better when George passed near them during a turn around the ring and prodded Jacques again with his elbow, “Would you look at the ass on George? It’s enough to make a man forget he has an eager woman on each arm.”
Jacques laughed, but couldn’t help but stare. He didn’t share Pierre’s tastes in this regard, but he had to admit he had never seen an ass that enticing on a man before.
When George’s guns were empty and the targets obliterated, he guided Faust prancing back toward the center of the ring. Faust bowed deeply, going down on one knee and touching his nose to the ground. Fearless George gestured graciously, but again didn’t remove his hat. Faust stood back up from his bow and nodded his head at the crowd, seeming to approve of the deafening applause and shouts that filled the stadium. With a final high rear, George sent Faust prancing away out of the ring, swishing his tail haughtily.
“Now, we have a real treat for all you Brits!” the announcer boomed through the loudspeaker. “Following our fearless knight is our own king. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. Make some noise for Buck Taylor, King of the Cowboys!”
The crowd cheered and hollered, boisterously enough to make Jacques’s ears ring. Pierre, too, winced from the sound. He leaned toward Jacques and screamed into his ear to make his joke heard, “What do you wager the American cowboy king has an even bigger gun than the rest of them?”
But instead of a gun, the King of the Cowboys burst into the ring on a grulla paint horse fuming in a full-blown, violent, buck. The horse stormed ahead, kicking and bucking and rearing, snorting steam like a dragon, black mane and tail whipping through the air. The man riding him was very tall with a thick mustache and long black hair that matched his horse’s mane. Both horse and rider had piercing blue eyes. His red shirt and red and white spotted chaps made from Axis deer hide clashed with the black, grey, and white of the horse and the dull dust in the ring. The man sat the horse easily, riding each buck and twist as though his horse was taking him for a leisurely trot in the pasture. He kept his right hand held high, not touching the saddle horn as he waved to the crowd. The horse squealed and bucked, twisting high into the air and flashing his white belly up to the sky. The cowboy hooted cheerily and spurred the horse when he landed, sending him into another angry fit of bucking and carousing. Horse and rider were fused together as wholly as a centaur, and nothing the horse tried no matter how frantic or vicious could unseat the man.
Pierre elbowed Jacques and smirked, “Look at this dandy! Long hair, garish attire, taking up entirely too much space and making himself the center of attention. Hardly the way a gentleman should present himself.”
“Good thing I’m never garish,” Jacques quipped as he watched the man. It was a rare man who was Jacques’s equal in stature and build, but this King of the Cowboys looked very close. He was handsome too. Jacques hated him instantly.
Eight seconds didn’t enter into this act. Buck Taylor rode the horse until the animal was too tired to buck anymore, and only had the energy to crowhop around the ring. The bucking had lasted the length of a full act as long as the others. When the horse slowed to a walk, sides heaving and foam dripping from his belly and mouth, the tall cowboy kicked one leg out of his stirrup and over the horse’s neck to easily step off his mount and land on the ground. Without missing a step, he walked toward the center of the ring, taking off his enormous cowboy hat to take a bow.
“I’ve never seen a horse buck so hard,” Pierre remarked. “The Yanks are going full-bore for us.”
“Clearly you don’t remember the time when my horse’s crupper whipped him in the flank,” Jacques scoffed and rubbed the hump in the bridge of his nose. “He bucked so hard, his crinet came lose and broke my nose.”
“Well then, I haven’t seen a horse buck so hard since the Battle of Poitiers,” Pierre laughed.
As the man straightened from his bow, Faust, the black horse from the previous act burst through the entry gate. This time he was riderless and bridleless, seemingly in command of himself as he galloped toward the cowboy. Buck turned to bow again to the other side of the ring and Faust slowed to a prancing trot. Neck arched and legs stepping high, the horse trotted up to Buck from behind. When Buck straightened from his second bow and raised his hat back toward his head, Faust bit the brim of the hat and yanked it out of the cowboy’s hand. The black horse jumped sideways when the man cursed and made a grab for the hat, and sped away in a long, elegant trot around the ring. Buck gave chase for a few steps before waving off the horse in frustrated resignation.
Faust looked back at the man and appeared to feel guilty for stealing his hat. He slowed to a walk, dropped his head in contrition, and ambled back to the man. Buck walked to meet the horse with his long arm outstretched, the large rowels on his spurs jingling. When the horse was almost within Buck’s reach, Faust yanked his head back, holding the hat up in the air like a prize, out of reach of even the tall man. The horse taunted the man, dipping the hat lower then jerking it back when the man made a grab for it.
A whistle sounded from the opposite side of the arena where a new gate had been opened. Faust wheeled around and galloped toward the whistler, hat still clenched in his teeth. The hat-stealing act had been a distraction, no one had paid attention to the woman entering the ring. A woman stood near the newly opened gate, dressed rather lewdly in only a gold bathing suit and leather booties. Her thighs and arms were bare, her lovely figure on display, and her hair loose, earning various gasps of shock and catcalls from the crowd.
At the other end of the ring, several crewmen pulled the canvas tent away from what it had covered during the show. A huge pool of water was revealed, an extra-deep diving pool. Jacques frowned in confusion, wondering at its purpose.
“Well, Folks, it looks like our trick rider has one more trick up her sleeve,” the announcer said. “George…” he let his voice trail away, then boomed louder, “George…ette. Georgette, the High-Flyer! Best ya’ll sittin’ close make sure you don’t get splashed.”
“By God!” Pierre laughed. “It’s a woman!”
“It’s her,” Jacques said quietly, almost to himself.
Pierre looked at him sideways. “Her her? What wretched luck. Well, there’s a legitimate chance she breaks her pretty neck in the next few moments.”
Only then did Jacques notice that the gate opened to a ramp near the pool. The ramp too had been covered with canvas and Jacques had taken it for nothing more than covered stairs to reach the higher seats. Now the canvas covering had been pulled away to reveal a long metal ramp, like a long livestock loading chute. It ran at a steep angle up for sixty-feet and opened to nothing but thin air high above the pool. Jacques had heard about the wildly dangerous American stunt of horse diving, but he never thought he would see it firsthand. Let alone, watch a woman carry his heart over a sixty-foot precipice with her on the back of a flying black horse.
Faust galloped toward Georgette, who looked very small and fragile compared to the enormous thundering animal. The hat dropped from Faust’s mouth and flew over his back to flutter in the dust behind him. Faust looked as if he would run right over Georgette, passing by her with only inches between their bodies and not slowing a stride. Georgette grabbed the long silver horn of the saddle and swung herself up onto the horse’s back with ease. Faust didn’t slow as he barreled into the shoot. It looked barely wide enough to accommodate the horse and woman’s bare legs on either side of him. Hooves drummed like a gatling gun up the metal ramp as Faust lunged up the steep incline. He charged as he reached the end, vaulting out into space like it was nothing more than clearing a low fence.
Jacques shot forward in his seat, all but leaning out over the rail as he watched the horse and woman dive through the air toward the cold, navy water far below. Faust’s mane and Georgett’s hair blew out behind them as they fell, Faust’s tail flowing behind him like a sail. The horse’s form was as fine as any professional diver, his body stretched long like an arrow with his front hooves tucked under his chest and his ears flattened against his neck. Georgette kept her seat on his back, clutching his mane tight. She tucked her head against his neck before they hit, burying her face in his mane.
They hit the water with a great splash, submerging entirely, and Jacques thought that both horse and woman must have broken their necks. While horses were usually fine during such stunts, it wasn’t uncommon for riders to break bones, including their necks, or blind themselves. To Jacques, it seemed like they took an eternity to surface. He sighed with relief when Faust erupted from the water, blowing water from his nose, and swam to the head of the pool where the bottom was ramped to allow the horse to trot out with Georgette still seated on his back. She whipped her head back, dramatically slinging the hair out of her face like a mermaid breaching the waves. She arched her back and waved to the crowd to a great chorus of cheers, shouts, and applause. Jacques was up on his feet, clapping harder than anyone and watching her every movement in that revealing gold swimsuit.
“All of us cowboys and cowgirls hope you have enjoyed our little Wild West Show!” the announcer called. “If you liked it, tell your friends! If you didn’t like it, tell your friends all the same!”
After her dive, Georgette only took the time to ensure her horse received a good petting and a treat from her hand before she handed him off to a groom and hurried to her dressing room. In those few minutes, she was shivering and her teeth chattering. The cold was biting in London this late in the year, made worse by the humidity, and she felt chilled to her bones. She wouldn’t have performed a dive this late in the season for any regular show, but this was a special occasion.
Thankfully, a tub filled with steaming water awaited her. While the rest of the crew hobnobbed with the Lords and Ladies who wanted to meet the genuine American roughnecks in person, Georgette lounged in the tub. She considered this a score on two fronts. She had a rare moment to relax while also avoiding the obligatory socializing the rest of the crew underwent. Her dressing room was tiny, barely large enough to accommodate the tub and a mirrored vanity. Several bouquets of flowers crowded the vanity with a few overflow bouquets propped in one corner. The steam from the water filled the little room with an opaque haze that smelled of roses and Parisian bath salts. It was Georgette’s most relaxed moment of the day.
The near-scalding water and rosy bubbles were usually enough to relax her muscles and quell her thoughts in a few minutes, but as she lounged in the bath, she felt the odd but unmistakable sensation of being watched. It was absurd inside the little room. There was certainly no place for anyone to hide. She closed her eyes, forcing her mind to more rational pursuits, and breathed deep. Sinking deeper into the water, she glimpsed a figure through her half-lidded eyes. She shot bolt upright in the tub, sloshing water over the side, ready to fight the towering shadow she saw in the corner. But of course, there was nothing there. She saw that now, with her eyes fully open. It was a trick of the haze through her half-closed eyes, perhaps combined with the general strangeness of being so far away from home. Shaking her head at her own foolishness, she relaxed back into the water.
She was interrupted again by a knock on her door, and a voice as smooth and warm as bourbon spoke to her from the other side.
“Begging your pardon, miss,” Jacques crooned, a grin audible on his words. “I wished to congratulate the star of the show, but a rather imperious groom told me that I had to have permission from his owner to give Faust an apple.”
“I’ll relay your adulation.” She smiled.
“I would also very much like to congratulate his rider,” Jacques said through the door.
“Is this how a gentleman approaches a lady?” she replied, glaring at the door. “I was told British men had more decorum.”
“I would be remiss to represent myself as a gentleman,” Jacques said in a huskier tone. “Furthermore, I have seen enough of you to know that you would not be frightened away by a little thing like a lack of decorum.”
“I could forgive your trespass of accosting me in the bath, but I do not look kindly on you attending my show flaunting a woman on each arm.” She settled back in the tub, refusing to look at the door even if he couldn’t see her small act of rejection. “Women I gather you’ve now abandoned to come here and stand insolently outside my door.”
He was silent for a moment and she added, “My spies are everywhere.”
“They are nothing more than aperitifs.” Jacques waved his hand dismissively. “Fleeting company for an evening. Certainly not the sort of women I would pursue across the city, and plead with through a locked door.”
“You’re very open about your actions with them,” she huffed with unveiled disgust.
“I do not wish to embark on a journey with a lie when it holds the promise of something lasting and genuine.” He leaned against the door. Even through the wood, her enticing scent carried to him, heavy on the steam.
“Your words are as fancy as your tailored suit,” she quipped. “I have no doubt you can slip into the role of a Cassanova as easily as you can don a topcoat. One is just as superficial as the other.”
“How would you have me prove otherwise?” Jacques spoke to the door, his prominent nose nearly grazing the wood. “Give me any task, milady. Anything you wish.”
“Were I to give you such a task, it would certainly not be something in which I thought you would excel.” She thought for a moment. “No, it would have to be something at which you are terrible. Something utterly demeaning and embarrassing.”
“Demeaning and embarrassing?” Jacques laughed. “Well, I’ll admit that’s a first. You can’t know what a rarity it is for me to experience something for the first time with anyone.”
“A first for a man like you?” she scoffed. “Oh, I’m sure you’re quite the blushing bride behind closed doors.”
“I could sing for you,” Jacques offered with a grin. “That would demean and embarrass me.”
“It’s obvious you’re very impressed with yourself, and no doubt used to impressing women with ease. I have no interest in any of your tactics you’ve employed on other ladies like so much unsuspecting prey.” She ran a soapy sponge down the side of her neck. “You must do for me something you have never done for any other women.”
“What privilege will that earn me?” he asked in a lower tone.
“The privilege of making me smile.” She smiled to herself. “What else would you possibly expect a lady to promise in return? I wonder at the species of harlot you must be accustomed to.”
“If you’re concerned about setting yourself apart, you already have,” Jacques crooned.
“I’m flattered, but that was not my concern,” she said flatly. “You’ve yet to set yourself apart to me. Aside from your pretty face and your brass, I’m waiting to be impressed.”
“I have a pretty face, do I?” He smirked. “I’ll try my best not to keep you wanting. Give me a proper chance, and I cannot fail to impress you.”
“Admittedly, I’m somewhat impressed you haven’t barged in here,” she laughed. “You seem to go and do as you please with little regard for decorum.”
“Says the woman who rides wild horses wearing nearly nothing. I do indeed go and do as I please. But while I put little stock in decorum, I am not so much a boor as to intrude upon the intimate ablutions of a lady without her permission.” He dropped his voice to his sultriest tone. “Do I have your permission to enter, mon cherie?”
A gruff voice interrupted from behind Jacques, “This man botherin’ you, Georgie?” The tall King of the Cowboys projected his voice loud enough to be easily heard through the door. He was possessive over Georgette in a way that made Jacques think he had a reason to be. It was almost enough to incite him to murder right then and there. Sadly, that would probably not be the best approach to win the woman’s affection.
“You seem rather comfortable entering a lady’s dressing room,” Jacques said instead, keeping his words relatively innocuous while flashing a rude sneer at the man to silently provoke him. It would be beautiful if the ruffian took a swing at Jacques and gave him the opening to respond in kind. Jacques noticed the cowboy wore a gold earring in one ear, giving him a piratical look. It took great restraint for Jacques to refrain from yanking it out.
Buck didn’t bite on the provocation. He grinned and put a hand-rolled cigarette between his lips. “Who says I ain’t got a good reason to be nice ‘n comfortable here?”
“Neither of you are entitled to feel comfortable in my dressing room,” Georgette reprimanded them both through the door. “Or haranguing me from outside my door, for that matter.”
“Where, then, shall I harangue you?” Jacques persisted, casting a side eye at the other man.
“You’re quite good at finding me,” she teased. “I’m sure you’ll connive yet another inconvenient opportunity to bother me.”
“I will, that’s a promise,” Jacques agreed and grinned wickedly at the cowboy. “Until then, darling.”
Jacques straightened and Buck bristled. Jacques was satisfied to see that he stood a fraction taller than the other man when his back was straight. Holding the cowboy’s blue stare, Jacques walked past him so close they almost brushed shoulders. He made his challenge clear and belligerent. What great sport it would be if the beastly American took the bait.
The sights of London were almost overwhelming for someone from Colorado where a paved street was a novelty. Colorado Springs was one of the few towns with a modern brick street down the center of town. Georgette had ample experience with mountain lions and wild horses, miners and mountain men, and gunfights with two men walking out into the street and only one returning. But the sights of London were unlike anything she had experienced, they were fantastical to her. To see gas lamps illuminating shiny cobblestone streets well into the night, and even the occasional building lit with electric light. She was determined to see as much of the spectacular city as she could while she was there.
Georgette preferred to take in the city in the afternoons and into the evenings. The crowds were diminished during those hours and, more importantly, she wanted to minimize the risk of her being recognized. The best part of her act was her change from Fearless George the trick rider to Georgette the horse diver. It never failed to earn a riotous applause from the audience. Likewise, she didn’t ride out in town on Faust, although she would have preferred to, so he could not be recognized as the trick horse from the show who flies off the high dive platform.
The sun was sinking toward the Western horizon as she strolled down a lively street on her first day off after the remarkably successful weekend shows. Steely clouds crept across the sky, making the waning sunlight look like a bloody wound seeping through grey gauze, and the evening air was cool on her skin. She was not in the habit of wearing a bustle – in the American West, high fashion was still something of a novelty outside of the biggest cities. She had come prepared with fine dresses and accoutrements should the occasion call for it, but for her sightseeing outings, it was convenient to dress simply and it eased her movements. She kept a brisk pace with no bustle to hamper her and only a modest front-lacing corset that didn’t constrict her breathing.
Gas lamps lining the street had been freshly lit casting glimmering light on the city slick with foggy dew. Carriages trotted up and down the street filling the air with the cadence of hooves on stone and the vague smell of horse sweat and leather mingled with the damp smell of the city. Clothing stores displayed the most stylish fashion in their windows, but what caught Georgette’s eye was a striking lithograph poster advertising a magician show. She paused in front of the poster of Kylo the Malevolent, looking into the magician’s eyes that were penetrating even on poster stock. She was reminded of a short story she had read ages ago called Vampyre. She thought it would be nice to take in a magic show, or visit one of the famous cabinets of curiosities in the city.
The familiar sounds of the dwindling chatter of the evening carried on behind her, mixed with the clatter of horse’s hooves. One pair of clattering hooves grew louder, the horse coming close to her. The hooves stopped suddenly as she whipped around, startled. Georgette came face to face with the soft muzzle of a large dapple-grey horse, standing so close she could feel the heat of its breath. Seated on the animal was a large handsome man, grinning down at her devilishly with mischief gleaming in his vibrant eyes.
Jacques Le Gris tipped his head back to look up at the gloomy evening sky and held his gloved hand out as if to test for any rain. He returned his eyes to hers, grinned again, and told her, “A perfectly fine evening to harangue a lovely lady, is it not?”
“I already have my evening planned, I’m afraid,” she said coyly and continued walking down the sidewalk on her way.
Jacques kept his horse facing her as she walked, making the horse side-pass perfectly down the street with his front hooves inches from the sidewalk. He sat straight and poised in the saddle in the English style, his commands to the horse almost invisible. “You’re not the only one with tricks, mademoiselle.”
“Men and their tricks are almost always tiresome. If I wanted to see parlor tricks, I would take in the devious looking magician’s show,” she said dismissively as she walked ahead without sparing him a glance. “I believe I told you I would enjoy seeing you perform some embarrassing act for me? I would have been much more impressed if you had appeared riding a donkey with your laughably large feet dragging the ground.”
“You’ve not yet given me the chance to properly embarrass myself,” Jacques countered, still commanding his horse to prance sideways and keep him facing her as at ease as if he sat in his favorite chair. “I thought you might enjoy your conquest more if you were to embarrass me yourself.”
This piqued her interest, and she turned to cock a curious eyebrow at him.
“I took you for a lady who would want to seize victory herself,” Jacques said. “Anything less would be a pyrrhic victory, would it not?” He gestured down at his horse and gave his voice a teasingly haughty air. “You’re quite an impressive rider. For a woman. I wonder how you’d fare in a race against me.”
“Since I am afoot at present, you have me at a disadvantage,” she huffed.
“And if you were astride that black beast of yours?” he asked as his horse danced sideways, snorting impatiently.
“I’d wipe that smug grin off your face in less than a furlong,” she said without batting an eye.
Jacques had timed it perfectly because as Georgette finished her statement, she reached a cross street. Standing at the curb where the cab carriages usually waited for customers was Faust. Georgette stopped short, shocked to see her horse saddled in her western gear, his ears pricked forward to greet her. The foulest looking man she had ever seen held Faust’s reins – if such a deformed monstrosity could be called a man. The wretched creature looked like he had been plagued with leprosy, but that the disease might have improved his features.
“What the hell is this?” she asked angrily as she rushed to her horse and yanked the reins away from the loathsome man who looked at her with hazy black eyes. “Did you steal him? I hope you did, because if not, I’m going to skin that horrible little stable hand alive!”
“I had to bribe him so well, I am the man who is the victim of theft,” Jacques laughed. “Don’t be too hard on the stable hand. I can be more persuasive than most.”
“Persistent does not equate to persuasive,” she quipped, satisfied that her horse appeared fine.
“If you want to reprimand me,” Jacques smirked. “You’ll have to catch me.”
“What are you thinking?” she asked exasperatedly. “That I will just happily climb onto my horse after you stole him, and engage you in an impromptu race? While wearing a dress, I might add.”
“When you put it like that, I can see how it could be too much for you.” He grinned wider.
“Nothing you can throw my way is too much for me,” she scoffed at him and at herself for succumbing so easily to his provocation. Backing down from a challenge was not a form of restraint she had ever mastered, nor ever cared to. She glanced quickly down at her dress. It was not a split skirt designed for riding and she wore heeled boots instead of riding boots, an outfit entirely ill-suited for riding.
“I promise to keep my composure even if you’re risqué enough to hike your skirt up and expose your ankles,” he teased, looking pointedly at the hem of her dress.
“I don’t need to ride astride to best a braggart,” she said as she walked to the left side of her horse, preparing to mount.
“Do you need a hand?” he asked, edging his horse closer.
“Certainly not,” she huffed and swung herself up into the saddle. She kept her left foot in the stirrup and hooked her right over the saddle horn to sit in a makeshift sidesaddle. To ride astride, she would have had to pull her skirts up around her thighs, which was probably exactly what Jacques was hoping for and she would never give him the satisfaction. Glaring at Jaques, she smoothed her skirts primly, ensuring they draped down past her ankles and exposed no skin.
“I wasn’t expecting so much modesty from a woman who bares her legs in front of thousands of spectators to ride bareback and plunge into water,” Jacques teased, bringing his horse close to hers.
“We both know I’m safer exposed in front of a crowd of thousands than one dangerous man,” she returned, holding her horse in place as he pawed his front hoof in anticipation.
“Any danger within me is no threat to you,” Jacques told her seriously. “I would never harm you.”
“Neither my person nor my reputation?” she asked with raised eyebrows.
Jacques grinned and shrugged without answering.
“Just what I thought.” She smiled back. “I’m sure you have more tricks up your sleeve than that Magician on all the posters.”
“I do. He’s an amateur,” Jacques dropped his voice. “But if you wish to be awed, I’m sure I can think of something to accommodate you.” When she only replied with a bored expression, he cleared his throat and told her, “Hyde Park isn’t far. It has a nice dirt track running along its south side called Rotten Row. We can race around as many times as it takes you to win.”
“How boring,” she said dismissively. “I’ll race you to Rotten Row from here instead.” With that, she poked her horse in the shoulder and clicked her tongue in some practiced cue. Faust pinned his ears and struck out at Jacques’s horse like an angry cat, landing a painful bite to the other horse’s rump.
Jacques’s horse squealed indignantly and jumped forward like he had been rudely whipped. Georgette laughed and kicked Faust, sending him into a gallop in two powerful lunges. Jacques cursed his startled horse as he reined him back under control, then laughed deeply as he watched Georgette gallop away from him. Jacques kicked his horse, making him rear then jump into a run after his opponent. The horse slid when his front hooves struck the cobblestone with a riot of sparks, giving Georgette another few strides lead. Georgette cast a look back over her shoulder to see how far ahead she was and laughed heartily at her early lead. Jacques caught her eye and winked. His horse was powerful and used to races and steeplechase, and he gained ground fast.
The horses flew the length of a block in seconds, sending the ghostly evening mist swirling around their legs. In the second block, Jacques’s horse came even with Faust’s haunch as the beasts galloped against each other. Jacques was close enough that could have reached out and grabbed the hem of Georgette’s dress as it billowed behind her leg as she rode sidesaddle. An alley branched off the street on their left. Georgette could see little inside it but shadows in the lateness of the evening. When Faust came to the alley, Georgette reined him, forcing his back hooves to slide on the cobblestone as he sat back his haunches to make the tight turn.
“Do try to keep up!” Georgette shouted over her shoulder.
The alley was narrow, barely wide enough to accommodate a horse and rider. Jacques had to sit back on his reins and bring his horse into a skid to slow enough to make the turn, grinning as he did at having such fine sport. He did not have the masculine weakness of being unable to admit when he met a woman who was his equal or even his superior, albeit this was a rare occurrence. He was pleased and enthused to have met one now, at least when seated on the back of a horse. Georgette tucked her toes against Faust’s side, wary of them striking some protrusion she couldn’t see in the dark. Fortunately, horses have better night vision than humans and Faust avoided any obstacles in his path. Georgette barely saw the pile of crates that had been carelessly discarded in the alley until they were nearly upon them, but Faust gathered himself for the jump and soared over them with ease, landing without breaking the stride of his gallop.
Of course, vampires could see even better in the dark than horses. Jacques’s sight was equal to a wolf or panther or any other nocturnal beast. The pile of crates was as visible to him as white bones in the desert. He saw every detail of the black horse ahead of him and his beautiful rider. Even as his horse took the jump, Jacques’s eyes were fixed on the way Georgette kept a perfect seat and the lovely view he had of that seat devoid of a bustle.
“Bear right if you wish to keep your lead to Hyde Park!” Jacques boomed over the cadence of hoofbeats when Georgette reached the end of the alley.
The alley emptied onto a street through a business district lined with closed shops and nearly devoid of traffic as nightfall approached. One shop owner who was late in closing up glared at them through his window when the pair of horses thundered down the cobblestone in front of his door. Jacques’s horse was shod and the iron shoes sparked on the cobblestone making him look like a silver beast fueled by hellfire, snorting with every stride. A lone cab drawn by a single horse trotted down the street toward them. The horse startled when Jacques and Georgette each flew past him on opposite sides, and the driver cursed them and threw in their mothers for good measure.
Neck and neck, they barreled into Hyde Park. The pair of horses tore down the dirt track called Rotten Row, kicking up clods of dirt under their thundering hooves. Rotten Row was a popular lane for riders, but in the gloaming Jacques and Georgette were alone. Trees grew close on either side of the lane, their branches hanging close enough to grasp at them like witches’ claws. Both horses were large and powerful, not running fleetly like thoroughbreds, but charging ahead like destriers ridden by knights of old. As they neared a bend in the track, Jacques kicked his horse to get a small burst of additional speed. He swept his right hand through Georgette’s skirt and laughed as he passed her, surging into the turn just ahead of her.
Darkness had settled over them while they had raced through town and the stars winked down through the veil of clouds leaving them in shadows and the light spectral mist as they charged down the row.
A violent crack tore the soft belly out of the night, as sharp as the bite of a bullwhip, and the trees at their side thrashed into the lane like an army of living branches. Jacques’s horse buckled when he hit the rope strung across the lane, catapulting forward over his head and neck in a macabre somersault. And rolling over Jacques as he did. A rope attached to a mostly sawn-through tree was run across the lane, acting as a boobytrap to bring a tree down on top of a rider unlucky enough to hit it – if the rope didn’t behead him first.
A ton of tree trunk and barren branches as sharp as spears came crashing down on the crumpled mass of Jacques and his horse as they both thrashed and kicked painfully over the ground. The last sight Georgette had of Jacques was of his magnificent chest being crushed between his horse’s neck and the unforgiving ground as his horse rolled over him, and his flesh being lanced by branches before the tree crushed down upon both horse and rider.
Faust stopped on his own, not needing a command from his rider to dig his hooves into the dirt and slide to a stop before colliding with the fallen tree. It was fortunate Faust took care of himself and Georgette because she was paralyzed with horror, a scream trapped in her throat tight enough to strangle her. She vaguely registered noises in the trees on either side of her, but her mind was at once both reeling and numb. Faust stomped his hooves and shifted nervously as Georgette slid off his back and stumbled awkwardly on wavering legs. She clutched Faust’s reins in a shaking fist and her chest felt tighter than the most unforgiving corset. The tree that had crushed Jacques and his horse thrashed on the ground in front of her, no doubt from the wounded animal pinned beneath it. She didn’t want to get any closer to it or see what horror it had caused. But she had to help Jacques. Even if she knew he could not possibly walk away from such an accident, and likely not survive it.
Suddenly, the trees on either side of the lane erupted with dark snarling bodies bursting from them and charging at Georgette. A pack of large hounds leapt at her from the foliage, their teeth bared, snarling their intent. She recognized the roman noses and bristled fur that belonged to Irish Wolfhounds as they charged her and Faust. She heard the shouts of their master’s still inside the trees. The nearest dog leapt at her, teeth bared, and she whipped the reins she held across its eyes as she ducked sideways. The hound yelped and stumbled, missing his aim for her throat. A second dog caught her sleeve, growling as it tried to yank her to the ground. Faust struck out with his front hoof and hit the dog in the head, knocking its jaw slack. He reared and pawed down onto the hound’s neck, driving it into the ground and killing it instantly.
A pack of several dogs were digging at the fallen tree, braying and snarling like they were hot on the scent of their prey. Two dogs attacked Faust from behind, biting his heels and hocks in an attempt to cripple him. The horse kicked and bucked, inadvertently yanking Georgette off balance from her hold on the reins. One dog he kicked loose switched its attention to Georgette and jumped at her with open, bloody jaws. On instinct, she raised her arm in front of her face and felt the sharp crunching pain of the dog sinking its teeth into her forearm as the weight of the large hound knocked her backward onto the ground. The dog weighed as much as an average man and muscled her to her back on the ground with its weight. Despite the pain in her forearm, she wedged it deeper into the dog’s mouth, using it as a barrier between the ravening beast and her face.
It must only have been seconds since Jacques’s horse fell and the tree crushed them both, but time had dragged on as agonizingly as the pain spearing Georgette’s arm. Something broke out of the fallen tree with explosive force, like a lion breaking free of a wooden cage. Branches and splinters flew through the air like shrapnel and several dogs howled with fear and yelped with pain. Georgette could see nothing but the mottled fur and beady eyes of the dog above her, and then with sudden brute force, the dog was ripped away from her with a pained squeal and thrown across the lane as though it were a stuffed toy.
Jacques stood above her, his shoulders hunched in a fighting stance, wearing a snarl more ferocious than the hounds. His fists weren’t balled, his hands open instead, as if he was hoping to rip living bodies apart with them. There were tears in his jacket, across his back and shoulders, and his undershirt was scarlet with his own blood. Blood streaked his face and ran from his lips, but she didn’t see any obvious injuries. His eyes raced over her body, assessing her injuries quickly without diverting his attention from his attackers. One of the braver hounds lunged at Jacques’s face, but met with his hand as Jacques caught it in the air by its throat with his crushing fist. Another dog took the opening to jump onto his back, snapping down at the back of his neck and trying to paralyze him like a wounded animal. Growling with rage, Jacques shook the hound off his back and threw the hound he held by the throat into the other, sending them both careening over the ground and running away with terrified yelps.
Jacques stepped over Georgette, placing himself between her and whatever other danger still lurked in the trees. Though his movements were not frantic, he moved with unnatural quickness. He appeared to not even be hurried, yet the lines of him were blurred with his swiftness, like a striking viper. His eyes were narrowed and vicious, focused on something in the trees that Georgette couldn’t see. Slowly, he knelt beside her and took her arm. He didn’t spare the time to examine the dog bite as he pulled her up to her feet. Though she was perfectly capable of standing, walking, or anything else that was needed of her, Jacques lifted her into his arms and swung her up onto her horse. He placed her foot in her stirrup and let his hand linger on her calf.
“Run, darling,” he told her as he squeezed her leg. “Run out of the park. I’ll deal with them. They won’t catch you.”
“Who’s they?” she asked as she gathered her reins to control Faust as he danced nervously in place.
“I’ll come to you after I’ve handled this.” He didn’t answer her question.
Jacques turned to face the trees, shoulders bunched and teeth bared wolfishly. A growl rumbled in his thick chest, an inhuman sound that raised the hairs on Georgette’s neck. Faust reared in fright and tried to bolt away from Jacques, but she reined him back. The black horse kept his composure amid gunfire and battle, but he reared and spun in place now, rattled with such fear that his body quivered, his nostrils flared, and his eyes rolled until they showed white as he side-eyed Jacques. It unnerved Georgette to see that it was not the hounds nor the attack that had terrified her horse, but Jacques. Georgette saw it too, the way Jacques looked ravenous and bestial with his wild hair and predatory stance. His eyes were no longer amber, but glinted a lupine yellow, his lateral incisors had grown to points and his canines were long, sharpened fangs. Images flashed through Georgette’s mind, conjured from the tales and legends she had heard growing up in the Wild West – tales of skinwalkers and werewolves.
She didn’t have long to ponder it.
Something shot out of the trees faster than the eye could follow. With great swiftness, Jacques twisted sideways and caught the thing out of the air as it flew past his head. A steel arrow with brutally hooked barbs was trapped in his fist. Attached to the fletching was a steel chain that was drawn taught, leading back to a crossbow designed to hook its prey and drag it back to the hunter like a whaling harpoon. Jacques yanked the arrow and attached chain toward him, snarling with delight.
A shout came from the trees followed by the thrashing of foliage as Jacques dragged a man out of the brush like a salmon on a fishing line. The man still held his crossbow, trying futility to gain the upper hand with Jacques. Two other men charged out of the trees holding weapons unlike any Georgette had ever seen, something like snub-barreled shotguns with multiple, large-bore barrels. She didn’t hesitate. Georgette pulled her tiny pepperbox derringer from the garter on her thigh and fired two of its six barrels into the closest man, blowing his head apart like a ripe pumpkin. As the first man collapsed, blood spurting from the blown-open side of his face and empty, gaping eye socket, Georgette fired another round into the second man. The bullet flew straight into his open mouth and blew out the back of his head in chunky pink mist.
Both men were on the ground twitching in the second it took Jacques to reel in his attacker. Jacques whipped his hand across the man’s face, hooking his thumb under the man’s jawbone like hooking a fish, and violently ripped the poor bastard’s jaw completely off with one swipe. The man’s eyes bulged almost comically and his tongue twitched from side to side in a gaping bloody hole, free and confused without its seat in the jaw.
Still clutching the man’s detached jaw, Jacques held it at eye level and addressed it like Hamlet’s skull, “What else should I rip off your owner for attacking a lady and casting a pall over a rather promising evening?”
The man’s eyes widened impossibly further and a wet gargling screech hissed from the hole in his face when he guessed Jacques’s intent. Jacques flipped the jaw in his hand so the lower teeth faced outward and rammed it with all his brute strength into what remained of the man’s face. The man’s own lower teeth cut into the bridge of his nose and ruptured one of his eyes. As the man staggered backward, Jacques grabbed his lapels and yanked the man toward him. Jacques bent forward and attacked the man’s neck, tearing into it like a rabid beast and ripping the flesh of his throat apart.
Georgette had never seen such gruesome violence. She was unable to look away, her eyes still locked on Jacques when he turned to face her, his beard and chest coated in viscous, dripping blood. Faust trembled beneath her and the remaining wolfhounds brayed mournfully over their dead owners. The gun in her hand moved with a mind of its own as it drifted toward Jacques’s chest.
Jacques raised his bloody hands and grinned, flashing sharp canines shining scarlet. He approached her slowly, the way he would a frightened animal, and held out his right hand. “May I?” He gestured for her derringer.
Wordlessly, she handed him the little pistol. Whatever he was, Jacques had protected her, so she rationalized that she needn’t fear him. Jacques took the gun and walked back to the opposite side of the fallen tree. He knelt and stroked the dapple-grey neck of his horse, still trapped beneath the tree and breathing with difficulty. “Au revoir, mon ami,” he said with hoarse regret as he soothingly petted the horse’s neck with his left hand and fired a shot into its head to end its misery. He straightened and looked down at his horse for a long moment until he was sure no tears would breach his eyes before he walked back to Georgette.
Four wolfhounds still circled them, heads lowered, watching them warily. Jacques rolled his shoulders and growled at them more vicious and rumbling than any canine, so guttural his hair seemed to rise like the hair on the hounds’ backs. The hounds whimpered and dropped their heads in submission before backing away slowly and deferentially.
“I told you to run,” Jacques said with gravel in his voice when he again stood beside Faust.
“I don’t run scared. And I damn sure don’t follow orders,” she said firmly. “I’m sorry about your horse.”
“So am I.” He handed her the derringer and rested his hand on her thigh to comfort himself.
“Are you a werewolf?” she couldn’t help but ask.
“Christ, no!” Jacques spat, almost hissing as his hackled rose like a cat sprayed with water. “I will tell you on the ride home.”
“Home?” She frowned.
“I keep a home in town,” Jacques gestured at his blood-soaked clothing. “Imagine how the rumors will run rampant if I am seen looking like Jack the Ripper.”
Without waiting for an invitation, Jacques swung up onto Faust behind Georgette and looped his arms lightly around her waist. His breath was hot on her ear and smelled of coppery blood. Wet heat seeped through her clothing on her back from Jacques’s blood-soaked chest pressed against her.
“Is the blood yours or theirs?” she asked as she turned Faust away from the chaos.
“Mine, mostly. Felling a tree was a nice touch. New to me.” Jacques grinned mirthlessly. “It’s nothing to trouble yourself over.”
“I’ll find a doctor,” she said with concern.
“That won’t be necessary.” He tightened his hold around her waist. “My home is on Park Lane.”
“Tell me what exactly I just lived through tonight,” she said and kicked Faust into a canter.
The home Jacques kept on Park Lane, dubbed Brook House, was grand and elegant, standing five stories above the carriages that trotted by on the cobblestone street. A footman in a sharp uniform rushed out to meet them as Georgette brought Faust to a stop at the front door. The footman looked up at Jacques with the same black haze in his eyes that the obscene valet possessed, and took Faust’s reins. Jacques dismounted with the flair Georgette had come to expect from him, his movement devoid of pain or injury. He offered her his hand to step down from her horse, then moved his hand to her waist possessively when she stood beside him. Jacques stopped her when Georgette made for the door to his home.
“If you come inside, I may never let you leave,” he said and tightened his hold on her waist. “I’ll have my carriage drive you home.”
“Don’t be absurd! You’re badly injured,” she protested. She was still digesting what Jacques had revealed to her about his nature during their ride to Brook House.
“Am I?” He grinned devilishly. “I would love nothing more than to feel your healing touch, but I will not have it under false pretenses.”
“Have you lost so much blood you’re delirious?” she scoffed, eyeing how his shirt was plastered to his chest with drying blood.
“See for yourself,” he purred as he leaned in closer and pulled the lapel of his jacket aside.
Tentatively, she reached to the top button of his white shirt and began unbuttoning it. The way he smirked at her uncertainty eliminated it, and she looked brazenly into his eyes as she deftly unbuttoned his shirt down to where it was tucked into his trousers. His pale skin shone red with blood, but she saw no injuries. She ran a hand over his chest to convince herself by touch what her eyes told her, feeling the thick ridges of warm muscle. It was as though he had just emerged unharmed from a bath of blood.
“I’ve done that too, in another life,” he teased. He brought his fingertips to her cheek and caressed her skin. “Your thoughts are loud when you worry. I hope this has put your mind at ease.”
“At ease is the wrong term,” she couldn’t help but laugh.
“It occurs to me I should have suggested a kiss from you would heal me a few moments ago,” he said huskily, leaning in slightly closer until only inches separated them.
Georgette tilted her chin up and smirked at him, challenging him to not only kiss her but to impress her. Jacques trailed his hand from her cheek down to her throat, letting it rest there and using his thumb to angle her chin as he wanted when he brought his lips to hers.
His plush lips were so much softer than she had imagined. He kissed her gently, his lips caressing hers with indulgent passion, making her body melt against his. It was she who parted her lips first, an invitation to deepen his kiss that Jacques hungrily took. The heat of his tongue seared through her entire body, and the heady masculine taste of him made her shudder pleasantly. His chest rumbled with his approval as his lips moved against hers. It was clear that he was a very skilled lover, so easily raising a rash of goosebumps down Georgette’s spine. When she finally pulled back from his kiss for breath, her eyelids were slow to flutter open and return her to reality.
“Your lips could raise a man from the dead.” He smiled down at her, swaying softly as he held her in his arms.
“Be more cautious in the future so they never have to.” She pulled him back down by his lapels to kiss him again.
“Ah, but you already have, ma belle dangereuse,” Jacques crooned, his voice rumbling thickly in his chest. “You’ve made my deadened heart beat so frantically I could dance to the rhythm.”
“And yet you want to send me away tonight?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Unless you wish to stay forever,” he told her without a hint of teasing.
“I’ll think on it.” She did tease because he was too serious not to.
“While you do, join me for an intimate soiree at my dear friend’s home.” His nose was still so close to hers that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin.
“Will I have to fight a harem of women for a place on your arm?” She pulled back to watch his expression when he answered.
“Never,” Jacques assured her. “No one compares to you.”
“Surely, you must have as many lusting women hunting you as you do vampire hunters,” she said. “No doubt plenty of them would have my head on a spit as readily as a vampire hunter would yours.”
‘The number of those hunting me doesn’t matter.” He trailed a finger down her cheek. “There is only one I will let catch me.”
“What if I dispatched with any trespassing women with the same finality you did the hunters?” She smiled, looking up at him through thick eyelashes. “What if that’s how I expect you to deal with them so long as I keep your company?”
“If it piques your fancy.” Jacques grinned wickedly, flashing his pointed canines. “I do love a bloodthirsty woman.”
Logistics regarding the soiree Georgette had agreed to attend with Jacques had not been discussed. It was a bit disheartening when she didn’t hear from the persistent man for days. She felt she should be worried, given the injuries she saw him sustain, but she also saw them heal. When a man had all the time in the world – and seemingly all the women – perhaps, he felt less urgency. She was not prone to pining and she felt her thoughts were unnaturally occupied with Jacques. Moreso, it was almost as though she could feel his presence in her mind when it was quiet; when she was in her bath or lying in bed. It felt like he was peering into the window of her mind like a voyeur trying to catch a glimpse of her skin.
She would have to ask him about that.
She had expected Jacques to initiate another run-in with her or an ostensible chance meeting that was obviously premeditated. Instead of surprising her in person, Jacques arranged for a package to be delivered to her room, surprising her by its presence on her bed when she returned one evening. A large box with a crimson ribbon beckoned her, quashing all the irritation she felt at someone breaking into her room. She tried to purge the image from her mind of that horrible creature, Carroughes, tromping around her things.
Sitting on the bed, Georgette ran her hand over the box, untied the ribbon, and lifted the lid. Gasping excitedly at the sight of its contents, she sprang back up from the bed and pulled her gift from the box. The finest scarlet fabric she had ever felt cascaded down from her fingertips, as she held aloft the most elegantly decadent gown she had ever seen. She couldn’t resist hugging the gown to her body and twirling. A small white card fell to the floor from its hiding place within the folds of the gown. Folding the dress carefully and returning it to the box, she bent to retrieve the card. Written upon it in graceful black calligraphy was a simple message.
My Belle Dangereuse,
Have this dress on by 7:00 tomorrow evening. Or have no dress on at all. The curtains in my carriage are impenetrable.
From her window Georgette saw a carriage drawn by a pair of prancing black horses arrive outside the hotel at 6:45pm. The carriage must belong to Jacques, with a coach in funerary black and black harnesses on the black team of horses. Silver accents on the carriage door, harnesses, and bridles glinted in the gas lamps that lined the street, and the curtains were black and silver brocade. Although she was fully dressed and coiffed, and had been for fifteen minutes, she wouldn’t let Jacques know that.
At five ‘til seven, Jacques stepped out of his carriage. The evening breeze ruffled his hair and made his tailcoat flutter around his long legs as he leaned his back against the coach, tapping his walking stick on the cobblestone. Georgette watched him through a slit in her curtains. He was dressed all in black, save for an ascot the same color as her dress, and looked particularly towering with his slim pants, long coat, and top hat. She decided to make him wait longer.
She walked outside at five after wearing the dress Jacques had gifted her, but barely any of the scarlet silk was visible beneath the long astrakhan-trimmed coat she wore. Jacques smiled broadly at the sight of her as he took off his hat and gave her a regal bow with a flourish of his coat. He opened the coach door and tossed his hat and walking stick inside while Georgette walked to him.
“Have you ever been to Switzerland?” Jacques asked, taking her hand and raising it to his lips.
“Is that where your coach is taking us?” she teased.
“I’ll take you there, or anywhere else, on your whim.” Jacques kissed her hand. “The air there is so clear that at night the starlight shimmers on the glaciers like diamonds and the moonlight makes everything glow. You’re beautiful in the same way, shimmering and glowing. A dancing light in the darkness.”
“Says the man who has never seen me dance.” She smirked. “Thank you for the dress.”
“It is thanks enough seeing you in it.” He kept hold of her hand, stroking his thumb over her skin.
“It fits suspiciously well,” she mused. “How did you get my measurements?”
“Would you rather hear that I have an eye for certain qualities, or that my spies are everywhere?” He grinned and guided her into the carriage.
The plush leather seats were rich oxblood and the interior was dark red velvet. The coach dipped when Jacques climbed inside and took his seat across from her. Sitting so close to her, Jacques could feel the heat from her body radiating inside the coach, hear every beat of her heart, savor the sweet scent of her. It was an exquisite form of torture, a sensory overload influencing his body to respond against his will. He crossed his legs, his movements slightly awkward inside the cabin that was made for a smaller man.
Grinning wolfishly, he flashed his vampiric canines at Georgette. The cadence of her heartbeat quickened at the sight and her pupils widened – signs imperceptible to a human, as was the way her scent changed subtly, tinged with a hint more invitation. Jacques’s grin bloomed into a full broad smile when he saw this confirmation that he had read her correctly. She liked the danger about him. Rather than being frightened, she was aroused by that part of him.
“Refreshments?” Jacques asked, reaching below the middle of the seat to pull out a concealed drawer filled with decanters, chocolates, and fruits. “I have scotch, wine, coffee, and tea, and a range of delicacies that pair well with each.”
“I’d best start with coffee and keep my wits about me as long as possible,” she teased. “It surprises me you have it here in the land of tea-drinkers.”
“I have not just any coffee.” He retrieved a pair of teacups and a decanter with contents as black and thick as molasses. “Turkish coffee.” He handed her a cup and poured the strong-smelling sludge into it. “My favorite.”
“It’s a bit presumptive for you to be scheming to keep me up all night so early in the evening.” She raised the cup to her nose. She had never smelled coffee so strong.
“My sinister schemes have no bounds.” Jacques grinned as he filled his own cup and returned the decanter to the drawer.
“Tell me about these plans,” she succeeded at sounding coy until she took a drink of the Turkish coffee and coughed as though she had downed a shot of whiskey. “My god!” she said as she wiped a tear from her eye. “This might keep me awake for the entire weekend.”
“Even better.” Jacques’s eyes crinkled at the edges with delight as he sipped from his cup. “At the risk of shocking you, I’ll warn you my schemes involve conversation and camaraderie. I’d like to learn more about you and reveal anything of me you wish to know.” He took another drink and winked at her. “No matter how sundry and salacious your request may be.”
“Spoken like a man who has all the time in the world.” Georgette’s next drink was invigorating now that she expected the strong bite of caffeine on her tongue.
“That I do, and I don’t want to waste a second of it.” Jacques fixed his unnerving eyes on hers, and Georgette thought their gleam was more citrine tonight, more firelight in them than amber. It was likely a trick of the gas lamps the carriage trotted past. His eyes danced when he added, “I aim to capture your heart before the sun rises.”
“Is that all?” she laughed and sipped her coffee, finding she now enjoyed it very much. “I admire a bold man.”
“I, too, admire boldness, which makes me defenseless against you.” His eyes shimmered, almost hypnotically, making her wonder if this was another vampiric talent. He pointedly looked away out of the carriage window before he began to lose hold on the bestial part of himself. When he returned his eyes to hers, they had mellowed to the color of whiskey. “Tell me what makes a beautiful woman want to live so dangerously? What compels you to travel the world in the company of rough men for these shows?”
“Your question presumes I don’t need to do any of those things to live a perfectly satisfying life.” She held out her cup for him to refill it. “I disagree. Most women I know want nothing more than to marry and start amassing a litter of children, which frankly, sounds like a prison sentence to me. I would like to marry one day, because I feel life is better when shared with someone, but there are limits to how tethered I will ever allow myself to be. There is much I want to do first, like this,” she gestured at the carriage window and the buildings passing by outside. “I want to see the world, and I can do that this way, by travelling for shows, and with relative safety and only a little scandal. Otherwise, to travel so, I would be at the mercy of a husband.”
“Fair enough,” Jacques agreed. “But what in all infernal hell compels you to ride that horse off a diving platform?”
“I enjoy it. There is no more to it than that, and there doesn’t have to be. One day, I’ll be too old to have adventures and danger, and all I’ll have is my story. I’m trying to live a good one.” She smiled sincerely and added, “One of my favorite writers said it best, ‘Ride, boldly ride.”
“’The Shade replied,’” Jacques added the next line for her, playing the role of the Shade. “I too am always searching for cities of gold, in a manner.”
“I’ve all but told you that what I fear most is a cage and infirmity,” she said somberly. “What thoughts trouble a man who never need fear such things?”
“Loneliness,” Jacques answered quickly and sincerely. “Facing the ages alone is a daunting prospect.”
“That doesn’t strike me as an insurmountable problem for you,” she laughed.
“More so than you think, cherie.” Jacques again opened the drawer and returned their empty cups inside. He uncovered a dish of fruits and chocolates, and plucked a pitted black cherry by its stem. “You’ll love the taste after coffee,” he crooned and held it to Georgette’s lips.
Although he sat across from her, Jacques was so large there was little space remaining between them when he offered her the cherry. Leaning tentatively forward, she took the cherry between her teeth, allowing her lips to brush his fingertip when she closed them around it. She closed her eyes in satisfaction at the burst of flavor that complimented the lingering taste of coffee. Jacques watched hungrily at the way her lovely throat moved when she swallowed and the way the cherry had left its stain on her lips. He couldn’t resist tasting them and captured her lips in a soft, savoring kiss. Georgette brought her hand to the back of his neck, her nails sending sparks down his spine. He almost lost control of himself when she wove her fingers into the hair at his collar and pulled him closer.
The world outside could have burned around them, the ground quaked beneath them, and Jacques couldn’t have been bothered to care. There was no world to him now but the intoxicating woman in his arms. Her scent and taste surrounded him, flowed over him and into him until he felt like he could drown in her. Moving his lips to the silken skin of her neck, Jacques moaned headily as he lavished her with kisses.
A rude jolt of the carriage sent Jacques lurching against Georgette, shoving her back against the seat with unintentional roughness. Fortunately, she laughed as the carriage rocked again and Jacques pushed himself off of her and back into his seat.
“Stupid bastard,” he snarled about his disfigured driver. Jacques reached for the window to shout at the man when he realized they had arrived and were parked near a portico framed by fat columns. He hadn’t noticed when the carriage had passed the imposing wrought iron gates and turned onto the long oak-lined driveway leading to the Georgian monstrosity that was Pierre’s London home.
Sitting back in his seat Jacques grinned a little sheepishly at Georgette. “I must tell my driver to slow the horses to a walk on our return. The drive passed too quickly.”
“Do you have enough cherries for a longer drive?” she teased as she smoothed her dress and hair.
“Plenty. I can spend hours eating a cherry,” he thrummed huskily and grinned.
Thousands of flickering lights inside the mansion made its myriad of windows shine like a burst of sunlight in the dark grounds. From its columns and ornate cornices to the statutes watching from stone corners and among lush hedges, manicured to precision, the estate was awash in opulence. The celebration inside gave its masonry glowing life.
Georgette looked out of the carriage window in awe. She had never been to such a grand estate, nor what promised to be an elegant ball. Excitement mingled with nervousness and an unusual shyness. This was not an experience many American westerners were prepared for. Her nerves would be calm and her hands steady if she were rousting a bear out of her grandfather’s cabin in Montana or inside a saloon with men drawing guns on each other or riding a horse at breakneck speed under a full moon. But dresses and dancing and dining under the strict code of English etiquette? It was enough to make a strong man quail in his boots.
“You’ll find no one here stands on formality. No one who matters anyway,” Jacques said soothingly, watching her with the lupine yellow again glinting in his eyes.
“We’re going to have to come to terms over you prodding my thoughts like this,” she said with mild embarrassment.
Jacques grinned and opened the carriage door. Georgette hadn’t noticed the footman patiently waiting outside. The man was apparently trained to wait for the carriage door to be opened from the inside so he did not disturb whatever might be happening in private. Jacques stepped down and whipped his long coat to the side as he donned his top hat, giving him the appearance of a magician on stage performing his act with flourish. He offered Georgette his hand as she exited the carriage then placed her hand in the crook of his arm as he led her to the grand entrance.
“There’s no need to be nervous.” Jacques leaned toward her and she felt his arm flex beneath her hand. “A lady on my arm is the guest of honor. Nothing else matters, nor does any other opinion.”
His comment had the effect of settling her nerves, but not for the reasons he hoped. Georgette felt a flush of anger and a tinge of jealousy at the thought of how many other young women must have made this walk before, treading on the swirled marble floor of the entrance hall on the arm of a handsome man – perhaps even this very same, centuries-old man – full of excitement and hope at what the evening may bring. Where were those women now? They had been as fleeting as a firefly lighting the night with its beauty for one instant only to be forgotten in the next.
“None of them were you,” Jacques said in his most alluring timbre, again holding a conversation with her inner thoughts.
“How many of them have you told that same thing?” she asked cynically.
“I cannot tell you none, but I assure you there have been very few.” He placed his free hand over hers, comforting and warm. “I do not believe there has been more than one woman a century who has truly captivated me as you have done.”
“What became of them?” She looked up at his angular profile, gauging his response. She was surprised to see a passing hint of pain.
“They made a choice, and it was not the one I’d hoped,” he answered cryptically.
“What choice is that?” she pressed.
“One that may soon be presented to you.” Jacques met her eyes and smiled warmly as he led her into the ballroom.
The ballroom glimmered in white and gold. The high ceiling was beautifully decorated with Georgian plasterwork, like sugary icing on a decadent cake, gilt accents glinting across it like stars in a frosted sky. Two pendulous crystal chandeliers sparkled with the light of hundreds of candles. Notes from a string orchestra carried through the room giving elegant couples a rhythm as they danced, men in mostly black paired with women dressed in a kaleidoscope of color.
Georgette took Jacques’s offered hand and smiled when she saw in his eyes a shared anticipation. His hand at her waist felt like a hot iron burning through her dress, making her skin tingle. When Jacques began twirling her to the Danse Macabre her corset felt too tight and her breath came short. She could feel the restrained power of him in every movement. His body seemed particularly large as he deftly led her in a dance across the ballroom, his skill and power making up for her lack of both. Their dance was not just a series of steps but a conversation between their bodies, an intimate exchange and a promise of what could pass between them. Each twirl and dip brought them closer, their bodies pressed together and their faces inches apart, their breaths mingling in the charged air.
At a quick appraisal, the ball was lavish, filled with beauty and romance. The longer Georgette watched the dancers, the more details she noticed. Details that made her skin prickle with something between excitement and a primal sort of fright. Pointed canines nipped at jawlines and dragged along the throats of dance partners. A few couples were actively engaged in biting each other in lewd displays that morbidly mirrored heated kissing. Claws traced lines over exposed skin, and some innocuous movements were too fast for Georgette’s eye to see. Most unsettling were the eyes. There were eyes colored blood red, bone white, and coal black. Retinas colored in tones usually only found in cadavers, eyed their partners hungrily. Some, like Jacques, had eyes that nearly glowed with vibrant color. Those were both the most striking and the most unnerving. A redheaded man watched her with eyes as orange as a sunset and a startlingly beautiful woman with rich violet eyes looked at Jacques from across the room. Georgette saw no other eyes with the enticing, predatory gold that glinted in Jacques’s.
Vampires. They mingled with the crowd, their numbers few compared to the humans, like a pack of wolves weaving through a herd of cattle.
Vignettes came to Georgette in a flash as bodies moved across the dance floor, hiding one couple engaged in an act of depravity as another was revealed.
A vampire, his glacial eyes as piercing as they were cold, held a young woman close, his lips trailing kisses along her neck before his fangs sank into her flesh. The woman’s gasp was one of bliss, her body arching into his as if seeking more of the exquisite pain. Nearby, another vampire, a striking figure with sterling silver hair, pressed his lips fervently to his partner's wrist, the crimson trickle of blood staining his mouth as he drank deeply. The vampiress with violet eyes dragged a pointed fingernail across her clavicle, releasing a drop of ruby blood. Keeping her eyes fixed seductively on Jacques, she collected the blood on her fingertip and licked it away. Jacques held Georgette tighter and bowed his head to trail his lips affectionately and possessively along her cheek.
“You’re safe here,” Jacques told her to put any distress at ease. “Pierre’s parties are friendly to all. Even if they were not, a vampire would squander the long years of his life by crossing me.”
“That’s a bold statement,” she laughed, but relaxed a little inside his arms.
“You happened to mention you fancy a bold man.” He winked at her.
“Only if his boldness is not misplaced.” She laughed.
“How do you judge me?” Jacques raised his eyebrows.
“I’m reserving judgment.” She ran his hand from his shoulder down over his chest.
Vampires and humans swirled together in a seductive waltz, their movements fluid, with an intoxicating, ethereal quality. Their partners, the humans, seemed entranced, their faces a mix of ecstasy and drunkenness as they succumbed to the allure of their immortal companions. The air seemed to shimmer with the quality often confined to dreams, and it was only because of her exposure to Jacques and the mental effects he could induce that Georgette realized it was a product of the combined hypnosis of the vampires there, creating a dreamlike state among the humans. She wondered then if Jacques was keeping her lucid, or if she had a tolerance simply by being aware of the phenomenon’s existence.
A boisterous laugh sounded through the throng of dancers. Georgette saw a flash of red among the crowd and Jacques scoffed with irritation. She recognized Buck Taylor easily, the second tallest man in the room wearing a bold red shirt. He danced with a diminutive woman, all but slinging her around the floor in his arms. Now that she watched the other dancers more closely Georgette recognized other men from the Wild West Show, most of them part of Buck’s Rough Riders.
“Pierre finds great amusement in your American cowboys,” Jacques explained with distaste.
“They can always be trusted to liven up an event.” Georgette saw that several men wore their gunbelts and revolvers peeking out from beneath their rented tailcoats. One of the bumbling cowboys bumped into an elegant vampiress. The pale vampire hissed at the tan cowboy, but he was too focused on his dance partner to notice. Georgette remarked, “I’ll bet your friends can liven things up too.”
“Pierre enjoys spectacle.” Jacques kept his attention on Georgette, unconcerned with the sights around them.
“Did you bring me here because I fit in with the spectacle?” she was only partially teasing.
Jacques shook his head subtly, rustling his long hair. “If this is a circus, you are the ringmaster and I am merely your dancing bear.” He grinned and twirled her unexpectedly, holding her tighter when he brought her back into his arms. As they moved across the floor, their bodies communicated in a language all their own. A subtle shift of Jacques's hand on her waist, the gentle pressure of Georgette's palm against his shoulder, the synchronized glide of their feet. Jacques brushed his lips against Georgette's skin, his breath warm and tantalizing as he savored her exquisite scent. The sound of blood coursing excitedly through her veins was as clear in Jacques’s ears as the orchestra, beating a rhythm to which he would never tire of dancing.
The haunting melody curled around Jacques and Georgette like mist rolling in with the evening breeze. The world seemed to fall away as Jacques's grip on Georgette tightened, pulling her closer. He lowered his head to capture her lips in a kiss that was both tender and consuming. Georgette felt the world around them blur into insignificance, her senses overwhelmed by the softness of his lips and the heady taste of him. Her fingers curled into his hair, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened, their movements growing more synchronized and passionate. Jacques's hands roamed her back, sending shivers down her spine, while her own hands explored the breadth of his strong shoulders.
Jacques’s chest swelled with pride when he pulled back from their kiss with a smile on his lips. He gave her another ebullient twirl. Georgette should have been equally buoyed, the emotion was certainly there. But there was something in the way so many unnatural eyes watched her; the way their fangs glinted when they grinned. The small hairs on the back of her neck prickled with unease. She had never felt herself weak or any semblance of a victim, but now she felt like a doe who had wandered into a den of wolves. Where there had been excitement minutes before, it was now tinged with trepidation. Jacques seemed wholly unaware and entirely absorbed in her alone. She wondered for a dark moment if it was an elaborate ruse to bring her here so he could have her at a disadvantage, but she couldn’t think that of him when he had been nothing but kind to her. He also had no need of placing her at a disadvantage to do anything he wanted to her, if he wanted to act brutish. She couldn’t pinpoint precisely what was amiss, unable to consciously articulate what piqued the primal part of her mind.
“Is it too much trouble to ask for some fresh air and a drink?” she asked instead, using thirst to explain why her mouth had gone dry.
“As you wish,” Jacques assured her.
Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips, keeping his gleaming eyes on hers as he placed a kiss on her skin. Many eyes watched them as they weaved through the crowded ballroom, giving Georgette another prickle of concern like panicky ants crawling up her spine. Buck Taylor watched too, watched her, his eyes narrowed. Buck could be jealous of her, although never enough for him to lay any official claims on her, but he had never been aggressive or mean spirited before. The sight of him unsettled her further so that she clutched Jacques’s hand.
Jacques led her to a grand staircase at the far end of the ballroom and up to the third story. A short walk down a hallway lined with oil paintings found them at a pair of doors opened to a large balcony. They walked to the stone balustrade, taking in the view of the gardens dappled with moonlight. Jacques rested his hand on the small of her back.
“I’m not accustomed to crowds so large.” Georgette inhaled the fresh night air then turned into Jacques, placing her hand on his chest. “Perhaps the drink would taste better someplace else. Take me away from this ruckus and let us enjoy a more private evening.”
A sound rumbled in Jacques’s chest, as if he had forced a groan back down into his gut before it escaped his throat, and his fingers dug into the fabric of her dress. “I didn’t bring you here tonight with that intention, but my god, darling, there’s nothing I want more.” He did groan now, remembering the obligation to his friend. “But first, I’d very much like for you to meet my friend and our host, Pierre. He must be, ah, occupied for a short time. Let me fetch you that drink and then we’ll reassess. One should never attempt anything amorous on a dry throat.”
He stole a lingering kiss then walked from the balcony in a brisk, long stride. Georgette leaned over the balustrade, breathing deep to try to steady her nerves. Cheery sounds of the ball carried to her and the night was beautifully serene. It didn’t help. Men she had known and traveled with for years were acting strangely and this mansion with its elegant veneer and sinister undertone had to be playing on her nerves. It would be irrational for such a set of circumstances not to. She realized too that the man she felt safest with and trusted most was the man she barely knew. She smiled when she heard footsteps approaching her across the balcony.
Her smile faded when she turned and faced a stranger.
An extraordinarily handsome man walked toward her, tall and muscular with dark hair and viper green eyes that gleamed like radium. Four sharp fangs flashed inside his dashing smile. He had the look of a lion stalking his prey when he approached her, gracile but powerful, the chilling, malicious smile only a façade to keep her from taking flight. There was nowhere for her to flee even if she wished it, unless she wanted to charge past him to the only door or fling herself over the balcony. And she didn’t run from fright.
“I had to see for myself what all the fuss was about,” the man said in a rich seductive voice. Meeting her at the railing, he leaned his hip against it and drummed short but pointed nails upon it, as he let his eyes openly travel her figure. “You’ve caused quite a stir in our little cloister.”
“It’s the dress, isn’t it?” she asked to make light, but she didn’t return his false smile.
“Le Gris hasn’t flaunted a human in a very long time,” the man said, a hint of menace dripping from his words. “He has his dalliances, as do we all, but such things are to be kept discreet. It’s frowned upon, you know. Humans are our hounds and cattle. You can see how taboo that makes it for us to entangle ourselves with a human. Let alone to openly cavort with one.”
“Does my standing alone on a balcony constitute cavorting?” she asked brusquely.
“I can smell him on you.” The man leaned too close, bringing his nose near her throat and inhaled lewdly. “As well as the perfume you’re wearing. Tuberose and jasmine. It pairs well with the scent of arousal you cannot hide from us, but clashes with the vanilla fragrance sprayed upon your dress by its maker. The scent left on the fabric by her aged fingers taints the ripeness of your skin.”
“You make my skin crawl.” She looked at him defiantly, a hair’s breadth away from pulling her derringer and firing a bullet into one of his venom green eyes.
“That is not all I could do to your skin.” He snatched her arm, yanking her to him as he brought her arm to his mouth. Georgette couldn’t twist her arm free from his iron grip, forced to watch with revulsion as the man licked the inside of her wrist.
“I, for one, have never had to capture a struggling woman to taste her,” Jacques’s voice boomed across the balcony from where he stood in the doorway. He held a glass of champagne in each hand and walked nonchalantly toward them. Only his aurous eyes, glinting murderously, betrayed the ferocity boiling inside him. “Do you not have a lady of your own to charm this evening, Slyvester?”
Slyvester kept his eyes on Jacques but spoke to Georgette, “Do you know that whomever of us bites you first will have claim to you forever? No matter where you go or how many years pass, or how many other lovers you take, you will carry our mark forever. Much like branding a horse is to you cowboys.”
“Just like branding a horse, it’s a good way for you to get kicked in the teeth,” Georgette spat.
Still holding Georgette’s arm brutally tight, Slyvester dragged it out until her arm was stretched out over the balustrade in a clear threat as he looked at Jacques. “You haven’t bestowed your curse upon her yet. Humans are so fragile, their lives so fleeting.”
Jacques’s lips curled in a snarl matching the menace in his voice, “Whereas it takes a great deal of violence to kill us.” His exposed fangs looked longer to Georgette than before, or perhaps it was the viciousness about him that enhanced his frightening appearance. “If you want to find out firsthand, I’ll accommodate you.”
“You’re past your prime, old man,” Slyvester said venomously. “You peaked during the Enlightenment.” His eyes drifted up toward a window another story above them. “Just like Pierre, you’ve grown content and weak.”
Without warning, Jacques lunged at Slyvester. His movement was almost too fast for Georgette to see – a blur of bared teeth, wicked eyes, and wild hair, shoulders bunched and black coat flapping around his huge body. Growling bestially, Jacques tackled the other vampire with jarring force, sending both men plunging over the balcony to the garden three stories below. Georgette gasped, helplessly watching them plummet. Horror slowed the moment for her, and it appeared to her that they fell in slow motion, clawing at each other and twisting in the air like angry cats.
The men hit the ground far below with bone-shattering force. Georgette leaned far over the balustrade, as if the few extra inches she gained would help her see better. On the ground, the men rolled over one another, a mass of frenzied punching and biting. Their growls and hisses and curses carried to Georgette, along with the sounds of flesh tearing under sharp nails and fists pummeling into meat.
Tearing herself from the rail, Georgette ran as fast as she could to the nearest staircase that would take her down to the garden where the men fought viciously.
Jacques fisted Sylvester’s lapels as he tackled him over the balustrade, holding the bastard beneath him as they fell. He ensured that Slyvester hit the ground on his back with Jacques landing on top of him, driving his fists down into the vampire’s flesh with all the force of his heavy body and gravity. Jacques felt Sylvester’s collarbones shatter and his shoulder blades beneath splinter – a minor injury for a rapidly-healing vampire. Sylvester squealed with rage and pain, thrashing beneath Jacques to unseat him.
Sharpened fingernails slashed across Jacques’s face, temporarily blinding him, and giving the other man a moment’s advantage. Bucking his hips and twisting his body, Slyvester knocked Jacques off and rolled up to his feet. Jacques immediately sprang up into a fighting stance, perfectly balanced, with his fists clenched tight. The ragged claw marks across Jacques’s face healed in seconds, leaving blood streaking down his cheek.
“Can you blame me?” Slyvester asked flippantly as he spat blood from his mouth. “She is enticing. For an appetizer.” He swiped a clawed hand at Jacques the way a boxer used a jab, to gauge distance and create space. “What does Pierre think of her? How is Pierre this evening?”
For the first time that evening, it concerned Jacques that he hadn’t yet seen Pierre. That Sylvester was remarking on it now meant something sinister was afoot. Slyvester shot out a low kick at Jacques’s knee. Jacques jerked his leg up enough for the kick to miss, then stomped his boot down on the front of Slyvester’s knee, digging the tread of his boot into flesh and peeling skin away from the vampire’s skin. Slyvester shrieked with pain as the bone crunched, but even this was little more than a nuisance to a vampire. Slyvester shook his injured leg once and when he returned it to the ground it was healed.
Jacques circled his opponent in another semblance to boxing. Slyvester held his hands high to guard his face. Jacques kept his fists lower but ready, inviting a strike at his face. He even leaned in, making his invitation sweeter. Slyvester took the bait, swiping viciously at Jacques’s face with all his force, putting his body into the blow. Jacques bobbed his head and shoulders to dodge the strike, his timing perfect, and caught the arm Slyvester was foolish enough to give him. Anchoring Slyvester’s wrist in his fist, Jacques slammed his opposite forearm into his enemy’s elbow, shattering the bone. In the same savage motion and with the same arm, Jacques whipped his hand to Slyvester’s face. His thumb caught under his enemy’s nose and his fingers dug into his far eye socket. With a cruel wrench of his hand, Jacques broke the man’s nose, ripped the flesh from his cheek, and popped his eye from its socket. Slyvester howled and fought against Jacques’s hold on his arm like a pheasant flapping in the jaws of a hound. The crippling blow had been executed in less than a second.
Slyvester’s eye dangled from its stringy optic nerve, looking like a bloody yellow string of snot connecting the bobbing eye to the empty bloody socket. Grinning evilly, Jacques snatched the eyeball, yanked it off its string with a pop and crushed it in his fist like a grape. “That won’t grow back.”
Mercilessly, Jacques planted his bloody hand on Slyvester’s shoulder as the crippled man howled in pain and outrage, scratching ineffectively at Jacques with his free hand. Using the arm he held as leverage, Jacques spun his opponent until he faced away and Jacques was able to bring his arm up behind his back, bent unnaturally like a chicken wing. With a brutal yank, Jacques forced the man’s arm far past the range of motion for the joint, wrenching the shoulder out of its socket with a sickeningly wet gurgle of tissue and bone scraping against bone. It was hardly more difficult for Jacques than pulling a drumstick from a roast turkey. Slyvester’s arm dangled limp and useless inside its sack of skin. It would heal quickly once the joint was realigned, but this was not easily and quickly done by a man inexperienced in such matters of field medics, and it would dangle like a tassel until then.
Now, one-eyed and effectively one-armed, Slyvester swayed on his feet and whimpered feebly. Blood, snot, and drool mingling in a dripping mess from his face. Jacques shoved him away, sending Sylvester stumbling. Jacques straightened and smoothed his lapels. He cast a glance at the huge bay windows that looked into the candlelit interior of the mansion. The sounds of the ball had grown louder and more raucous.
“You forget, mon ami,” Jacques snarled ruthlessly as he ran a hand through his wild hair. “I spent centuries at war. Hundred Year’s War, Byzantine Wars, Muscovite Wars, Hessian Wars, Napoleon’s War. I returned from the Transvaal less than a decade ago. War and women are all that have held my interest throughout the centuries.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Slyvester sputtered. “It made you arrogant.” He grinned, showing a broken-off canine.
Jacques narrowed his eyes at this misplaced reaction.
A crash inside the mansion drew his attention. He jerked his head to the sound, but saw nothing inside the shimmering ball other than a flash of the expected horde of moving bodies. Something rustled on Jacques’s opposite side in the garden. A white streak shot out of the dark with great speed from among the hedges and flowers, aiming for his head. Jacques ducked and snatched the thing out of the air, realizing it was a rope when he clenched his fist around it. The rigid sort of latigo rope used by cowboys. Jacques’s hand instantly burned as if he had grabbed a red hot poker out of a fire, and his skin began to sizzle, filling the night air with the scent of burning skin and something metallic.
“Silver?” Jacques frowned as he sniffed the smoke rising from his palm to confirm his suspicion. Silver wouldn’t kill Jacques as it would a weaker vampire, but it burned like hell and it rendered many of his vampiric abilities impotent. Silver interwoven into a rope could render him as useless as a mortal. He didn’t release the rope despite the pain in his hand, and instead wrapped his fist around it multiple times to get a better grip and yanked the rope toward him, reeling in the man holding it. The flesh on Jacques’s hand burned and sizzled like steak on a grill, but the pain didn’t stop him. Another rope flew at him from his other side. He saw it just in time to catch it with his left hand, instantly scalding that palm too.
Just as Jacques realized Sylvester had been a ruse to lure him out into the garden alone, the bay windows exploded. Glass and iron framing shot out into the garden, stinging Jacques’s skin like angry wasps. A dozen vampires and humans burst out of the broken window in a frightened stampede, the humans screaming and vampires hissing. Hot on their heels was one of the cowboys, a man with a handlebar mustache and drawn pistol in hand. The cowboy aimed and fired at a male vampire Jacques recognized as one of Pierre’s acquaintances. The vampire seized when he was struck in the back, his mouth open in a rictus of pain. Other party goers ran around the injured vampire, too scared to care about him. The bullet didn’t exit the front of his chest and must have settled inside his ribcage, because his chest began to burn from the inside out. Charred flesh crept up from his collar up his throat to his jaw and over his face, until his features resembled a sizzling mummy.
Jacques watched, confused. Bullets didn’t have that effect on vampires. He’d been shot dozens of times to little more effect than a bee sting. In the few seconds he watched the bewildering scene unfold, he felt his great strength seeping away. The ropes in his hands felt like they were attached to Clydesdales instead of the men holding them, and he felt his arms being slowly drawn apart as his muscles quivered with fatigue. One of the men who had stepped out from his hiding place, approached Jacques with his gun drawn as he tried to get his rope back and take another shot at catching him in a more effective hold.
Handlebar Mustache stood just inside the broken window, one boot planted on the window frame. He trained his pistol on Jacques.
Jacques summoned a burst of strength from his faltering muscles and yanked the rope held by the closest cowboy. The cowboy stumbled toward Jacques, who dropped both ropes and grabbed the cowboy by the throat with lightning speed. Jacques spun the cowboy in front of him as a shield just as Handlebar Mustache fired at his chest. His strength was already returning as the bullet struck the cowboy in the chin, level with Jacques’s heart, and tore off his face. Jacques grabbed the man’s pistol and shoved his body away.
A woman staggered away from the melee inside the mansion, clutching a wound on her thigh that spurted blood in time with her pulse. She weaved in between Jacques and Handlebar Mustache, blocking his shot. In that same second another lasso shot at Jacques from behind, catching him around the neck and instantly cinching tight. Jacques choked as he was yanked backward off his feet and dragged across the ground, the gun in his hand bouncing wildly with no target in sight. He forced the fingers of his free hand in between his flesh and the rope that was choking him, burning through his throat, and leaching his strength all at once, as his back scraped over the ground. Twisting his head, he saw another cowboy mounted on a horse with the rope dallied around the saddle horn. The cowboy was trying to aim his pistol at Jacques’s head while his horse backed quickly away to keep tension on the rope as he was trained.
With a shaking hand, Jacques tried to aim his pistol at the man before his opponent could get a shot off. Jacques flinched when a shot crashed in his ears. But it was the mounted man’s head that burst open, sending a spray of pink chunks out from the side of his temple. The man slumped in the saddle and another shot rang across the garden, catching Handlebar Mustache in his open mouth as he shouted something that would never be heard.
Jacques’s eyes were blurry when he tried to aim his gun toward the gunfire. He could only see the hazy blood red outline of a woman walking swiftly toward him out of the shadows of the mansion. Georgette aimed over Jacques’s prostrate body and fired again, killing the other man who had roped him. His vision was clear enough to see the deadly focus in her eyes when she trained her tiny derringer dangerously close to his head. Her fourth shot burst in Jacques’s ears and the rope around his neck went slack with a twang.
Coughing violently, Jacques rolled over and pushed up to his hands and knees. He shoved the rope off over his head and breathed deep, feeling his strength return quickly. He got to his feet unsteadily and tucked the pistol into his waistband as Georgette ran to him. Grinning painfully at her he said hoarsely, “A woman of many talents.”
“That’s nothing,” she replied breathily. “I’m just glad I didn’t have to shoot another admirer down from the gallows before his neck snapped. That’s pressure, I tell you.”
She didn’t run to Jacques but to the horse who now stood nearby, riderless and panicky. Grabbing the reins, she paused to pet the animal, letting him know she meant him no harm. She called to Jacques over her shoulder, “You might hurry! I only had four shots, and you’re lucky I didn’t miss any of them.”
Georgette swung up into the saddle, keeping a tight hand on the reins so Jacques could clamber onto the horse as it shied from the mayhem surrounding them. Jacques had barely locked his arms around her waist when she kicked the horse into a gallop. He had to shout in her ear to be heard above the rattling gunfire and screams inside the mansion, and the horse’s drumming hoofbeats, “Here you were worried the vampires would cause trouble.”
“I recognized some of those cowboys,” she said as she brought the horse in a tight whirl around a circular fountain, using it for cover before charging down a lane between hedges. “They’re hired guns. Gunslingers.”
“Not amateurs either,” Jacques agreed. “Their weapons are rigged to target our weaknesses.”
“So then, it was a vampire causing problems. One of yours gave the gunslingers some inside information.” She cocked her head to the side to look at him. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to spend much time around me to learn I’m always right.”
“Sylvester must have made a deal with them,” Jacques gritted, his arm tightening around her waist. “Pigeon-livered bastard.”
“Lucky for you, the man isn’t alive who can catch me when I’m riding a horse.” She kicked the horse into a run down the hedgerow. For Georgette, the hedges were very dark, aside from the faint light that reached out from the mansion, casting strange angular shadows among the hedges. The fighting was centralized in the mansion, quickly fading behind them. With the start they had and a fast horse, they could easily ride to safety.
Jacques squeezed her and put his hand over hers on the reins. “I can’t ride away from a battle. And I have to find that damned harlot, Pierre, and keep him alive.” He pulled back on the reins from behind, slowing the horse. “I’ll get off here and go back. Keep riding until you’re safe. I promise I’ll find you before the sun rises.”
“Says the man who was just hogtied and bleeding into the grass,” she snapped angrily. “Just hold on.”
Sitting back in the stirrups and leaning back against Jacques’s chest, she pulled the horse into a sliding stop in the dewy grass. At the press of her heels, the horse wheeled around with catlike agility. Instead of dashing back down the hedgerow, Georgette aimed the horse straight at the hedge that separated them from the mansion. The horse sailed over the hedge with ease. Jacques grunted when the horse landed. Having no stirrups to support his weight, the seat of the saddle hammered him rudely in the crotch.
“If we vampires didn’t heal quickly, you might have just ruined one of my finer talents,” Jacques grumbled in her ear, trying to adjust his painful seat on the horse’s running hindquarters.
The lights of the mansion blasted her eyes like an explosion in the darkness, matching the chaos inside. Many windows were shot out or broken, and straggling guests, human and vampire alike, ran terrified from the broken windows and torn-off doors. Gunshots and screams had both dwindled, but as with any battle, the silence following was more grim.
“Tell me where to find your friend.” Georgette set her jaw, aiming the horse at the large, shattered bay window.
Jacques fumbled with the pistol in his waistband, clumsily checking the number of rounds in the cylinder. “Five shots.”
“Do you know how to use that Colt?” she asked as she tried to spy the part of the windows least covered with toothy shards of glass.
“I’ve never had much use for a revolver,” Jacques answered as he closed the cylinder and returned the gun to his belt.
“Wonderful.” Georgette kicked the horse when it balked at the window.
The animal had more sense than its rider – entering a broken window into a room that echoed with gunfire and smelled of blood, gunpowder, and fear seemed like a bad idea to any rational horse. Georgette yanked the reins when the horse tried to turn away from the window and kicked it again. Squealing in frustration, the horse reared in protest at the window then launched himself inside with enough gusto to clear a five-rail fence. Polished hardwood floors were slick as ice under a horse’s hooves, and the horse landed in a barely controlled skid. An unlucky cowboy running toward the window with his gun drawn was caught between the horse and the wall. The horse careened sideways into the man, crushing him against the wall and shattering his ribcage. Jacques gave him the coup de grace by kicking his heel harshly into the man’s temple. His body slid down the wall leaving a bloody smear. Jacques had to duck low to avoid the doorframe when they charged through the double doors of the ballroom.
The ballroom that shimmered with elegance and anticipation earlier was now mayhem, filled with the dead, the injured, and those who were still fighting, while bullets shot across the room. Gunsmoke hung in the air, mixing with the smell of blood and viscera. Broken shards of crystal littered the floor, twinkling especially bright where they sat in the scattered pools of blood. Bodies of vampires lay partially charred, still smoldering, contorted in agony, and humans lay broken and bleeding. A toppled candelabra had caught the dress of a dead woman on fire, leaving her body ablaze on the ballroom floor.
A cowboy trained his pistol on a vampire dashing toward the nearest doorway and fired. The vampire seized when the bullet caught him between the shoulder blades before his flesh began to sizzle then burst into flames across his back. A lady vampire with blazing blue eyes hissed like an angry cat at the cowboy as he fired a round that just missed her head. He fired again, the hammer falling on an empty chamber with a snap. Terror flashed across the cowboy’s face when he realized he was out of bullets, and he fumbled to quickly reload. The vampire launched herself at the cowboy, sinking her claws into his chest. He screamed until it was cut off abruptly as she tore his throat out with her teeth in a geyser of blood.
“What the hell is in those bullets?” Georgette asked, kicking the horse into a gallop across the ballroom. The horse vaulted over a pair of dead dancers, splintering the wood floor with his hooves when he landed.
“I’ll be damned if I know,” Jacques said in her ear. “More than silver. Silver was woven into that rope, and you saw what that will do. This is something else.”
“You better not get shot,” she told him. “If it doesn’t kill you, I’ll do it myself.”
“Indeed.” Jacques grinned and raised his hand in front of her, pointing at the large staircase. “If Pierre is anywhere inside, he’ll be in his favorite bedroom on the second floor.”
A cowboy standing near a wall fired a shot at them, just missing Georgette’s face. It passed so close she felt the air sizzle as it flew by her ear. Jacques aimed his pistol over Georgette’s shoulder and fired. The wood next to the cowboy’s head exploded, sending splinters stabbing into the side of the man’s face. Jacques had missed the man’s head by a foot, but his shot was lucky. Howling with pain, the cowboy clasped his ruined face. Georgette aimed her horse at the man and kicked hard, making the horse charge into the cowboy at a run. The horse plowed over the man, crushing him beneath pounding hooves.
“Save your bullets if you can’t shoot straight,” Georgette snapped at him.
Georgette made for the staircase, passing near the toppled candelabra where it lay across a woman’s burning corpse. As they ran past, Jacques shoved the pistol back in his belt and leaned far to the side, holding Georgette’s waist for balance as he reached toward the floor. Jacques grabbed the candelabra, twirling the long metal pole in his huge right hand as he righted himself behind Georgette.
“This suits me better,” he said with a laugh as he held the three-pronged end upright like a lance at the ready.
The horse took the stairs gamely, lunging up them like a hillside, taking four and five at a time as splinters flew up from the battered wood beneath his hooves. A cowboy rushed toward them at the top of the stairs. It took him an extra few seconds to decide where to aim at the strange spectacle of man and woman riding double on a horse bounding up the stairs. Jacques drew back his right arm and threw the candelabra like a javelin, flinging it ahead of the running horse and straight into the cowboy’s chest. The iron rod impaled the cowboy with its trident head with such force that it sent him stumbling backward, dead on his feet. As Jacques and Georgette rode past the man’s twitching body, Jacques plucked the candelabra from the man’s body where it stood upright like a pin in an entomology specimen.
The horse galloped toward the closed pair of doors at the far end of the hallway. Georgette wanted to charge straight through them, but the horse balked, sliding to a stop at the last second and whirling to the side. Cursing the animal, Georgette brought him alongside the door. Jacques kicked the door but it held fast, locked from the inside or even barricaded. Raucous voices could be heard inside the room beyond. Georgette spun the horse around until his rear faced the door. Jacques understood and smacked the horse hard on the rump. With an indignant squeal, the horse kicked back in response to the rude smack, kicking through the wooden doors as effectively as a battering ram.
Georgette kicked the horse to burst through the broken doors, scattering the people inside in every direction like a covey of quail bursting haphazardly from cover beneath the nose of a hunting hound. Women’s screams and men’s shouts filled the room along with the clamor of glasses dropped to the floor. Jacques aimed his candelabra lance as the horse ran inside, choosing a cluster of three men who loomed over a pair of frightened women. It angered him more to see all parties were mostly naked, thinking of what violent acts against the women he had interrupted. The trident tip hit the nearest man high in the chest and simultaneously the man beside him in the shoulder, finally thrusting through to the man behind, catching him in the guts. The charging horse forced the three skewered men backward, as they futilely screamed and flailed, until their backs collided with the latticed windows. With a final heave on the lance, Jacques shoved the three men out of the window to meet their death two stories below, impaled together. They made for a garden decoration that would have been the envy of Vlad Tepes.
Pierre was shouting something from a far corner of the room where he huddled with three women, naked and waving his arms wildly. Jacques paid him no mind beyond reassuring himself that his friend was still alive, albeit in some state of nude disarray. But that was not an uncommon state for Pierre.
Georgette brought the horse around to face the room, leaning low against his neck to shield her from any gunfire. Jacques jumped down from the horse, landing fully in balance and descending into a crouch in a fluid movement with feline agility. He assessed the room faster than a heartbeat. Two men stood in the corner near Pierre and his women, also mostly nude. One mostly dressed, very tall man stood alone by a large fireplace, fumbling to draw his gun from his gunbelt that was undone along with his trousers and flapping around his hips beneath the hem of his red shirt. Jacques sprang at the pair of men by Pierre, covering the room like a panther, his fangs likewise bared in a bestial snarl, eyes gleaming aurous and merciless. He caught the men before their sluggish human reflexes could avail them. Jacques’s right fist slammed into the nearest man’s teeth with inhuman strength and all the forgiveness of iron, nearly bursting through the back of the man’s skull and killing him as quickly as a bullet to the brain. With his left hand, Jacques caught the other man’s throat, digging his nails into the feeble flesh and ripping his throat out, severing arteries and tendons and windpipe all in one vicious motion.
Using his body to block Pierre and the shrieking women near him, Jacques straightened to face the one remaining cowboy. The tall man in the red shirt. Buck Taylor, the King of the Cowboys and, Jacques suspected, a rival for Georgette’s affection. The snarl on Jacques’s lips turned upward into a malicious sideways smirk. With Jacques’s heightened senses and hyper-fast reflexes, events inside the room seemed to move in slow motion. Georgette had aimed the horse at Buck, trying to run him down. Pierre was shouting something undoubtedly not worth listening to. Buck had retrieved his pistol from his gunbelt, drawing it on Jacques with the famous lightning-quick speed of an American gunfighter. Jacques drew his own pistol, fanning the hammer with his left hand to circulate a fresh round into the chamber as he simultaneously raised the gun with his right hand. Jacques fired when the front sight moved across Buck’s heart, a fraction of a second faster than Buck could finalize his aim.
The bullet caught Buck under his collarbone on his left side, an inch too high for a killing shot, but enough to send him reeling backward. He stumbled toward the broken window as Jacques fanned another round into his revolver and fired again, faster this time and more errant. The second bullet embedded itself in Buck’s hipbone, knocking him nearer the window. Following his momentum, Buck dove out of the broken window, taking his chances with the drop to the ground below instead of Jacques and his gun.
Jacques’s narrowed eyes followed Buck out of the window, the grin still on his lips at the prospect of the hunt. He stumbled when Pierre struck him hard in the back from behind and shouted angrily, “What in the hell are you doing, you raving madman!?”
“Huh?” Jacques sputtered dumbly, taken completely off guard. Confusion knotted his brows when he turned his head toward Pierre.
“Can you not be invited to any decent occasion without wreaking utter fucking mayhem?” Pierre seethed, spittle flying from his mouth, his chest blotchy red with waning arousal and mounting anger, his vampiric eyes gleaming deep mahogany. “This was the most promising evening I have arranged in years, and here you burst in like a goddamn lunatic? What are you thinking? And shooting? Why in the Nine Circles of Hell are you shooting inside my mansion!?”
Still holding the pistol, Jacques gestured from the broken window to Georgette to Pierre, his mouth gaping – a very rare event in which he was lost for words. Blinking through the confusion, he asked, “What exactly were you doing in here with those cowboys?”
“What was I doing?” Pierre laughed bitterly. “What does your towering intellect tell you?” He gestured at his nudity and his now unimpressive flaccidity. When Jacques still looked dumbfounded, Pierre continued with the same inflection he would use to speak to a very stupid child, “I had four cowboys in here – the biggest of the bunch of them, I might add – and not enough women to go around. The big one, Buck, is a fairly tolerable stand in for you. Since you have never agreed to have a properly fun and debauched evening with me, I have been forced to finagle it in other ways.” He stomped his foot petulantly, making his limp dick flop humorously against his thigh. “This is the nearest I’ve been to enjoying just such an evening, and this – this – is the pallor you cast over it!”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Jacques shook his head, his brow furrowed. Then he started to laugh. “You had the cowboys in here for a goddamn orgy?”
“It sounds so cheap and vulgar when you say it like that,” Pierre huffed. “Just because they’re beastly Americans, that’s no reason for you to be rude. It was going to be a marvelous evening. One for the books, I tell you!”
Georgette’s expression was a mixture of aghast and amused when she looked at Pierre, as if her features were unsure of which emotion to settle on. She kicked her leg over the horse’s neck and dropped to the floor. She looked at Jacques for guidance, but he was of no use at present, still dumbfounded himself.
“Did those men accompany you here to your bedroom?” Jacques wiped the back of his hand over his sweaty brow. “Have they been here all evening?”
“They came here in a raucous sort of hurry a short while ago.” Pierre was still so irritated, he hadn’t yet bothered finding his pants, as if he was still hopeful for the brand of action he wanted. “But then I convinced them – without much difficulty, I might add – that I could give them an evening far superior to any other they had planned.” He tapped his temple in a knowing gesture.
Jacques couldn’t stop the laughter that bellowed from his throat. “You seduced the fucking cowboys? Men come to kill you, and you seduce them. I bow to your superior skills of self-preservation.” Jacques did bow, low and mockingly, with a flippant flourish of his tailcoat.
“You’re stark raving mad.” Pierre planted his hands on his hips and looked accusatorily at Georgette. “Have you poisoned him?”
Jacques looked at Georgette too, his eyes luminous with laughing tears. “All vampires have unique gifts. Whereas I can be persuasive and intuitive, as you have seen, Pierre can seduce anything that walks, crawls, or brays.” Looking around the destroyed room he laughed again. “Or shoots six-guns and throws lariat ropes.”
“Hear the jealousy in his voice?” Pierre asked Georgette sardonically.
“Have you any notion of the destruction wrought upon your guests and your mansion?” Jacques asked, wiping a tear from his eye. “It’s utter havoc downstairs. Did you not hear the screams and the gunfire?”
“Still raving, I see.” Pierre threw his hands up, finally capitulating. He located a pair of pants and awkwardly pulled them on while still berating Jacques, “Since when have you become such a namby pamby about a little havoc? It was only two centuries ago that my castle was under siege, and you couldn’t be bothered to stop fucking that infernal redhead while the entire West wing and tower were blown to smithereens!”
“The cowboys you invited here tonight were hired guns, sent to dispose of us.” Jacques tried to purge the laughter from his voice. “Hired by that jealous little bastard, Slyvester, and no doubt led by another jealous bastard, Buck Taylor.”
“Ludicrous,” Pierre said adamantly as he searched for a shirt. He retrieved a white frilly one and pulled it halfway over his head before realizing it belonged to one of the women and was much too small.
Jacques flipped open the cylinder of the pistol he had used. There were still two rounds remaining and he pulled one out. Using his thumbnail, he dug into the soft lead tip of the bullet. A silky silver substance oozed out, glimmering in the candlelight. It was like piercing a cherry cordial housing sticky liquid inside a chocolate shell. Jacques wrinkled his nose at the scent of it and the tip of his thumb sizzled until he wiped it off on his trousers.
“Mercury,” he said with extreme distaste. “That does a number on us, let me tell you. You can see for yourself when you venture downstairs. Do you think your average American cowboy has mercury filled bullets?”
Pierre studied the silvery oozing bullet, frowning. “Well, if they were indeed mercenaries, they weren’t very good ones.”
“They were pretty damn good, actually,” Jacques said, laughing again. “But the murderous bastards weren’t prepared for being bamboozled by the biggest harlot on the continent.”
“It will take more than flattery to redeem you from this travesty,” Pierre crossed his arms over his chest. “Even if what you say is true, you could have had the decency to allow me to have my fun first before causing such destruction.” He looked at Georgette with something that might have been jealousy. “Especially since you get to have your fun with your American.”
“Are you not going to appraise the destruction downstairs?” Jacques asked incredulously.
“I have maids and butlers who are paid to deal with such nonsense.” Pierre waved his hand dismissively. He looked at Georgette and grinned. “For a cowgirl, she’s hardly bovine at all. Perhaps we can still salvage the evening.”
“I intend to salvage our evening.” Jacques winked at Georgette. “Preferably someplace less overflowing with mercury and orgies.”
“What a boring way to live.” Pierre shook his head.
The second time Jacques took Georgette to Brook House, his home on Park Lane, he didn’t waste a breath inviting her in. When his carriage rocked to a stop, Jacques swept her out of the coach, down his foyer, up a marvelous staircase and along hallways lined with artifacts gathered from the far reaches of the world. It was an impressive feat that she could spare a portion of her awareness for the magnificent artifacts filling Jacques’s home, even while anticipation and arousal coursed through her body and the hot weight of his hand pressed insistently on the small of her back, guiding her toward a night of excitement, perhaps filled with even more intensity than the vampire ball was fraught with death. She resolved to study these in detail and hear the story behind each tomorrow, or whenever it may be that she desired to leave Jacques’s bed. Upon further consideration, that might not be for days.
She smiled at the thought. Jacques must have intercepted her mental process because he laughed heartily, his voice booming down the long hallway. His hand at Georgette’s back snaked around her waist and he hoisted her off the ground with ease and slung her over his shoulder like a barbarian claiming his spoils of war. When he reached the doors at the end of the hallway, he shouldered into them then kicked them shut behind him, twirling with Georgette as he crossed the room toward the inviting canopy bed. Instead of dropping her onto it, Jacques returned her to the floor in front of a grand fireplace set into the wall adjacent to the bed. Dancing flames gave the room a sultry glow and made Jacques’s eyes gleam like honey.
Taking her hand, Jacques raised it to his lips in a softer overture than Georgette had expected. He fixed his eyes on hers as he slowly drew his lips higher, pressing them next against her inner wrist. She had never been kissed in that sensitive place nor with such delicacy. It was a simple action but it sent a flutter through her. The tip of Jacques’s nose rested on her skin and he inhaled her scent. The sheen in his eyes deepened until they shimmered with the same otherworldly aurous quality Georgette had only seen in them when he was looking at her desirously or ripping into living flesh.
“You want to bite me.” It was a statement because she could see the answer plainly.
“More than I’ve ever wanted any worldly pleasure,” Jacques purred. “But I won’t until you ask me.”
“Not tonight. Not yet,” she said but her voice wavered. “Worldly pleasures first, if you please.”
Jacques trailed his plush lips and coarse beard from her wrist up her inner arm, holding her eyes while his mouth caressed her skin. His next kiss was to the inside of her elbow as he raised her arm to rest her wrist on his shoulder. Georgette twined her fingers in the thick hair hanging down the back of his neck, pulling him closer. His lips relished their way up the length of her arm, pausing next on her shoulder with lips slightly parted so she felt the hot tease of his tongue. A shiver passed through her when his mouth reached her collarbone, and she laughed at her own sensitivity to his touch. Jacques grinned against her skin and lingered there for several kisses.
When he reached the base of her neck, his tongue met her skin before his lips and his hands dug harshly into her flesh. A guttural rumble rolled through his chest, a dark ravening brand of arousal. He felt impossibly large with his body pressed against her, looming over her to kiss her. The laces of her corset felt as if they had been tightened by an invisible hand and the luxurious silk of her dress felt as itchy as burlap on her skin. The thought of ripping the fine scarlet dress apart just to be free of it flashed through her mind.
Jacques ran his hands up from her hips, over her nipped waist, to the top of her bodice. He pulled back enough to give her a devilish grin. “I could rip this off as easily as tissue paper.” His forefinger teased her bosom above the bodice. “But you’ll think me a villain when your head clears. Women and clothes, you know.”
Instead, he turned her so her back faced him and ran his long fingers over her bare shoulders down the laced back of her dress. Jacques grabbed the top of the dress on either side of the laces and ripped it open as if it were nothing more than frail gauze, but causing no damage aside from the torn laces and a few warped hooks and eyes, several of which skittered away across the polished wood floor.
The small act of aggression loosened the tether on the wilder part of his nature that Jacques wanted to restrain during their first encounter. His hands turned more demanding, his mouth hungrier. He locked a strong arm around her waist from behind and kissed her nape as he hoisted her fully off the floor to extricate her from the thick pile of dress she stood inside. In the same fluid motion, he crossed to the bed and laid her on the thick duvet.
He was less considerate of her undergarments. Leaning over her, he ripped her corset open to the tune of tearing silk and snapping whalebone, making her laugh excitedly. He was gentler with her chemise in an effort to savor the moment, unwrapping a gift he’d earned with his blood. There was a simple bow at the top of her chemise, securing a decorative stitch along the neckline. Jacques bowed his head until the tip of his prominent nose pressed her skin and hooked his canine in a loop of the bow to pull it undone. Georgette smiled and arched into him, encouraging him. Jacques took the dip in the neckline between his teeth and, paired with his left hand, ripped the chemise open down the center. He nuzzled into her exposed breasts, kissing and licking the flesh that pillowed around his lips and nose.
“You have me at a disadvantage,” Georgette purred, pushing back lightly on Jacques shoulders. When he raised his head and looked at her with lusting but uncomprehending golden eyes, she tugged his scarlet cravat loose and pulled the silk out of his collar. “You’re overdressed for the occasion. It seems unfair that your clothing should meet with a more civilized fate than my poor corset.”
Jacques pulled back from her and stood from the bed. He shrugged out of his tailcoat and appraised his torn and very bloody shirt. Flashing his teeth in a grin, Jacques gave her the show she wanted and ripped his own shirt open with exaggerated flair, puffing out his enormous chest and shaking back his wild hair. His pants were brusquely discarded as his eyes roamed her body, devouring the sight of her before his hands and mouth would devour the feel and taste of her. He crawled over her slowly, kissing his way up her body starting on her thigh. He met her eyes when he reached her sex. Pushing her thighs apart, he licked a fat stripe up her center and kissed her pussy as indulgently as he had kissed her lips. Bringing a hand to her breast, Jacques rubbed his calloused palm over her nipple as he squeezed her supple flesh. The sensation made her back arch, offering him more. Jacques lavished her with his tongue until her thighs were quivering and she was writhing beneath him, dripping into the sheets. He continued up her body, kissing over her navel and breasts on his way to her throat.
Jacques allowed some of his heavy weight to settle on her, pinning her beneath him. He caressed her thigh as he lifted her leg back to hook over his hip. His thick cock teased her entrance when Jacques brought his lips to hers. He kissed her ravenously, swallowing her moan, as he thrust inside in one swift motion. With her arms wrapped around him, she could feel the powerful muscles in his back and shoulders flex and tense in time with the rhythm he set. She dragged a hand through his hair and fisted it at the back of his neck, using her grip to direct his head down to her neck. The feeling of his lips and tongue on her skin and pulse point combined with the dangerous knowledge of what he could do to her there was exhilarating.
Georgette held him tighter as she trembled with pleasure and his breath became hoarse, puffing on her neck like a locomotive. The orgasm that wracked through her left her almost delirious with pleasure. Jacques dutifully pounded her through it, thrusting hard, wringing all the pleasure he could out of her body. He came with a rumbling groan, his massive body shuddering. Breathing heavily, he relaxed over her, pleasantly crushing her into the duvet while he spent several minutes kissing her indulgently.
Rolling onto his back, Jacques pulled her to drape over him. That massive chest of his made for a wonderful pillow. His voice was rich and husky, “I warned you once that if you came inside my home, I would never let you leave.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?” she purred.
“What do you want it to be?” he teased, running his large hand over her hip and the dip in her waist.
“An invitation.” She pressed closer to him, relishing the feeling of the length of his hard body.
“Stay with me,” he dropped his voice to a smoky octave just above a whisper. “Stay forever.”
“Forever would require me to be a vampire.” She looked at him with a cocked eyebrow.
He lifted head to kiss her cheek and rumble in her ear, “Shall I make you one tonight? Say yes, ma belle.”
“What other vampiric weaknesses do I need to be aware of?” she asked, lazily trailing her fingers over the faint lines on his shoulders and chest left by the silver-woven rope. They were mostly healed now and look like they were weeks old instead of only hours. “Do you burst into flames at the sight of the cross?”
“Why would a cross have any effect on us?” he scoffed. “I’ve no doubt vampires existed long before crosses were considered holy.”
“Prior to meeting you, all I knew about vampires I learned from Penny Dreadfuls.” She shrugged.
“What else did you learn from those ridiculous tabloids?” HIs hand continued soothing and caressing her.
“That vampires have no reflection in a mirror,” she answered.
“Do I look like a man who cannot see himself in a mirror?” Jacques grinned.
“I’m bored with talk of vampires, and it feeds into your preening too much.” She propped herself up with her arms on his chest. “Far more interesting than vampires are werewolves.”
“Werewolves?” Jacques raised his eyebrows.
“The Penny Dreadfuls have a story about a pack of werewolves far up north in the Yukon.” She toyed with a tendril of his hair. “They like the cold.”
“Naturally.” He smirked. “It would be prudent for me to make you a vampire before you go werewolf hunting.”
“Perhaps if we were going werewolf hunting, I’d let you,” she returned then added wistfully, “I’ve always wanted to travel there.”
“For the werewolves?” he teased.
“The northern lights are said to be beautiful.” She ignored his flippant remarks. “My father believes there is gold there too, up in the Klondike. A few miners have struck gold in the Yukon.”
“Werewolves, northern lights, and gold?” Jacques raised his eyebrows. “You’ve sold me, mon amor. When shall we leave?”
Warnings: NSFW. Smut. Horror. Violence. Monster Action. Cryptids. Creepy things that happen in the woods. Backcountry flavor. Just a nice getaway with Flip. Those never go according to plan. I’m willing to continue this and write more if people like it!
Note: Going forward, I'm going to write characters from now on instead of Readers just because it's really annoying trying to switch back and forth for the non-fic writing I do. However, the female characters will be totally physically vague aside from having a name, so they can still easily be read as an insert by anyone who chooses to insert themselves.
Based on two requests I combined then butchered from @rynwritesstuff and @lumberjack00fantasies
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One of Flip’s favorite things was spending a secluded weekend out at his cabin, nestled in the forested mountains, away from the noise and mayhem of town. And away from people. Nothing cured a man’s love of humanity better than working with them. He enjoyed having a beer and a burger with his friends after work and he enjoyed taking his girl out to dinner. But he liked it a helluva lot more to take her with him into the mountains and not see or hear from another person for a couple days. Actually, it had become his favorite thing.
Knowing this, his girl, Kate, had booked him a nice getaway right up his alley. A solid week squirreled away in a truly remote cabin about as far away from humanity as he could get. It had taken a little online spelunking for her to land on the small town of Kitwanga, British Columbia, but its selling points of having a population of less than five-hundred, being a prime location for hunting and fishing, and being a true gateway to the wilderness with scarcely an outpost North between the little town and the Yukon, had sealed the deal. Besides, for the shrewd outdoorsman who wanted a less touristy experience with a friendlier populace for about a third of the money, British Columbia was a superior option to Alaska with all the same appeal.
Over-the-counter hunting licenses were available for all sorts of game that required a lottery draw or exorbitant fee in the States. Flip laughed when he read in the game regulations that it was strictly prohibited to shoot Bigfoot and that, should a sportsman encounter him, he was to be considered a protected species.
“How many big, hairy Canadians do you reckon had to get shot in the ass before they added that regulation?” He grinned at Kate, sitting with her legs curled under her on the seat of his rented truck as they bounced down the terrible excuse for a dirt road, sloshing in the mud and hitting potholes by the hundreds. Flip had twice hit his head on the bolt of the rifle secured in the headache rack above his head on the ceiling of the truck’s cab. He would have left the rifle inside their cabin, but they had been stringently warned not to take a step outside without it. Bears were a real threat and the animals here had little experience with humans, which meant little fear of them.
“Sounds like you better watch your own ass if you’re out wandering around in low light,” she teased back. “You’re big and lumbering enough to be mistaken for Bigfoot.”
“Yeah, but I’m a lot better lookin,’” he winked at her as he pulled into the only gas station in the tiny town. He filled up every day on their return in case the owner decided to take a day off. Electric pumps were a novelty that hadn’t reached this far north, it seemed. He was in a teasing mood, returning from a day of hiking and, as he put it, takin’ pictures of every goddamn thing in Canada.
“Depends on who you ask,” Kate laughed warmly. “I’ve waged a losing battle for quite a while trying to convince my friends you’re handsome. They tell me I’m blind or brainwashed.”
Five businesses in the tiny town were booming, frequented by most if not all of its citizens on a regular basis: the grocery store, post office, church, bar, and the gas station. Actually, Kitwanga boasted two bars. Flip figured this was a good insight as to the favorite pastime of the locals, especially since it doubled the churchgoers. There were no restaurants, but the bars had all the haute cuisine a man could want, so long as what he wanted was a cheeseburger or a sandwich or some chicken fried steak. However, one bar generously offered to cook anything a person brought in, provided the thing was somewhere between alive and kicking and starting to turn, and provided that gastronome paid in cash. Flip had already taken the owner and bartender up on this offer and handed over several trout he had caught that day to the owner’s wife and cook to fry for dinner. He had to admit it was some of the best fried fish he had ever had, and it paired wonderfully with the potent Moose Knuckle stout beer on tap.
The sign at the gas station read, Headed north? Need gas? It’s now or never. Two lonely gas pumps sat on a rectangle of cement on the otherwise muddy ground – the kind of pumps a person usually only saw on postcards from the fifties, with the rounded tops and numbers for cost and gallons that ticked by on a dial like an old one-armed-bandit style slot machine. A hand-scrawled sign in the window listed the hours vaguely as open from dawn ‘til dusk. An uninformed observer could easily mistake the business for being abandoned, or even condemned, a relic lingering in a ghost town. But for the metropolis of Kitwanga, it was a thriving business. There was even another vehicle at the pumps, a ’79 Ford truck with a lift and a winch on its bumper and a fat man in overalls leaning against the bed, pumping gas.
Flip stepped out of his truck and lifted the nozzle of the gas pump with a rusty squeal. He admired the view of his girl as she trotted into the gas station to forage for supplies. A brisk wind rustled his hair, tinged with chilled moisture. Above, low clouds in a grayscale palette churned in the sky. The snowy tops of the mountains were hidden inside the clouds and rain slashed across their facades in a grey haze. The rain hadn’t yet reached the foothills where the town and Flip’s rented cabin were nestled, but fog was creeping in from the base of the mountains and off a nearby river. Between the thunderclouds and the fog, it was as if the world was slowly closing in, like the vignette on a Bogart movie narrowing in on the dramatic eyes of a starlet.
Tilting his face up into the chilly air, Flip smiled. He loved rain and thunderstorms, and found peace in their chaos. Mainly, he loved holding his girl while a storm raged outside, or having a drink with her while they sat on the porch and felt the electricity in the air, and making love to her and feeling her shudder thunderously beneath him. His smile widened as he anticipated the evening ahead.
“Storm’s comin,’” the man at the pump said to Flip as he spat a string of brown tobacco into the mud. “You here for huntin’ or fishin?’”
“I’m mostly just here to take a break from everyday bullshit,” Flip replied in a friendly tone. “But I have tags for fishing and tags for bear and moose in case one happens to wander in front of me.”
“Storms are bad for fishin,’” the man said, nodding knowingly. “But they can be good for huntin.’ Storms bring the animals down from the big mountains. Moose especially like the mist and bears like to hunt in the rain when their prey can’t hear and see ‘em as good.”
“Good to know.” Flip smiled as he replaced the nozzle and turned to go inside and pay his tab.
“That your girl?” the man asked with a suggestive nod toward the gas station.
“That she is.” Flip turned to face the man, wondering if he’d end up getting in a fist fight while on vacation.
Not taking the hint, the man whistled appreciatively.
Flip decided the rube meant it as a compliment, so he simply agreed with a “Yup,” and went into the gas station. Kate had been suspiciously long inside anyway, something that nagged at the part of his mind that was always an officer on duty.
Inside the dingy little gas station, Flip saw his girl leaning against the counter engaged in an affable conversation with the attendant behind the counter, a squat older man with a heavily lined face and long silver hair in a braid hanging over his shoulder down to his gut. Flip wandered through the store, grabbing a few items that struck his fancy, some beef jerky, chips, candy bars, and other assorted junk food. At the back of the store, a menagerie of terrible taxidermy watched him with glassy eyes. Above the beverage coolers that lined the wall hung several deer and caribou and two enormous moose. A life-size grizzly bear stood on its hind feet in a corner, frozen mid-snarl, its head a solid three feet above Flip’s. He looked at its paws that were larger than his head and vicious curling claws, longer and thicker than his fingers. Facing such a beast, the gun he had in his truck now seemed very feeble. He grabbed a six-pack of stout beer bottles and an over-sized bottle of cheap wine and took his loot to the counter to pile it alongside Kate’s items.
“Have you heard about the wendigo?” Kate asked Flip when he joined her at the counter. The lilt in her voice told him she was highly amused. “My new friend was just telling me about it.”
“Yeah, wasn’t that the name of that stripper I arrested last year for blackmailing the mayor?” Flip smirked. “Wendy-Go?”
“He’s an idiot, I’m sorry,” Kate apologized to the man behind the counter, simultaneously elbowing Flip in the ribs. “Please ignore him and continue.”
The attendant gave Flip a sideways look and continued talking to Kate in a slow, backcountry drawl, “It is said the wendigo were people once, but now they are cursed. A wendigo is born during times of famine or in the harshest winter. When men are starving to death in the cold. When a man is weak, and he chooses the black path of cannibalism over death, butchering his fellows to save himself. When a man eats the flesh of another, he takes a curse upon himself. The wendigo lives in constant starvation, its body emaciated and rotting, only growing hungrier the more it eats. Its hunger can never be sated and it becomes a crazed beast with an insatiable bloodlust.”
“Is this insatiable bloodlust specific to tourists?” Flip asked sarcastically.
“Sometimes,” the man shrugged, unbothered. “It looks to punish those with greed in their hearts. Or, depending on which stories you believe, it seeks people who are like-minded to itself to build its own tribe.” He eyed Flip narrowly. “So, if a tourist is out greedily mining or wantonly slaughtering game, then yes, the wendigo will come for him.”
“Slaughtering is one of the few things I never do wantonly,” Flip deadpanned and slapped some cash down on the counter.
“You should be careful, son,” the old man told Flip seriously. “There are many ways a man can be greedy. He can be greedy for his woman and covetous of her.” Then he shrugged again. “But these are nothing more than old tales.”
“So, you don’t believe in the wendigo?” Kate asked.
“Oh, there’s no doubt in my mind he’s real. I’ve seen a wendigo twice. He has antlers taller than a caribou and wider than a moose, teeth like a wolf, and only skull sockets for eyes. But they glow. It’s the glow I remember most,” the man said genuinely as he counted out change. “I just don’t know if he was once a man, or something that was never human at all. Maybe the people who first came here created a myth to explain the monster rather than created a mythical monster themselves.”
“Maybe it’s a convenient way to scare pretty, gullible girls.” Flip smirked at Kate. Then he returned his attention to the cashier. “Let me guess, there’s something that wards off the wendigo? A silver crucifix or whatever? I bet we can buy it right here.”
“Nothing wards off the wendigo,” the man scoffed. “And he is far older than your crucifix. Why would a forest god bow to a stranger on a cross? Fire can stall him, maybe even frighten him, but it can only buy you time.” He looked outside the window at the building storm. “Not good weather for making a fire if you need it.”
“Damn shame.” Flip shook his head and began collecting their provisions in his arms. There were no courtesy bags.
“We do have flares,” the man suggested innocently. “They burn in any kind of weather, even underwater. All the bush pilots carry them.”
“Probably inside their emergency monster-hunting kit alongside the stakes for vampires and silver bullets for werewolves,” Flip laughed. “Go ahead. Load us up with some flares. Consider it a tip for a good campfire story.”
“It’s always smart to be prepared,” the man agreed as he placed two bundles of six red flares apiece on the counter and rang them up. They looked like bundles of dynamite.
Kate took the flares because Flip’s arms were already overfilled. She thanked the attendant and turned to leave.
The old man grabbed her by the elbow, stopping her and causing Flip’s hackles to rise. He spoke seriously, “Don’t whistle when you’re out in the woods. Whistling will summon the wendigo. Sometimes people hear whistling too, before it comes for them.”
“And these people who hear the whistling before it gets them,” Flip said as he edged his body between Kate and the counter and nudged her toward the exit. “They walk out of the woods to tell their story, huh?”
Their log cabin for the week was almost an hour’s drive from the gas station. It wasn’t that far as the crow flies, but the road was serpentine with switchbacks as it climbed the foot of the mountains and made even slower by soupy mud. It was set deep in the forest, surrounded by old-growth trees with trunks as thick as the truck’s bed. The sun set on their drive back. As it dipped below the mountainous horizon, the landscape glowed a shade of hazy purple only seen in the alpine. The clouds were the color of gunpowder and the rainy vapor was periwinkle. The spruce turned into an army of nearly black silhouettes with a light mist writhing among them as moisture rose from the damp ground as well as drizzled gently from the sky. The drifting mist made everything look as though it were moving. It gave the illusion of eldritch shapes in the trees creeping along the edges of vision and tree limbs grasping like clawed fingers as they swayed in the breeze.
Flip hit the brakes suddenly, slamming Kate forward in her seat and knocking her out of the reverie the gloaming forest had cast over her. A black shape froze in the muddy road a few yards ahead of them. Its eyes sparked cold white in the headlights and the fur on its back was raised aggressively.
“A wolf!” Flip said excitedly. “I’ve never seen one this close.”
The huge animal was coal black, its amber eyes reflecting white in the headlights in the way wolves eyes do. It stood frozen, staring down the vehicle, acting like the truck was a new creature intruding into the wolf’s territory. Something was wrong with its silhouette. Something with its mouth. It took several seconds for Kate to realize what it was. The wolf turned its head uncertainly, deciding whether it should continue on its way across the road or turn around from the metal beast with offense headlights. A dead rabbit dangled from its jaws, its legs swinging lifelessly and ears flopping limply. Its lifeless eyes glinted a dull red.
The simple reminder of nature’s brutality unnerved Kate unexpectedly and her hands felt suddenly cold. She gripped Flip’s hand, digging her nails into his palm with irrational harshness.
“Nature, red in tooth and claw,” he teased and grinned at her, but he laced his fingers through hers and squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Some redneck at the gas station told me that predators liked to hunt in the rain. Guess he was right.”
Night had veiled the forest with its velvety black cloak by the time they parked next to the porch of their cabin. It was silent enough to hear all the noises of the forest, from the chattering birds to the subtle rustling of deer browsing in the brush to moisture pattering lightly on the ground. A great horned owl as large as a man’s torso sat perched in a tree branch hanging near the roof of the cabin, its yellow eyes glittering like moonlight as it hooted an eerie cadence. It followed them with its yellow eyes as they unloaded the truck and carried their loot inside, its head turned almost fully backward like a creature possessed.
There was no light pollution and on a clear night, the moon and stars lit the forest bright enough to see easily. On a rainy night, moisture in the air brought out all the smells of the forest, the crisp spruce, the earthy soil, the embers in the fireplace. The cabin had no electric lines and was powered by a temperamental generator and a wood stove. A woodpile was stacked against the back of the cabin, complete with a large timber axe embedded in a nearby stump. Cell service was laughable. Flip loved everything about all of that. He was pleased it had running water, however, mainly because it would have greatly impacted his sex life if it didn’t.
Flip grilled steaks outside that night before the rain hit and they had dinner on the porch, counting lightning bolts. Then they tangled around each other in front of the fireplace, making love as the flames crackled and danced and the thunder rolled. Between dinner and fooling around several times, they finished the bottle of wine and opened another. Night fell early this far north in the autumn and the nights were long. The cabin was equipped with a tv, but it was one of those terrible old boxy things with a tiny screen and antennas. The antennas were only for show since there was no service. Instead, there was a vcr and a selection of campy nineties movies and some even campier porn. It seemed to defeat the purpose of being there to even bother with the tv. They hadn’t turned it on once.
“I’m wide awake,” Kate mused, propped up on Flip’s bare chest, looking down at him. “Let’s do something.”
“I have plenty of ideas,” Flip said huskily. “They’re all sure to wear you out.”
“We’ve tried your ideas. Several times. And I’m still far from worn out.” She smiled. “We’re here in a cabin, basically having a sleepover. Let’s play some sleepover games, the kind you play as idiot teenagers or in sororities in college.”
“I think girls have a lot wilder sleepovers than boys. And my experience with sororities is limited to sneaking in and out of them, so you’ll have to be more specific.” He ran his fingertips along her spine and kissed her throat, doing his best to interest her in another round.
“Later, you animal,” she laughed and shoved his face away while pushing herself up and off him. “You know what I mean. Sleepover games. Like Bloody Mary, or playing a Ouija Board, or the Midnight Game.”
“Packed a Ouija Board, did you?” he teased. “That would explain why your suitcase weighs fifty fuckin’ pounds.”
“I don’t think ghosts care whether or not you use a name brand.” She pinched his chest, making him flinch.
“What ghosts are you gonna find out here?” He squinted as he rubbed his chest. “The Donner Party?”
“Don’t you think they’d be fun to talk to? We can try Bloody Mary. I don’t think she has a centralized location,” she teased and pulled on her discarded pair of pajama pants and a hoodie. She threw Flip’s grey sweatpants at him. “Put that thing away or it might scare off the ghosts.”
Flip grumbled more protests under his breath, but he dressed in his sweats and a thermal henley. “How about we each stand in front of the bathroom mirror with the lights off. I’ll ask for Candyman. You ask for Bloody Mary. And we’ll have a Celebrity Death Match between vengeful ghosts?”
“You know the ghosts always get the cynics and the cocky shitheads first, right?” She shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest in a faux reprimand.
“Is that a rule?” Flip grinned. “I think the ghosts go for the morally corrupt woman who can’t keep her legs closed first. You’re in trouble, sugar.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” she said with finality.
“How about we play a fun game, like spin the bottle or truth or dare?” He winked at her. “I always pick dare. Do your worst.”
“I can’t imagine where a game of truth or dare with you would lead.” She rolled her eyes sarcastically.
Flip puffed his chest and stepped closer to her until their bodies were almost touching. “I have a better idea. You have some pretty big balls for a pretty little girl. Let’s see how big they really are.”
“Oh my god, Flip, if this is another ploy to explore that region further…” she laughed.
“Everything I do is some kinda means to that end.” He smirked. “But we’ll get to that later. Now, let’s go outside and whistle at the wendigo. There should be some of those sonsabitches around these parts.”
Flip went to the door and stepped into his muddy boots. He leaned against the doorframe, casually cocky, and raised an eyebrow at her in a challenge. “How ‘bout it, hot stuff?”
“I think we’d be better off trying to summon Bloody Mary than a wendigo,” Kate said hesitantly. “Plus, it will be cold out there.”
“I’ll keep you warm,” he teased. “How do you figure that trying to summon a ghost through our bathroom mirror would be safer than trying to call in a wendigo? At least a wendigo will stay outside. Besides, I know how psycho you’d get if I let another woman into our bedroom. Dead or alive. Don’t try to set me up, sweetheart.”
Rolling her eyes again, Kate pulled her coat on and slipped her phone into its pocket, feeling the bundle of flares she had absently pocketed at the gas station. There was no service, but its flashlight might come in handy outside. Grinning, Flip picked up the rifle that was leaning against the doorframe and slung it over his shoulder. Cocky though he was, he took the advice serious about the threat of bears and always having a gun on him out here in the wilderness. He held the door open for Kate and ushered her outside.
The air was thick with humidity but the rain had stopped for the moment, leaving the moisture on the air to chill their skin and turn their breath into ghostly thick fog. The porch was covered in slushy frost as bright as diamonds. Their boot prints left skeletal black outlines on the otherwise pristine frosty canvas as they descended the steps and walked into the forest that awaited them only yards away.
Flip offered Kate his arm and led her into the trees. The old growth forest felt like being inside a fairytale, surrounded by enormous tree trunks and relatively open ground at their bases. The roots of those great trees were so thirsty, they leeched most of the nutrients and left little for brush and scrub to encroach. After the rain, the ground was muddy and slick, with frost growing denser by the minute as the temperature dropped through the night.
Filling his lungs, Flip began whistling a terribly off-key tune as he walked through the woods. His casual swagger was the same as if he were taking his girl out for a stroll in the park. Kate winced when he struck a particularly loathsome note, and squinted her eyes at him, “What in the hell are you whistling?”
“Season of the Witch,” he replied, acting offended. “I thought you’d appreciate it.”
“I like the song, I don’t appreciate what you’re doing to it,” she laughed. “We’re not going to find any wendigo if you scare them all off with that horrendous noise.”
“I don’t hear you doing any better,” he scoffed.
Mainly in an attempt to save her ears from his screeching, Kate started whistling. She teased Flip first with her best wolf whistle. Smells were heightened in the damp air but sounds were muffled. In the silence of the forest, the whistle sounded unnaturally loud. Now that Flip wasn’t making noise himself, he found himself focusing more on his surroundings. He didn’t feel right, something he couldn’t put his finger on tugged at the back of his mind. It wasn’t just that noises were muffled by the dampness in the air, but something else that he found indefinable in that moment. He told himself it was just the product of being in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by unfamiliar vegetation that he found unsettling. The size of trees still seemed monstrous to him, and the smell of spruce instead of the familiar smell of pine must have been unsettling to his subconscious. And it probably didn’t help that he had cultivated a little buzz drinking wine for the past few hours.
A light gust of wind blew into his face and all of his senses sparked with alarm. He froze in place, seizing Kate’s arm to silence her whistling. The unmistakable scent of a wet animal hit his nose with the force of a slap in the face. Quickly evaluating his surroundings, he unslung the rifle from his shoulder and held it across his chest in high port. It would take him less than a second to aim and fire. But the forest was close around them, visibility limited to fifteen feet or so in any direction. If the animal was a predator, a bear or a mountain lion, it could cover that distance in less than a heartbeat if it wanted. He could still see the faint glow of the cabin’s lights. They hadn’t gone far, but there was no chance of outrunning an animal back to safety.
A heavy footfall sounded inside the trees ahead of them, muffled on the wet ground but distinctive. Straining his ears, Flip thought he heard a branch being brushed aside by something passing by it. Whatever it was, it was very close ahead of them. Flip’s thoughts raced, less cohesive and more a rush of images of nightmare scenarios that he weighed in an instant. He could hide himself and Kate behind one of the huge tree trunks and hope the animal passed them by. But whatever it was had to already know of their presence. If his feeble senses could hear and smell the animal, it had no doubt smelled and heard him much sooner. In that case, he decided it was best to hold his ground and meet whatever it was head on, straight down the barrel of his rifle. That would give them the best chance. Flip would have to make his shot count, and he’d probably only get one, but it was a decent chance.
Stepping in front of Kate, Flip raised his rifle to his shoulder. He kept both eyes open, not limiting his focus to only what was past the end of his barrel, but trying to expand his senses to the full spectrum of forest in front of him. He heard a heavy breath, something panting. Closer now. Flip clicked off the safety and tightened his finger on the trigger. The hardest skill for a hunter to learn, especially when hunting game that hunted him back, is to wait long enough for a good shot but not so long as to let it get him. He wouldn’t waste his shot until he saw his target clearly and could be sure of putting the bullet where it would matter most. His hold on the gun was rock steady, his breath stalled, his eyes unblinking.
The panting grew in volume until it seemed to drum in his ears. Odd for a stalking predator. Before Flip could reconcile that, a bear burst from the trees only feet in front of him. A huge grizzly bear lumbering toward him on all fours, the top of its humped shoulders taller than Flip’s head. His finger tensed, less than a millimeter of movement was required to fire. But something was off with the bear. It was panting heavily, saliva dripping from its open mouth and fog snorting in bursts from its wet nose. The bear stopped short at the sight of the man with a gun right in front of it, clearly surprised, very unlike a predator who had been stalking the man. Flip hesitated. If he didn’t kill the bear immediately with one shot – drop it right in its tracks – it would maul them both before it died. If the bear wasn’t hunting him, it was a foolish risk to take. Grizzlies were not commonly hunting predators; they were scavengers and fishers. Most people who were mauled by grizzlies had either gotten between a mother and her cubs or a bear and its food, or they had startled it like waking a grumpy old man.
Sniffing the air, the bear looked at Flip. He was so close he could see the small particles of moisture the bear blew out of its nose along with steam when it snorted. The bear’s little round ears flicked, one turning backward to listen behind it. The bear’s eyes were wide, showing white, in a nervous gesture that was common to both man and beast. The bear looked back over its shoulder and then broke into a gallop. Flip’s rational mind told him to shoot, but his instinct prevented him. The bear altered course enough to avoid running straight into Flip. It paid him no further mind at all, instead running right by him. Flip followed it with the barrel of his rifle as it passed by him so close that a string of white saliva landed on the rifle’s blue-black barrel.
Turning around about face, Flip followed the bear with his sights until it was well past them and showed no signs of turning back around. He looked back toward the place the bear had come from, still holding the rifle to his shoulder. He didn’t look at Kate when he told her, “Walk back to the cabin. Don’t run, but go now.”
“You want me to follow the bear?” she hissed. “He ran toward the cabin. I don’t want to get near him again.”
“Follow the bear,” Flip gritted. “If a bear’s runnin’ from something, we’d best do the same. He didn’t care about us anyway. Now, move.”
Uncertainly, Kate turned and retreated toward the cabin. They hadn’t gone that far, after all. Flip backed after her, keeping his rifle aimed into the black forest from which the bear had run. A shrill scream splintered the silence, starker than a bolt of lightning. Kate shuddered and Flip ducked, hunching his shoulders like he had taken a punch. The scream shrilled for several seconds, wavering on a blood-curdling note before trailing away. It echoed around them, seeming to float on the mist.
“That’s just an elk bugling,” Flip said, trying to calm Kate. Maybe it was in fact an elk, a sickly, ravenous elk. “Keep moving, slowly.”
“I’ve never heard an elk that sounded like that.” Kate shivered against more than the chilled air. “This is starting to scare the hell out of me.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take your mind off of it when we get back,” Flip tried to joke but he couldn’t muster the required lewdness, his mouth was too dry.
The howling scream burst again through the forest. It was something like an elk bugle, but more howling and rasping, with a sort of growling mingled in at the end as it trailed away. It was closer now. Flip felt as much as heard it reverberate inside his skull.
“Whatever that is, it’s not an elk.” Kate had her arms wrapped around her body, trying to prevent herself from being overtaken by tremors.
“Sure, it is,” Flip lied. “They probably just grow ‘em bigger up here.”
Kate blew out a shuddering breath, fighting to keep her steps slow and steady.
“Pick up the pace a little, darlin,’” Flip rasped.
“You said not to run,” Kate hissed.
“I didn’t say to crawl either!” Flip gritted. “This is one hell of a time for you to start listening to me.”
Instead of moving faster, Kate stopped short. So suddenly, Flip bumped into her as he walked backward. A branch snapped somewhere inside the forest. It was strangely loud. Flip realized then that the snap only sounded harsh because the forest had gone utterly silent. The hundreds of small noises from birds and insects were gone. Even the drops of water falling from tree branches seemed to have stopped. The forest felt like a living thing around them, possessed of a presence all its own. Now that presence was altered into something darker and ominous.
“What the hell are you doing?” Flip’s voice had dropped to a whisper without his conscious approval. “I said keep moving. We’re not far from the cabin.”
“Turn around.” Kate’s voice trembled.
Dropping the rifle for a moment, Flip looked back over his shoulder. His nerves must be playing tricks on his eyes. He turned fully around, holding the rifle at high port across his chest. The view of the forest that met him was foreign. It wasn’t the same forest they had walked through only minutes before. The trees were more skeletal, their grasping branches more cloying. Moss hung from the branches like the lank hair of a corpse, and the ground was spongy underfoot, as if the forest was rotting around them. Even the air smelled stale and moldy. Thunder boomed overhead and lightning illuminated the forest in patches like a stop-motion movie. Most unsettling of all, the comforting glow of the cabin lights that could be seen through the trees had vanished or been snuffed out.
“What the fuck…” Flip’s voice trailed away as he took in the strangeness of their surroundings. A burst of lightning brought the forest into focus for a gleaming second. Bizarre shapes hung in the trees like a macabre abomination of Christmas tree ornaments, figures made from twigs lashed together with sinew to form pentagrams and humanoid shapes and horned beings. Flip swallowed thickly and ignored them. “We couldn’t have gotten turned around so fast.”
“We didn’t.” Kate looked around frantically. “I could see the cabin lights, then I heard that horrible bugle and looked around for it. And then the lights were gone. They couldn’t have all gone out, not all at once.”
“Lightning must have struck the cabin,” Flip lied again. Nothing about the forest looked familiar to him now and everything about it felt wrong. “Must have shorted out the lights.” There was no reason to scare Kate more than she already was. “It’s alright, we don’t need lights for what I have in mind when we get back.”
The scent of wet dog hit Flip again on a gust of wind, yanking his attention in the direction of the odor. He saw a heap of dark fur, glistening from the spotty rain and aimed his rifle at the creature. It didn’t move. Steam rose from the furry mass. Flip noted another smell on the air, something with a coppery aftertaste that coated the roof of his mouth. He edged forward, looking at the steaming animal down the barrel of his rifle, his finger resting on the trigger, ready to fire. He recognized the beast when another bolt of lightning revealed the horror to him.
“Don’t look,” he said to Kate, but it was too late. She clasped a hand over her mouth to keep her scream from escaping.
The huge grizzly bear they had encountered minutes before lay on its side in a broken heap of matted fur. Steam spiraled into the air from its torn-open belly, its entrails protruding from the mangled tissue like uncooked sausage. The gaping wound was only minutes old. The bear’s body temperature would plummet rapidly in the frigid air and it was still warm now. Even as they stared, the steam began to abate. Hanging in the branches of the tree nearest the bear carcass were several more bizarre figures crafted from twigs.
The screeching growling bugle erupted again, very close this time. Flip nudged Kate ahead, keeping his rifle at the ready, but not knowing where to aim it.
“Which way do we go?” Her breath came in shuddering puffs of fog.
“I don’t know,” Flip admitted. “Away from here.”
Amid a stand of spruce to his side, bare tree branches swayed in the wind, their spiky fingers waving ominously. Flip hadn’t noticed the wind pick up. Looking at the oddly swaying branches, he realized there was no wind. The air had gone as still as the inside of a crypt. The strange branches were bare, glistening wet and pointed upward, still swaying.
A flash of lightning illuminated the creature and Flip flinched so hard he almost fired accidentally.
What he had taken for bare branches was a set of enormous antlers, shaped somewhere between a moose and a caribou and as large as an Irish elk, with wide paddles and long spiked tines spurting out non-typically like broken fingers. It had a dark mane like an elk with a tawny, painfully emaciated body. Flat tines of several spinal processes protruded through the hide at the top of its high withers and one hip bone showed through the skin. But its head was the most terrible of all. Its face was in an advanced stage of rot, dregs of sagging flesh barely clinging to the skull. White skull bone gleamed in exposed patches, and its sharp, lupine teeth were long in the exposed jawbone and ragged. Its nasal cavity was bare, the fleshy nose rotten away, leaving only the pointed bones and a black hollow. It had no eyes that Flip could see, but there was an evil gleam inside its sockets, like embers inside a pile of ash. The monster shook its head, slinging water from its great spiked antlers. Then it leveled its head like a bull about to charge and fixed its glowing eyes on Flip.
“Shoot it,” Kate whispered, her eyes wide with terror.
“I don’t think it’ll do any good.” Flip looked down the barrel at the rotting flesh covering the walking skeleton and white bone peeking from beneath. The monster’s glowing eyes were not something found among the living. Without lowering his rifle, he looked at Kate and met her eyes. “It’ll come for me first. I’ll make sure of that, and I’ll stall it as much as I can. Get to the truck, darlin.’ The keys are in it. Run like hell.”
“I’m not leaving you!” she said vehemently, her voice losing some fervor when the creature took an ominous step closer, its enormous antlers swaying with its gait.
She felt for her phone, hoping there might be service. Not that another human could even reach them in less than an hour, making any idea of help hopeless. Her hand closed around the lumpy bundle of flares. With an excited breath, she freed a flare from the bundle and fumbled with lighting it.
The monster bugled angrily, a sound so shrill it felt like it grated along their spines. It rushed toward them through the trees, its teeth bared and eyes aflame. Flip fired, sending a bullet right between those glowing eyes. He even saw the bullet strike and tear away more rotting flesh, leaving a pearly white hole in the skull. It didn’t slow the monster or even make it flinch. He bolted another round into the chamber on instinct, staring down the barrel at the demonic eyes that were fixed upon him.
Kate popped the cap off the flare. The cap had an abrasive tip like a matchhead and she struck it to the end of the flare, holding it high as it burst to life. With their eyes accustomed to the darkness, the flare seemed as bright as sunlight, searing black pulsing spots into their vision. The monster squealed again, shaking its head with pain or irritation. Its antlers caught in the tree branches, stalling its advance. The flare burned and popped, hot on Kate’s face even at arm’s length and blindingly bright.
The landscape around them crackled and wavered, like a tv signal trying to come in through static. The trees looked less skeletal and more normal, like they had been before, and the strange twig figures vanished. The cabin lights glowed through the trees, yellow and warm, not far from them.
“It’s in our heads!” Kate shouted. “It’s making us hallucinate, but I can see the cabin and the truck now.”
“The light bothers it,” Flip said as he reached into her coat pocket, grabbing three flares and leaving her the remaining two. The monster wrenched its antlers free of the branches where it was tangled and lurched toward them in a shambling gait.
Shouldering his rifle that was of no more use than a club against the monster, Flip bit the cap off a flare with his teeth and struck the head. He rammed the end into the muddy ground at his feet, leaving the tip burning. The beast reared, shrieking with rage and clawing the air with its cloven hooves as Flip backed away. He could see the glow of the cabin lights now too. It was hard to resist the urge to run to the light.
Flip lit the next flare. Kate was a few yards ahead of him, gaining ground toward the truck. It would take whoever reached it first a minute to start it. Flip had a good throwing arm and even better aim. The monster lunged at him, rage overriding whatever else had been driving it to pursue them so far. Flip drew back his arm, took a second to aim at the gaping black jaws, and threw the lit flare as hard as he could. The flaming tip cartwheeled through the air like a throwing knife before the fiery head struck the monster right where its nose should have been. But it had no nose, its nasal cavity was exposed in its partially skeletal head. Robin Hood could not have struck a finer bullseye. The flaming tip sank deep into the nasal cavity, embedding itself there.
Screaming terribly, the wendigo shook its head and stomped its hooves, rearing and bucking like a horse that had stepped on a hornet’s nest. It couldn’t shake the flare free from its skull. The flames spread, shooting out through holes in the rancid flesh of its cheeks and jaws. It looked as though it breathed fire when it screeched, belching flare fumes and flames out of its hacking mouth.
“We’re not gonna get a better chance than this!” Flip roared at Kate as he burst into a run toward her. She had a few paces head start on him and sprinted ahead toward the truck.
Kate reached the truck first, yanking the driver’s door open and jumping inside. Flip could bitch about her driving all he wanted, but she dared not spare the extra second or two for him to take the wheel. Not with the eldritch monster galloping toward them, bugling terribly, flames bellowing from its mouth and nose. Flip had his one remaining flare in hand when he reached the truck. The engine roared to life.
Instead of joining Kate inside the cab, Flip vaulted into the truck bed and shouted for her to drive. Kate slammed the truck into gear, throwing Flip against the side of the bed. Regaining his balance, he dropped to his knees and planted his back against the rear window, making himself as steady as he could. Kate was speeding as fast as she dared down the muddy, winding road, and it wasn’t fast enough. The wendigo pursued them, galloping after the truck and gaining ground. Striking the tip of his flare, Flip held the flaming tip aloft, casting the entire truck in a halo of searing red fire. The wendigo allowed more distance between them, smart enough to keep outside of throwing range of another flare.
Kate took a slippery curve too fast, the truck fishtailing as she recovered control, slinging Flip from one side of the bed to the other. The flare was nearly whipped from his hand, but he clenched his fist tight to keep his hold. Gritting his teeth, he composed himself, using all his strength to keep his balance and keep his arm held high. He couldn’t afford to lose a flare. They only had three flares left, and it was going to take every last burning second of each one to reach town.
Warnings: NSFW. Smut. Horror. Lots of Violence. Gore. Chasing. Monster Action. This is heavily inspired by one of my favorite novels, Relic. If you like any of this, I highly encourage you to read it!
I’m willing to continue this and write more if people like it!
Note: Going forward, I'm going to write characters from now on instead of Readers just because it's really annoying trying to switch back and forth for the non-fic writing I do. However, the female characters will be totally physically vague aside from having a name, so they can still easily be read as an insert by anyone who chooses to insert themselves.
Based on two requests I combined then butchered from @iamburdened and @queeniebee
AO3 Link
Two of the world’s tallest free-standing dinosaurs were frozen mid-battle in the Theodore Roosevelt Rotunda on the second floor of the New York Museum of Natural History. In dramatic repose, a Barosaurus reared to protect its young from an attacking Allosaurus. The skeletal titans made the browsing museum patrons look like ants milling at their feet. Alice was never unable to walk past the dinosaurs without craning her neck upward to admire their towering presence. The great saurians were much more interesting to focus on than the throng of chattering primates that inhabited the museum during business hours. Walking through the past with her heels echoing on tile hallways that stretched the length of city blocks, she allowed herself to be distracted by the jungle of extinct species giving life to their dioramas. From the tiny, feathered dinosaur skeleton displayed in a dramatically lit shadow box to the gigantic open jaws of a megalodon framing the entrance to an adjoining hallway, there was always something interesting that caught her eye.
If she walked briskly it was a decent cardio session to make her way to the North American section of the museum. A special exhibit had just opened, an exhibition on the American Old West. It had all the good stuff. Cowboys, gunslingers, train robbers, mountain men, and miners. The exhibit was livelier curated than most, or maybe the subject simply lent itself to action and movement. Standing guard on either side of the entrance were the wax likenesses of Buffalo Bill, wearing his original buckskin outfit, bedazzled with fringe and conchos, and Sitting Bull, dressed in a magnificent headdress boasting a rainbow of colors in its plumage. In one corner was a round table of wax men dressed in full regalia, engaged in a heated poker game. A man with luxurious curly hair sat with his back facing the audience, displaying his hand of aces and eights, the famous Dead Man’s Hand, held by ‘Wild’ Bill Hickock when he was gunned down. The mural painted in the corner Hickock faced even showed the characteristic swinging doors of a saloon, being pushed open by a man with a gun in his hand and murder in his eyes. In another corner ‘Hanging’ Judge Parker sat at his desk, writing in his ledger, backlit by a mural of a man swinging from the gallows outside his office window.
Alice was delighted to see some of the famous men of the old west depicted in less obvious settings than gunfights. These exploits were detailed in paintings that supplemented the exhibits and dozens of informative plaques, but many characters were shown in niche exposes that spoke to the true enthusiasts among the visitors.
The most famous lawman of all, Wyatt Earp, was depicted indulging in his guilty pleasure of gambling with his notoriously beautiful actress wife playing right alongside him as she smoked a cigar. Instead of being shown in his best-known role as Wyatt Earp’s right hand in the infamous Tombstone events, Doc Holliday was portrayed as a suave gentleman, dressed in a fancy brocade vest and cravat, focused on the smiling attentions of his consort, Big-Nosed Kate. The deadliest outlaw of all and likely psychopath John Wesley Hardin was shown lounging on a dirty bunk inside a jail cell. He was intently focused on a large law book. After serving his time, he turned from gunfighting to the practice of law. The plaque detailing his exploits explained tongue-in-cheek that he had traded the illegal form of lawlessness for the legal alternative.
Ample attention was also given to women of note. From saloon owners to cut-throat madams, women’s stories were interspersed with the male narrative. There was of course a display devoted to Calamity Jane, dressed as a man and just as dangerous. Prominently featured was the lesser known but equally successful outlaw Belle Starr, shown wearing a pretty red dress while brandishing a six-gun astride her huge, coal-black horse, Venus. The most famous woman of all, and arguably one of the most iconic figures of the Old West, Annie Oakley, was given a full diorama of her own. A wax figure depicted the pint-sized sharpshooter holding a rifle as she aimed for the cigarette held between her husband’s lips.
An armory worth of firearms from the period were on display. From iconic Colt .45 revolvers and Winchester 30-30 lever action rifles to unique pieces like tiny six-barreled pepper-box derringers and huge Sharps rifles, there were enough firearms to lay siege to a small country. It was befitting for the period, when a man’s gun and his horse were the best friends he could ever have. Without either, a man’s lifespan would likely be reduced to weeks or even days.
The exhibition hall was spacious, even with a veritable herd of visitors milling through it like buffalo on the plains. School children raced through the halls and between dioramas as unchecked as packs of coyotes, while their teachers and handlers tried in vain to wrangle them under control. It was afternoon and most groups were on their final turn around the exhibits before leaving. A few pairs of surly teenagers lingered on the sidelines, looking like they were trying to find a place to whip out a cigarette to enhance their cool, and probably having escaped their own class trip from some other section of the vast museum. Despite the chaos the minors instigated, snippets of intelligent conversation also fluttered around the room.
In an attempt to avoid the class field trips, Alice moved to an adjacent room inside the sprawling exhibit. This spacious room was devoted to art of and from the period, Native American weavings and pottery, animated bronze sculptures, and vibrant oil paintings. The more sedate nature of the art exhibits appealed to a more sedate crowd, unable to hold the interest of children and teenagers. The only other people in the art room were an elderly couple, a group of three college-age people who looked like modern beatniks, and one impressively built man standing off to one side, studying the plaque of a detailed mural-size painting.
Alice couldn’t help but appraise the man discreetly as he stood quartering away from her. He was tall and broad, his robust physique apparent through his flannel shirt and jeans. Even from her angle, she could tell his features were strong and masculine. Dark hair curled around his collar and his strong stubble-covered jaw flexed as he read, his bright eyes darting quickly over the text. She wondered briefly about approaching him – men that attractive were rare to find out in the wild – but it struck her as ridiculous to approach the man like she was in a bar and ask him if he came here often. Rolling her eyes inwardly at herself, she turned her attention toward the opposite wall and a painting of a painfully skinny man riding an equally emaciated white horse on a moonlight night.
It was rewarding when out of the corner of her eye she saw the man turn and pause just to look at her. The man glanced toward the doorway leading back into the main exhibit then back at her, seeming to decide whether or not he too wanted to risk making an ass of himself with a clumsy come-on in an art exhibit. Alice fought to hide her smile when he made his decision in her favor.
The handsome man sidled up to her, his approach practiced and laissez-faire. His shoulders were squared and his stride confident, but he angled across the exhibit hall from the side, his eyes fixed on the oil paintings instead of his prize, like a lion casually strolling by a gazelle to gauge distance before an attack. There was an impulse to turn to him with an accusatorily arched eyebrow to show she was onto him. But he was attractive enough to give him the benefit of the doubt. Being pursued added a certain spice to the air, after all. With his large hands in his pockets and his posture confident but relaxed, he dripped with top notes of James Dean and undertones of Clint Eastwood.
“Frederick Remington,” the man read the artist’s name when he stopped beside her. He was a full head taller and his voice was deep and a little gravely, barely tinged with a Western drawl. “I think my dad has one of his 30.06 rifles.”
Alice hoped he was teasing, that there were a few active brain cells sparking inside that pretty head. The hint of a smirk twisting the man’s lips confirmed it. Keeping her face deadpan, she played along. “Yeah? These artists must have been starving during their lifetimes, being forced to branch out like that. I hear the guy behind Winchester Arms was really into weird avant garde architecture, too.”
The man grinned and turned to face her, fixing her with a pair of bright eyes the color of whiskey. “I think that was his wife. Leave it to a woman to spend a man’s hard-earned gun money on a house in the California hills, complete with staircases leading to ceilings and dead ends. Think she had a Remington on the walls?”
“I don’t know if Sarah Winchester was a fan of Frederick Remington, but I bet there were a few works by Eliphalet Remington somewhere inside,” Alice teased.
“I’m impressed,” the man laughed. “I couldn’t have pulled that name out of thin air.”
“I bet now you’re wondering if I’m a gun nut or just a history buff. A woman should keep an air of mystery about her.” She smiled and looked at him squarely. She decided he looked at home in the Old West exhibit, exuding a ruggedly masculine quality that was all too rare in modern society. He had a face that belonged on the streets of Dodge City, those crisp hooded eyes staring down the barrel of a Colt .45. She realized she had been staring into those eyes for a rudely long moment, and continued talking to smooth over that faux pas, “I never cared much for Remington’s paintings. They’re drab and all the subjects are in painfully sorry condition – horses and men alike.” She pointed to an incredible scene of two cowboys roping a grizzly bear, their movements frozen on canvas mid-stride, mid-lasso, and mid-snarl, painted with confident strokes in a vibrant palette. “Charlie Russell is my favorite. You can’t beat the color and the action in his paintings.”
“I wonder if that’s worse than having a tiger by the tail,” he pondered, pointing at the lassoed grizzly, snarling and swiping at the horse and rider. “What would your boyfriend say?”
“That position is currently vacant. What a brash way to inquire.” She smiled and nodded back at the snarling grizzly. “I’m sure three out of four ex-boyfriends would say they’d take their chances with the bear.”
“It’d take more than a bear or a tiger to scare me away from such a pretty face,” he teased, using those impressive eyes as tactically as a gun. “I never did have much instinct for self-preservation. Plenty of brash though, and other things synonymous.”
She laughed genuinely. “You’ve covered art, guns, tigers, and balls in three minutes flat. That’s quite an icebreaker without even introducing yourself. What else should I know?”
“Nicholas Mills.” He grinned handsomely and extended his hand, it was callused and powerful and large, easily swallowing hers in his warm grip. “I’m here consulting on this exhibition, on loan from the Old West Museum in Cheyanne.”
“Alice,” she returned, giving his hand a firm shake. “You’re a historian?” Her tone was skeptical as she pointedly eyed his flannel shirt and jeans. “Is tweed out of vogue for you types these days?”
“In the west it’s all denim and cotton.” He popped the collar of his shirt. “Linen if you want to be pretentious. Dust sticks to tweed like hell, not to mention burs.”
“What about your ten-gallon hat and dinnerplate-sized belt buckle?” The question gave her a convenient excuse to gauge the way he filled out his jeans. He wasn’t a man who skipped leg day.
“Those are only fashion accessories in Texas. Maybe Santa Fe. Where I’m from, if you’re wearing a cowboy hat, it better have a sweat ring around the headband, and if you’re wearing a belt buckle, it better be tarnished. Those are work accessories for working ranch hands, not fashion statements.” He let his eyes travel the curves of her figure under the guise of admiring her outfit of jeans and a blazer. “I suppose those duds work equally well for business or pleasure in most fields.” He smirked, but moved on before she could wonder at the double entendre. “Do I get a last name or just Alice?”
Smiling coyly, Alice replied, “I’ll give you a hint and see how well you know your stuff. It’s the name of one of my favorite songs and of a color that looks terrible on me, and I share it with a gunfighter who I’m sad to see isn’t featured in your exhibit. He had one of the best names in the business. That’s three hints, actually. So, are you posing as a historian to hit on unsuspecting women, or the real deal?”
“I’m not up on music and I can’t imagine there’s a color that could make you look terrible,” Nick frowned and pursed his lips. “I know of a couple of noteworthy Browns and even a Dunn, but their names don’t have any special ring to them. If I was a betting man, I’d put my dollar on ‘Texas’ Jack Vermillion. Alice Vermillion?”
“If you were betting, you’d have hit the jackpot,” Alice said with a genuine smile. “A man who knows Texas Jack and Charlie Russell. I’m not yet impressed, but I am intrigued.”
“If this goes the direction I’m hoping, I may yet hit that jackpot and you’ll be very impressed.” He didn’t give her the chance to address that sentiment before changing the subject. He cocked his head toward another painting depicting a man and woman seated side by side beneath an upside down canoe propped above them, taking shelter from a torrent of rain in a thick forest. Despite the weather, the couple was engaged in smiling conversation. “I’m a Goodwin man, myself. But I’m biased. Every time I look at his paintings of cowboys packing up in Alaska or canoeing in the Great North, adventurous couples fishing and hunting together, I get nostalgia for a place I’ve never been.” He smiled to himself. “Someday.”
“Isn’t New York about as far away as a man can get from canoeing up in the Great North and fighting grizzlies over your catch of the day?” she teased. “Not much chance of facing down a maneater on the mean streets of NYC. Although, I hear these days you’re more likely to get bitten by a New Yorker than a shark.”
“You must not know about the Museum Beast.” He flashed a grin that was lopsided and full of mischief.
Alice cocked a skeptical eyebrow. “It’s a little early in the day for ghost stories. Shouldn’t you invite me someplace nicer before you start trying to rattle the delicate woman into wanting to cling to your big, strong arm?”
“I’m appalled you think I’m that easy, miss.” He flexed one of those big, strong arms in question in the sluttiest possible way. “It’s no campfire ghost story. The folks who work here believe it. They say there’s a huge beast living in the basement, roaming the halls at night.” Holding up his hands, he hummed the Twilight Zone theme. “They say it preys on researchers who embezzle grant money and curators who hit on their secretaries.”
Alice laughed, maybe snorted a little, decidedly unladylike. “So, you’re saying I’m safe then?”
“I’ll keep you safe,” he teased with faux gravity. “Just stick close to me.”
“That sounds like a pretty firm offer to help with some research to me.” She put her hands on her hips in a playful challenge.
“Would it be smart of you to trust the research skills of a man who’s not wearing a tweed jacket?” He grinned. “What kind of research? Are you a student?”
“God no!” she laughed. “I haven’t been a student in over a decade. I’m something much worse.”
Nick raised his eyebrows, inquiring.
“I’m a defense lawyer, trying desperately to find an angle to show my very guilty client has a mitigating defense.” She mirrored his expression, raising her eyebrows. “You want the facts? They’re not for the squeamish. You don’t have a full stomach, do you?”
“A pretty face with a shady job and an iron stomach to boot?” he laughed again. “You have my attention.”
“Have you ever gotten carried away and gone down some weird rabbit holes?” she asked with a self-deprecating grin.
‘Sure.” He nodded. “I’m not surprised you’re one to go chasing rabbits, Alice.”
“My client is a murder, a serial killer. A cannibal, to be precise.” She watched him for any of the silent tells she was used to seeing when a listener wanted her to stop, or to chew their arm off and escape her work stories. Seeing none, she continued. “He grew up in Centralia, Pennsylvania before the town was evacuated, then worked in mines all of his adult life. He tells me this affected him. Sadly, conventional psych evals don’t back up his claim. So, before I lay out the big bucks on an expert to say whatever I want, I wanted to do some research on the effects of heavy metal poisoning on miners and a correlation with cannibalism. I figured looking at the Old West miners before there were regulations might be a good place to start.”
“Cannibalism, huh? Romantic topic. Did you see the Donner Party exhibit?” He smirked and jerked his thumb in the direction of a diorama of several wax figures huddled around a dying campfire, clutching furs around them to fight the bitter blizzarding cold while suggestively roasting skewers of meat.
“It’s very nice.” She looked back at the macabre display. “But not what I’m looking for. They had a different defense to cannibalism. Duress, definitely. If I were representing one of them, I’d also argue self-defense, in an eat or be eaten sense. I’d win.”
Nick grinned then pursed his lips, nodding as he considered her problem. “You won’t find anything useful up here but if you want to go deeper down this rabbit hole, you’d want to have a look in the museum’s archives. This museum has the largest collection of natural history artifacts in the world. That’s one reason I’m here, frankly, is a chance to explore their collection of Old West relics. It’s better than being a kid in a candy store. It’s almost as good as an occultist getting a backstage pass to the Vatican Archives.” He fixed his intense eyes on hers. “I bet we could find some good stuff in there.”
“Are you offering to sneak me into the museum’s archives with you?” She added a seductive edge to her voice and added, “You’re going to lift up the museum’s skirt for me and show me her goods?”
“I’ll have you know skirt-lifting is a great talent of mine.” He waggled his eyebrows playfully. “Yeah, I’m offering, so long as you let me take you out afterwards. We can discuss our findings over dinner.”
“You won’t get in trouble?” she asked sincerely.
“They can’t fire me.” He shrugged. “The worst they could do is chew me out and deport me back to Cheyanne. What do you say? Dinner in exchange for a private curated tour and me risking getting a big ole ass-chewing?”
“Deal.” Alice smiled, offering her hand again and they shook on it.
It was creeping toward five when Nick led Alice out of an employee service elevator on one of the lower levels of the museum. They had met an exodus of employees heading the opposite direction on their way home for the day.
“Is it too late for this adventure?” Alice asked as they walked down a hallway so long she could barely see the end of it. The lights were dim and there were no windows on this lower level. They passed dozens of closed doors and multiple other hallways branching off. She thought the minotaur could get lost in this place.
“I have my all hours, all access pass.” He tapped his jeans pocket where a laminated card was stowed. It served as both an ID card and a key to most of the locked doors in the museum and the employee-only areas.
“How do you not get lost in here?” Alice asked, looking around the endless halls. Especially with no natural light or signage, it seemed impossible.
“Nah, I get lost all the time. I consider it part of the adventure,” he laughed, then saw her askance look and added sheepishly, “Sorry, I forgot I was supposed to be your intrepid guide. I won’t let on if I get lost. Just consider it exploring.”
“That’s comforting,” she laughed too. Secretly, she thought it might not be the most terrible thing to be lost for a few hours or even the night in a place with so much to explore with a handsome man.
Alice was convinced they had covered the distance of several city blocks before they arrived at a pair of heavy oak doors with a plain brass plate announcing they had reached the B Archives.
“Does that mean there’s an entire alphabet of archive rooms and collections?” she asked as Nick held the door open for her.
“Probably.” He shrugged. “I’ve only poked around in Archives A, B, and C. Those collections date from the recent past until the eighteenth century or so.”
Inside the B Archives, Alice was reminded of an enormous library that had seen better days. Or the basement of an ultra-rich hoarder. Rows of metal shelves streaked away as far as she could see in the dim lighting, seven-feet high and with another foot or two of boxes piled on top. Between rows there was enough space for two people to walk abreast if they wanted to get a little cozy with one another. At various intervals in the rows there were alcoves fitted with small tables where one could examine their find without taking it up to the front. The light added to the aged feel, the bulbs candlelight-yellow, a few of which were weak and flickering. The front of the room had a kind of sitting area with chairs and a spattering of small tables. There was a small office inside too, a door with a smoked glass window open ajar.
A hunched old man with white hair and coke bottle glasses poked his head out from the office door, squinting at Nick for several seconds before addressing him. “You’ve been bothering me a lot lately.”
“This time I brought a pretty girl who wants to bother you,” Nick said, placing his hand on the small of Alice’s back as he led her toward the old man. “She’s curious what you have on mines in the old west. Particularly mines with gruesome histories. Murders, deaths, breakouts of illness or insanity. All that good stuff. Cannibalism in particular, if you have any of that on the menu.”
“Cannibalism? On a perfectly decent Friday afternoon?” The old man scoffed, but proceeded to ponder the matter, his bushy white eyebrows drawing together in thought. After a moment, he held up a triumphant finger. “You know, there is a rather curious box of effects that might interest you. It’s some remnants of an old Colorado sheriff’s things. He led quite an illustrious life, it seems. His heirs donated most of his effects to the museum. I took a quick peek through it years ago when it came in, but I haven’t thought of it since.” He pointed a bony finger down the row of aisles. “Aisle S, box 5425, if memory serves, and it always does.”
“How in the hell do you do that?” Nick asked, shaking his head.
“Photographic memory.” The man tapped his temple. “Which also means I’ll remember you precisely if you mess up my boxes.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” Nick assured him then led the way toward aisle S.
It took them some time to locate box 5425, partially because many of the labels were faded beyond readability. When they found it, Nick had to stand on his tiptoes and stretch his arms to their full reach to nudge it off its perch on top of another box on the top shelf. He nearly dropped the box when it came free, catching it with one hand and fumbling for balance for a harrowing second. Once he held it securely in his arms, he smiled cockily at Alice and headed toward the nearest alcove in their row.
The alcove was centered in the row and seated directly under a flickering yellow light. Nick set the box down on the small table, barely large enough for a coffee date. The lights were sparsely spaced, leaving shadowy stretches between pools of yellow light. There were still several towering rows of shelving between them and the entrance, but sound carried well in the sepulcher-like room. He was spreading the contents of the box out on the table when he heard then entrance door creak open and a voice bounced down the aisle toward them.
“I’m clocking out for the day.” The old man called. “Put that box back where you found it and don’t tell anyone I left you unattended in here, and we’ll still be friends tomorrow.”
“You got it,” Nick replied, projecting his deep voice so it boomed through the archives. Then he turned to Alice with a wolfish expression, “I hope you didn’t want a chaperone.”
“All a chaperone does is keep an honest man honest,” she replied, appreciating just how close they stood at the small table. “I think you’re a man who will break as many rules as I let you, chaperone or not.”
“Maybe so.” He grinned sideways and chewed his lip as he opened the box.
It may have been a mistake, she realized, allowing herself to be shut away privately and in such close confines with this man. Her profession was dominated by men, she was used to working closely with men and attractiveness or lack thereof never entered into it. Rarely, at least. It was a foreign feeling to be dominated by hormones the way she was now. Her senses felt assaulted, a gate failing before a battering ram. The way he looked and the rich gravel in his voice were bad enough, but now in the close space, Alice couldn’t ignore the masculine scent that subtly infiltrated her nose. She didn’t know if the scent of pine and leather mingled with musk was cologne or if it belonged to him. The small table necessitated him being close to her, their bodies almost touching. He didn’t crowd her, but still the size of him was tantalizingly imposing with the minimal space between them. She felt the heat from his body on her skin when he leaned over to study the papers spread across the table next to her. It made her think of being overpowered, manhandled, taken, even – the things that modern empowered women were supposed to have evolved beyond but that the base part of them craved when they sensed a man masculine enough to give it.
Nick pulled a letter from the box, the paper brittle and yellowed with age. Protocol dictated he should be wearing gloves to handle it, but he didn’t want to leave Alice alone long enough to fetch a pair. Despite his bravado, he had always found these dark and mostly abandoned places inside the museum creepy. He never let it get to him or get in the way of anything he needed to do, of course. But it was still an unsettling sort of environment, surrounded by the dead and their effects, in a place where voices echoed and shadows creeped. It was easy to imagine wakeful spirits watching him from the corner of his eye, just at the edges of the feeble light.
Not unlike being inside a deep, dark mine, he thought as he looked at the letter. He read aloud to Alice, thinking he might have actually struck gold, at least in terms of finding something to keep their afternoon interesting.
October 13, 1882
Darlin Belle,
I’m sure missin you tonight. I don’t know if you’ll ever read this but I hope it will find its way to you. I’m gonna write you like you was here with me and I was just talkin to you over dinner. It makes me miss you less. Every time I think about bein home, all that is to me is bein with you. The men in the posse kid me for bein whipped by you but I can’t find a damn to give over it. Miserable lonely bastards, the lot of em. But I guess they didn’t leave no one behind to miss em when they died. I hope you’ll miss me and remember the things that were good about me. There aren’t many, so it shouldn’t be hard.
“That sounds romantic,” Alice said with a wistful lilt. “I’m not sure it’s useful for my purposes, but I like it.”
Nick grinned and nodded. He read ahead to himself, but decided not to share it with the woman who was now looking at him with a pretty, hopeful smile. Best not to spoil the mood. He read the next few paragraphs to himself, feeling a prickly chill drag along the length of his spine like ghostly fingernails.
It’s been snowin up here in these mountains for days and it’s up over my knees now. Sure makes me miss the warmth of your touch. There’s nothin finer than holdin you in my arms, smellin your hair like flowers and cinnamon, feelin you soft n warm. I think you might be the only thing that can thaw me out ever again. Here I gone and got myself all hot and bothered just thinkin about you. But the snow’s been a blessin for me. It made the blood trail of the one I wounded easy to follow. I found him holed up under a ledge and finished him off with my knife so as not to fire off a shot. Sound carries in these mountains. The snow got thicker after dark. Thick enough to hide my tracks from the rest who are huntin me.
They haven’t found my hideout yet, but they will. I have to beat em to the punch.
I ain’t got much time cause they know the mountains better than me. It makes hidin hard and ambushin harder.
Sorry my writins goin from bad to worse fast. My fingers are numb as hell.
Curious, Alice leaned in to look at the letter and read it along with him. Spender folded it back together with a snap, too rough for the old paper and cleared his throat. He hastily put it back in the box – in the bottom of the box, under some other more innocuous looking items. “I don’t think the rest is worth reading today.”
Instead, he reached for a pocket watch with a gold hunting case, beautifully engraved with an elk hunting scene. Holding it delicately in his hands, he popped open the cover and read the engraving aloud, “To my handsome sheriff. You carry my love for you wherever you go. Belle.”
“That’s beautiful.” Turning toward him, Alice looked into his eyes as she spoke. Though his composure remained steady on the surface, she saw the way his chest expanded, his jaw clenched, his throat bobbed. It gave her a feeling of power knowing Nick was just as affected by their proximity as she was, maybe even more. She told herself she wouldn’t completely give into hormones. But she could give a little. How long had it been since she’d made out with a man like a horny teenager during a study session? Probably not since she had been a horny teenager. She could live a little now. Resting her ass against the tale, she leaned back against it and looked up at him, intentionally giving him the image of her laying sprawled beneath him. It would be a perfectly innocuous posture if the air wasn’t so charged between them, the attraction so tangible. The way he swallowed thickly told her that it wasn’t innocuous to him either.
The next move was his, Nick realized. Smirking to mask the way his pulse thundered, he stepped closer to her, using the excuse of setting the watch down on the table near her hip resting against the table’s edge. He left his hand there on the table, and when Alice kept looking up at him rather than anywhere else, Nick knew he had her tacit approval to act bolder. With his next step, he positioned himself in front of her. His right hand still rested near the pocket watch that held less interest to Alice than the man. He flattened his right hand on the table beside her then planted his left hand on her opposite side. There was still space between their bodies, if only inches, but he now caged her against the table and loomed over her.
“Find anything that interests you down here yet, darlin?’” he asked, letting the huskiness in his voice reflect his mounting arousal.
Alice heard something that sounded like a faint scratch from somewhere inside the archives. It was hardly enough to pull her attention away from the stupidly attractive man who was doing his best to make her forget all the dating rules and run every base right here in this dusty archive.
“I don’t have enough information to know if I’m interested in anything yet,” she teased. Angling her chin up, she presented her jaw and neck in a favorable angle for kissing.
“What do I need to clear up for you?” he played along as he lowered his head, trailing his nose over her cheek and his lips over her jaw, kissing lightly and teasing her with the scratch of his beard.
A box shifted on a shelf deeper in the archive, as though something had bumped it or rubbed against it. Alice heard that too, but she didn’t care. Not when Nick’s lips had moved to her neck and were giving her goosebumps, making her breath come short and her spine tingle. Encouraged by the way her body arched toward his and the way her hands had flown to his shoulders, Nick hooked his hands behind her thighs and hoisted her up onto the table. Pushing her legs apart, he stepped between them, bringing their bodies together then letting his hands caress her thighs and back as he continued kissing her neck. Every part of his body was hard beneath her roving hands, each plane and ridge of muscle a new excitement to discover. She could feel how hard he was inside his jeans too, but she would save exploring all of him for another time. She had talked herself into a nice makeout session with a handsome stranger, but she hadn’t yet abandoned all of her morals.
Bringing his hand to the back of her neck, he cradled her head while he exerted that subtle masculine control that could make a woman want to submit to him. Nick teased the side of her neck with his teeth, also teasing her restraint. He grinned against her skin when he pulled a soft moan from her throat, beginning to lose himself in the feel of her body against his, her soft skin under his callused hands.
When she moaned, Alice heard a strange response from somewhere in the dimly lit room. Something like a wet huffed breath, or a sloppy inhale. It sounded like a large dog snuffling. It was unmistakably not something she could attribute to the old room or hear ears playing tricks on her.
“Nick,” she whispered, not from arousal but trepidation. “Did you hear that?”
“’Course, darlin,’” he muttered dismissively as he nosed and kissed along her collarbone, his fingers digging into her thigh.
“What is it?” She was starting to pull back, making him tighten his hold on her.
“Don’t worry, it’s nothing,” he spoke against her skin, trying to placate her. He hadn’t heard anything, but if there was something, it was probably a fucking rat the size of a wiener dog. They had those fuckin’ things in New York. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her that. Giant rats wouldn’t do a damn thing to keep her revved up for him. Forcing the thought from his own mind, he resumed kissing her, rubbing his words in with his lips. “It’s an old place. There’s bound to be some weird noises.”
“Listen!” she whisper-yelled, grabbing a fistful of his thick hair and yanking far too harshly to be mistaken for anything sexy.
He winced and frowned at her through one eye, the other was squeezed shut from the pain in his scalp. “You could just tell me to fuckin’ stop, you know?”
“Listen,” she said again, this time her whisper was barely audible. She heard another scrape and maybe another sniffing breath. But everything was quieter now, more subtle. As if whatever was making those faint noises was trying to be stealthier.
“That could be anything,” Nick said at full volume with a laugh on his voice. His voice seemed to boom throughout the archives, sparking off Alice’s inflamed nerve endings.
She clapped a hand over his mouth, hard enough to make him flinch. Her body was bolt upright, incidentally pressing her body flush to his, her every muscle taught. She knew her system had shot into a fight or flight response, but she didn’t know why. Her consciousness hadn’t registered anything that warranted such a reaction, a few odd sounds in an old museum was hardly noteworthy. But something about what she heard struck a chord in her core, deep in her subconscious where instinct reigned. Every sense she had sparked like live electric wires, screaming at her to run away as fast as she could, but she didn’t know what she was running from or even which direction to bolt. Her eyes were wide and terrified when they met Nick’s and she whispered, “Something’s in here with us. Listen. We have to get out.”
His eyes crinkled with amusement and he kissed her palm still held over his mouth. Taking her wrist, he plucked her hand away and kissed her there on her pulse point. He did it teasingly, but he lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper, “I spooked you good with that story about the Museum Beast.” He smirked and teased further, “I thought you were a big girl who could handle some campfire tales.”
“Can you not hear anything over the sound of your hard on?” she hissed, placing a restraining hand on his chest. “Listen, and try to think with the right head for a minute.”
Nick laughed, he always had a weakness for the feisty ones. He was about to tell her as much and steal another kiss when he heard it. A kind of snuffling, like someone with a runny nose, but also different and unmistakable. Growing up in Wyoming, he had spent plenty of time outdoors around wildlife, hunting, fishing, and hiking. He’d heard that sound once before when he’d come face to face with a grizzly around a bend in a trail. Given their poor eyesight, grizzlies tended to grunt and sniff their way along, their way of assessing their environment. He didn’t believe what his mind registered. There couldn’t be a fucking bear in a New York museum. But he also couldn’t rationally attribute the sound to some wheezy curator or a congested janitor, especially not when paired with a stealthy padded footfall.
“We need to run.” Alice fisted his lapel. Her voice had dropped below a whisper to an urgent breath.
“No, darlin,’ don’t run.” He grabbed her waist and pulled her off the table, returning her feet to the floor. Taking her arm, he pulled her behind him, placing himself closest toward the strange noises and whatever creature made them. He began to back slowly away down the aisle, pushing her behind him, trying to keep his steps silent. His mind raced frantically, but he forced his body to remain in control, repeating, “Don’t run.”
“Can we fight it?” she asked, touching his back from behind, trying to calm herself by keeping contact with him
“We may have to,” Nick gritted, unsure what to do since he had no idea what was creeping toward them from a few rows away. “Just don’t run. If there’s some kind of animal in here with us, the worst thing you can do is run.”
That little bitch, Warren thought petulantly as he walked down the dim hallway. The hallway that stretched on for the length of a city block. It was such bullshit. He hadn’t walked this much since he got kicked off his co-ed flag football team in junior high. Fuck her, he thought again as he kicked at a piece of crumpled paper on the tile floor, missed, and stumbled sideways. At least no one was around to see him. His uppity date was nowhere to be found. She had the gall to shove him away when he tried to fondle her boobs before running away from him. The ungrateful bitch. Warren had used his lunch hour to help her sneak out of high school, had paid her admission into the museum, and wasted his afternoon leading her around the exhibits and thrilling her with his acumen. She owed him a feel. He would just tell all her friends she sucked his dick in his car and have the last laugh.
Sullenly picking at the chipped black paint on his stubby fingers, he turned down yet another pointlessly long hallway. Despite being as blonde as a California It Girl and having a dumpy potatoesque physique, he thought that his crooked guyliner and black skinny jeans that revealed a tantalizing glimpse of a sweaty plumber’s crack gave him the hot goth look the girls liked. Not so much the girls in his peerage at college – they were stuck up bitches anyway, already hounding after the guys who were studying law at Harvard – but the girls who were just about to graduate from high school, just turned eighteen, maybe a little homely and desperate for a date to prom. Those were his preferred prey. He usually had some meager success with them, before their fathers found out about him and heartlessly separated them. It enhanced his view of himself as a tragic, long-suffering Shakespearean love interest who had turned to goth rock to bemoan his existence.
Since Warren had somehow managed to get turned around inside the maze of hallways until after it closed for the day, the museum was also devoid of employees. He thought it was only a matter of time before he ran into a security guard. He had a story lined up for why he was inside after hours, a grand tale that emphasized his victimhood. Maybe he could even end up with his name in the paper over it. That would really impress the girls.
Now, Warren lumbered along a random hallway, trying to find his way to an exit. He needed to find an elevator first. He had sneaked into some kind of service elevator with the girl and gone down several floors in his search for privacy. He thought he was in some kind of storage area or basement now, every room he passed was vacant save for troves of weird antiques. He had found the door to a stairwell a few turns back down the hallway, but he wasn’t about to walk up several flights of stairs. His day had been shit enough so far without climbing stairs.
After what seemed like an eternity, he came to a pair of double doors marked B Archives. He couldn’t remember the last time he had walked so far. He must have put in over two miles inside this stupid museum already. Like, a month’s worth of walking. Maybe there was a desk inside with a chair he could rest in even if he couldn’t find an employee to lead him out of this suckhole.
Success! Inside the B Archives were rows of forgotten looking shelves that Warren couldn’t give a shit less about, but there was also an office with an open door and the promise of a desk and cushy chair. The lights were on inside, giving him the additional hope that some diligent employee still remained there after hours.
“Hey?” he called out to anyone who might answer. His voice echoed eerily down the rows and off the tile like tumbleweeds rolling down the streets of a ghost town. “Is there anyone here? I need some directions to the way out.”
Something sounded in response from far back in the archives, down one of the dim rows. It sounded like a startled step, like he had caught someone off guard and they had turned around fast.
“If you could call a guard or even just tell me how to find the exit, that would be great,” Warren shouted. He walked toward the sound, down toward the back of the archives past the ends of the phalanx of aisles. A strange feeling began to creep into his senses, like the uneasy feeling he got when he watched horror movies alone. The feeling that had made him instigate a rule that he didn’t watch scary movies after nine. He even thought he heard the sound of something breathing heavily. Maybe he needed to ration his porn intake too, now he was blending porn sound effects with horror reactions. He mumbled to himself, “Who wouldn’t be creeped out by all this stupid old shit?”
Warren hadn’t paid attention to the way his walk had slowed without him meaning to or the way his mouth had gone dry. He jumped like he had bumped into an electric fence when one of the lightbulbs overhead surged then dimmed. He was glad the girl had run off now, so she couldn’t see him sweat and his hands shake. He heard something down the aisle to his left, something like a single impatient rap of nails on a desk.
The flickering of a waning yellow bulb drew his attention down the aisle. In the flickering light, it looked like something was moving in the aisle, just beyond the reach of the light on the far side. Something crouched and hulking in the shadows. It must be a trick of the dim light. That and being a little freaked out from being stuck down here all alone for what felt like hours. Still, Warren wished he had worn his smudged glasses. He didn’t wear them when he was trying to impress a girl because they weren’t cool.
He was focusing too hard on the shadows. Focus too hard on something and it can seem like the thing is moving. It was a common optical illusion, and the flickering light didn’t help. It made the weird shape in the shadows look like an animal with its head lowered, stealthily sneaking toward him down the aisle.
“Fuck this,” Warren exclaimed, throwing his hands up like an overwrought woman. He didn’t need to be in the creepy old room in the creepy old museum basement. At least the never-ending hallways weren’t filled to the brim with weird antiques.
Down the aisle something sniffed, like someone with a runny nose. Something definitely moved just beyond the light.
“Shit’s probably haunted,” he decided. That made it easier. He was a staunch Ghost Hunters fan and he’d learned a thing or two from them. Forcing a laugh, he added, “Suck my balls, ghosts!”
Turning on his heel in a flippant insult to the ghosts, he walked briskly back the way he had come. He heard something else, seemingly misplaced inside the haunted archives. He very distinctly heard the sound of a footfall and what sounded like a muffled voice, maybe two if one was whispering, coming from deeper down one of the aisles. But it was immediately overshadowed by the sound of a heavy body rushing down the aisle with the flickering light, and nails scraping on tile. Or claws.
Looking back over his shoulder, Warren saw a huge dark body moving fast down the aisle toward him in a kind of lope. An animal, grunting and running toward him. His mind couldn’t process all the details, or it didn’t want to. What his mind hitched on were the teeth. When the creature ran through the scant pool of light, vicious exposed teeth glinted inside its snarling jaws.
Warren ran.
The beast lunged after its prey with the instinct of a predator to chase after a fleeing animal. Warren felt it when the beast gave chase, like the stale air had chilled and all the ghosts inside the archives were watching him. Claws scrambling on tile and heavy galloping echoed behind him, punctuated by grunts.
Warren could see the exit door. It wasn’t far. He could make it. Trying to make his legs pump faster, he looked back over his shoulder. The creature had rounded the end of the aisle and was charging straight at him in large bounding strides. It was bigger than a lion with terrible yellow eyes and teeth like ivory daggers. And it was close.
With a sob, Warren tried to eke out more speed from his already failing legs, but his steps were clumsy and his breathing labored. All that walking all day had done him in. Something slammed into his back, heavy and sharp at the same time, sending him careening forward face down onto the tile. His back felt like it was on fire, stinging and melting at the same time with hot fluid slicking his shirt to his skin.
Crying, Warren looked over his shoulder, expecting to see the creature’s mouth open as it came in for the killing bite. But the beast sat on its haunches, poised like a giant cat, flicking a broad reptilian tail from side to side and drumming the claws of its forepaw on the tile. It watched him with evil yellow eyes, and it waited. With another blubbering sob, Warren staggered up to his feet and tried to run again. He didn’t get as far this time, only a few steps. The beast bounded after him, swiping one of its razor-clawed paws at Warren’s legs. Warren felt his flesh tear as his feet gave out from under him and he collapsed again. He had played enough gory video games to guess the beast had clawed through his calf on one leg and severed his Achilles tendon on the other.
The creature paused again, watching its crippled prey with a curiously cocked head as the pitiful human crawled away, one foot turned the wrong direction and flopping lifelessly on the floor, leaving a wide swatch of delicious smelling blood in its wake.
Warren couldn’t stand back up this time, and he barely had enough gumption left to crawl. After a few desperate flailing attempts, he turned over and flopped onto his back. He stared at the horrendous beast, his watery eyes meeting those of fearsome yellow. With a sickening horror that churned in his bowels he realized what the beast was doing. It was playing with him. The fucking monster was toying with him like a cat with a mouse. The beast cocked its head to the other side as it gave an impatient flick of its tail. Just like a cat with a mouse, the fun was over when the mouse stopped running.
Warren swore he saw an excited gleam flash inside those eyes as the monster lunged at him one final time. He looked into its ravenous eyes, as a heavy weight landed on his chest, pinning him in place. He felt his body being ripped open from throat to crotch with a sound like tearing burlap. The pain was extraordinary, but he couldn’t close his eyes against it.
Gruesome wet smacking noises filled the archive and Warren’s body jerked, tugged from someplace deep inside. He tried to scream but couldn’t with his diaphragm slashed open. Warren was still very much alive when the monster started eating him.
Nick could hear it clearly now, a heavy body moving with great stealth and wet breathing. Closing in on them from a couple aisles away. There could be no doubt, no mistaking it for the noises of an old room or for scuttling vermin. He had placed his body between the approaching animal and the woman. It was a protective male instinct and gallant, but not an act that would be overly helpful if the thing attacked them. A human’s top speed was equivalent to a chicken. If an Olympic sprinter would have a hard time outrunning a rooster, Nick had no delusions that he could outrun an apex predator. All running would do would trigger it into attacking. He also didn’t think he could fight it off, not if it really wanted to attack. He didn’t have a weapon and humans were really quite feeble animals without their tools. He knew the ways a man could try to survive a predator attack – play dead with a grizzly, fight a black bear, shout at a lion to try to scare it off. None of them would work if the animal really wanted to get him. Then, a man could only hope the animal lost interest before it killed him. Balling his fists, he decided that if it came to a fight, he’d fight until his last breath. Or until he was torn apart.
“Hey! Is there anyone here? I need some directions to the way out,” an unfamiliar voice sounded through the archives.
Nick froze, every sense piqued. He reached behind him and grabbed Alice’s hand, squeezing tightly, silently willing her to stay calm and quiet. He didn’t know the woman and he hoped to hell she had enough sense to stay still and silent, not to yell back toward the stranger or to run in his direction. A mistake like that would be their death sentence. Alice squeezed his hand back, reassuring him, and placed her other hand on his back. The monstrous beast had stilled, its attention captured by the noisome intruder instead of the quieter, more boring quarry. It sniffed the air, assessing the stranger.
Each heartbeat pounded in Nick’s ears like war drums, each second an agony as they waited for the monster to decide which prey it wanted to hunt. With frightening quickness, the beast turned and vanished into the shadowy depths of the aisle.
Keeping hold of Alice’s hand, Nick turned to her and met her eyes. Very deliberately, he brought his forefinger to his lips in the universal gesture for utter silence. He tugged her with him down the aisle in the opposite direction the creature had gone. They heard the stranger’s voice asking the room if someone could tell him how to find the exit. Nick led Alice away from the stranger and away from the beast.
The unknown man was toast. There was nothing Nick could do, and he wasn’t going to waste the life of a woman trying to save a man he didn’t know. He was also smart enough or shellfish enough to value his own life over that of a foolhardy stranger. He hoped the fool would distract the monster enough for them to sneak around it and make the exit themselves. His mind raced ahead of his feet, thinking past the exit to the museum. If they made it out of the archives, they would find themselves back in a long, straight hallway with nowhere to hide and no chance of outrunning whatever the hell this animal was.
To reassure himself, he felt his pocket for the museum key card. He didn’t know if it would help them, but without it they had no chance.
The stranger’s footsteps echoed through the archives as the man started walking down along the ends of the forest of aisles. Nick gambled that the beast’s attention was fixed on that sound and that victim. Pulling Alice along beside him, he trotted down the aisle as swiftly as he could while keeping his footsteps light. For such a large man, he could move stealthily, a skill ingrained by a youth spent hunting with his father and refined by a stint in the military. He was pleased that Alice matched him in both pace and silence. He ran to the far end of the aisle, listening to the intermittent mutterings from the idiot bumbling around at the front of the vast room. The beast could no longer be heard, which worried him, but he had gambled on this hand and now he had to let it ride.
The back of the archives was notably darker than the front and even in between the aisles with the temperamental lightbulbs. An animal stink hung in the air along the back wall, as if the animal used this shady area as a trail of sorts. They moved quickly past the ends of the aisles in the direction of the exit. Nick was a step ahead, still holding Alice’s hand. Looking down each aisle they passed, the archives flashed in time with their steps, giving a visual picture of the room pieced together in morse code.
Nick stopped suddenly, causing Alice to collide with his back. He was so solid, she didn’t even knock him off balance, like running into a warm sculpture. He didn’t so much as look down at her, his wide eyes fixed down the aisle. Thirty feet away from them down the aisle, a hulking silhouette crouched in the center. It looked black in the feeble light and had no discernable features, but they could tell it faced away from them by a broad crocodilian tail flicking back and forth as it watched and waited. Nick didn’t dare move again, not even to step back behind the end of the aisle. It was blind luck the beast had been so focused on the stranger that it hadn’t seen or heard them creeping up at its back. His heart thundered so loudly in his own ears that he thought the beast must surely hear it too.
“Suck my balls, ghosts!” the fool shouted from the end of the aisle, then he started marching away back toward the exit. The beast’s tail stilled, as it watched its prey retreat.
Nick squeezed Alice’s hand, a signal to make ready. The stranger hadn’t taken three steps when the beast launched itself forward down the aisle, entirely focused on its prey. Nick whispered urgently, his voice little more than a growled breath, “Now, we run!”
Nick charged ahead, sprinting full tilt down the back of the archives, pulling Alice along with him. She gripped his hand tight, letting herself be all but dragged along, her feet barely seeming to touch the ground. There was no other way she could keep pace with his long surging stride. Their running footsteps were overshadowed by the sharp sound of claws scrambling on tile and a heavy pounding gallop, then by the sobbing screams of the stranger when the beast caught him. There was no mistaking the anguished cries that filled the archive like a whirring saw in a butcher shop.
At the end of the room, Nick careened around the last aisle, his boots slipping on the tile, and pushed himself even harder down the last straight stretch along the wall toward the door. The screaming continued, now imbued with a gurgling wet quality and sickening chewing and crunching. Alice had heard sounds like that before on National Geographic shows featuring lions over a kill. A meaty abattoir smell engulfed them as they raced down the aisle, bringing them closer to both the beast and the exit.
There was open space at the front of the room, where the beast presently feasted on its dying prey. About fifteen feet worth of open floor between the ends of the aisles and the exit door. There was no option of hiding or stealth when they crossed it. Nick made a mad dash when he reached the end of the aisle, bursting out onto the open floor like a pheasant breaking cover in front of a hound.
The beast reared up from its kill, startled by the two humans erupting from the aisle. It took a second to assimilate these new targets, enough time for them to cover half the open floor. Gnashing its bloody jaws, the beast lunged after the two new fleeing morsels. It landed on forepaws slick with blood, its front legs slipping and splaying out on the tile. Its wet claws found no purchase on tile, and the beast fishtailed before getting its balance.
Nick turned loose of Alice’s hand a step before the double doors and barreled into them with his shoulder at full speed. The doors exploded open, shooting splinters of wood out into the hallway, with Nick falling through off-balance. Alice jumped through on his heels and he pushed her ahead of him as he recovered his footing and ran. Reaching into his pocket for the museum badge, he heard the beast grunting and scrambling through the broken wooden doors, very close behind them.
The nearest door down the hallway was marked obscurely Lab 754, a single door with no windows and a scanner beside it. He didn’t know what was inside, but he knew they couldn’t outrun the monster down a straight hallway. Grabbing Alice by the waistband of her jeans, Nick skidded them both to a stop at the door. His fingers felt clumsy when he articulated the badge over the scanner. A militant light flashed red and an insolent tone told him the card was declined.
“Fuck, fuck fuck,” Nick growled as Alice’s nails dug painfully into his arm. Turning the badge over so his gawky picture faced outward and the barcode on the back faced the scanner, he pressed it against the scanner again and gripped the doorknob in a blanched white fist. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the hulking creature charging down the hallway at them, eyes gleaming yellow, teeth glinting white.
A green light flashed, taking too long to approve their entry with a pleasant tone. The beast was another stride closer, close enough to see individual drops of blood slinging from its jaws. The lock slid open with a metallic click. Nick wrenched the doorknob and yanked the door open toward him. Alice rushed inside, but he shoved her ahead of him anyway as he slipped in behind her. The beast crashed into the open door, slamming it shut right behind Nick’s back with violent force. He had thrown himself inside and barreled into Alice, all but tackling her to the floor as he fell and sprawled over her. He cringed involuntarily at the sound of the beast colliding with the wooden door, hunching over Alice beneath him.
All doors opened outward in public buildings like the museum, pursuant to fire code regulations. And most of the doors in this older basement area of the museum were thick, sturdy wood. The door shuddered ominously, but it held.
Nick looked down at Alice from the position of a lover with his hands planted on either side of her head, his hips pinning her down, their chests touching and their noses nearly so. “Are you alright? We have to keep moving. That door won’t hold for long.”
“Waiting on you,” she said breathlessly, shoving on his broad chest to push him back.
The beast roared and hit the door again. This time splinters shot into the room from the dying doorframe like tiny javelins.
Nick pulled her up with him as he pushed up to his feet. They each looked around the room, trying to quickly assess their surroundings. Fluorescent light lined the ceiling instead of weak yellow bulbs. A long central table ran the length of the room piled with what looked like various artifacts and fossils, including the impressive skull of a sabretooth tiger. Chairs were pulled up to the table at intervals, demarcating different workstations. The air inside was cool and crisp and a subtle whirring indicated a local air system. A shop broom leaned in the far corner, its bristles chalky white with bone dust.
“A restoration lab, damn it to hell.” Nick slammed his hand angrily on the tabletop. “We won’t find anything useful in here.” But he began looking anyway as he made his way through the room.
Alice lingered behind him, turning on several bright lamps placed over the table and pointing them at the rapidly weakening door. She turned on one of the drills on the table, leaving it to buzz and bounce across the tabletop. Nick looked at her with a frown and she shrugged and told him, “It might buy us a few more seconds.”
The back of the room ended depressingly in a simple wall. Nick glared at it as if he could burn a hole through the plaster with his anger. He grinned sardonically at Alice, “The hallway makes a U bend. The service elevator we came down in is probably less than twenty away on the other side of this wall. You don’t happen to have a battering ram hidden in your brassier, do you?”
“That would be my other bra,” she said, looking back at the door as it took another thunderous hit, this time accompanied by the squeal of the metal hinges bending inward.
Nick leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling in frustration. His body jerked like he’d been startled and he ran to the broom standing in the corner. Grabbing it, he sprinted back to the far wall, holding it like a spear. Using the wide, bristled head, he rammed it straight up above his head and into the square air vent in the ceiling. Another hard thrust and the vent crumpled and fell out of the ventilation shaft, leaving a gaping square hole in the ceiling ten feet above their heads.
“Here!” he told Alice urgently, clapping his hands together before linking his fingers to form a stirrup with his hands. The beast struck the door again, tearing a hole through the wood. It pawed through the hole with its claws, scraping and tearing at the wood as it snarled in frustration.
“Can you get up there too?” Alice asked as she placed her foot in his hands.
“Don’t think about it,” Nick grunted as he hefted her up into the square vent like she was nothing but a doll. She hoisted her high enough to bring her chest level with the inside of the vent. Planting her elbows on the flat metal and kicking her legs, she struggled inside. Laying on her stomach, she looked back down through the square hole at Nick below.
Bending his knees, he jumped straight up into the vent opening. It was at the far reach of his vertical jump, but his fingers caught the metal lip. But there was no purchase on the slick metal and his hands slipped off almost instantly. Alice leaned down into the opening, reaching a hand down to him.
“Get out of the way!” he waved her hand away. She began to protest, but he shouted, “Can you curl two-thirty-five? Then I’ll only pull you back out with me.”
The beast crashed into the door a final time, bursting into the lab in an explosion of splinters. It halted immediately when the brilliantly bright spotlight hit its eyes, sitting back on its haunches and shaking its head.
“Give me the broom!” Alice said.
Grinning with understanding despite it all, Nick shoved the head of the broom up into her hands. The beast snarled and swiped the light out of its eyes, then turned its attention to the jumping drill and its grating, high-pitched whine. Alice maneuvered the broom so its handle spanned the square opening, wedged as tightly against the sides as she could get it. The beast crushed the drill with its teeth, shaking its head with the drill in its mouth like a dog with a squeaky toy, then throwing it aside. Fixing its ferocious yellow eyes on Nick at the far end of the room, it charged.
Nick bent his knees, looking up at the broom handle inside the vent. He would only get one shot. Swinging his arms, he jumped up with everything he had. The beast swiped at Nick’s legs as he caught the broom handle, but he jerked them up just in time. Using the broom handle like a pull-up bar, he hoisted himself up into the ventilation shaft. Alice shoved herself backward to make room for him as he lunged forward into the small space, making sure his long legs were clear of the opening.
The beast jumped up after him, slamming its head into the metal of the shaft, denting it upwards. Roaring in frustration, it jumped again, making another dent. Then it reared on its hind legs and clawed at the metal. The sound was a terrible, deafening squeal inside the shaft, ringing in their ears. There was enough space for them to crawl on their hands and knees, and Alice crawled frantically away.
“Can’t beat the view,” Nick quipped, following right behind her.
The beast tried jumping at the vent once more before apparently realizing it was futile. The silence when it stopped was much more unnerving than the banging and scratching and snarling had been.
It didn’t take long for them to come to another vent. Looking through the metal slats, Nick quickly assessed they were now over the section of hallway that housed the service elevator. He easily yanked it open and dropped down through it to the floor. Alice lowered herself down feet first until she felt him catch her legs in a reassuring bearhug and let her slide the rest of the way down his body. Holding her against him, he grinned at her and jerked his chin to the side, “Look what we found.”
The service elevator was no more than fifteen feet away. As she sighed with relief, collapsing into Nick’s arms, Alice heard the now familiar sound of clawed feet scrambling on the tile. “It guessed where we were heading!”
They sprinted to the elevator and Nick punched the Up button over and over. The arrow above the doors illuminated green and the bell dinged. But the doors were old and slow to open. The beast rounded the corner of the hallway in a fury of claws and teeth and lather, charging at them with its horrible teeth bared in a snarl. But claws for all their ferocity did not keep traction on smooth tile. When the beast rounded the tight corner, it did so in an uncontrolled skid. The beast scrambled to keep its balance, but it had charged into the corner too fast. Its shoulder slammed into the opposite side of the hallway as it slid, paws flailing haphazardly beneath it, buying its prey an extra second to live. Nick shoved Alice inside when the opening between the doors was still too narrow for him to fit. Even as the doors still opened, she was pushing the button for the upper floor. Nick slipped inside as the beast ran him down, only one good lunge away.
Nick and Alice pressed themselves to the back of the elevator, watching helplessly as death charged at them and the doors closed too slowly. Their view between the doors narrowed with terrible sluggishness until all they could see were those slitted yellow eyes and bloody frothing jaws. The beast lunged at the gap in the doors, striking the metal with a horrendous crash. Saliva and blood spewed through the opening, splattering Alice and Nick, just as the doors closed and the elevator lurched upward.
The doors opened to a main hallway on one of the upper floors, home to the biggest and most popular museum exhibits. Large windows lined this hallway admitting the moonlight and there was enough light in the individual exhibits to allow the security cameras to identify a thief if needed. Many smaller hallways branched off this main one, each leading to an exhibit. They were near the entrance to an exhibit that glowed green in the dim light, labeled Rainforest. A metal stairwell door was beside the elevator.
“Now at least I know where we are,” Nick could have laughed with relief. He ducked into Alice and stole a quick kiss from her lips.
“Freeze!” A militant voice sliced through the silence in the hall. “Put your hands up!”
They turned to see a short and corpulent museum security guard standing behind them, holding a revolver trained on Nick. He had just rounded a corner of the hallway and shuffled toward them as quickly as his pendulous gut would allow, his utility belt jingling with every labored step. Using his gun, the guard gestured from Nick to the far wall, and ordered, “Turn and face that wall right now. And I better see your hands while you’re sniffing plaster. Move!”
“There’s something in here with us,” Alice said, trying to calm the guard. “You need to take us all out before it finds us.”
“I’m sure there is, honey,” the guard sniggered and took a belligerent step toward Nick. “I gave you a command, hoss.”
The security guard held his gun on Nick, the barrel shaking in his uncertain grip. He was the most dangerous sort of person to hold a man at gunpoint – nervous and unfamiliar with a weapon or with apprehending a suspect. Those were the men likely to shoot first and ask questions later, or even shoot accidentally when they shook hard enough to spasm their trigger finger.
“Turn around now!” the guard shouted again, spittle flying from his lips, his jowls quaking.
The guard was too far away from Nick to make a grab for the gun or knock it away. So, he turned, faced the wall, and planted his hands flat on its smooth surface. He made a great effort to keep his voice calm when he spoke over this shoulder, “Look, buddy, there’s something after us. Something chasing us. Something monstrous. None of us are safe here, including you. You have to get us all out right now. Arrest me and charge me with whatever the hell you want, just get us out.”
The guard spoke into the radio clipped to his belt, “I caught someone sneaking around inside the rainforest exhibit. Looks like a pair of lovebirds who broke in to get it on. I need backup. The guy’s giving me hell. He’s a big bastard too. Threatened my safety already.”
“Ten-Four,” a voice crackled through the radio static. “Sending backup. Just cuff ‘em and keep ‘em where you have ‘em until backup gets there.”
Risking a bullet, Nick growled, “Look, you stupid bastard. You can get all the backup you want and you can arrest me. So long as you get us the fuck outta here, and you do it now! We need to move, goddamnit!”
“The big guy is making more threats,” the guard radioed.
The sound of a door being shoved open inside the stairwell echoed behind the door. It sounded like it came from a flight or two below. Alice heard claws scrambling up the stairs. She met Nick’s cool eyes and she winked.
“Excuse me, sir,” Alice said to the guard in a demure tone. “Our friend’s in the stairwell. Go see for yourself. He’s the one you want to arrest.”
“What the Christ are you all doing in here?” the guard scoffed. “Bunch of assholes ruining my night to have a goddamn orgy!”
The scrambling reached the nearest steps, the sound of a heavy body closing in on the door. The guard heard it too. Keeping his gun pointed at Nick’s back, he stepped to the stairwell door. Grabbing the doorhandle, he yelled with gusto, “Hey asshole, this is museum security. I hear you in there. I’m gonna open the door and I better see your hands!”
He didn’t need to open the door. The door exploded open with a metal screech and a monstrous creature burst from the darkness of the stairwell, aiming for the blustering guard. The guard yanked the trigger when the beast struck him with the force of a wrecking ball, sending a bullet into the wall as man and beast went careening together twenty feet across the floor. Its body had passed Alice by inches, close enough for her to smell the fresh blood and older rancid death on its scaly hide.
Nick shoved away from the wall, grabbing Alice’s arm and running with her in the opposite direction from the carnage. The guard was screaming, but it lasted only as long as a few of their running strides before it was cut off with a wet gurgle and replaced by a sound like an overfull trash bag bursting.
They ran into the thick of the rainforest exhibit, where they were surrounded by vibrant dioramas and luscious vegetation. The windows on this floor admitted silver moonlight, allowing them to see it very clearly. Birds of every color of the spectrum were frozen mid-flight, golden jaguars prowled, and ancient Amazonian architecture formed a visual feast. The highlight of the rainforest exhibit was also the centerpiece of the exhibit hall. A huge glass terrarium filled with tropical vegetation housed an army of living butterflies. Thousands of beautiful butterflies of kaleidoscopic colors flitted through the plants inside in a living whirlwind of colorful wings.
They ran past the butterflies to the far end of the exhibit where another hallway branched off. Nick pointed down it and whispered, “The old west exhibit is just down that way. The guns in there are all functional, and a few of the gunbelts still have live rounds. Maybe…”
“Will the bullets still fire after sitting for more than a century?” Alice asked skeptically.
“As long as the primers haven’t gone bad. Or gotten wet. And the cartridges have remained sealed, and the gunpowder hasn’t leaked out.” He grinned sardonically.
“So, probably not,” Alice surmised.
“Probably not,” Nick agreed. “But do you have a better idea?”
The beast entered the rainforest exhibit with its nose held high, sniffing the air. Nick pulled Alice to him and backed against the wall, hiding them as best he could behind an Amazonian monolith decorated with carvings of ancient deities. The beast froze, its eyes fixed ahead, its posture rigid. It looked as if it stared right at them through the length of the butterfly terrarium. With an excited grunt, the beast swiped at the end of the glass cage, breaking it open, and jumped inside. Thousands of butterflies came to life like confetti, fluttering around the beast that had disturbed them. The beast was captivated, cocking its head curiously at the butterflies, flicking its tail as it swiped its paws at them and tried to chomp them between its jaws. It jumped and twisted and twirled inside the terrarium like a cat confronted with a thousand laser dots. It grunted happily as it pounced on a large Monarch then snorted when another flew at its nose.
Slowly, Nick pulled Alice with him toward the hall leading to the old west exhibit. They edged along the wall at a crawling pace so as not to draw the beast’s attention while it chomped and swiped at the whirlwind of butterflies. The old west exhibit came into view at the end of the hallway, horses and cowboys and bison materializing in the dim light. Nick brought his lips to Alice’s ear and told her, “You go grab all the guns you can find. I’ll start looking through the gunbelts for live rounds. .45’s and 30-30’s are going to be our best bets for a match.”
She nodded her understanding as another sound boomed through the hall. The sound of several running footsteps and the clink of metal. Narrow beams of light bounced around inside the old west exhibit from flashlights held by running men.
Nick stopped short, his hold on her arm keeping Alice beside him. He pulled her down with him when he dropped to his knees, raising his hands above his head in a clear posture of supplication, just as several armed security guards ran into the hallway from the old west exhibit. The light hit Nick’s face, momentarily blinding him, as the men rushed them, guns drawn. Alice looked behind them and saw a huge shadow looming in the entrance to the rainforest exhibit, watching them with gleaming eyes. The guard’s light didn’t reach it and they were too focused on Nick to notice the real threat. The shadow seemed to disintegrate back into the darkness like a receding nightmare. The beast must be intelligent enough to avoid confronting so many drawn firearms. Or it was simply biding its time for the right moment.
“You’re under arrest!” the lead guard shouted as he rushed Nick. Turning him bodily around, he shoved him to his stomach with his face pressed into the tile and yanked his arms behind his back.
“We didn’t do anything, you idiot!” Alice said futility. “There’s something in here with us.”
“Save it, lady,” the guard said gruffly. “You both have the right to remain silent and I suggest you fucking use it.” He prodded his gun rudely into Nick’s back and cuffed his hands. “I heard all about you on the radio. Some big bastard resisting arrest after breaking in. And I saw some of your handiwork already.”
“You have to listen, it wasn’t me,” Nick gritted. “There’s some kind of animal in here with us.”
“Yeah, get started on that insanity defense right off the bat, you murdering sonofabitch,” the guard hissed. “Just keep talking so I can testify to all your bullshit.”
Two guards came and hefted Nick up by his arms, yanking them painfully back and straining his shoulders. Alice looked at him when he stood, giving him her steadiest and most reassuring gaze. “Don’t tell them anything. It won’t do you any good. Let your lawyer do the talking for you.” She winked at him for the second time that night. “I promise you have a good one.”
Warnings: NSFW. Smut. Horror. Angst, maybe? Lots of Violence. Violence Against Women. Violence Against Men. Rage. Revenge. Drowning. This isn't dark by my personal standards, but it's fairly dark by fic standards, so be warned.
This is from Flip's POV, so there's no X Reader language. However, I left the Siren pretty vague and I think she can be read as a reader insert. At least by readers with enough imagination to assume they have a tail etc xD. Also, I don't consider this as 'Dark' Flip, but some people probably will, so consider that an additional warning.
Inspired by Lighthouse by Halsey Based on a request I butchered from @cas-backwards-tie
AO3 Link
Eastport, Maine, perched on the Northeastern most tip of the state like a mole on the end of a witch’s nose, was about as far away from the rest of the country as a man could get. Alaska might be further, but the strange daylight and dark hours that changed with the seasons wouldn’t do a damn bit of good for the mental state of a man already on the brink. On the brink of what exactly, Flip couldn’t really say and he wouldn’t hazard a guess. Things like that should be left to professionals high above his pay grade. Professionals Flip wouldn’t denigrate himself to consult.
Talkin’ about a man’s problems is for pussies and whiners, Flip would say. To his own reflection in his bathroom mirror, leaning over the sink, wiping the sweat from his brow after waking from another recurring nightmare. A shrink is a poor substitute for a cold beer and beatin’ the hell out of a punching bag.
That was back in Colorado Springs, back during the aftermath of the Pigman killings. Sure, Flip had solved the case, shot dead the bastard dubbed Pigman for his penchant for frying strips of his victims up like bacon. Flip resented it in ways deeper than he could ever express to a shrink, how that sorry bastard had ruined the taste of bacon for him. One of his favorite guilty pleasures was his heart attack special – a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and waffles, all slathered in genuine Vermont maple syrup. Flip hoped that pleasure would return to him. After he was able to purge his memory of the smell of human ‘bacon,’ harvested from plump victims, sizzling in a cast iron frying pan, human fat popping up from the pan and burning his hand as he crept past with his gun held at the ready. Firing a bullet into the Pigman’s head was a relief, something he deserved for ruining the taste of bacon for Flip, in addition to his other gruesome atrocities.
Focusing on bacon as the greatest tragedy helped Flip mitigate in his mind what had happened to his partner. Flip had taken that memory, crumpled it into the smallest ball of pain he could, and shoved it down inside his mind, into the darkest, deepest recess. He understood now the meaning of that shrink term ‘unpacking.’ Well, he had no fuckin’ intention of ever unpacking that memory again, or those emotions. There was nothing equal to finding a partner dead and half butchered like a prize hog. Nothing in a shrink’s handbook to undo the damage caused by the smell of bacon frying in a cast iron pan. Thick cut bacon, freshly cut from his partner’s flanks.
These days, that memory was left buried in Flip’s subconscious, coming to him in sweaty, pulse-thundering dreams. Flip was a mentally tough man, highly disciplined. He could keep that terrible beast caged. But everything about the Colorado Springs police station reminded him of his partner, a constant kick in the guts that made it impossible to truly repress. Even his favorite restaurants and bars, his own house for fucks’ sake. All of it was now full to bursting with painful associations. This pain came out as anger, which was really the best and healthiest reaction in Flip’s arsenal. It beat taking up drugs, drinking even more, or putting a gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger.
Before he lost it on some poor bastard who cut him off in traffic or an asshole who pinched a waitress’s ass in front of him, Flip decided a change of scenery was just what the doctor ordered. He wanted to get as far from anything familiar to him as possible. When he came into work one morning and saw a newspaper clipping advertising a small town in Maine was looking for a new sheriff, Flip didn’t think twice about where it may have come from. He didn’t give a damn.
After a long weekend trip to Eastport, Maine that served as reconnaissance, Flip found a nice cabin that suited him, far away from people, and even a friendly little mousy-haired schoolteacher who suited him too. Well enough for some entertainment, anyway. She had great tits and a face that gave Flip the impression she was the kind of girl who’d let a man do damn near whatever he wanted whenever he wanted, because she wasn’t overly burdened with beauty or brains and had the good sense to compensate in more tangible ways. He took her out for coffee and a stroll around the small, quaint town, having her show him what passed for the sights. Afterwards, she was very friendly and rewarded him handsomely and enthusiastically for her mocha latte in the backseat of her car.
Come Monday, Flip accepted the sheriff gig for a surprisingly good salary and made a deal on the cabin for a steal. Both for the same reason – the market was thin pickin’s for successful men with Flip’s level of skill, who were willing to move to a town of fifteen hundred people with a higher population of sasquatch than eligible singles. Eastport was a nice little town, what there was of it. Picturesque in that quaint, rural way that looked great on a postcard but didn’t hold one’s interest for long.
Three months in, and Flip loved it. The work was easy. He hadn’t had to use his brain on a crime since he left Colorado Springs, and the most stress he had was searching for a dumb kid who had gotten lost in the woods and escorting the little shit back to his mom. He’d only had to fire his piece once to scare off a bear that was rummaging through the sheriff department trash. Most of the ‘crime’ he’d been prepped for consisted of vandalism, DWI’s, animal attacks, domestic violence, and bar fights. Flip had already dealt with a few bar fights, about one a weekend. He loved that part of the job. It gave him an excuse to take out some aggression on some wannabe tough guys who could handle it, and who wouldn’t be the wiser when they sobered up as to whether their fat lip or black eye came from the sheriff or the other guy. And the floozy schoolteacher named Cristy gave great head and made few demands, aside from dragging him to church a few times to keep airs that she wasn’t a loose woman. That was a royal pain in the ass, but he could endure it.
He loved the pace and the seclusion. He was damned sick of cities bustling like ants, air that smelled like grime. Colorado Springs had that big city grime along with big city crime, and the punks and gangbangers that came with it. It was nice to have the freedom of driving less than thirty minutes from town and being out in the middle of nowhere. Forest or coast, he could take his pick. He could go whale watching or moose hunting; hiking or fishing; watch the golden sunrise at a local coffee shop and watch it set fiery orange over the ocean while having a juicy ribeye, a fat lobster tail, and a cold beer. Eastport even had a barber shop with the red and white striped pole out front, where a man could get a haircut and a shave with a straight razor and not listen to women chatter about the latest Cosmopolitan article on how to please a man or what celebrity got which body parts inflated.
Six months in, and Flip was beginning to hate it. The easy work had grown dull. There wasn’t a goddamn thing that got his heart rate up anymore – fucking aside, anyway – and he hadn’t had a good adrenaline rush since he’d been woken up in the middle of the night by a bobcat in heat screeching on his back porch, sounding like some banshee straight outta hell. Even that little excitement had been weeks ago. The schoolteacher had grown as dull and uninteresting as a blowup doll, with a comparable IQ and conversational skills. It gave him more reason to keep her mouth occupied with other activities or her face shoved into the mattress, but that brand of enjoyment was only good for so long. Then she wanted to talk, always about the most mundane gossip and dumbest shit imaginable. Flip asked her once if she wanted to read a book with him – some adventure thing he’d picked at random in a used bookstore, packed with plenty of action for him and shirtless strapping men he thought she’d enjoy too. She looked at him with a bovine sort of vacancy in her mossy eyes – an association that had become hard for him to ignore – and asked, “Read? You mean like a magazine or a newspaper?”
The seclusion was turning to cabin fever, the endless wilderness closing in on him like a noose. The bad accents of the locals were as grating as a migraine, and the smell of fish and ocean pervaded every fuckin’ piece of his clothing, strong enough that it vied with cigarette smoke for his signature scent. Going to the five restaurants and three bars in town, having the same thing on the menu over and over had gotten old as hell. There wasn’t even a movie theater within an hour’s drive, only an old drive-in that was only open during the four months a year a man wouldn’t get frostbite on his dick trying to enjoy a movie from the bed of his truck with his girl in the old-fashioned way. The seclusion and boredom had been good for one thing. Flip had lifted weights and run himself into the best shape of his life. His arms bulged, his chest strained his shirt buttons, and both his cardio and timing on a speed bag were better than they had been during his tour in the Marines.
The teacher must have gotten bored with Flip too, because he stopped by her house a little early one Friday night to surprise her with a bottle of cheap wine and a chick flick, only to find her banging some pencil-dick science teacher he recognized as a specimen she had made assurances was just a friend. A married man too, aptly named Less, the piece of dogshit. Flip wanted to knock the bastard into next week, but he was truly concerned he might get a murder charge if the limp-wristed yuppie couldn’t take one of his punches. Actually, fuck the man. Flip wanted to knock that cheating slut around. He’d never hit a woman before, but if anyone deserved it, it was a fucking cheat. Dull and plain as she was, and despite ample opportunity, Flip had never cheated on the little skank.
The icing on the cake was when the murders started. Flip had come to this backwoods hellhole to get away from murders. It seems crime missed him and had followed him across the map. The first body washed up on the shore in a bucolic cove. It was a place Flip had found early on and driven to several times to have a beer and watch the sunset. Tall rocky cliffs populated with pine trees surrounded the ocean, and the waves crashed against the rocks with a thunderous susurrus. Those dense pine softened the light at dawn and dusk, bending into luscious pinks and oranges, and the water gleamed a vibrant sapphire. It was a scene straight off a postcard.
The bloated corpse lying on the beach slightly hampered that postcard beauty. Standing over the corpse in the sand, Flip guessed by the clammy pallor of the gelatinous skin and the damp putrid smell the man had been dead a week or so. Flip’s deputy, an older man with greying hair straight out of Mayberry, gave Flip his opinion that the man had fallen from the cliffs and drowned, or had been boating and drowned, or some other kind of accident that led to drowning. An accident that didn’t necessitate police involvement or investigation. The deputy had been there forever, and had turned down the sheriff’s position twice to avoid the added responsibility. The pattern was easy to see. As were the strange marks on the dead man’s neck and shoulders. The marks were faint, a little difficult to make out for an untrained eye, especially on the bloated, damp, decaying skin. They looked like something between hickies and strangulation bruises.
With a shrug, the deputy mentioned to Flip that accidents like this happened a couple times a year. Flip took the initiative to research exactly what that meant and how many similar accidents like this had occurred.
“Fuck me,” Flip muttered profoundly.
Based on his first cursory examination of the half-assed reports the Eastport Sheriff’s Department generated and the even worse records it maintained, he counted around fifty accidental deaths in that cove going back until World War II. He suspected there were many accidents the police didn’t deem worth documenting in their records.
“Accidents my dyin’ ass.” Flip swiped a hand over his face.
The bodies had all been found washed up on the rocky beach of the cloistered cove. There wasn’t much of a beach, just the rocky bottom of cliffs that the waves crashed against. Flip thought it might be public land or even park land because it was pretty enough that some rich recluse should have bought it up years ago if the government hadn’t claimed it. He was surprised to find the entire cove and a couple hundred surrounding acres had been in one family for well over a century. The entire property was dubbed ‘Thundercliffs,” a term he guessed was coined from the sound the waves made crashing against the cliffs. The old house wasn’t abandoned in the technical sense, not in the way the townsfolk believed. A quick search at the County Clerk revealed it was owned by a trust along with the sizable acreage it sat on and a host of other assets. The sole beneficiaries of the trust were a pair of siblings by the names of Hortence Desdemona and Beauregard Mountbatten III.
“This is gonna go well,” Flip grumbled as he wrote the names and address into the small notebook he kept in his pocket.
The address listed in Port Clyde was easy to find, and even offered a nice drive down the coast. It led him to a quaint cottage in town overlooking a harbor abuzz with working fisherman hauling in nets of fish and cages of lobster. He pulled his truck in behind the only car in the driveway, one of those old station wagons with the wood side panels. Several potted plants taller than Flip lounged on the porch and in the windows there were crystals and weird looking wicker crafts shaped like moons and stars. An old German shepherd was curled up by the door, his muzzle more white than black. He lifted his head to appraise Flip, but decided he wasn’t worth getting up over, and settled for watching him warily. The scent of incense or maybe fancy candles seeped onto the porch from inside. As he rapped his knuckles on the door Flip hoped that froufrou smell wouldn’t stick to his clothes and stink up the inside of his truck on his drive home.
A dumpy eccentric woman answered. She inhaled sharply at the sight of the handsome stranger, instantly flustered, and set about smoothing her rumpled outfit and bushy curly hair. She was dressed somewhere between a seventies hippie and a new age wannabe witch. Flip didn’t really understand the difference, but there were lots of colors and flappy material to her getup, stacked jingling bracelets, and multiple rings on every finger.
“Hi, ummm, can I help you?” the woman stammered. It had probably been a while since she’d talked to a man.
“Is Hortence or Beauregard available?” Flip asked in an authoritative tone.
“Why on earth would you want to see them?” She bristled and folded her arms over her chest.
Clearly, he had taken the wrong approach. The woman was of indeterminate age. She could have been a good-looking sixty or a rode-hard forty. He figured either way, she probably wasn’t dried up enough to be immune to masculine attention. Leaning against the doorframe and towering over her, he turned on the charm.
“Sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean to come off rude.” He flashed his handsomest smile and ran his hand through his thick cowlick. “I’ve been put in the position of looking into some abandoned property that may be part of a trust of which they’re the sole beneficiaries. I just want to make sure all the property they’re rightfully entitled to gets to them.”
“Property where?” the woman stiffened even more, a rare response to Flip’s moves.
“I can only discuss that with the beneficiaries, I’m afraid.” He looked over the woman’s head, starting to suspect something was off. The cluttered inside of the house looked more like a fortune teller’s parlor than the residence of wealthy siblings. “Are you a relative?”
“I’m May,” she snorted in what passed for a laugh. “You could say I’m their stepmother.” She flapped her arms in a kind of shrug. “If you want to meet Hortence and Beauregard, follow me.” She turned and snorted again. “You can ask them anything you want.”
Flip passed overstuffed bookcases and curio cabinets filled with a myriad of trinkets into a sunny kitchen. The windowsill was littered with more witchy hippie looking things and a large plant with striped leaves dominated the center of a small dining table.
“Can I get you something to drink?” May asked as she started tapping a can on the counter.
“Coffee, if you have it. Thank you.” Flip watched her odd tapping with the can. “About the folks I’m here to see…”
“They’ll be along shortly.” She smiled and poured a mug of coffee from an existing brew in her coffee pot. “Give them a minute, they don’t move as fast as they used to.”
Flip still didn’t know what kind of eccentric he was dealing with here, but he decided to be careful not to leave any stray hairs around just in case. The last thing he needed was some broad crafting a voodoo doll of him or some shit and summoning him to her bedroom in the witching hour. He wondered if witches only used hair for those things, or if any kind of DNA would work. That unsettling thought made him eye the coffee mug suspiciously. An old police trick was to offer a suspect water, then keep the glass for DNA testing after the suspect leaves. DNA was discarded material then, free game to search without consent. He decided he didn’t need coffee that badly after all and set the mug on the counter in the same motion that he leaned his hip against it.
A fat black cat waddled into the kitchen, greeting him with a trilled meow, looking up at him expectantly with rich green eyes. The cat jumped up onto one of the chairs at the dining table, then up onto the tabletop, where it sat politely. Another deeper meow heralded the arrival of a second cat, bigger and even fatter, with a bright orange striped coat, a white patch on its chest, a white tipped tail, and bright amber eyes that matched Flip’s.
May smiled at them and said to Flip, “Let me introduce you to Hortence,” she pointed at the black cat, then moved her finger toward the orange tabby. “And Beauregard.” She emptied the can of cat food onto a saucer and used a fork to separate the contents. “Ask away.”
Flip rubbed the scruff on his jaw, watching as the woman placed the saucer on the table. Hortence began eating while Beauregard hefted his bulk up onto the chair then the table beside her.
“Cat got your tongue?” May asked with a snort.
“They’re the beneficiaries of the Thundercliffs Trust?” Flip stroked the black cat.
“They sure are! Brother and sister. Twenty-two years young,” May beamed as if she were indeed talking about her children. “Their real mom died ten years ago, but they get their longevity from her. She lived until she was in shooting distance of one-hundred. She was an old maid like me, no human children. So, she left everything in a trust to her cats. I get a monthly wage as their caretaker, not that I wouldn’t do it for free. I used to help their mom with chores and errands. Part maid, part cook, part caretaker. She was more like my crazy aunt than anything though.”
“I see.” Flip smiled to buy time while his mind ran through any questions that might be useful. “The trust also owns an old house up in Eastport. Does that mean the cats own it?”
“I suppose it does,” May shrugged. “I left my law degree in my other pants, but I’m told we could all live in that big old mansion on the cliffs, the cats, and my dog, and I. But I don’t think I could spend a night in there and catch a wink of sleep. I used to clean it once a month, and I hated every second I spent inside it. Something’s just wrong in there. I couldn’t even get Elwood to go inside with me when he was young and reckless – you met him on the porch.”
“Why is that, do you think?” Flip asked. “I’d like to hear your thoughts on that house if you have time.”
“I have plenty of time, but those aren’t thoughts I like to spend my time on.” She smiled but her tone was firm. “I might look like a silly old woman to you, but I’m not that silly. Or naive. I know there’s nothing I could tell you about that house that you’d believe anyway. And I know it’s not smart to go telling a sheriff lots of outlandish things and making him think you’re crazy.”
“Sheriff?” Flip grinned a little bashfully. He didn’t know his jig was up when he knocked on the door.
“I could tell you I’m a psychic and see if I could get fifty bucks out of you for a tarot reading.” May winked. “Or maybe news just travels fast in small towns. Especially between women. And extra especially about the new hunk of meat with a silver star up north.”
He laughed because it beat acknowledging his status as a slab of meat. “I’d like to take a look inside that house on the cliff. Would you be willing to show me around? The sheriff’s department would compensate you at the same hourly rate you get from the trust.”
“No way in hell, sheriff,” she smiled sweetly. “Not for the money or that handsome smile. I haven’t been up there in years and I don’t intend to go back. Not ever. If Hortence and Beauregard could sign legal documents, I’d advise them to demolish that house and every other structure on the property, bulldoze it clean, and turn it into a landfill.”
“Hell of a thing to do to a place with such a great view,” Flip said.
“I see. You’ve already been out there poking around.” It wasn’t a question and she seemed sad about it. “It’s always the handsomest men around who are drawn to that place.”
“Well, it’s also my job.” Flip didn’t tell her that he had gone to those cliffs many times on his own before anything suspicious had happened or any bodies had washed up on shore. That he thought the cliffs with the tall pine trees overlooking the boisterous cove was the best place in town to have a beer and watch the sunset. He damn sure wouldn’t say he felt drawn there. But even if he did, it was just the view. A man had every right to appreciate a nice view.
May opened a kitchen drawer and rummaged around, finally retrieving a keyring with a single key on it. She tossed the key to Flip and smiled as he snatched it out of the air with ease.
“Here’s the key to that house. Take it. The honor system is still pretty big here in our small towns.” She smiled. “Besides, if you use it to do something stupid to that house or anything inside it, you’ll have bigger problems than me.” She snorted again. “Actually, I doubt I’ll have to deal with you anymore at all after that!”
“What worries you so much about that house?” Flip asked, shoving the key into the front pocket of his jeans.
“Nothing about that house doesn’t worry me.” May shook her head. “You might want to ask me about the property too, not just the house itself.”
“Alright.” Flip nodded. “Consider me asking.”
“Lots of deaths on that land over the years.” She shuddered slightly. “I imagine that’s why you’re here. One of the first deaths the paper covered was in the forties. A strapping man who’d just come back from the war drowned in that cove. Everyone thought it was so strange because he was in great shape, fresh out of the military. They suspected it must have been a suicide. He was the second man to drown in the cove that year. But if you ask me, or most locals, the very first death was actually just labeled a disappearance. The military man’s wife.” She waved at the cats. “Their mom’s great aunt. I guess that’d make her their great great aunt.” Another snort. “Rumor has it she ran off with some man or other she met while her husband was off at war, and her husband committed suicide when he got home and found out.” She paused and looked at Flip. “But there are always rumors about beautiful women, aren’t there? If a woman’s pretty enough, men will call her a slut regardless of how many of them she sleeps with. Or doesn’t. Come to think of it, the more men a woman rejects, the more likely they are to label her a slut because it makes them feel superior. I’ve seen it a dozen times and I’m sure you have too. A small man’s way to destroy a woman who’s out of his league.”
“And that woman lived in the house?” Flip clarified. “The pretty woman?”
“She wasn’t just pretty. Rumor has it she was drop dead gorgeous. Bewitchingly, enchantingly, dangerously beautiful. But yes, Hortence and Beauregard’s great great aunt.” She patted each cat in turn, eliciting happy purrs. They had plopped down on the dining table, listening to the conversation. “All this was told to me by their mother. I wasn’t there, of course. I wasn’t around at all for a few more decades.”
“I appreciate it.” Flip gave her a genuine smile. “The key and the information. Don’t worry, I won’t hold you to anything you got secondhand.”
“There’s one fact that isn’t secondhand and you should give it some real weight, sheriff,” May said in the most serious tone she’d adopted so far. She was still stroking the orange cat. “Their mother owned that house for decades when she inherited it from her mother. It’s closer to a mansion than a house, and has that great view you mentioned. Still, she never lived one day in that house and she never sold it either. She didn’t want any living thing to live inside it. She rarely spoke of her great aunt, and when she did it was only to praise her beauty. I asked her more about her once and this is what she told me: ‘I don’t believe in speaking ill of the dead, especially when the dead might still be listening. But I will say that since she was a young girl, my great aunt was blessed with beauty and cursed with rage.’”
Flip stopped at a local bakery before leaving Port Clyde, letting all the new information settle in his mind. He had two slices of spectacular homemade blueberry pie, allowing himself to wander through this new world of information. It was a strange world for him, one with witches and ghosts and curses and haunted beaches. He didn’t believe any of that shit any more than he believed in Santa Claus, but it was an entertaining world to visit. Plus, it had a dangerously beautiful woman in it.
The drive back would take him around four hours. He’d be pulling into town just in time to catch the sunset. Picking up a cheeseburger and fries to go and a six pack on the drive sounded good. What sounded even better was eating his burger while watching the summer sun set over that gorgeous cove from high up on the rocky cliffs.
Flip’s favorite spot was on the highest cliff at the head of the cove. There, a flat rock served as an ideal bench near the edge, offering the best view of the cove from beneath the shade of a tall pine. He sat and just admired the view, the greasy-bottomed bag containing his cheeseburger and fries sitting on the rock beside him. He felt like a gargoyle perched on the top of the tallest building in a city, overlooking his domain below.
The sky was molten gold and fiery orange as the sun dipped below the horizon. The surface of the ocean glittered golden too, like it was a sea of coins instead of water. The light in the pines took on a soft dreamlike haze and a light fog was building along the beach. Lower in elevation and about two-hundred yards away was the lonely old house, its four tall stories keeping watch over the cove. Flip looked at it now from his vantage, conscious of what his senses might tell him. He felt nothing ominous at all. If anything, he felt content, a sense of belonging. A feeling that he could be happy here for a very long time, that he could even stay here forever. With a jolt, he realized he had been leaning nearer to the edge while lost in thought.
Movement on the beach far below caught his eye. Staring intently, he quite literally couldn’t believe his eyes. A woman lay on the beach, stark naked, and writhing in pain. She was also thrashing what appeared to be a shimmering golden tail. He didn’t believe in ghosts or Santa Claus, and he wasn’t about to start believing in fuckin’ mermaids either. But that’s damn sure what she looked like. Flip rubbed his eyes and forced them to focus more clearly. No, that long golden tail was still there, glistening wet and whipping violently on the beach. He could even faintly hear the wet slaps of it on the sand, paired with an ethereal voice calling for help.
Flip launched off the rock and ran back through the trees toward the house. A trail took off from the house, navigating the treacherous cliffs down to the beach. It would be suicide to attempt a descent anywhere else. At the base of the cliff, he charged into a full sprint, pumping his arms and kicking up sand as he ran down the beach toward the woman. Her cries for help were louder now, so loud they seemed to echo inside his head. There was a lewdness to it, too. If Flip hadn’t seen her writhing in pain, he would have taken the sound for loud moans of ecstasy.
He vaulted over a boulder at the head of the cove and found her, only feet ahead of him. The woman was every bit as naked as he had thought, but it wasn’t a tail he had seen thrashing. From the waist down, she was tangled up in a tawny fishing net. Somehow, the sunset must have made it look golden. In his mind’s eye, he could picture a perfect tail, complete with fins and individual scales of gleaming gold, thrashing and slapping the sand. He didn’t know how the hell he had seen that from the tangled mess of rope binding the woman’s legs, but he didn’t need to think about that now.
Falling to his knees beside the woman, he spoke soothingly like he would to a frightened animal. “I’m here to help you. I’m not going to hurt you. Let me help you.” It required a herculean effort to keep his eyes from wandering over her magnificent heaving breasts. He cupped her cheek to stop her from thrashing in the net. The ropes were digging into her, leaving angry red burns across her skin. Her eyes were wild with fear like a fox caught in a snare, but also bright and fierce. He grabbed her shoulder and shook her gently, keeping his voice soothing, “Look at me. I’m going to help you. Be still.”
The woman’s eyes rolled to meet his, and it felt like they bore straight into his soul. His throat went dry and his hands felt weak. The sun had set now, leaving a lingering purple twilight. Her eyes were luminous in the lavender light, somehow catching the ambient glow and reflecting it back even stronger. A mane of glossy hair was spread across the sand beneath her, and the fading light danced on her skin like diamonds on silk. Her eyes were no longer frightened, but still wild. They drew him in. Without realizing it, Flip’s hand had slipped from her shoulder to skim down her side, coming to rest on her hip on the only free patch of skin between ropes.
Flip flinched at the realization, fumbling a broken, “I’m sorry.”
The woman said nothing, continuing to stare up at him. Her lips curled in a slight smile that may have been satisfaction. Or it may have been relief at finding a savior.
Flip felt a foreign compulsion. Something dark and sick. Something he would have beaten another man up for. He felt the almost irresistible urge to unzip his jeans and cage the woman beneath him. To use the ropes to his advantage, plunge into her and ravage her like an unhinged beast. It was a base impulse, something at home in a feral animal instead of a man. Flip had felt lust, and he had a bad habit of thinking with his cock, but he had never felt the drive to take what wasn’t offered willingly. He had never felt desire so aggressive and consuming.
“How long were you out here on the beach?” he asked to ground himself. He shook his head, berating himself internally, asking himself, What the fuck is wrong with you? He had seen plenty of naked women, beautiful women. Had plenty of them beneath him writhing in much more lascivious ways than this one. He wasn’t a blushin’ virgin and he goddamn sure wasn’t a fuckin’ pervert.
“I’ve always been here,” she said with a laugh on her voice, as harmonious as a sonata.
Looking away from her, he took a breath to purge the perversion from his mind and unbuttoned his shirt. He roughly shrugged out of it and draped it over the woman’s torso, covering the most enticing bits of her. He wanted to rip the ropes off her, but he forced himself to move slowly and untangle her with care.
“Are you hurt?” he asked when she was free of the net, forcing himself to look into her eyes and nowhere else.
“No,” she said in a serene voice with a sound as pleasant as windchimes. “What are you going to do to me?”
That odd, innocuously asked question flooded his mind with another violent rush of terrible, driving, impulses, alarmingly perverse. His jeans felt tight, and he felt disgusted with himself. He decided it was even worse looking into her eyes than it had been looking at her perfect naked figure. He fought the urge to tell her what he wanted to do – ravage her, and even more than that he wanted to take her home and keep her chained to his bed. All to himself. Forever. In a great effort to remain civilized, he gritted hoarsely, “I’m gonna get you off this beach and somewhere safe.”
Flip wrapped her in his shirt, lifted her into his arms, and pushed up to his feet. He cradled her gently in his arms as he carried her back down the beach. It was now nearly dark, but her eyes were still almost unnaturally bright as they watched him serenely. She should have smelled like the ocean, even salty or fishy, but she smelled sweeter than anything he had ever scented. He couldn’t place her scent, but it was like an amalgamation of everything that had ever enticed him, from the hottest woman to the sweetest honey to the most fragrant perfume. All those scents mingled harmoniously where they lived in her skin. She laid her head on his chest and made a sound in her throat like a purr. It shook Flip straight through to his bones.
Flip carried her up the steep trail back up to the top of the cliffs. He carried her to his truck, parked near the trailhead. He wanted to take her to the hospital, have a doctor sign off that she was alright. But the strange woman protested, insisting it was too far and she was too cold. Flip hadn’t noticed her shivering before, but now she trembled in his arms, her body fluttering against his chest.
Instead, she asked him to take her into the old, abandoned house, assuring they could warm themselves inside. Though she had only asked and in the most melodious of tones, Flip found it was a command he couldn’t refuse. Still carrying her in his arms like a doting husband with an eager bride, he strode to the front door of the abandoned house. The door was a shade of purple-brown, like a fresh bruise, with a standoffish doorknocker in the shape of a lion’s head with a heavy ring clenched between its teeth. Glaring at the beast, Flip kicked the door in.
Still holding the woman to his chest, Flip paused at the threshold, looking from one dark corner of the foyer to the other, prepared for anything, like an old west gunfighter entering a saloon. He felt immediately ridiculous. Those ghost stories and tall tales must have gotten to him more than he’d wanted to admit. There was nothing amiss inside, save for some dust and cobwebs. Moonlight filtered through the windows, making the dust he had disturbed look like mist wafting lightly on the air.
“Upstairs,” the woman said. “There’s less dust upstairs.
Flip didn’t care whether she was right and he didn’t ponder her statement. He attacked the stairs, taking them two at a time. The house was Victorian-styled, filled with tall ceilings, ornate details, and airy windows. A pair of double doors stood open at the end of the hallway on the third floor, beckoning him inside. Flip carried his prize through them and into a master suite, noticing at once it was surprisingly clean. Bay windows were ajar, open just enough to allow a crisp breeze tinged with pine and salt blow in from the cove. The light wind must have kept the dust and cobwebs at bay because the room looked and smelled pristine.
Flip tried not to focus on the large bed, almost as plush and inviting as the woman in his arms. He aimed for the bathroom, intending to fight her chill with warm water. She tugged on his collar, pulling her face near his ear and whispered, “You just pulled me out of the water. Don’t put me back in it yet.” Her breath was hot on his neck. “Take me to bed.”
“That’s not what you need,” Flip rasped, trying to deny the way his blood boiled and remain a gentleman while his cock throbbed.
“Isn’t it just like a man to tell me what I need?” she laughed, both husky and harmonious.
“You need warmed up, and a doctor, and probably a hot meal,” Flip told her as he walked to the bed. In one swift motion, he sat her down and peeled his own soaked shirt off her, trying not to look at the perfection that revealed. He pulled the quilt around her in a cocoon, both to warm her and keep her hidden from his view. He turned her brusquely around and laid down beside her, wrapping her cocooned figure inside his arms, hoping the thick quilt barrier between them would keep his arousal his own dirty little secret.
“Can you not think of a more effective approach to warm me up?” the woman lilted.
Inhaling her scent with his nose near the back of her neck, Flip thought he had never been so intoxicated by any substance. He cleared his throat. “I’m not very imaginative. Sorry to disappoint.”
“I have some ideas,” she teased. “Do you care to hear them?”
“Not unless you buy me dinner first, darlin,’” Flip gruffed. “I’m not that easy.”
“You can take whatever you want, you know,” she said in a sultry invitation.
“I don’t want to take anything from you,” his voice rumbled.
“That’s a lie and we both know it. I can feel how much you’re lying.” She wiggled her perfect ass against the ridge in his jeans. He only tightened his hold to still her, making no moves to relieve his own suffering. She stilled, and when she spoke again there was a sprinkling of admiration in her voice, “What a strange man you are.”
“Darlin,’ you have no idea,” Flip laughed, adjusting his large arms around her body. “You should see me cut loose on the weekends. I really live on the edge. I have pizza with pineapple and stay up past midnight to watch Twilight Zone reruns and everything.”
Flip held her tight and forced his eyes shut, trying to ignore the way the moonlight danced on her pristine skin and glossed her hair; the feel of her curves through the quilt, as apparent to him as a pea beneath a princess’s mattress; the way her scent curled into his nose, as decadent as rose petals and as potent as whiskey. He could feel her weaving spells around him, through him, inside him, a kind of intoxication that settled in his blood. Flip knew once he was good and drunk on her, he’d never want to sober.
Flip dozed during the night, falling into a fitful nightmarish kind of sleep. His mind reeled with images of men screaming as they drowned, a beautiful beach corrupted by waterlogged corpses, and an unnaturally gorgeous woman swimming in the cove, watching the mayhem and smiling at it all.
The feeling of his back being forced down into the mattress made his eyes fly open. The sight of the mystery woman straddling his lap, her mane backlit by moonlight, the same moonlight that gleamed in her eyes, made his pulse thunder. Inhaling sharply, he gripped her naked thighs, his fingertips digging bruises into her skin.
Flip wouldn’t take her, but he was damn fine with being taken by her.
Pleasure rumbled through his throat as she raked her nails down his chest, tracing angry red streaks down his body. She had discarded the quilt, brandishing her exquisite and fully naked body like a weapon, her tits languidly jostling to the circular motion of her hips as she worked him into a frenzy through his jeans. She whipped his belt loose and yanked the button open on his jeans. He tried to sit up, to capture her pouting lips, but she pushed him back with a throaty laugh.
It was the first time in his life Flip had been manhandled by a fuckin’ woman. She was stronger than she looked. He looked up at her in a kind of daze, unable to look anywhere else, or to look away from those oddly luminous eyes. He had an unsettling feeling of being a prey animal, caught in the claws of some carnivorous predator. But with a cock as hard as his was now, he didn’t give a damn about that or any other misgiving.
Purring or maybe snarling, she arched her back and shook out her long glossy hair, crooning his name when she sank down onto him. Flip didn’t remember telling her his name, but that hardly mattered now. All around him, the room blurred like a steaming mirage until everything was a shapeless haze except for the glorious woman riding him. His skin simmered and his throat burned with every breath as if he were sitting inside an oven, but he had never felt more alive. Every sensation was heightened, and his pleasure was more intense than anything he had ever known.
Flip was a big, big man, and he was big where it counted. He was used to women being impressed by his body and his size, intimidated even. He wasn’t used to being stared down with unshakeable confidence as a woman took her pleasure from him. It was strange finding he wanted to give her not only pleasure, but everything else he had. He wanted to give it to her as good as he was getting it, bucking his hips beneath her while her hot pussy strangled his cock. Kissing and licking, grabbing and caressing, thrusting and bucking, he used every part of his body to earn her shudders and hear her moan his name.
Feeling her body tense around him like a silky vice, Flip fisted his hand in her hair and yanked her down to capture her lips. Growling into her mouth, he followed her over the edge, drinking her breath as she trembled in his arms while he filled her. He thrummed with something far deeper and stronger than lust, and he kissed her with a passion he had never given any other woman.
Holding her against him, Flip rolled with her, bringing her beneath him and propping himself up on his palms to admire this view of her under him. She locked her arms around his neck, urging him into her again, assuring him they were far from stopping for the evening. Again and again, they enjoyed each other until his back was stiff and his jaw ached, and until he even wondered if he would have some chaffing in some rather embarrassing areas by morning. When he finally fell asleep with her in his arms in the last hour before dawn, he dreamed of her still.
Flip woke with the sunrise, a habit ingrained by his days in the military. Turning over in bed, he reached for the intoxicating woman. How he had released his hold on her in his sleep baffled him, but he resolved to keep her in his arms for the rest of the day to compensate. His hand met only cool sheets and a vacant mattress. As if she had been nothing but a drunken reverie or a fever dream, she was gone from the bed. She had left no note or token, only her luxurious scent lingering in the sheets.
With the sunrise, a realization dawned to Flip. His missing mystery woman was unlike anything he had ever touched or tasted. She was his wildest dream and wickedest fantasy. It was unnerving, frightening even, to realize he was so far gone after one impulsive evening. Flip had tried the most addictive substances in the world at one time or another – it came with the territory for an undercover cop, having to blend in with the worst kinds of men – but he had never sampled anything so addictive, so utterly arresting from the very first taste. The marks she clawed into his back and shoulders would last for days, but the mark she carved into his heart was one he knew would never heal. Flip was tempted to call it love at first sight, but this felt more like enslavement. Love, in his experience, had its limits. His feelings for this woman had no such limitations. Neither did the lengths he would go to have her.
Outside the window, it was a beautiful summer morning with bright sunshine and blue skies. Inside the lonely bedroom, Flip had awakened in his own private hell. A gloom so heavy as the one that settled over him upon seeing her gone should not have been possible after the night he had and the hormones that still flooded his body. There shouldn’t have been a single damn thing that could knock him off cloud nine, but all the happiness and pleasure he had felt throughout the night blackened into loss and sadness as despairing as a moonless winter night. Collapsing back into the mattress, he knew that he would give anything, absolutely anything, to hold her in his arms again.
That’s what love will do to you, he thought wryly.
The woman was the cause of his suffering, and only she could be his relief. He didn’t know where she’d come from or how he hadn’t encountered her before in the claustrophobically small town. As he thought it, despairing at his lack of leads to find her again, he heard her voice quite clearly. She sang a hauntingly beautiful melody in a language he didn’t understand. He didn’t know her words or even if her voice came in through the window or echoed out from the depths of his soul. But he knew her message with stark clarity.
When the moon shines on the ocean, you’ll find me. On that beach, inside this house, I’m yours. Surrender to me, and I’ll show you lovely things.
Flip did as she asked. Or maybe as she commanded. If he could tell the difference, he didn’t care. Night after night, he returned to the mansion on the cliffs. Sometimes, the front door would be ajar, leading him inside and into her waiting embrace. Sometimes, he would find her on the beach, out for a walk in the moonlight, reveling in the way it shimmered on her skin. He would swim with her in the ocean, stroll with her in the sand, hold her in the sheets, and fuck her with an insatiable hunger every way she wanted.
She never came to him when the sun shone or when the moon was black, nor would she leave the acreage. She was always gone from his bed and his arms before dawn, no matter how tightly he held her. The rational part of Flip’s mind told him it was some weird game she was playing. Maybe she was married to some big asshole with a temper. The instinctual part of his mind, the dormant part where dreams and intuition reign, told him something that he couldn’t believe even though it felt true down to his bones. Flip knew he had found the creature who haunted that beautiful cove. Hell, he had probably found the woman responsible for so many deaths over the years that he hadn’t even cataloged them all.
As summer bled into fall and the colors turned vibrant, more accidental deaths occurred in the cove, more torn and bloated corpses washed onto the rocky beach. Flip now agreed with his unconcerned deputy, that these deaths were unfortunate accidents. Just as he knew damned well they were murders, Flip knew he had fallen under the spell of the murderess, that he could never again be free of whatever kind of enslavement this was. But he knew also that as much as she had enchanted him, he had captured her heart just as surely. It was like taming a man-eating tiger to eat from his hand and purr from his touch.
If something had cursed this magnificent woman to wander the cove on moonlit nights, that meant there should also be a way to cure her. That’s what Flip did, he solved problems. He was pretty damn good at operating within rules he thought were arbitrary and chickenshit – that’s how he categorized whatever rules held her prisoner. If he could find loopholes inside the penal code to get what he wanted, he could figure out how to save her.
If Flip couldn’t save the woman he loved, what kind of a man was he?
The nurses at the Eastport Hospital had all grown tiresome to Dr. Jason Monroe. Plowing through them all had taken most of the year, and it had been a nice ego boost – just what the doctor ordered, as he liked to say – but now the flock of nurses had become just as dull as the withered shrew of a wife he begrudgingly went home to most nights. In addition to the way her once mediocre looks had been eroded by age and the toll taken by their offspring, in recent years she had even neglected to remind Dr. Monroe how impressive he was, how lucky she was to have whatever morsel of attention he gave her. This was an unacceptable slight to a doctor whose ego had outstripped his credentials since his first residency rotation. Eastport was a good fit for him. People there were provincial enough to be highly impressed with Dr. Monroe whereas his arrogance had worn thin to his peers back in Boston.
The drive home from the hospital was long enough for Dr. Monroe to resent what he’d find when he got there – the yellowing smile of his middle-aged wife greeting him along with the smell of whatever trendy meal she had attempted – but not long enough for him to think of any suitable excuses to stay out for the evening. The missus believed him a few nights a month when he told her he had to work late but he couldn’t overuse it, and he was already over what he considered his safe allowance for the month. He decided to take the long way home, take a scenic cruise along the coastline.
The full moon glittered on the ocean like diamonds on satin. Without a large city within miles there was nearly no light pollution, and the moon and diamante stars illuminated the forests and beaches like a dreamscape cast in silver. The moon was so bright, he saw a white spume burst from the ocean and telltale black fins peeking above the waves as a small pod of whales swam near the deserted coast. There was no one else on the lonely two-lane road, so Monroe watched them instead of the road, smiling when a calf breached and turned its belly up toward the moon.
When he returned his eyes to the road, an unfamiliar cove came into view ahead. Frowning, he thought he must have taken a wrong bend in the winding road. The road narrowed and there was no shoulder, making it cumbersome to turn around. He quickly oriented himself when he heard the crash of thunder on the cloudless night. Monroe knew all the stories about the beautiful cove surrounded by thundering cliffs and the haunted house perched high above. He had always wanted to see it, but his doe-eyed and doe-hearted wife had always nagged him out of it.
“What about the rumors, Jason?” she would whine. “It’s supposed to be haunted and it gives me the creeps.”
What a fortunate wrong turn, Monroe smirked to himself. Now, he could take a walk along that beautiful, ‘haunted’ beach and see what all the fuss was about. He could even keep a clear conscience and save his evasion for when he really needed it.
The road had taken him to the beach before it doubled back and wound up the nearest hill toward the old, abandoned house on the cliffs. He thought about driving up there to get the bird’s eye view, but movement in the water caught his eye. Squinting, he thought he saw something glimmering in the water near the shore. It looked like a woman swimming, but that couldn’t be right. The leaves were starting to turn crisp and vibrant as autumn approached, and the nighttime air had a cool bite.
Stepping out of his car, Monroe strolled along the beach toward the head of the cove. The cliffs formed a perfect horseshoe around the ocean and towered above him. The beach was littered with fallen boulders and large monoliths that protruded from the sea like the teeth of a great petrified monster. The beach’s dangerous edges added to its beauty, like a woman in a tight red dress and stilettos.
Monroe saw the movement again, something glistening in the water. Closer now, just beyond the nearest protruding fang of rock. He couldn’t explain why his heart kicked up as he trotted around it to get a better look, but his intuition was rewarded. He’d been right at first. It was a woman. A fucking babe, too, so hot she could have walked right off a porn set. Her tits already had his dick twitching. She was treading water a few yards away, close enough for him to see the way her eyes reflected the moonlight. Below the swell of her tits, her body was hidden beneath the gentle waves, but Monroe had seen enough.
“Hey, baby!” he called to her, trying to sound suave. “Are you out here all by yourself? It’s dangerous for a woman. Especially a woman that looks like you.”
Monroe didn’t like operating from the disadvantage of his prey not knowing his professional status. But it did give him the opportunity to enlighten a new woman, watch the admiration bloom in her eyes when he regaled her with stories of all the lives he’d saved. But for the first time in years, he didn’t even feel the desire to regale her. Monroe just wanted to fuck her. He felt like an alcoholic at a bar, his mouth watering and hands shaking. He walked closer, waves lapping over his six-hundred-dollar brogues.
“It is dangerous,” the woman agreed in a voice as harmonious as a symphony. “You should stay away.”
Her angelic lift didn’t fool Monroe. He caught the sultry devil in her tone, too. It was the tone of a woman who wanted it, wanted him. He kicked off his waterlogged shoes and told her as much, “You look like a woman who wants some company.”
“How does your wife look when she wants company?” The woman asked and kicked away, further out into the ocean. “You should go home to her.”
Monroe saw a flash of gold in the water beneath her, something he swore looked like scales. He wondered if she was blonde down south and the thought caused another jump in his pants. He didn’t bother taking them off when he waded deeper. Fuck, the water was cold. It was a testament to how hot the mystery woman was that his hard-on could endure the frigid water as he swam out toward her.
Just as he closed in, the woman glided away. She looked back at him over her shoulder in what may have been fright or evasion, but Monroe knew better. She was playing coy, giving him a chase. Women did that to him from time to time, played those little games. It never meant they didn’t want him to catch them. He thought about what he’d do to this one when he caught her. He wanted to sink his teeth right into her. One thing he was certain of, he hadn’t ruined his shoes and his clothes to play coy. Play time was over once he caught her.
Which, judging by the way his outstretched hand was nearly clawing through her luxurious mane, was right about now.
Monroe caught her hair as she swam away from him, still playing coy, and used a little too much force when he yanked her back to him. Her beautiful features were twisted and her mouth was open when he yanked her head around. Monroe had expected that – a look of pain or surprise. But the woman was smiling. And she wasn’t a woman anymore. The creature was smiling at him. Its features were still beautiful, but its eyes were vicious with narrow, slitted pupils, and its smile was too wide with too many teeth. Dear god, the teeth! Rows of sharp, brutal, shark-like teeth.
The creature laughed, drinking his fear like wine. It laughed as it tore into him with its brimming smile and those terrible teeth, latching onto his neck with vice-tight strength. The pain and surprise belonged to him alone. And what exquisite pain it was, like nothing he had ever experienced. He felt his flesh being serrated by ragged teeth, and even heard the tearing of his tissue like a seam ripping as the creature tore a chunk out of his neck. He felt his blood oozing down over his collarbone, hot on his chilled skin.
Monroe didn’t think it should take so long to die or that a person could endure so much pain before the release of death. He flailed feebly, or possibly it was his muscles twitching spasmodically as the last currents of life tried to save him. He looked up at the full glowing moon and sputtered a prayer, blood frothing from his mouth as he pleaded to God for help. Or at least to let him die quickly.
“God’s not here tonight, doctor,” the creature told him, her voice still as wickedly harmonious as a devil’s serenade. A golden fin breached the water before the creature dove under with him, fanning a magnificent golden tail to drive them deep into the crushing black depths. Somehow, he could still hear her voice or perhaps the words were driven straight into his soul.
“There’s only me.” Her voice seemed to fill the water like light. Terrible, golden, hellish light. “And the lovely things I’ll show you.”
It took a week for Dr. Monroe’s corpse to wash back up onto the beach. Clammy skin had begun sloughing off in patches which, combined with the bloat of decay and waterlogged oozing, gave the body a poached egg sort of look. Flip always had thick skin when it came to murders and crime scenes, it had thickened even more in the last few months. The smell was particularly loathsome with bodies dredged up after marinating in water for days. Soggy, rancid meat was just a little more putrid than dry rot. It should probably worry him that the humid stench coating the back of his throat no longer bothered him, but now he was more concerned with not getting his boots wet from the waves lapping at a vacant eye socket, the surrounding tissue hanging loose like a worn-out buttonhole. In addition to the missing eye, there were other places the fish had eaten. They went for the soft tissue first – eyes, lips, genitals.
I hope you did something in life that warranted your dick bein’ chewed off in death, you poor clammy bastard, Flip thought as he studied the corpse. Fuck, I hope he was dead when that happened. He smirked at his own dark humor.
That humor faded quickly when he had to break the news to the doctor’s hysterical widow; console her while she sobbed, listen while she bemoaned the fate of their litter. He really needed to hire some deputy to do this part of the job, some kind of emotional support golden retriever in human form. Especially with the impressive accidental death toll Eastport boasted.
“I found your latest handiwork on the beach this morning,” Flip said to his golden girl between kisses as his mouth trailed from her throat down toward her navel. Moonlight gilded her skin as she moved beneath him in the bedroom he now considered theirs, hidden away in the seaside mansion. “You gotta quit doin’ that, darlin.’”
She bucked her hips against his face in invitation. “You don’t need to worry. I know what’s really bothering you. None of them touch me. No one has touched me since you. Only you.”
“It ain’t a walk in the park breakin’ the news to all these wailing widows, you know.” Flip nipped her skin, delighting in the way she shuddered in response.
“Tell the wife about the nurses the good doctor was fucking,” she said with no remorse. “That should put a bandaid on her grief.”
“Is that an educated guess?” Flip asked redundantly. He had learned earlier that day the doctor had been making the rounds in the hospital in multiple ways.
“When a man drowns in my cove, there’s a good reason,” she said with a hint of venom.
“A man-hater, huh?” he grinned against her skin, teasing her with the scratch of his beard. “Should I be concerned?”
“You? Never, handsome.” She laughed headily. “A hard man like you is good to find.”
“Is that what’s behind all the killing?” Flip asked more seriously, looking up at her and meeting her eyes. “Some asshole hurt you and have a score to settle?”
“I had a score to settle, alright. I was filled with rage, for years and years. But now, it’s nothing so simple as rage. Not anymore. It’s all part of a bargain I made long ago.” She tangled her fingers into the thick forest of his hair. “You might say, I have quotas to meet.”
“Tell me what happened.” Flip raised himself up, cupping her cheek in his hand and looking steadily into her eyes.
“You talk too much, handsome,” she said and used her surprising strength to roll him onto his back and hoist herself to straddle him. Better than that, she straddled his face. “I can think of a better use for that mouth.”
Some time later, she lay draped across his chest as the sweat cooled on their bodies. Flip marveled at her indefatigability. He felt like he had run a marathon, and she could go all night. They still had a few hours before dawn and Flip didn’t want to waste them sleeping.
“You know if you need a hero, I’m happy to step up,” Flip told her, rubbing his hand along her back.
“A hero can’t save me,” she scoffed with surprising rancor. “A hero would never do what’s necessary to save me. Only a villain would have half a chance. A man who chooses to be my hero alone and a villain to others.”
“Hero or villain, I’ll be whatever the hell you want me to be,” Flip assured her, his voice soft this time as he cradled her head on his chest. “Tell me what happened to you, darlin.’”
“What happened doesn’t matter,” she replied with a hint of melancholy. “Why things are the way they are rarely matters.”
“Anything that affects you matters to me.” His voice rumbled through his chest.
With her head resting on one side of his chest and her sharp fingernails tracing patterns on the other, she began her story. Her sonorous voice played harmony to the spell woven by her words. Flip had never been the best listener, not to the frivolous pillow talk most women tried to engage him in. Yet he found he hung on every word she spoke as if it were the thrilling cliffhanger at the end of a riveting novel chapter.
“It’s been more than eighty years since I’ve let a man have me for more than one night.” She kissed his chest. “But I suppose you figured that out.”
“Not really,” Flip huffed, jostling her on his chest. “I don’t have a damn thing figured out, other than I have you now, but I’m not supposed to be able to keep you. I know I want to keep you.” His brow was set and voice heavy with conviction. “I’ll find a way to keep you.”
“I want you to keep me, too,” she purred. “And you’re the first man I’ve ever said that too.” Her voice grew darker. “But there’s a price you must pay to keep me. You’re also the first man I’ve ever wanted to know exactly what that price is. If the price is too steep for you, I won’t force you to make the purchase.”
“No price is too high, darlin.’” He grinned. “Can I whip out a checkbook?”
She smiled up at him with great sadness and returned her head to his chest to begin her tale.
“I married too young to the first man who had ever made me laugh. I was just coming into my beauty and had never kissed a boy before. My husband promised he would take me far away when he returned from the war. I was young and foolish, and I believed him. While he was at war, men in town hounded me. They were merciless. Truly merciless, like hounds baying after a fox. I wouldn’t have looked twice at any of them even if I was single. I was more vigilant over my reputation than I needed to be, more vigilant than any other woman I knew. I couldn’t have done more to avoid and deter them, unless I started undermining my appearance. I wouldn’t give any man the power of making me lessen myself to make them more comfortable. I wasn’t too much. Those men were inadequate.”
Flip stroked his large hand along her back soothingly and kissed along her hairline, letting her take whatever time she needed.
“It didn’t take long – weeks it seemed – until one of those men, a fat, verminous, troll who could never touch a woman like me, started telling everyone who would listen that he had slept with me. That I had begged for it and moaned like a whore. I don’t know how many people in town believed it at first. I thought surely no one could. But the women who heard the rumor were jealous of me and fostered it – ‘I’ve always known she was a whore. Just look at her!’ And the men who heard it wanted it to be true so they might have a chance with me – ‘Yeah, you know she wants it.’ That foul rumor spread through town like wildfire, until I couldn’t walk down the street without getting poisonous looks and lewd propositions.”
“Let’s take a stroll down mainstreet tomorrow,” Atas suggested with gravel in his voice. “I’ll rearrange some faces and punch the teeth down the throat of any asshole who so much as looks at you sideways.”
“I’d give anything to have you show me off on your arm,” she said in a faraway tone. Her voice hardened when she continued. “All the perverse talk emboldened the perverts, I suppose. It didn’t take long until the looks and comments weren’t enough. Then the pinching started, then the grabbing. I could handle myself. I could even fend them off one at a time. I was never a meek woman and I was raised on a farm. Then they started following me in packs like hyenas.”
Flip’s hand stilled on her hip, his grip tightening.
“I went to the sheriff,” she scoffed. “He asked me what I expected, looking the way I look, dressing the way I dress. He told me I was asking for it, and I shouldn’t be surprised when men wanted it. He also asked what it was worth to me for him to do something about it.”
“Is that sonofabitch still alive?” Flip growled.
“None of them are.” She smiled at the thought. Then her lips thinned and her face hardened. “One night one of those men – I can’t remember his name, but I remember his face and his rancid breath – came to my house, the house on the cliffs. He broke in and knocked me out. I woke up when he was dragging me along the beach by my hair. When I fought back, he beat me more, beat me until he could take what he wanted from me. He was stupid though. He turned his back to me to stuff his little dick back into his pants. I bashed the asshole in the head with the nearest rock I could grab. I bashed him again and again and again until his face was hamburger, then I threw the rock into the ocean and dragged his body out. I waded until I was swimming and then I kept swimming. I was a good swimmer, and it felt good to wash the filth off me. I left his body in the middle of the cove to sink and swam back. When his corpse washed up days later, it looked like an accident.”
“That asshole deserved it,” Flip said genuinely. “He deserved a helluva lot worse.”
“My husband came home from the war a few weeks later,” she continued. “I tried to tell him these things. I needed to tell someone other than my damn pets. But he had heard the rumors in town too, and he had already been poisoned by them. He thought it was all my fault. That I must have been putting something out there to elicit the response I received. He thought I took lovers and flirted. That I acted like a whore in his absence because I couldn’t keep my legs closed until he got home.”
“I see why you wanted to get outta Dodge,” Flip grated, his body rigid beneath hers. He dreaded what he thought was coming, but still had to hear it from her lips.
“He said if he couldn’t have me, no one would. He killed me, beat me mostly to death,” she revealed. “When I was barely conscious, he dragged me to the cliff. I screamed and screamed, but no one heard me. He tied an anchor around me and shoved me off into the deepest part of the cove. You’d think it’s quick to drown, but it takes a long time when it’s happening to you. It felt like I sank for hours in my last few minutes. I screamed, watching my cries for help rise in bubbles toward the surface.”
Flip felt her body grow stiff against him as she continued. “I begged and pleaded. When I thought I would do anything anything to live a little longer, something answered. Something that lurked in the bottom of that cove. Something monstrous. I heard its voice inside my head and it offered me a trade. A trade I was all too happy to accept. Instead of a handshake, I felt thick slimy tentacles wrap around me. I thought they were dragging me deeper, but they dragged me somewhere else. I kicked so violently I broke free and I shot to the surface, kicking and kicking. A part of me realized that I should have drowned, that I couldn’t be alive after so long under water. Then I realized that my feet weren’t there anymore. The creature had stolen them, replaced my legs with a tail. I had become one of whatever that creature was. Something cursed. Something soulless.”
“Jesus,” Flip said dumbly, at a loss. What does a man say to that?
“Jesus wasn’t there that night. He didn’t answer my prayers,” she said vehemently. “I made a deal with the devil that night, or a kind of devil, and I became his pet and his ward. Since that night, I have taken my revenge and sated his hunger at the same time, luring men to their deaths with my beauty and my siren’s song. They find me on the beach, and come to save me, then they try to take me,” she laughed cruelly. “Then they beg God to let them drown. So, I show them all my teeth and then I laugh out loud. I never wanted saving, I just wanted to be found. That will teach them. All of them. They’re never to be seen again, and I’m still wandering my beach, swimming in my cove.”
Flip thought she was finished, so he asked with conviction, “So what’s the price I have to pay?”
“I’m glad I met the devil,” she said and propped herself up on his chest so she was looking down at him. “He showed me I was weak. He removed the weakness from me and replaced it with a part of him. In exchange he took a part of me too. The part of me he barters in.” She smiled grimly. “The price, as you see, is a piece of your soul.”
Flip chewed his cheek, considering this for only a moment. “I can go without a piece of my soul, darlin,’ as long as the rest of it belongs to you. And all of you belongs to me.”
When Flip awoke the next morning, she was gone. He knew she would be; he had grimly resigned himself to that reality months ago. It could have all been a dream, a fantasy or a nightmare. Maybe he could walk away from her and after a few painful years, convince his mind of that. Inconveniently, she was real. The realest and most alive Flip had ever felt and would ever feel was when he was with his siren.
Thunder roared outside and a gusty wind blew the bay window open with a rusty groan of hinges. Flip groaned himself as he rolled out of bed, grabbed his pack of cigarettes, pulled one out with his teeth, lit the tip and dropped his lighter back on the nightstand. Smoke trailed from his nose as he walked to the windows. He was still naked, boasting scratches from her nails across his chest, his hair wild from her fingers. Leaning against the window frame, he blew a stream of smoke outside.
Clouds as dark as gunsmoke hung low overhead and the thunder booming in the sky was louder than the crash of waves against the cliffs below. Waves ripped across the surface of the usually calm cove, cresting white like lipizzans in capriole. Watching the water boil from the storm, feeling the chilly air on his skin, and taking a drag from his cigarette, Flip wondered how in the hell he could pay the price for his siren’s absolution. If it was as simple as handing over a pound of his flesh, he would go down to the kitchen and cut a chunk out his side before breakfast. Ideas turned over in his mind, he rejected each one as fast as it bloomed. He focused so intently on that question, he didn’t realize he was chewing his lip around his cigarette until he tasted blood mingled with tobacco.
A strange movement in the water in the center of the cove caught his eye. The shape of the cresting waves in the center had changed, becoming sinuous. The water looked like insects crawled over its surface. Flip frowned, stepping outside onto the balcony, clamping the cigarette between his teeth. The wind buffeted him, raising goosebumps on his shoulders. Or maybe it was the sight of a long oily black tentacle reaching up from the water, twisting in the air, then vanishing again.
Flip spit his cigarette over the balcony rail, as he planted his hands on it and leaned forward. He strained his eyes, focusing on the sinuous writhing in the center of the cove. Horror prickled his skin like icepicks when he realized the strange movement of the waves were a multitude of black tentacles, wringing and twisting inside and on top of the stormy waves. The very center was calm, about the size of a dinner table. It gleamed like oil. Something inside the round center made a jerky movement. Flip realized it was an eye. A giant black eye. And that eye had just focused its abyssal pupil on him. The tentacles whipped wildly around it now, breaching the water in agitation or excitement.
Whatever this creature was, it was not his siren nor anything possessing of her beauty. He recalled her story and the tentacles that had caught her legs and dragged her under. This was the hellish beast that had lived in the cove long before the siren ever took her first swim. This was the eldritch monster that collected the souls his siren harvested. Flip stared at it, and the monstrous eye stared right back.
An idea flashed into his mind. Whether it was his own, a spark of brilliance born of the terrified adrenaline that coursed through his veins, or whether the tentacled monster had impregnated his thoughts, he didn’t know or even care.
Flip knew what he had to do to save his siren, to have her all to himself. He was too late to avenge her, but he could try his best to save her.
After meeting the shining black eye of that monstrosity in the cove, Flip was rattled. He didn’t like the idea that had been put into his head, but he wasn’t forcing it out either. He was allowing it to percolate, considering his options. His phone dinged from an incoming text as he was pulling on his jeans. It was unusual for him to be bothered by calls or texts out on that acreage; it allowed him to feel like there was only him and his siren alone in the world. Service was spotty and unpredictable at best out on the cliffs. His phone varied between one bar and no service depending on the device’s mood. He fished it out of his jeans pocket and glared at the new text, wrinkling his nose more from the text than he did from the smell of moist corpses.
“I miss you,” said the whoring schoolteacher, Cristy.
“I bet you fuckin’ do,” he gritted to himself and shoved his phone back in his pocket.
The thought that had taken root in his mind that morning blossomed into something thorny and brutal. Maybe even a little evil, the kind of thought that was rare for Flip. And it was brilliant.
Instead of the petty barb he had been poised to text, he typed a new message. “Then let’s do something about it. Pick you up at 7?”
“See you then,” her reply came almost instantly, followed by a string of emojis.
Another check in his siren’s box. She didn’t text him stupid shit with stupid fuckin’ emojis.
“Better get movin,’” he grumbled to himself as he shoved the phone back in his pocket and pulled his shirt on. He had a lot to do between now and seven.
Before picking up Cristy, Flip ran a few other errands. He went into his favorite coffee shop, as he often did in the mornings after leaving his empty bed. This time, he flirted with the barista he knew was married. Loud enough for his voice to carry to the surveillance camera behind the counter, he told the married woman he was thinking of watching the sunset from the local lighthouse and asked if she wanted to join him. She declined as he knew she would. Later in the day, he purchased a ticket for a show at the drive-in theater and made sure a few people spotted the sheriff there, talked to a few others. Once the movie was rolling, he doubted those same people would notice him leaving early, and there was no surveillance in the dated drive-in to be concerned about. He still had time to drive to the lighthouse, at the far end of town from the siren’s cove, and toss out an empty Coke can with his DNA on the rim. With the recent storm and the humidity, it would be impossible to place his tire tracks to a timeframe narrower than twelve hours, which was just what he wanted. His last errand of the day was surprisingly easy, and he even arrived early to pick up the teacher. He ensured there were no witnesses or cameras in the area. And he kept the radio loud in his truck while he drove her out for their date, loud enough to cover any noises coming from the truck bed.
The hardest part of it all was faking a smile at Cristy’s bland wit and keeping his mouth shut on the topic of her liaisons with the science teacher, Less. Even though he had no interest in her and now had the woman of his dreams in bed most nights, being cheated on still irked him. He wondered if that lingering anger would be resolved tonight too.
Flip just hoped her lackluster spirit and dented soul were fungible with those of his magnificent siren. He would never make that trade, but he hoped that was just his mortal sensibility.
Ignoring Cristy’s protests that the cove was haunted, Flip drove them there anyway. He remembered the road with beach access thanks to the late Dr. Monroe. It was convenient that any tracks on the beach were washed away by the tide within minutes. Few people ever came to this place, thanks to the ghost stories and tall tales surrounding the cove and the old house. From the beach, enclosed on three sides by high cliffs and tall, toothy rocks, a man could feel like he was alone in the world. Flip parked between two spires of rock rising out of the surf, near a small dinghy and oars he had dragged there that morning, still patiently awaiting him. They arrived when the sun was setting, the prettiest hour of the day to spend in the haunted cove.
“Get your whorin’ ass in the boat,” Flip ordered the woman in a frightening tone, shedding his pretenses of civility.
“What did you say to me?” Cristy tried to sound offended, but fear shook her voice.
“I’m askin’ nicely.” Flip smiled cruelly. “But I’m not above askin’ another way. I suggest you don’t make me ask twice.”
She was stumbling over her words, backpedaling some kind of excuse or apology. Atla didn’t care and he wasn’t listening. He got out of the truck, made sure to pocket his keys, and walked behind it to open the tailgate. He wasn’t concerned about Cristy getting away. She couldn’t get up the cliffs here, so all she could do was try to run away down the beach and Flip could catch her in seconds. Or she could try swimming away across the cove, which would be just fine by him.
Grabbing the bundle Flip had covered with a tarp in the bed of his truck, he yanked it out, letting it fall to the sand in a heap. He had thought the man, Less, might have given him more trouble, but he lived up to his name. Flip had dealt with stray dogs who put up more of a fight. Less was crying behind his broken glasses, sucking against the duct tape over his mouth as he sobbed. He wasn’t even fighting against the zip ties on his wrists and ankles.
Flip walked to the passenger door and yanked it open, unable to keep himself from grinning at the sight of Cristy’s dull, horrified eyes. Flip leaned on the door and told her, “I doubt you believe me, but I have no intention of hurting either of you. I just want us all to have a little chat.” He jerked his head toward the dinghy. “So, you can either walk your ass over to that boat and sit down in it on your own, or I can drag you to it and throw you in. Your choice.”
Trembling with fear and crying, Cristy complied. As she walked toward the boat, she looked around, calculating her odds of escape and realizing it was hopeless. Flip bent and grabbed hold of the man’s collar, dragging him through the sand and hoisting him into the boat like a duffle bag, landing with a heavy thud.
“I’m sorry,” Cristy sputtered. “I didn’t mean to cheat on you. It was all a mistake.”
“Yeah, it’s a dangerous world out there for a woman,” Flip menaced, letting her know the world she was in now was very dangerous indeed. “A girl never knows when she might trip and fall onto a dick. I don’t know how you navigate it. Me? I’m just thankful I haven’t tripped and fallen on top of any strange women yet.” He bared his teeth in a cold grin. “Get in the boat.”
“You said you weren’t going to hurt me,” she sobbed, climbing into the dinghy.
“I’m not,” he said gruffly. “You have my word.” He jerked his thumb at the quivering man curled in the bottom of the boat. “Believe me, if I was gonna rough you up, it would have been when I caught you with that fuckin’ joke.”
Flip shoved the boat with both teachers inside out into the water and jumped in as a wave caught it. He took the oars and began rowing them out into the cove. The sun had dipped behind the pines on the cliffs above and the light was rapidly fading. By the time they reached the middle of the cove, the shore was hazy and indistinct, shrouded with purples and blues and a light mist.
Flip retrieved a knife from his jeans pocket, smirking at the way Less cowered from it. Catching Less by the ankle, Flip cut the zip ties binding his legs. He jerked his hands back when he realized the pathetic excuse for a male had pissed his pants. He cut through the ties on Less’s wrists and then stood, trying to keep his balance in the small boat. Less staggered up on shaky legs, his puny fists balled at his sides. Flip grinned at the feeble sight, but it gave him an opening he had wanted for some time.
Still grinning, Flip slammed a vicious right punch straight into Less’s nose, feeling the rewarding crunch of cartilage as the skinny dweeb reeled backward. Before Less tipped over backward, Flip grabbed the front of his shirt and the waistband of his pants, and unceremoniously chucked him over the side. Less shrieked like a woman when he hit the water and sputtered in hysterics next to the boat.
Looking at Cristy, Flip gave her his best Dirty Harry glare. “Do you need help gettin’ out of the boat too, or can you manage on your own?”
“What are you going to do? You can’t leave us out here!” she screamed, but she timidly stepped out of the boat into the ocean to tread water beside Less.
“Like I said, I just want to have a conversation,” Flip said dangerously. “And what I want to hear is the two of you begging. I want you to beg for your lives. Beg not to drown. I want to hear what kind of bargain you’re both willing to make not to drown here tonight.”
“I’ll do anything,” the woman cried. “Oh, God help us! What do you want?”
“Keep it up.” Flip grinned at her.
Grabbing a fistful of the man’s thinning hair, Flip shoved his head under again. The man flailed and sputtered, giving Flip about as much trouble as a wet rat. The woman sobbed, treading water in place. It was pathetic how weak the couple was. Not an ounce of fight or flight in them, just sobbing and pleading. They didn’t even try to capsize his dinghy, which wouldn’t have been difficult.
Keeping hold of his hair, Flip let the man splash back to the surface, wheezing for breath.
“Beg, you sorry sonofabitch,” Flip growled in his grittiest tone. “Beg to be saved. Promise you’ll do anything.”
Less instantly amped his sobbing to the level of horror-movie-cheerleader, begging and pleading and promising with everything he had. Cristy followed his lead, stupidly thinking that being pitiable enough would save her. They carried on for minutes, wailing and splashing, pleading and promising.
“Please,” Less pleaded, snot clogging his nose and tears streaming from his eyes. “Please, I’ll do anything. I’ll give you anything you want.”
“Don’t let me drown!” Cristy shrieked. “I’ll give you anything you want if you save me.”
The ocean began swirling around the couple. They were too preoccupied by Flip to notice. The eddy was gentle at first, quickly gaining speed. Cristy noticed when it started to tug her under, like filth getting sucked down a drain.
“We begged you,” she sobbed. “We promised to do anything you wanted to spare us.”
“You weren’t beggin’ me for a fuckin’ thing.” Flip laughed cruelly. “And it wasn’t me you made those promises to.”
Punctuating his laughter, a forest of tentacles erupted from the whirlpool, oily black and as thick as Flip’s waist. The tentacles whipped around like cats o’nine tails. The woman screamed and the man cried pitifully. Flip grabbed the sides of the little boat to keep from being thrown out as it bucked on the turbulent water, hoping to hell it wouldn’t capsize.
The tentacles latched around the pathetic couple flailing in the water, catching Cristy around her legs and waist and Less around the neck in a slimy noose. His mouth opened in a scream that couldn’t escape his strangled throat and his eyes bulged from their sockets, as the woman splashed feebly. Their screams and sputters and splashing sounded deafening to Flip in the otherwise silent cove. Just as fast as they had appeared, the tentacles were sucked back beneath the water, leaving Cristy’s terrified face and Less’s lobster-red strangling head bobbing for another heartbeat before they too were sucked down into the water.
The whirlpool grew smaller, swallowing the couple down into the cursed depths of the cove. Flip’s dinghy settled with a splash, its violent bucking slowly calming until it was rocking gently. The whirlpool had vanished along with all trace of the teachers, and the waves had returned to normal. The starry night was incongruously peaceful, the ocean beautiful and the sky pristine. With a heavy sigh, Flip dropped his hands from the sides of the boat and let his breath return to normal, waiting for the guilt that never came.
Two worthless souls in exchange for one exquisite soul was a fine trade by him. Maybe he’d thrown in a little piece of his own soul as a tip, but he was fine with that too.
A hoarse cry coming from the shore snapped him back to attention. There was enough light from the moon and stars for Flip to see movement on the beach, but he couldn’t make out what it was. There wasn’t any way either of the two teachers could have gotten there that fast, and slimmer odds still they’d survived.
Grabbing the oars, Flip heaved against them, sending the dinghy lurching back to shore. His heart jumped when he recognized the familiar, superb figure of his siren. When he neared the shore, he jumped out of the boat, splashing water up to his thighs, and dragged the rowboat ashore. She was on her hands and knees in the sand, doubled over coughing up water. Flip ran to her, falling to his knees beside her, his hand going instinctively to rub her back.
“Are you alright?” he asked, still rubbing her back as she coughed. He had never seen her cough like this before, as if she had just narrowly avoided drowning. She was naked, as he had found her many times, but this time her skin was cool to his touch and goosebumps rose in a rash over her shoulders. Flip yanked his shirt open, shrugged out of it and wrapped it around her, pulling her onto her knees and into his arms.
She shuddered against him, her entire body heaving. Worried, Flip squeezed her tighter. Then he realized she was laughing, silently laughing so heartily her whole body shook. Pulling back enough to look at her, Flip cupped her face, studying her smiling features.
“I think you did it, handsome,” she crooned, her smile widening further, tears brimming in her eyes. The ethereal lilt was gone from her voice, though it still spoke to his heart. The oddly luminous glow was gone from her eyes, though they were still bright and beautiful and looked right into his soul. Her mane of hair was still luxurious but lacked some of the gloss it usually held, and her skin was soft as velvet but was missing the ethereal golden flush that had always seemed to shimmer just below the surface.
“You’re free?” Flip asked, his voice hoarse in his tightening throat, a toothy smile blooming on his lips.
“I think so,” she laughed, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him so roughly she bruised his lower lip. “Take me to bed. If I’m allowed to stay until dawn, I’m yours.”
For the first time, Flip was able to watch the sunrise holding the woman he loved. He stayed awake all night waiting for it, just to make sure she wouldn’t somehow evaporate in his arms. He wanted to touch her, assure himself she was real, while he watched the morning sun gild her skin and dance in her hair. This morning, he would be able to take the woman he loved with him into the little coffee shop, show her off in town. Thinking of spending his life enjoying such simple pleasures with her made him feverish with love.
A thought played over and over in Flip’s head, making him grin like an idiot. She was still his as the sun rose. She would be his forever.
The sunrise was golden, lighting the reds and oranges in the autumn foliage aflame. The cove was calm, the water a peaceful sapphire. If Flip strained his ears, he thought he might have heard a faint cry, carried up from the water on a light breeze. With some imagination, it might be the screams of the souls trapped beneath the water. The new recruits Flip had engineered as a trade for the release of his siren. But a rational man would chock it up to the wind rustling the pines. The sound was barely audible when the waves thundered against the cliffs. And the waves would always be there. The waves would always come crashing down.
Flip would label the drowning of the two schoolteachers an accident. One might call it following traditional Eastport Sheriff Department protocol. Even if some ambitious cop wanted to investigate, there was no evidence to support anything else. Two lovebirds went skinny dipping in the cove and drowned. Damned shame.
Flip’s siren heard the faint sounds carried across the water, turning in his arms to look out of the windows. She smiled, a wistful sort of look in her bright eyes. Flip kissed her shoulders and neck, feeling her body respond to his touch. When she rolled onto her back and pulled him over her, he saw the familiar wildness in her eyes. Her wildness wasn’t a gift from the being in the lake. It was born into her and it remained a part of her. As Flip kissed her smiling lips, he wondered if her desire to kill, her rage, were gone too. Or if that had been a part of her long before she was taken by whatever dwells in the cove. She still seemed like a wild thing to him, like a fox or a tiger. Then he wondered if he could possibly domesticate a wild tiger. Or if he could only keep her sated. He didn’t know, but he intended to do his part on that front right now.
Warnings: NSFW. Smut. Aggressive and Dominant Jacques. Chasing. Implied Age Gap. Student/Professor Dynamics. Professor/Professor Dynamics. Everyone is over 18, as All Readers Must Be.
AO3 Link
Author’s Note: Based on a special request for a sexy Christmas party with Professor Le Gris from my beautiful friend @kyloremus ! She does the absolute best edits around and keeps me absolutely rabid! Edits by her, of course!
More Hogwarts Professor Jacques fics for anyone hooked:
Where There’s Smoke, There’s Fire
Dashing Through The Snow
I Put A Spell On You
A Duel to Remember
Fog hung heavily in the winter air, snaking through the cobblestone streets and the serpentine twists of Diagon Alley. Fat snowflakes danced lazily down from swirling carbon clouds and the cobblestones were icy and slick beneath the fresh powder snow. Shop windows glowed with a kaleidoscope of lights and buttered rum and spiced wine could be scented on the frosted air. Christmas Eve was a glittering evening, the kind filled with beauty and wonder and promise. A gust of wind blew down the alley toward you, twirling a flurry of snow up from the ground. You pulled your coat tighter around your body and trotted toward your destination a few businesses ahead.
Ducking inside the welcoming doors of the Leaky Cauldron, you were instantly enveloped by warmth and the smell of drinks and fried food. The bar was more crowded than you had ever seen it, packed to standing room only with patrons out for Christmas Eve. Festive music, a mix of cherry and clubby, almost made you want to dance as you weaved your way through the crowd. The edges of the bar were obscured in that murky shadow that liked to linger on the sidelines, like wallflower shades watching from the wings. You could see figures of people sitting in the shadows, but couldn’t make out any discerning features. You could almost feel a pair of eyes on you, watching you from the shadows.
A wave from the crowded bar caught your eye. A group of four people pressed together at the bar, two couples, waiting for you. Your friends. It wasn’t uncommon for you to be the third wheel in your group, still single after your closest friends had paired up with men during their school years and shortly thereafter. Zelda was now married and Dina, more protective of her freedom, was with a man she had been dating for years. It was easy to see that the man who was supposed to meet you tonight was absent. You expected to hear whatever excuse he had for that from your friends. It was no bother, really. Blind dates were always something of a disaster.
Zelda waved at you more animatedly, fitting for your bubbly blonde friend. Beside her Dina, a stately brunette, must have told their men to clear some space for you because both men moved to the edge of the bar under the guise of having some conversation amongst themselves.
“I can’t believe Gaston stood you up!” Zelda huffed indignantly when you joined them, referring to your absentee blind date. “What an asshole! I wouldn’t have thought it of him.”
“It’s best for the assholes to weed themselves out early,” you said nonchalantly. It was hardly an upset. You were beginning a new job soon anyway, one that would have you sequestered away from the world for most of the year. Starting a relationship now was impractical.
“I agree,” Dina added. “At least you hadn’t invested any energy in him or wasted any time. Besides, now if we see him out and about, we have every reason to be as nasty as possible to him, which is always fun.”
“To hell with him,” you said and took the beer the bartender slid in front of you. The three of you raised your glasses and clinked them together to a round of, “Merry Christmas!”
“There’s more to celebrate on top of the holidays,” Dina said with a coy smile.
“Yes!” Zelda added excitedly. She clinked your glass again with too much vigor, spilling beer over both your hands. “Cheers to the newest professor at Hogwarts!”
Elation and slight embarrassment rushed through you at her toast. You were proud and excited, and still a bit in disbelief that you had secured such a coveted position. After all, it hadn’t been too long ago that you had graduated from Hogwarts yourself.
“To the new History of Magic Professor!” Dina added and took a drink. “Leave it to you to make that class interesting at last. I must admit I’m shocked the Headmaster liked your pitch.”
“Not nearly as shocked as I am.” A wide grin spread across your lips. “I figured that since I had no real chance of getting the job anyway, I might as well shoot my shot and lay all my aspirations out on the table. In my wildest dreams, I never suspected the Headmaster would actually want a course that teaches both the history of magic and the added practice of the arcane spells we lost to history.”
“Another toast! To no lost limbs or dismembered students in your first term!” Zelda teased.
“At least, to no one I like,” you laughed.
“Just think,” Dina mused with a rosy blush on her cheeks. “Now you’ll be on equal standing with our old professors.”
“Ooo, yes!” Zelda said conspiratorially. “Maybe it’s best you’re going into this job single.”
Nearly every teenage girl at Hogwarts had a crush on one professor or other. You and your friends were no exception. It didn’t help matters that several professors were men in their prime, in their thirties and forties, at the peak of their attractiveness. Zelda had charmed her journal to explode with pink hearts whenever she wrote a certain name in its pages. The hearts smelled like roses and would flutter around her like butterflies. Of course, the name belonged to their charms professor, a dashing man with chic mahogany hair, masculine chest hair that peeked through the buttons in his shirt, and eyes as richly green as the forest after a rain. Dina had been so enamored of their quidditch coach, a tall athlete with golden hair, sky blue eyes and a movie-star smile, that she engineered a few nasty falls from her broom just so he would rush to rescue her and carry her to the hospital wing in his burly arms.
It was undeniable that both professors were attractive, but your interest had never been piqued by nerds or jocks. Bad boys appealed to you, or rather, tall, dark and handsome men. Byronic men with a hint of darkness who would be right at home in a gothic Victorian novel. The sort of man who exuded danger and vigor, the kind who had a predatory presence and a devil-may-care glint in his eye. The kind of man who, when he looked at you, he looked ravenously, leaving you wondering if he was going to steal you away to a dark tower or ravage you against the wall at the ball where you could be discovered at any moment.
As schoolgirls, the three of you spent countless hours in the library and common room discussing your favorite literary men, debating which men were the best. Fortunately, there was never any competition between you for your favorites. Zelda could have gallant Mr. Darcy and Gatsby and Atticus Finch. Dina could claim lively Cpt. Wentworth and Beowulf and Jean Valjean. So long as they left roguish Mr. Rochester and Heathcliff and Edmund Dantes for you. The dark antiheroes and villains who you weren’t really supposed to love. The forbidden kind of man. Prince Charming was so boring compared to the Beast, and what prissy prince could eat you better than the Big Bad Wolf? Naturally, the literary epitome of this was Count Dracula, but until he crossed oceans of time to find you, you were left with a sadly more mortal selection of men.
And if there was ever a man who epitomized tall, dark, handsome, and Byronic, it was Jacques Le Gris. When he stalked down the halls, he looked as if he were roaming his family’s century’s old gothic mansion. When he strolled across the grounds in the evening, it was easy to picture him roaming a Scottish moor. Adding to this imagery was the fact that he often undid the top two buttons of his shirt when taking his evening stroll, revealing the thick cleft of his chest. You thought you were suffering a heart attack one morning when you saw him running shirtless near the lake through the mist before dawn.
In coffee and in men, your tastes ran dark, robust, and strong. It was the Head of Slytherin House and Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor who had captivated you from the moment you first saw him. The year he came to Hogwarts as the new defense against the dark arts professor was your last year in school, and despite the number of candles on your birthday cake, there was nothing childish about you at seventeen. The memory of that first day was still as vivid in your mind as the present moment you were living. Professor Le Gris all but storming down the hall in his long purposeful stride, unruly ebony hair dusting his impossibly broad shoulders, his cape swirling in his wake as though it were a living thing. Heat flooded you at the mere memory. Some girls had their sexual awakening in some bumbling experiment with a pimpled teenage boy under the quidditch stands. For you, it was imagining Professor Le Gris’s huge hands running over your body, gripping you so hard in his passion that the bruises he left lingered for days; his long hair falling around his face in sweaty tendrils as he looked down at you, caged beneath his enormous body, running your hands over his broad back and feeling his muscles flex with every thrust into you.
Memories of your darkest fantasies flooded your mind with an almost dizzying intensity. It was unsettling, you had never experienced such vivid, intrusive visions. The feeling of Professor Le Gris’s hands on your body felt as real as the wooden bar you leaned against. The sound of him growling your name in your ear rang deeper than the cheery music in the bar. The rich masculine scent of him overrode the smells around you, and the taste of beer on your tongue was overshadowed by the taste of his skin and arousal.
“Hello?” Zelda snapped her fingers in front of your nose playfully. “Were you listening at all? I asked if you still have a crush on our old defense against the dark arts professor?”
“Oh, Professor Le Gris?” you feigned ignorance, hoping your friends didn’t see the way your pupils had dilated at the thought of him. “I haven’t thought of him in years.”
“Perhaps you can seduce Professor Le Gris and put in a good word for me with Professor Wren and we can have an awkward double date together,” Zelda laughed. “Best we not tell my husband.”
You rolled your eyes and took a drink in an attempt to open your throat back up, since it had closed at the thought of him.
“You’re not a student anymore,” Dina said suggestively. “And rumor has it Professor Le Gris is newly single again after some tawdry fling with one of those jezebels teaching at Beauxbatons. You’re rather lucky, you know? I was devastated to hear that Coach Baldr had married.” She nodded toward her boyfriend at the end of the bar and snickered. “Poor Albert has no clue how precarious a position he has. I would leave him in a moment if that Norse god wanted to take me to Valhalla.”
“Speaking of rumors,” Zelda said, lowering her voice to the quiet tone they once used to gossip in the library. “I still wonder if Le Gris is a werewolf. He has the look, doesn’t he? Those amber eyes, all that bushy hair, and those teeth. The way he looks at you a little too intensely. Can’t you just picture him howling at the moon?”
“My money is still on him being an animagi,” Dina argued. “I agree that he would be a wolf though, like his patronus is. A big black wolf with yellow eyes.”
Unbidden, the image came to you of a big black wolf chasing after you as you ran through a misty forest. Your heart pounded in your ears, almost as loud as the wolf thundering behind you. You inhaled sharply as the wolf lunged at you, sinking his teeth into your neck, pleasurably painful. Your wide eyes shot up as if the bite was real. And met a pair of amber eyes across the room, watching you from a shadowy corner of the bar.
Shock froze you in place, made your muscles seize as though it was Medusa’s eyes you had looked into and been instantly turned to stone. It was lucky actually. Otherwise, you would surely have dropped your beer and made a much more outward spectacle. As it was, you managed to keep a modicum of decorum and show no obvious displays of surprise. Or arousal, even as old fantasies again played in your mind like a song on repeat. You met those eyes steadily, eyes you hadn’t seen in person since your last day as a student at Hogwarts.
Professor Jacques Le Gris watched you intently. The way a wolf watches a fox frolicking unaware. Even the way he leaned casually back in his chair, one long leg crossed over the other, was lupine. A predator at ease, waiting for the opportune moment to seize his prey. Though he reclined in his chair, he still dwarfed the small round table for two. He was dressed all in black, the way you had most often seen him. Only tonight, his jacket was off and his sleeves rolled up to expose muscular forearms. His cravat was undone, the tails hanging down on either side of his shirt, framing the vee of chest that was exposed by the top two open buttons. He looked every bit the swarthy rake, a bodice-ripping libertine straight out of a Victorian penny dreadful. A half-smoked cigar was pinched between his index and middle fingers, a tendril of smoke spiraling from its glowing end toward the ceiling as he casually circled the rim of his glass with his forefinger. His eyes had a fiery glint to match the cigar.
Instantly, you wondered how long he had been there. How long he had been watching you. If he had heard you. Judging by the level of his drink and the length of his cigar, he had been there some time before you arrived. His plush lips twitched in a lopsided smirk as he raised his glass to them, watching you over the rim as he took a drink. Another image intruded into your thoughts. Professor Le Gris striding down one of the many long, dark hallways of Hogwarts. He was behind you, stalking you. And of course he caught you. Grabbing your shoulder, he roughly turned you around and pushed you back against the nearest wall. He crowded against you, towered over you. His hips pinned you to the wall and his arms caged you in, his huge hands planted on either side of your head. He leaned in, his lips hot on your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. Every part of him was huge and hard; his thick chest under your hands, his iron fingers gripping you, his massive cock digging into you through his pants. The thought was too real, utterly taking command of your mind, and your body responded. A deep throb rocked through your core along with a melting heat, dripping through you slowly and deliberately like candle wax.
“I need some air,” you told your friends. They looked at you concerned, so you added convincingly. “It’s nothing. Really. It’s just stuffy in here with the Christmas party crowd. You know how I hate being packed in with the unwashed masses.”
You pushed through the crowded bar and all but bolted outside, hoping the cool winter air would have a chilling effect on your rampant imagination. Outside, you walked briskly, feeling the icy snowflakes land on your cheeks. And the way they steamed on your hotly flushed skin. Thankfully, there were few people outside on Christmas Eve. They were all either home with family or inside at a party like the Leaky Cauldron. Diagon Alley itself was nearly vacant, the shops darkened. Darker still and more vacant was Knockturn Alley. You were counting on it as you rounded the corner into the literal darker alley and trotted past a few darkened storefronts.
In the privacy of a shadowy doorway you leaned against the locked door and let out a heavy breath. You sounded lewd even to your own ears. The overhand of the doorway blocked the snow from falling on you and your skin felt instantly hot again. Another image flooded your mind, and you began to wonder if this was what madness felt like. This vision was different than any you had ever had before, but just as vivid. In your mind’s eye you saw Professor Le Gris standing shirtless in a gothic bedchamber with tall arched windows and a grand king bed, perhaps his chambers at Hogwarts or his home, wherever that was. In that omniscient way you know the thoughts of every character in dreams, you knew the thoughts that plagued him. How he had been consumed by the desire for a particular woman for years. A forbidden woman. Jacques would never seduce a student, fuck a student. No matter how beautiful and enticing, and blatantly responsible for his wolfish hunger you were. In nearly forty years, he had never been so captivated. So enchanted. So cursed.
Clear as a florid memory, you saw Jacques lean against the wall, pressing his head to the cool stone. Here, in private, he could imagine all the things he could never do in reality. Like fuck his favorite student. He knew how wrong it was even to think such disturbing things. The thought made him grin to himself, an indulgent, devilishly handsome grin. He pictured your luscious body. He wondered how sweet you smell. He imagined how delicious you taste. When he focused hard enough, he could feel the tight hot squeeze of you around his cock when he fucked his fist. Stroking his cock, he imagined thrusting into you, over and over and over, feeling you strain and flutter when he stretched you around him. The way he groaned was absolutely filthy when he came, imagining he was filling you until it was leaking out of you. He all but banged his forehead on the stone wall when he finally rested his head there, his hair falling around his face in a disheveled ebony curtain, his bare chest heaving and glistening with sweat.
There in the snowy alley, you watched it all happen in your mind’s eye as though it were your own memory. No, less like a memory and more like watching it happen through a window, like a voyeur. Your friend’s statement flashed in your mind. An exciting, enticing thought.
I am no longer a student.
As you felt a slick heat ruining your panties, you sobered for a moment. Just long enough for one lucid thought that was both thrilling and frightening. You remembered another rumor about Professor Le Gris. He was rumored to be a master of occlumency and legilimency. A legilimens could access another’s mind, see their thoughts and feel their feelings. No one could keep any secrets from a legilimens. Not only could a man with such a skill read your thoughts, he could influence them. He could plant any thought, any feeling, any image into your head as though it was your own. He could make you fantasize about him and remember your most forbidden desires. He could make you see what he felt for you, what he always had. He could make all those thoughts and feelings boil to the surface of your mind, make your desires simmer. He could even make you drip for him, almost on command.
“I’ve known your secrets for some time,” his voice sounded from the alley corner. Real this time, deep and hoarse with desire of his own. Jacques Le Gris leaned against the brick wall of the shop whose doorway you had hidden in. “The way you wanted me to corner you in the halls, pin you there against the wall where you couldn’t escape. Take whatever I want.” His pose was casual, his shoulder leaning against the wall, his legs crossed at the ankle. But his eyes were the opposite, watching you with a burning intensity that all but crackled through the air. “Now, you know my secret, too.” His voice was a growl when he added, “I’ve always wanted you. To ruin you for any other man. To make you mine and keep you all to myself.” He pushed away from the wall and stalked toward you in that predatory way of his. “And now, there’s not a damn thing stopping me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lied, a feeble attempt to cling to some dignity. A thought flitted through your mind – he was prostrating himself before you. In his own way, he was making himself just as exposed as you were. He was pursuing you, taking the greater risk.
“Don’t you, now?” he teased in a gravelly voice. “I’ll never believe you didn’t know how you tormented me. Seeing you in those little skirts, thinking about those fumble-fucking schoolboys laying their clumsy hands on you. Knowing how much more a man could give you. What I could give you.”
“And what exactly is it that you could give me?” You tilted your chin up defiantly to add, “Professor?”
“Knowledge.” He walked to you until he stood so close that you could feel the heat radiating off him, grinning wickedly at the way his proximity affected you. “Regardless of what else I may be, I’m a very good professor. There is a loophole in the Hogwarts Code of Conduct that you might find interesting. Relevant.” He placed his hand on the door next to your head and leaned in close, his body only inches from yours. “Would you like to learn it?”
“If it saves me the time reading through the Code myself,” you tried to sound nonchalant, certain you failed. In fact, you did need to read those exact Codes before assuming your role as a new professor, but you had until the start of term to do it.
“Still a procrastinator through and through,” Jacques tisked you and leaned closer, his entire forearm now resting on the door next to your head, his face very close to yours. “You should know that relations between fellow Hogwarts professors are forbidden. A fireable offense.” He dropped his head and brought his prominent nose near your neck, and you thought he was going to kiss you there. Instead, he inhaled deeply through his nose, savoring the scent of you like some exotic perfume he had long been denied. “But forbidden only when the relationship postdates the beginning of a professor’s tenure.”
His words seemed to echo in your thoughts, needing a moment to take root. Looking up, you met his eyes. Eyes that glimmered like gold in the snowy night. “Relationships that predate the beginning of a professor’s term are allowed?”
“Clever girl,” Jacques said, his lips still near your neck, his breath steaming hot on your skin. “You always were a quick study. The very best and brightest. Did you think I only wanted you for that luscious ass?”
You tried to detect a note of sarcasm, but found none. You took a steadying breath and put a tentative hand on his chest. It was hard as granite beneath your hand. Jacques placed his free hand over yours, trapping your hand over his heart. You fixed your eyes on his, watching for a flicker of doubt when you asked, “What is it you want with me, Professor? Exactly?”
“Everything,” he growled the single word. It was more than an affirmation. His eyes told you it was a promise.
“We shouldn’t waste a moment, then,” you told him confidently. Fortune favors the bold, as they say.
“You read my mind.” He smiled genuinely, one of the very few you had ever seen on his lips. His toothy smile could have looked gawky, but right now, he was the most handsome man you had ever seen. His chest rose and fell under your hand as he leaned in to kiss you. Before his lips consummated your first kiss, he whispered, “My name is Jacques, not ‘professor.’”
“I’ll save professor for when I want you to teach me something, then,” you made your voice as seductive as possible now that you had decided on your course of action. It was easy now that you were confident he felt the same, that he desired you as fiercely as you did him. You eased your hips toward him, arching your back away from the door. Your lips were already parted when they met his, eager to finally taste the man you had dreamed of for so long.
The taste of him when he kissed you, the feel of him when his powerful body pressed against you, the strength of his hands on you was so much better than anything your imagination had ever conjured. It must have been the same for Jacques because he groaned into your mouth, his free hand dropped to your waist and he pulled you against him almost brutally. You wanted to feel every inch of your body pressed to his. Lifting a leg, you hooked it over his hip and wrapped your arms around his neck, using your entire body to pull him closer. His hand caressed your thigh from your knee up to your ass then squeezed you there. It would be so easy for him to hoist you up off the ground, for you to wrap your legs around him, for him to fuck you right now against the lonely door in Knockturn Alley, while snowflakes gathered in your hair.
“I know what you want. I’ve seen your fantasies,” Jacques purred, pulling back from your lips just enough to speak. “I know them so well they might as well be my own. Tell me which is your favorite and it will no longer be just a fantasy. I’ll enact it for you right now, down to every last detail.”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing already?” you teased. You were on fire from his touch and you ached with desire. Thinking of him as you had been was its own kind of foreplay, and now it was torment to prolong it. He was hard and his cock rubbed against you through both your clothing, teasing you erotically in the perfect place. But then, he knew right where your perfect places were. And dear god, he was huge.
“This is too tame for your fantasies,” he laughed darkly. “Tell me your favorite. Although, I think I know it.” He kissed your neck, teasing your skin with his teeth and a light nip. “You want to run from me, pretend you have a chance of escaping. You want me to chase you down, catch you, rip your clothes off and fuck you like an animal. Or is that what the girls call being ravaged these days?” He pressed more weight against you, almost crushing you against the door, but the feel of his body and his weight was wonderful. “You’d pound your fists on my chest and tell me to stop, but you wouldn’t mean a word of it. You want me to take from you what has always been forbidden to give me.” Pulling back just enough to let you breathe, he brought his hand to your throat. His hand easily circled your neck, making you feel small and vulnerable, trapped in his grip. He squeezed. Gently, just enough for you to feel how easy it would be for him to truly take whatever he wanted. His voice sounded dangerous when he told you, “I can do that.”
“Yes,” you said at once without even taking a moment to think. This is what you had wanted for as long as you could remember wanting anything from a man. And Jacques Le Gris was offering to give it to. “I want our first night together to be like a fantasy. But I have a counteroffer.” He kissed you before you could make it, leaving you breathless when he pulled away. You took a breath and finished, “I say we play out my favorite fantasy first and your favorite second.” You cocked an eyebrow at him in a challenge. “If you’re game.”
“Darling, I was born game and I intend to go out that way.” When Jacques grinned at you now, sideways and wicked, the wolf practically jumped out of him. You knew he was telling the truth, that he shared your desires in full. That he wanted you just as desperately as you did him, and that he possibly had for just as long.
“Wait, I can’t just run off.” You stalled him with your hand on his chest. “What will my friends think?”
“What do you want them to think?” He slyly tapped a finger to his temple, his message clear.
“It’s enough for them to think I went home with a handsome man and not to worry about me,” you said coyly. “And it had better be true.”
“So long as you think me handsome, it’s true.” His grin widened and he pushed your arms back up around his neck. “Hold on tight.”
You knew what he was about to do before he did it and asked, “Where are you taking me?”
“The perfect place to give you what you want,” he laughed, a throaty rumbling laugh, and held you so tight you couldn’t have escaped his arms if you wanted.
Suddenly, the world blurred around you and spun as if you stood at the center of a cyclone. Your stomach swooped with the unnerving feeling of falling and a boom like thunder rang in your ears. When the world stopped spinning, your head took another moment to catch up. You swayed against Jacques in what could rightly be described as a swoon. For a few seconds, his hard body against you felt like the only solid thing in the world. He held you as you regained your balance and composure, his arms comforting and secure.
You were no longer in Knockturn Alley, or the city at all. You were surrounded by thick pine trees with snow drifting lazily down around you and leaving a light blanket on the ground. The light was diffused softly from the light of the bright full moon filtered through a thin layer of cloud. It looked like a dream and you wondered if Jacques could possibly be such a powerful legilimens that he could be crafting this world all inside your head. But you knew this was real, and you knew precisely where he had apparated with you. Although it had been years, you had been here many times before.
You shook your head at him fondly, appreciating his humor in the moment. He had taken you to the Forbidden Forest.
Jacques was game indeed. He fully intended to give you exactly what you had always wanted– a man of action instead of those of lesser fortitude who hid behind pretty words. Now that the onus was on you to accept his offer, you found it difficult to keep from trembling with nerves. He was so big, so powerful, so predatory. It was more than a little intimidating to think of him chasing you, catching you, manhandling you. It was almost frightening. But then, that was the point, wasn’t it? It was always a fine line between fear and excitement, between a fright and a thrill.
“What shall it be, beautiful?” Jacques asked. The devious bastard had probably read your mind again. Or your trepidation was that plainly written on your face. “Do you want me to play naughty or nice with you?”
“You brought me here,” you said with as much conviction as you could, making up your mind. “Carpe nocturne.”
“I’ll seize something alright.” Jacques sucked his teeth and bared his canines in a wolfish grin. Moonlight glinted off his teeth and glazed his black hair with silver, giving him a wild look. A beast, at home in these woods. He lowered his chin and fixed his lupine eyes on you, looking ravenous and dangerous. His voice rumbled through you when you told you, “I’ll give you ten seconds to run before I hunt you down and sink my teeth into that delicious ass of yours.”
“Ten seconds, huh?” you teased as you took a few tentative steps away from him deeper into the woods, exaggerating the sway of your hips seductively.
“One.” He cut off your flouncing, deadly serious, and took an ominous step toward you. He rolled one sleeve back up to his elbow where it had slipped down, somehow making that gesture look aggressive.
Smiling, you began lightly trotting through the dense trees. The forest glittered all around you in white snow, silver moonlight, and deep pine trees. The air was crisply-scented and cool, but your skin was so flushed the chill was welcome.
“Two,” he huffed behind you. “Better run a lot faster than that.”
Deciding on a path through the trees, you quickly picked up speed as adrenaline flooded your bloodstream. The idea of the chase, of running from a looming hunter, was exhilarating. You found a small game trail snaking through the forest, a pristine white laceration between the snowy trees, narrower than a footpath. The trees themselves reached their twisted branches out to you, as if to offer their help to hide you from the beast at your heels. A light mist lingered in the forest, dancing around your knees and swirling in your wake as you ran ahead.
You felt it when Jacques gave chase. You couldn’t see him now through the trees and brush that separated you, you certainly couldn’t hear him, but you felt him somehow like an electric shudder through your body, raising the hairs on the back of your neck. It was as if the forest itself felt him too, the atmosphere changing around you now that you were actively being hunted.
A thick pine tree was close ahead of you, its lush low-hanging branches inviting you near, offering you a place to hide from your pursuer. Ducking under its branches, you pressed your back to the trunk on the opposite side of the trail. Snow dusted down on you from the branches you rustled, pleasantly cool on your skin. The fragrant smell of pine and sap surrounded you as you breathed heavily through your nose, trying to slow the hammering in your chest.
Snap.
The sound of a breaking branch reverberated through the trees, making your entire body jolt. You strained your ears to divulge more sounds, but there were none to be heard. The silence around you was so complete it was oppressive after the sounds of your running. It seemed as though the forest itself had gone quiet, and the snow offered more insulation on top of it. The trees surrounding you had become an audience waiting with bated breath to see if you would make your escape. Or if you would fall victim to the hunter at your heels.
Surely, Jacques could have caught up to you by now. You expected him to charge past your hiding spot behind the pine tree only seconds after you and run ahead down the game trail.
Slowly and as quietly as you could, you turned to look around the trunk of the tree that shielded you, daring to breach the side of the tree with only one eye as you checked your backtrail. Nothing. No big bad man in sight. Even the fog had settled again.
You returned your back to the tree and rested your head back against it, still scanning the trail. As you returned to face front, you caught movement from the corner of your eye. You snapped your head around to meet Jacques’s unnerving eyes and hulking body looming right at your shoulder. You almost jumped out of your skin as a pathetic yelp left your throat. Jacques growled as his arm shot around your waist, pulling you roughly against him. He wasted no time in sinking his teeth into your neck in a biting kiss, ensuring he left a bruise to mark the presence of his lips.
“Jacques!” You jumped away from him, fueled by reflexes alone. Jacques let you. You took a moment to steady yourself, filling your lungs with air too slowly for your spinning head and rubbing the fresh mark on your neck. It stung, but sensually so.
“I’ll only count to five this time.” Jacques told you as he stepped toward you with a hint of menace and a devilish grin curling his lips.
Hungry lust radiated off Jacques in waves, so thick you could feel it on the air like a spectral presence. And it was all for you. He indeed thrilled you and also frightened you just a little, just enough for that rush of adrenaline to make you giddy. He certainly knew what he was doing, playing this little game of yours, or he had read your desires as clearly as a script and played his role to perfection. Sweat shone on his chest through the open vee in his shirt, a blush tinting his chest and neck. He looked voracious, driven mad by his desire. Jacques awakened the animal part of your brain that civilized society had tried for millennia to tame away, the part of you that wanted to be captured, taken, and utterly ravaged. Jacques was enjoying this even more, his huge chest heaving from the thrill of the hunt. You could see how it sparked a primal urge deep inside of him, probably even more poignant that it did in you. You could also see the evidence of his aching arousal tenting his pants. You were no better off. You had been melting inside all night, it seemed.
Backing away from him, you took a few deep breaths as you prepared to run again, unable to rein your pulse back down from a gallop. He registered your excitement and winked at you, enjoying your game. Laughing, you bounded away then skipped into a run that carried you further along the trail and deeper into the welcoming mystery of the woods.
The trail narrowed and became overgrown as the forest closed in around you. Deeper inside the forest, the woods grew wilder, much as the man chasing you was growing wilder with every pursuing step. You knew he was closing in on you swiftly. You slowed enough to look behind you. You were just in time to see Jacques lowering his massive body as he lunged at you with a growl. His shoulder connected with your waist as his strong arms gripped you, tackling you to the ground beneath him. He was careful with you. He’d never actually tackle you with his full force or risk hurting you. His arm hit the ground hard beneath you, cushioning your body when you met the cold wet snow. His heavy body covered you with enough weight to pin you but not quite enough to crush you.
Laying on your back beneath his sweaty body, your arms flew around him. One hand fisted harshly into his damp hair and one hand dug sharp nails into his muscular shoulder, earning a groan in response. Jacques crashed his lips down against yours in a hard, desperate kiss, his hot tongue twining with yours, stealing the breath from your lungs. He kissed you hungrily, licking into your mouth and catching your lips between his teeth. He brought an enormous hand to your neck, again wrapping around your throat easily, squeezing just enough to make your pulse quicken and pound against his palm, adding to the effect of being captured.
“Do you like making me chase after you?” he asked into your mouth. “You must, since you’ve teased me for years. The torment was almost more than I could stand. Do you know how hard it was for me to resist taking what I know you wanted to give me?”
“I like being chased,” you whispered back. Feeling his weight press down upon you as you kissed, your legs fell open to invite him to settle between them. “But I like being caught by you even more.”
A low moan rumbled in his chest and he grinned against your mouth. The hand at your neck smoothed down to your breast, kneading you and making you gasp.
Moving his hand lower, Jacques’s fingers dipped inside your pants, inside your panties, discovering how hot and wet you were already. You were powerless to resist succumbing to him, your body not allowing you to maintain any coy pretenses. Jacques’s mouth moved down to your neck as he plunged two thick fingers into you, curling them firmly against that spot he knew could make you scream. His fingers worked you into a frenzy as his teeth and lips attended to your neck and throat. He began rutting against you, his cock digging into the back of his own hand, which was still making you writhe on his fingers. Even that light movement caused your body to shift on the ground. The snow beneath you had melted, the ground now soupy under your back.
“This is about to get messy if you want me to take you here, fuck you on the ground like an animal,” he said huskily, pulling back from your lips. “Do you want that? The beast from your fantasy? Or I can show you what I’ve always fantasized about doing to you instead. It’s much simpler, I’m afraid.” He kissed you again. “But you’ll like it.”
“You’ve already proven better than my fantasies,” you said, running your hands over the breadth of his back. “I trust your judgment.”
“Hold on,” he told you as he pulled his fingers from you. He collapsed on you and gripped you in a strong bear hug, but you barely had time to feel the heavy weight of him.
The ground fell away beneath you and you squeezed your eyes shut as your stomach swooped in that familiar way. Thunder boomed around you and the whole world seemed to shake from it. The cool air whisked away from you, replaced by a welcoming warmth. The snow and ice of the forest was replaced by the golden glow of a fire dancing inside a marble fireplace. The sky above you was replaced by an arched cathedral ceiling, and the ground beneath you exchanged for crisp sheets on a king bed. The only things that remained from the forest were the silver moonlight peeking in through the tall, arched windows, and Jacques above you, grinning down at you, the feeling of his powerful body covering you. He traced hot kisses down your throat and chest as he rose back off the bed to roughly shrug off his shirt and work his belt free.
The sight of him shirtless was breathtaking, you felt yourself growing wetter just from that sight alone. His chest was glorious. You had never seen a chest so thick and expansive. His shoulders were absurdly broad and made even more impressive by his fit abdomen. The taper of his waist, the lines of muscle along his hips, even the trail of hair descending from his navel, all worked in conjunction to practically drag your eyes down toward his cock. After pulling your shirt off, you centered yourself on the bed and arched your back seductively. Jacques reached for your pants and yanked them the rest of the way off, tossing them aside as he stood over you at the side of the bed. His eyes glistened like whiskey on ice as his gaze caressed your body.
“As many times as I’ve imagined you like this, you’re better,” he said reverently in a voice that was all smoke and gravel.
You watched the muscles in his arms flex as he undid his belt and pants. Without taking his eyes from you, he unceremoniously shoved his pants down, stepping out of them quickly. Towering above you, standing totally naked, he palmed his enormous erection and let you admire the sight of him, the cocky bastard, watching you with his molten gaze. You expected Jacques to have a nice cock, as big as he was everywhere else. You had imagined it embarrassingly often, but the sight of him still made your breath hitch. It was practically monstrous, and deliciously thick. He would have injured you as a schoolgirl, and you couldn’t be entirely certain he wouldn’t now. Another bit of danger he offered. There would be a limit to how rough he could be with you, and you were thankful that he was seasoned enough to know it.
“If you can’t handle me, tell me now.” Of course, he couldn’t resist teasing you.
In response, you held his eyes firmly as you reached to undo your bra, slinging it across the room to be lost with your other discarded clothing. You raised one eyebrow at him, meeting his challenge. Jacques walked to the edge of the bed, pausing briefly to absorb the sight of you as you lay spread before him, the best Christmas gift he had ever received, before he lowered himself to the mattress and crawled over your body.
Eagerly, your legs spread for him again and he settled between them. Jacques caged you in with his impressive arms on either side of your body as he bent over you, a predator over his prey, and kissed at your navel. His kisses were open mouthed and he lavished you with his tongue. He trailed his mouth down until he placed a wet kiss at the top of your pussy, still covered by the lace of your thong. Bringing a hand down to the thin line of fabric at your hip, he yanked it roughly, ripping your thong away from you and tearing it apart with one motion. His aggressive lust had you aching with the need to be filled. Jacques paused and just admired you, the way you glistened with desire. He lowered himself, wanting to kiss you there, taste you, make you cum on his tongue. But you stopped him.
“The first time you make me cum, I want it to be with your cock,” you told him huskily. “I want to feel you inside of me when I cum.”
Jacques grinned up at you before trailing his nose and lips slowly back up the center of your body as he crawled up into position above you. He paused to inhale deeply at your throat, taking in the scent of you and exhaling in a low heady groan. He kissed you passionately and deep. His taste was smokey and lush, making you shiver. His weight was resting on you now, pushing you down into the mattress. You could feel the muscles in his back and shoulders tense and flex under your hands as he moved, and his heavy chest pressed against yours, a sharp contrast to his soft lips. The unduly thick head of his cock nudged into you, teasing at your entrance. When you bucked your hips against him, he plunged into you in one fluid stroke. He rolled his hips against you gently, giving you time to adjust to his size. Your nails raked his back as a pornographic moan escaped your lips at the pleasure of being so completely full of him. Jacques’s mouth returned to diligently kiss you as the rolling of his hips became shallow thrusts. When your hips started moving to meet his own in time with his thrusts, he began thrusting into you more passionately.
Jacques propped himself up with his hands on either side of your head. Groaning again at an unabashed volume, he pulled back and slammed his entire length into you. It skirted the line of painful pleasure, but he felt so good. He saw your features rendered beautifully distraught by pleasure and kept that angle and rhythm that he knew was driving you in exactly the direction you wanted. You fluttered and tightened around him, your orgasm imminent. Jacques could feel it. Losing control himself, he fucked you harder, pistoning into you roughly. His whole body tensed when he felt the pulsing orgasm surge through you, shooting through him like a current of pleasure connected the two of you. Jacques’s thrusts grew erratic, his shoulders and arms quivered, and he came moments after you on a deep thrust. You reached to his thick, damp hair, tangling your fingers in it and pulling him down to settle over you. He looked down at you adoringly then kissed you lovingly. Though it was unspoken, the emotion was unmistakable.
After lavishing you slowly and indulgently, he rolled onto his back and pulled you down against his enormous chest. Wrapping the arm beneath you around your waist tightly, he held you in something between a cuddle and a bear hug and caressed you with his free hand. His huge body was hot beneath you, his arms radiating warmth around you, and his lips searing as they gently kissed along your hairline. The man was an absolute fever dream. He could keep you in an erotic stupor for hours if he wanted.
“Where are we?” you asked lazily, drunk on the rush he had given you.
“Normandy,” he purred, his hands gentle and warm on your skin. “My home, precisely speaking.”
“This looks like the inside of a castle,” you said of the bedroom with its stone walls and arched windows.
“You could call it that.” He smirked. “Regardless of the descriptor, it will accommodate us well until the start of term.” He brought his fingers under your chin, tipping your face up to look at him. “Provided you’ll accept my invitation to stay with me until then.”
“I’ll need a change of clothes,” you laughed.
“Not for what I have planned,” he laughed too, and rolled back over you again.
Briefly you wondered at the stir you would cause when the pair of you returned to Hogwarts in January. Together. Gossip spread through those enchanted halls like wildfire and you knew a professorial couple would be a source of it for a long time to come. You had no time to dwell on the thought now. Jacques demanded all of your attention elsewhere.
Warnings: NSFW. Smut. Angst, maybe? Comedy. Abuse of process. Hazing Flip for his birthday, as one should. Birthday pranks. Bitchy Reader. If you want a sweet, submissive, shy reader, my fics are never for you xD
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A little birthday celebration for Scorpio season! I had this written timely on November 19, but just forgot to post it. Whoops!
Turning forty wasn’t something Flip Zimmerman was overly excited about. It had nothing to do with the usual dramatics and neuroses that plagued most people. He didn’t have any deep regrets in life; he hadn’t taken any stupid turns or failed to seize any major opportunities; he didn’t have a ‘one that got away’ – the things in life that can add up to a mid-life crisis or make a man dread the passage of years. He had the woman he wanted, the job he wanted, and for the most part, the life he wanted. Flip didn’t give a damn about the number of candles on his cake. What annoyed the hell out of him was the production everyone else in his life had to make over it. That might rank as one of his bigger regrets in life, telling people close to him when his damn birthday was. His birthday would be a perfectly fine day, if no one else knew about it.
To Flip, his birthday was just another day on the calendar. But could everyone else in his life ever treat it that simply? Fuck no.
Flip never took the day off for his birthday. He immediately lost respect for any man who did that. Women got a pass with such frivolous and indulgent things, but men had no business pampering themselves like candy asses. This year was poised to be a little extra good for Flip since his birthday fell over a weekend. He could guiltlessly spend it exactly how he wanted, which was also how he’d spend every other day of his life if he was free from all financial, vocational, and social obligations. Flip wanted to spend his birthday weekend hidden away in his cabin, sleeping, eating, and fucking just as much as he wanted, and not doing a damned thing else or talking to a damned person other than his girl.
So far, Flip’s birthday weekend had been precisely what he wanted. Starting Friday night, he had gotten his birthday wish in quantities sufficient to appease all his ravenous hungers. Saturday had been the same, and it had been glorious. He had put on a damn fine show for his girl, if he did say so himself. He figured it was the best way to demonstrate he was a vigorous man in his prime, not a doddering old bastard. Flip had allowed his lady to finagle him into sharing a steaming hot bath with her after dinner to break up the pattern. He didn’t want to admit how good it felt on his aching muscles. Even though it was only due to all the extra use over the past two days, or rather, due to the gross lack of use during the other days of the year, Flip knew his sore muscles would be used against him on his fortieth birthday. All the running and weightlifting in the world wasn’t really the same as the workout a man gets from a marathon between the sheets. He knew he was in for a generous ration of shit for his birthday, not least of all from his girl. He’d wonder what was wrong if she wasn’t giving him hell. Still, it was best not to load the guns for her.
Flip defined ‘sleeping in’ differently than most. He had been conditioned by his days in the military to be up before sunrise and ready to meet every battle with the dawn. He felt extremely lazy and indulgent when he let the sunrise wake him as it first peaked over the mountains and into his bedroom window. This attitude was in stark contrast to his wife, who considered mornings in general to be a vile institution and often bitched about how morning people were given entirely too much power in society.
Dawn on Flip’s birthday was one of those crystalline winter mornings where the light was tinted a soft pink-blue-white and frost coated everything in sight like icing on a diamante cake. It had snowed several inches during the night and outside the window, the mountains were gleaming spires, the ground was covered with fresh powder, and the pines wore a layer of snow like fancy ladies swaddled in white mink. Snowy mornings like this were Flip’s favorite kind of morning, when everything was still pristine and sparkling with promise. Before any bullshit settled in.
Groaning contentedly, Flip stretched as the sunlight danced across his face. He was still a little sore in all the places he wanted to be, and he was rock hard and ready for a proper good morning.
So far, forty felt great.
Half asleep, he turned and nuzzled his nose into the soft warm body lying curled next to him. A soft, warm, furry body. Grumbling and pulling his face away, Flip opened his bleary eyes and glared through his disheveled hair at the fat, black cat he had inherited when he had begun living with his girl. Some men have worse step kids to deal with, he reasoned now as the adorable black asshole looked back at him through slitted green eyes, as if she was just as entitled to sleep in his bed as he was. Narrowing his own eyes back at the cat, he asked her, “Where’s your mom at?”
His question was answered by the clanging of a pot on the stove downstairs and a couple choice curses in a familiar feminine voice. Now fully awake, Flip became aware of the scent of bacon, eggs, and pancakes – his favorites – and strong black coffee just how he liked it. This was a rare treat. Flip usually assumed the duty of cooking breakfast on the days they could enjoy it together. Hearing his girl down in the kitchen, slaving away over the stove at such an unconscionable hour, as she deemed it, made him grin at the effort she put in for him.
“Your mom’s a keeper,” he confided to the cat and patted her round belly. “But you’re a sorry little porker.”
Flip stretched again and ran a hand through his unruly hair. He thought he should brush it before going downstairs, but he knew how she liked it when he looked a little wilder than usual. She liked him best when he smelled fresh from a shower but looked unbrushed, unshaven, and what he thought was mildly unkempt. Women are nonsensical creatures, he had realized early in his dating career. He damn sure needed to brush his teeth and wash his face though. He pulled on the pair of jeans he wore the day before and the flannel shirt he had thrown across the room the night before, only bothering to button two of the center buttons. The phone he’d left in his jeans pocket buzzed insistently against his ass.
Should have turned the fuckin’ thing off, he lamented as he retrieved it and saw the tirade of missed calls. He knew what all those calls meant. But as long as he ignored them, he had plausible deniability, as the bloodsucking lawyers say. As his girl would say. He lost his phone; his battery died; service is bad out at his place; his wife threw it at his head and it broke against the wall.
Against his better judgment, and because it was Stallworth calling and Flip didn’t feel right about ignoring his best friend, he answered.
“What,” Flip grunted, leaving no doubt as to his feelings over this intrusion. He thought to himself, This is the beginning of a bad fuckin’ day.
“Good morning to you too,” Ron said in his easy, affable tone. “It’s a beautiful day out, isn’t it?”
“I have a feelin’ I’m not gonna think so after you tell me why in the hell you’re calling.” Flip walked sullenly to the bathroom while Stallworth ran through some pleasantries. Thankfully, he didn’t lead with Happy Birthday. Flip would have hung up on him. Flip lifted the toilet seat and unzipped his jeans.
“We just got a big break in that jewel heist case. Actually, I did. On a stakeout last night,” Ron said proudly, then paused. “Are you taking a piss while I’m talking to you?”
“We’d both be happier if you weren’t talkin’ to me, but you called,” Flip muttered and flushed the toilet. He held the phone toward the bowl so Stallworth could hear the rush of water, mimicking Flip’s interest in the matter.
“You’re a barbarian, you know that?” Stallworth laughed despite himself.
“Flattery don’t do it for me,” Flip said as he ran the sink, letting the water warm. He noticed four angry red scratches on the side of his neck from his girl’s fingernails and felt a rush of pride. “Go out and catch your jewel thief and take all the glory. Girls love that shit.” He splashed his face with hot water and lathered it with his soapy hands. “I’ll read all about your heroics in the paper.”
“It’s not that simple,” Ron said regretfully. “We need you on this one. You know I wouldn’t be calling if we didn’t.”
“I’m off. It’s a Sunday. And it’s,” he just stopped himself from saying my fuckin’ birthday. “Too fuckin’ early.”
“You think I like being the guy who has to roust the bear out of his cave?” Ron tried to joke to his entirely unreceptive audience. “We need you. Get dressed and get your ass out here.”
“God damnit.” Flip hung up and shoved his phone back in his pocket. Oh yeah, it’s gonna be a great day, he thought. Aloud, he grumbled to his reflection in the mirror, “Happy fuckin’ birthday, you old bastard.”
A scalding droplet of bacon grease jumped from the sizzling cast iron pan to land on your exposed thigh, making you cuss under your breath as you quickly wiped it away. You were always extra prickly in the morning. Flip deserves a nice birthday breakfast, you reminded yourself and inhaled deeply, deep enough to force a good mood down your throat along with the chilly morning air. Also in honor of his birthday, you opted for a casually sexy look as opposed to something more comfortable like pajama pants and a tank. You wore only one of his favorite shirts, worn until it was soft as velvet, and slippers. Early on you had realized he liked that look on you and something about seeing you in his clothes appealed to his innate possessiveness.
It was chilly inside the cabin, save for the heat from the stove. On cold winter mornings like this the little cabin furnace had to work overtime just to keep the pipes from freezing. To really get the temperature up in the cabin, a fire needed to be lit in the living room fireplace, but you were not that ambitious before sunrise and would leave it to Flip.
As you thought of him, you heard the wooden stairs creak and knew he was descending them. His footfalls were always light, he moved agility for such a large man. You pretended not to hear him and moved to the side of the stove, leaning forward in a provocative invitation under the guise of fiddling with the coffee maker. Predictably, Flip took the bait and wrapped his arms around you from behind, pressing his chest against your back and molding his body against yours. But his arms enfolded you chastely around your waist and his hands didn’t roam higher or lower to seek out their favorite places.
“Happy birthday, old man,” you purred, rubbing your ass back against him. You felt he was wearing jeans and turned inside his arms to face him. He was fully dressed, right down to his boots. “You’re violating your own self-imposed dress code, or rather lack thereof, for this weekend.”
“I have good news for you, sugar,” Flip told you with a grin and kissed you deeply. “You get to sleep in today after all.”
“You mean after we succumb to a food and orgasm coma in a couple hours?” You grinned back. “I’d call that a nap, but suit yourself.”
“I got a call,” Flip started.
“We agreed no phones this weekend!” you cut across him, instantly bristling. “That was your rule. I have a big trial Monday and I’ve been ignoring my phone for a day and a half already. You better be joking.”
“You of all people know rules are made to be broken,” Flip tried again, still maintaining his grin that now looked moronic to you.
“I’m sore everywhere from you wanting to act like a horny teenager all day yesterday.” You raised a dangerous eyebrow. “I got up when it was still dark to freeze in your kitchen and get burned by grease to cook for you on your birthday, and you’re taking calls?” Your voice had dropped an octave and sounded deceptively calm. Flip knew these were very bad signs.
“I didn’t even take my phone out of my pocket yesterday. Ron caught me off guard this mornin,’” Flip used a reasoning tone, like he would when talking to a jumper. It didn’t help your darkening mood. “But listen, there’s been a big break in that jewel heist Ron and I’ve been workin.’ He got a tip, a hot tip, on where we can catch the bastard. But it’s tonight.”
“And Ron needs you to hold his hand for this escapade?” you asked testily.
“Well, he’s still a little green on things like this.” Flip rubbed the back of his neck and looked at the floor. He always did that when he was in trouble, like a grounded boy trying to look contrite. “I can eat breakfast real quick with you before I go.”
“Real quick?” you laughed sarcastically. “Just what every girl wants to hear?”
“How about I eat somethin’ else before I head out.” He winked at you, trying his best to lighten your mood.
“Yes, I’ve always loved the wham, bam, thank you, ma’am approach.” You glared at him. “How long will you be gone?”
“Well, I have to go in now to go over everything and get briefed before I go out to nab the bastard.” Knowing he was digging his hole deeper, he muttered the next confession. “And it’s at some fancy party down at the Broadmoor tonight. They figure I’d be better to walk in there and get the job done. That reminds me, I’ll need you to pick out a nice suit for me.”
“Let me make sure I understand you correctly.” You stepped away from him, beyond arm’s reach. “You’re leaving me alone today – on your day off, on a weekend, on your birthday – to go out to a swanky party at the Broadmoor while I wait here until you decide to show up again?” You raised your eyebrows. “And then, let me guess – when you get home, late, I’m sure, you want me to feed you dinner and fuck you all night again. Or will you have eaten dinner at your soiree?”
“Sugar, you know I can’t control the timing of these things,” Flip said regretfully. “Breakfast looks great. You look delicious. I don’t want to leave, you know that.” He shook his head and asked exasperatedly, “What do you want me to do?”
“It’s your birthday.” You crossed your arms over your chest and narrowed your eyes. “So, it’s your choice.”
Flip had been in enough life and death situations to know he was approaching one now. But he didn’t have much choice. “I have to go in. But I’ll be as quick as I can and I’ll see you tonight. I’ll make it up to you tonight, sugar.”
“This is such bullshit, Flip.” You were fully angry now. Flip knew he was going to be in trouble for a while. “I blew off my responsibilities to let you fuck me as much as you wanted this weekend, and what do I get? You blowing me off to run out and try to catch some petty thief? What happens if you don’t catch this guy today? You have no personal consequences. If I screw up at my job, I lose business and lose actual income, and still, I’ve been blowing off my duties for you this weekend. But you have to strut out to make an arrest now, just so you can dick wave.”
“C’mon, darlin,’” Flip pleaded, holding his arms out, as if you’d run into them. “It’s not like that.”
“No, it’s exactly like that.” You shook your head and shoved past him toward the stairs. “If you’re going to work today, so am I. I have a hearing to prep for, and at least I can bill three-fifty an hour. I’ll be late too.” You paused at the bottom of the stairs to twist the knife a little more. “Since you let these criminals interfere in our lives, maybe I’ll take your thief’s case pro bono after you arrest him and get him off in court instead of getting you off in bed.”
“Calm the fuck down!” Flip lost his temper and instantly regretted it. He calmed his own voice and added, “It’s not that big of a deal. Quit pullin’ your lawyer shit on me.”
“Are you having a senior moment? You must be getting old, after all,” you snapped and stormed up the stairs. “Don’t worry. Maybe we’ll celebrate your birthday next year.”
“You don’t think you’re overreacting just a little?” Flip asked foolishly.
“Not just yet, I’m not.” Halfway up the staircase you turned, pulled off a slipper, and threw it across the room at him. Flip ducked just in time to avoid a perfectly aimed headshot.
“You missed!” Flip bellowed triumphantly then added a cocky laugh.
You didn’t miss your second shot. You whipped your other slipper with more sting, sending it flying right into his chest with a satisfying whap. Then you turned on your heel and trotted up the stairs.
“Love you, sugar!” Flip shouted sarcastically after you. His face was hot and the thick vein in his neck pulsed angrily.
“Happy fucking birthday!” You slammed the bedroom door.
The drive into the station seemed longer than usual, possibly because Flip spent the better part of it grinding his teeth and strangling the steering wheel in a white-knuckled death grip. He was not at all amused when Stallworth met him at the station door holding a cane.
“Take it easy, old guy,” Stallworth said, offering him the cane. “Need a hand getting to your desk?”
“You’ll need a hand pullin’ that cane out of your ass if you don’t get it out of my face.” Flip shoved past his friend and made his way to his desk, waving off several other old jokes and happy birthdays. His menacing glare would be enough to make strangers piss their pants. Sadly, his co-workers at the station knew this was mostly posturing and it did little to deter them.
Chief Bridges was waiting for Flip at his desk, leaning against it intrusively. He wore a shit-eating grin and said with every indicia of seriousness, “Forty, huh? You know what that means, Zimmerman. It’s time to re-take your firearms training. Maybe driving too. Make sure you’re not slipping as an old man. A man’s aim is the first thing to go.”
“Fuck you,” Flip growled irritably. “I’m in better shape now than I was in my twenties.”
“It’s worse than I feared.” Bridges grinned. “Sometimes, the mind goes first.”
“Forty’s not all that old,” Stallworth came to Flip’s defense. “For a tree or a tortoise.”
“Don’t let me catch you trying to get little blue pills off any trafficking suspects.” Bridges waved a finger at Flip. “I’ve had to write up more old farts for that in this department than you want to know.”
“Not one of my complaints.” Flip smirked. “You sound like you have some personal experience in that department, Chief.”
“I’m glad you’re a cocky sonofabitch, Zimmerman. And a ladies man. It makes this part of the job a helluva lot more fun for me,” Bridges said and Flip’s smirk melted away. “A ladies man is just what the doctor ordered for this sting. Turns out our jewel thief is a broad! Can you believe it? Word says she’s going to the event at the Broadmoor tonight and she’ll be wearing a black dress. All you have to do is sidle up to her, blow whatever smoke up her ass you need to, and get her to waltz right out of the party with you and up to the room we have setup. Stallworth will be there to help make the arrest in case you need backup. You think you’ll need a hand putting handcuffs on a woman once you get her into your bedroom?”
“I can’t fuckin’ do that and you know it!” Flip exclaimed angrily, on the verge of shouting. “I’m already in deep shit with the little woman over comin’ in at all today, and you think I’m gonna go out to a party and then bring some floozy back to a hotel room? I’ll do stupid things in the line of duty, but that’s a death sentence. No fuckin’ way.”
“Scared of a dame, are you, Zimmerman?” Bridges poked.
“I’m scared of the one I have at home,” Flip huffed indignantly. “I’d be a fool not to be. She’d string you up right alongside me, Chief. Find someone else. Ron’s single.”
“Our thief’s a tall gal. A woman won’t be interested in a man who’s shorter than she is, now will she? You’re the only man in the department who’ll be taller than her in heels.” Bridges looked at Stallworth and shrugged. “There’s a height requirement on this ride, and Ron’s several inches too short.”
“Just put a tail on her and grab her when she goes to the ladies room,” Flip suggested. “Easy.”
“If you haven’t noticed, the CSPD has been written up in the paper about once a month this whole year. All you overeager assholes making scenes and causing property damage during arrests,” Bridges chided both men, who had each been featured prominently in various articles. “The last thing I need is some big public scene at the Broadmoor to kick off the holiday season. Do you think this is a fucking negotiation, Zimmerman?”
“There wouldn’t be any negotiation if I told you to shove it up your ass along with my badge and gun,” Flip grunted, thinking that his job was interfering too much in his enjoyment of life.
“What else are you qualified to do? Public relations? Customer service?” Bridges laughed. “Being shacked up with a high-power lawyer the way you are, you should thank me every day for this job. You think a dame like that is gonna want some unemployed grumpy sonofabitch keeping her couch from running away. I got news for you, Zimmerman, cabana boys are about fifteen or twenty years younger than you.”
“Nope, I’ll go over to the dark side.” Flip smirked again. “The Feds have been houndin’ me pretty hard lately.”
“You’re getting to be a crotchety bastard in your old age,” Bridges said dismissively. He patted Flip on the back as he started toward his office. “Quit your bitching moaning and go get the job done. The faster you get it done, the faster you can be back home with your wife.”
“Sometimes I envy those whiny bastards who call in for their birthdays,” Flip groaned to Stallworth when they were alone.
“Too late for that now,” Stallworth said brightly. “Man up.”
“Manning up has never been a problem for me.” Flip glared at him and sat down heavily in his chair.
“What happened there?” Stallworth eyed the scratches you had left on Flip’s neck, pulling his shirt collar back to get a better look. “Are you being abused? Do you need a safe house interview? Was there some animal control problem with a bobcat I missed over the weekend?”
“I guess I’ve still got it,” Flip said proudly.
“Wow, and you left her on your birthday to come down here for me?” Stallworth batted his eyes and teased, “I can’t tell you how much that means to me. I feel like that’s a big step in our relationship.”
“She already calls you my work wife.” Flip shook his head. “Watch your ass, rookie, or there’s gonna be some domestic violence in our relationship.” Flip slumped in his chair, highly unamused and gestured for Ron to get on with it.
“Want me to talk slow when I go over this, old timer?” Stallworth teased, holding the casefile.
“Not in the fuckin’ mood.” Flip glared at his friend, not teasing at all. He snatched the file from Stallworth and slapped it down open on his desk. He was going to get this shit over with as fast as humanly possible. He retrieved a pair of glasses with large lenses and tortoise rims from his shirt pocket, a new addition to his wardrobe. He only recently capitulated to wearing them on occasion. But only for reading. He narrowed his eyes at Stallworth in anticipation. “Not a fuckin’ word.”
Before Flip could take in much on the first page, a commotion from the front of the station drew his attention. An argument and raised voices along with the shuffling of papers, all boded nothing good in a police station. Flip shoved up from his desk and hurried to see the cause of the uproar. Several officers argued with a fat little man who was so short Flip could only see the shiny top of his greasy bald scalp hovering chest level to the average sized officers around him. Dan Goldleaf was a private investigator who served papers in his spare time, one of the lowest forms of ilk to a cop, just above pedophiles and traffickers. Worst of all, the human shitstain worked for most of the defense lawyers in town.
When Flip approached the unruly spectacle, the trollish man excitedly waved the papers in his hand. He was gelatinously fat, and his whole body jiggled with the movement. He flashed a golden smile as he waddled to Flip. He pushed the papers into Flip’s chest and announced, “Here ya go, Zimmerman!” Quick as a ferret, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and snapped a picture of Flip holding the papers in a clenched fist, a deadly glare on his face. Goldleaf straightened to his full height of around five feet and popped the lapels of his brown jacket, crackling a fresh mustard stain. The gaudy gold rings on every fat sausage finger glittered in the fluorescent lights. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
Flip wanted to squish the greasy troll like a slug, but there were too many witnesses for that now. He looked at the crumpled papers he held in his fist and backed to the wall until his back was pressed against it. It kept him from pacing like a caged animal. He had been served with a formal looking document consisting of several pages. The papers had been sent by the law firm of Dewey, Cheatum & Howe. It began with:
CANDICE GOODING,
Petitioner,
Vs.
PHILIP ZIMMERMAN,
Respondent.
VERIFIED PETITION TO ESTABLISH PATERNITY
COMES NOW the Petitioner, Candice Gooding, by and through undersigned counsel, Rob Cheatum, and in support of her Verified Petition STATES THE FOLLOWING:
“Christ, it’s a fuckin’ paternity suit from some bitch named Candice Gooding. Says she has a five-year-old kid and it’s mine! She’s comin’ after me for goddamn child support,” Flip gritted through clenched teeth. Every muscle in his body contracted and he shook with rage. He wanted to break something, or at least punch through a wall. He managed to grate out, “I don’t even know this bitch!”
“Candice Gooding,” Stallworth said slowly, enunciating every syllable, as if speaking to an idiot. “That doesn’t ring any bells?”
“It sure as hell doesn’t!” Flip was fuming, his chest flushed hot.
“What else could she call herself?” Stallworth mused, pretending to consider the issue. “Candy maybe?” Slowly, the red flush drained from Flip’s face until he was unusually pale. “Candy Goodie, maybe? Ring any bells now? Wasn’t she an ex-girlfriend some five, six years ago?”
“Motherfucker,” Flip groaned. He suddenly felt very old, as if he had aged a decade on his birthday. He leaned against the wall and knocked his head back against it roughly, as if he could bang some sense into his younger self. “She wasn’t my goddamn girlfriend, and you know it. She was just a slutty little cocktail waitress whose big dream in life was to be a stripper in Vegas where she could make the ‘big bucks.’ She was hot and easy and I fucked her a few times when I was hard up. Big deal. Any port in a storm, you know? Every girl I banged when I was footloose and fancy free wasn’t a girlfriend.”
“Guess you should have used some rubber to weather that particular storm,” Stallworth quipped, studying the papers more closely. “That candy must have been good if you went back for seconds.”
“Fuck you, buddy,” Flip said, really and truly wanting to punch something now.
“Better call your wife,” Stallworth suggested.
A look of pure terror flashed across Flip’s face for an instant before he could mask it. “Don’t you dare call her. Or tell her anything about this at all! Christ, you want to get me killed?”
“She’s a lawyer. Who do you think will be handling this for you?” Stallworth tried unsuccessfully to be helpful.
“Just haul me out back and shoot me now. Get it over with quick.” Flip dropped his head into his hands, shaking his head. “She can’t know a thing about this until I figure it out.”
“Hey, Sugar,” Flip crooned into the phone when you answered. “I was thinkin’ that since I have to get dressed up and put on the ritz tonight that you could get all dolled up too like you like and meet me after. I’ll take you out on the town and show you a real nice time.”
“I’m not in the mood,” you said, your tone told him you were far from appeased. “I thought you decided we were working today. And tonight.”
Flip had called while he was changing into his suit, a black one with a button up shirt in a dark shade of charcoal. He realized you had picked out one of your favorites for him that morning and it made him feel even guiltier. A nice suit usually had the effect of making him feel dashing, now it felt like he was dressing for his own funeral. Maybe I am, he thought to himself with a rueful smirk. Aloud, he said, “I know you’re mad as hell, but I promise I’ll make it up to you. I love you, sugar.”
“I’m on the clock, Flip,” you said sternly. “Something you know a lot about, right? We’ll catch up later. Whenever that might be.”
On the drive to the Broadmoor Stallworth informed Flip, “I called a clerk I know at the court who can verify the paternity suit on a Sunday. It’s real.”
“It’s like all my birthday wishes are comin’ true.” Flip glared out of the window, particularly eyeing the couples walking down the street, having a much better evening than he was.
Stallworth had informed Flip of all the details of their sting, how the event was in a private room of the Broadmoor, how they had booked a suite under the name of Frank Zeiss, a cover name Flip often used. All Flip had to do was find the mark, lure her up to the suite, and help Ron make the arrest. Flip didn’t even want credit. He wanted to forget everything about this day and pretend his fortieth birthday was limited to the nearly perfect Friday and Saturday he spent with his girl. Before he had to leave on call. Why in the fuck did he have to answer his damned phone this morning?
Flip stopped in at the hotel bar before seeking out the private event room. He needed a drink for this shit. He ordered an Old Fashioned and swirled the tawny liquid around in his glass. He thought of the way you always laughed at him like he was an idiot instead of suave when he tied the cherry stem in a knot with his tongue for your amusement.
As he thought of you, to his horror, you walked into the bar and aimed right for him. Wearing a sultry blue dress that hugged your curves in all the best places, he thought his girl had never looked like more of a knockout. But…
“What the hell are you doin’ here?!” Flip grabbed your arm when you got close to the bar and yanked you to him.
“It’s nice to see you too,” you said with only a hint of warning in your tone.
“I’m glad you’ve retracted your claws a bit from earlier,” Flip said in a quick, agitated voice. “But it’s not nice to see you. Not now, not here.”
“If you’re here looking for someone, shouldn’t you have your glasses on, old man?” you teased.
“Watch it, sugar.” Flip stepped closer to you until your bodies were nearly touching. “This old man was still goin’ strong when you threw in the towel last night.”
“Nice suit.” You ignored him and ran your eyes over his body. “You clean up alright.”
“This isn’t a game.” Flip fought to keep his voice low. “You could get us both hurt.”
“So serious,” you chided dismissively and placed a hand on his chest. It was endearing how nervous he was at the concern for your safety. A bead of sweat ran down from his temple. “Relax, handsome. All you have to do is stand there and look pretty, right?”
“Funny,” Flip said edgily. “Now get the hell outta here and I’ll call you when I’m done. I don’t want to be distracted by you and I don’t want you mixed up in all this.”
“Actually, I wanted to find you sooner rather than later because I got a call from a colleague. It made me think you might be in some kind of trouble.” You watched him closely as you spoke. “Or should I say, opposing counsel. A lawyer named Rob Cheatum.”
Oh, fuck. Flip’s mouth went dry and he fought to keep his expression stern and to give nothing away. “Must be important for him to call you on a Sunday.”
“Actually, he called me Friday after work. But unlike you, I followed the rules you wanted for your birthday and didn’t look at my phone until I was driving in today. That’s when I saw it. He said he’s representing some woman in a case against you.” You looked straight into his eyes. “What the fuck is he talking about, Flip?”
“Sounds like some bloodsucker out to sue the department again,” he deflected unpersuasively. “Isn’t that how you people get in the holiday spirit, by drumming up business?”
“Oh my god, don’t tell me you lost your temper and punched a suspect again,” you sighed exasperatedly. “It gets old seeing your name in the paper.”
“We all know the only animals worse than lawyers are reporters.” Flip looked around, scanning for his suspect. “All the more reason for you to get outta here until I get this thing wrapped up. You don’t want to be included in a cover story with me when I cause a scene at this party, do you?”
“I can see it now.” You spread your hands like a banner. “Grouchy old man snaps at the younger crowd out having fun.”
“I sure don’t love you for your mouth, sugar.” Flip shook his head. He saw a tall woman in a black dress walking purposefully and fixed his eyes on her like a hunting dog. But there were several women in view wearing black dresses. And what was tall, anyway? The woman was probably five-eight, although heels always threw him off. Was that tall enough to be described as very tall? Probably not. Flip had been staring at her while running these mental calculations.
“Like what you see?” you asked, more to poke him than anything. You knew he was here under the guise of working.
“Not particularly. I’d give her a seven at best,” Flip gritted out of the corner of his mouth. “I’ve got a helluva lot better at home.”
“Speaking of, how long until the woman you’ve got at home is going to get some time with you?” you asked.
“Not long.” He shrugged.
“Not an answer, Detective,” you quipped.
Flip knew you only called him Detective when you were feeling flirty or feeling as mad as a wet cat. He knew which this was. Best to remain silent, he concluded.
“You’re here to grab some suspect, a woman, I gather from your roaming eyes,” you accused and Flip’s eyes darted immediately back to you, a little wider than usual. “You’re getting served papers from strange women, too. Is this some half-assed midlife crisis? Is it time for you to embarrass yourself trying to pick up eighteen-year-olds in a new convertible?”
“Whoa, pump the brakes on the crazy train.” Flip held up his hands in surrender. “I’m innocent until proven guilty.”
“Oh, you think this is a democracy?” you scoffed. “I don’t think so. This is a monarchy, and all ways here are the Queen’s ways.”
“I’ll tell you all about it later. I promise.” Flip tried a calming tone that had zero effect. “Just let me find this woman and then we can get outta here.”
“Fine.” You put your hands on your hips.
“Don’t fine me, darlin.’” Flip mocked your posture, also putting his hands on his hips. “I know what fine means.”
“This is ridiculous. I’ll find this damn woman in black myself.” You turned on your heel and walked away.
Flip took a bounding step after you and grabbed your arm roughly, stopping you. “You’re making a fuckin’ scene.”
“Is this guy bothering you, miss?” The bartender asked, a clear warning in his voice.
You looked at Flip’s hand where he gripped your arm and cocked an eyebrow. Flip slackened his grip and you yanked your arm free. You strode purposely through the bar and toward the series of the Broadmoor event rooms. You looked over your shoulder once just to make sure Flip was following you. He was, of course, walking stiffly a few paces behind with his shoulders set and eyes narrowed, looking ready and eager to bust some heads. The hotel was crowded with holiday traffic and you both knew he couldn’t grab you again without making an even bigger scene.
At the door to the private room, Flip caught you again, grabbing the door handle in front of you and pinning you close with his body from behind. To an observer, it might look affectionate but his body was rigid against you and his tone angry, “This isn’t the time or place for you to act like a goddamn prima donna. Knock it off.”
“Just think, all this because you had to answer Ron’s call this morning.” You grinned and before he had time to process the implications of your words, you pushed his hand down on the door handle and leaned into it.
Flip stumbled into the event room right at your back, a little off balance and fuming.
“Surprise!” A chorus of voices shouted inside the room.
Flip was nearly stunned by the cacophony of light and movement and shouting assholes inside the room. He stood, still gawkily positioned mid-stumble, blinking like a deer in the headlights. There were sparkly lights and girly decorations done in black and gold, and a table set with a giant cake and a few buckets of champagne. Music blared noisily from somewhere. All his traitorous friends smiled at him, Stallworth leading the charge of ingrates. Festive lights even shimmered on the greasy dome of Goldleaf’s head. The group of traitors yelled “Surprise!” again and then broke into a terrible round of Happy Birthday. Flip straightened and smoothed a hand over his suit, trying to look dignified while feeling like an absolute jackass for falling for this shit.
There was little Flip hated more in life than surprise parties. He forced a smile and thought that maybe it wasn’t as bad as those times he’d been shot. But no. The first time, he’d gotten some really good drugs. The second time, he got six weeks off and left the hell alone. The third time had given him one of your favorite scars that made him feel even tougher than he was. No, a surprise party was far worse than getting shot.
Flip squared his shoulders and put on his game face, steeling himself to endure a long night of socializing. He pulled you to his side just a little roughly and joined his own birthday party.
“That party must have cost a fortune,” Flip bemoaned. “I hope you didn’t foot the bill just to torture me.”
“Not a dime, actually. The owner of the Broadmoor is a client. Or rather, his son on his eighth DWI is,” you said nonchalantly. “He’s innocent, of course. Or rather, he will be once I’m done with him.”
Flip made a noncommittal grunt, still in the throes of post-party-trauma.
“He also threw in a free suite.” You looped your arm through Flip’s and steered him toward the elevators. “I’m sure you’ll like it more.”
The suite was equipped with a private balcony and hottub for guests who liked to enjoy the snowy alpine winters along with a steaming soak and a glass of wine. Flip held the door open for you like a perfect gentleman before slamming it closed behind him after following you inside. He held you at arm’s length when you tried to close the distance between you.
“I need a shower. I’ve been sweatin’ bullets all day thanks to you.” His lips were poutier than usual as he unbuttoned his shirt. Shrugging roughly out of it, he balled it up in his hands and threw it into the furthest corner of the room. Flip paused to glare at the shirt where it landed on the floor and huff a few breaths before storming into the bathroom as he unbuckled his belt. The slam of the bathroom door reverberated through the room when he kicked it closed. He continued to grumble and cuss under his breath inside the bathroom. The few words you could make out seemed to be in vehement criticism of birthdays and surprise parties and pondering the eternal question of just how much bullshit one man can take.
Smiling to yourself at his grouchiness, you decided to wait for him in the hottub on the balcony. Steaming jets and your warm touch would be just the ticket to turn his anger into something a lot more enjoyable for you both.
As you peeled your own clothes away, you could still hear him bitching from inside the bathroom and it made you grin. The icy air hit you when you stepped naked out onto the balcony. Goosebumps rose across your skin, breath fogged from your lips, and your nipples peaked instantly at the chill as you quickly covered the few steps to the hottub. The crisp winter air made the hot water even more welcoming, and a cloud of steam surrounded you when you lowered yourself into the bubbling water. Leaning your head back against the edge of the hottub, you felt all the tension leaving your body as you waited for Flip.
“I’m out here,” you called when you heard him emerge. “Come keep me company.”
Flip’s face and chest were still flushed from the heat of his shower when he walked onto the balcony, scowling. Pausing to linger in the doorway, towel slung around his hips, he leaned against the doorframe. He had to fight to keep his face stern as he looked down at your bare curves sitting tantalizingly amid the steam.
“You’re not bad lookin’ for a double agent,” he told you, sucking at his teeth.
“Evil machinations are much easier when you’re pretty,” you teased and beckoned him to join you with a curled finger. “Don’t just stand there gawking about it, handsome.”
His scowl turned into something far more devilish as he tossed his towel back into the room and lowered himself into the hottub beside you. Slinging one arm behind you along the rim of the hottub, Flip wasted no time in pulling you close. Beside you, he turned to kiss your cheek, to nuzzle his nose softly against your skin along your jaw before he moved his lips to the place below your ear. Inhaling your scent, he began to lose himself in you. His kisses drifted to your neck and turned more biting and heated when you raised your hand to stroke his cheek.
“I’m sure sorry for takin’ that call,” he mumbled against your skin.
“Are you?” you asked with a laugh. “We’ll see if you learn anything from it.”
“I’m a quick learner.” Flip couldn’t help but laugh as his hand trailed up your thigh.
Turning into him, you met his lips while he teased you with his fingers. Flip kissed you hungrily, his lingering anger coming out in his eager tongue licking into your mouth, his teeth clicking against yours, and his thick fingers pushing into you.
“We’re not done celebrating yet,” you whispered into his kiss. “Your real birthday present is that I took next week off and arranged with the chief to note you as staking out a cabin for the week.”
He laughed when you told him the location, “That’s our address.”
“Is it really?” you feigned ignorance. “I’d call it a paid vacation on the taxpayers. As someone who gets shafted by Uncle Sam almost as often as I get it from you, I see no problem at all.”
“I thought you had work tomorrow?” Flip asked, looking at you with deep lusting respect.
“You thought so, yes,” you teased. “I’m off too.”
“So, you have to put me through the ringer first to earn it, huh?” He nipped your neck.
“Maybe if you weren’t such a grouchy bastard, you wouldn’t invite being screwed with, hmmm?” You twisted your fingers into his hair. “But we’ll never know.”
“A surprise party is playin’ dirty,” he said against your neck. “That’s hittin’ below the belt.”
“Funny thing is that I agree with you.” You tugged his hair sharply enough for it to be a reprimand. “Ron badly wanted to throw you a surprise party for your fortieth. I told him that I was giving you what you really wanted for the weekend, and that you would absolutely hate a surprise party. After a debate, Ron and I agreed that if he could entice you away from me today, he could inflict his surprise party upon you and I’d help lure you into it. It was insultingly easy for him, I might add. I really thought he’d have a harder time. So, I think it’s only fair to make you suffer a little on top of it. Serves you right for leaving me for your work wife.”
“So, you all gang up on me, huh? Wonderful.” He grinned. “You almost gave me a heart attack with that fuckin’ paternity horseshit. You arranged that awfully fast.”
“I thought it was nice icing on the cake,” you grinned back. “How long do you think it takes me to type a paternity petition? Fifteen minutes tops. Goldleaf is always happy to screw with you and so is Cheatum. A good time had by all. And just think, you chose all this.” You gestured grandly to encompass the enormity of the shitshow Flip had gotten himself into, “instead of staying shut in in bed with me all day.”
“I’ll never answer my phone again unless it’s you,” Flip huffed a laugh.
Deciding he had suffered enough for now, you slung your leg over his lap to straddle him. His cock was already deliciously hard and ready for you when you sank down onto him. No matter how many times he fucked you, it was always wonderfully intense before you adjusted to accommodate him. Flip’s hands smoothed down your sides, caressing you gently now before his fingers would grip bruises into you as you rode him. He kissed your neck and rolled his hips beneath you, groaning in that heady way of his when he was losing himself in the pleasure of your body.
The water sloshed in the hottub and steam whirled around you both as he fucked an orgasm out of you and followed you down into a warm, blissful afterglow. After several moments, cock still buried inside of you, he kissed your neck a few final times and raised his head to look at you with a satisfied grin.
“I hope this birthday was one to remember, old timer,” you teased as you moved your hands to rub the knots in his broad shoulders. “Forty’s a big one.”
“I really hate birthdays,” was his only grumbled response.
“Spoken just like a grumpy old man,” you said amid a fresh stream of soft laughter.
“Real funny, sugar.” Flip nipped at your skin before pulling you close again for round two. “Happy fuckin’ birthday to me.”
Warnings: NSFW. Hauntings. Seances. Occultism. Demonology. Witches. Horror Themes. Dark Themes. Graphic Violence. Gruesome Horror. Romance. Old Timey Sexism. Hot Toxic Masculinity. Conniving Bitches. Violence Against Women and Everyone Else. Victorian Setting.
AO3 Link
For Halloween, here’s a little Victorian ghost story. Notes of Crimson Peak, The Haunting of Bly Manor, What Lies Beneath, and Rosemary’s Baby. 🍂🌙🍁🎃🍁🌙🍂
This is only the first third to half of the full story. It will be completed soon.
Evil lurks in Wargrave Hall. Enter if you dare...
All Hallow’s Eve,1875. England.
Little boys think themselves brave when they play soldiers, firing at each other with finger guns and giving chase or clashing wooden swords. Little girls know the idle roughhousing of boys cannot hold a candle to their own courage. While boys horseplay, girls find much more nefarious ways to entertain themselves. At least this was the case for the two precocious girls who sneakily nudged open the door to the Purple Room in Roxbury Manor. While other young ladies played with dolls and hosted tea parties, the two friends delighted in causing mischief in all its forms. Some days this was a rambunctious outing such as climbing bareback onto horses and riding out at night under the full moon across the sprawling grounds of one of their family’s estates, driving their parents mad with worry. Some days, it was little more than sneaking into one of their family’s libraries to study and intently discuss the forbidden books with all the naughty pictures of naked men and women engaged in strange acts of contortion.
Tonight, however, was All Hallow’s Eve. This called for something special for best friends Eleanor and Katrina. They had planned it for weeks, gathering all the information and supplies they needed. Unknowingly playing right into their little hands, Katrina’s parents hosted a party for the occasion in their home, Roxbury Manor. Quite early in the evening, the girls had connived their behavior to be so recalcitrant as to be banished from the party and sent to think about their actions in Katrina’s room. This had of course suited their plans perfectly. From there, it was only a simple matter of sneaking past the inattentive maid and making their way silently to the East wing of the manor to the neglected study painted a rich purple that overlooked the garden. An old butler had died in the Purple Room earlier that year. The doctor said his heart had simply failed. But the two girls knew better. And even if his untimely demise was perfectly ordinary, it made the Purple Room the best possible setting for their nocturnal plans.
Every child far and wide knew the legend of the Crooked Lady. It was one of Eleanor and Katrina’s favorite tales. Centuries before, in the barbarous days of witch hunting, the Crooked Lady was born of suffering. An old crone who never married, who had a special affinity for animals and curatives was suspicious in itself, but her fiery red hair never ran to grey and her joints never stiffened even as her age advanced into her seventh decade. The wise men of the town knew these were signs of witchcraft. And they had wives and daughters to protect from such evil. When they stormed her house, they found more damning evidence. Herbs and potions lined her shelves, cats prowled her halls, and worst of all, was a carved wooden spirit board. It was commonly known these devilish boards were used to commune with the dead and even the devil.
The old woman, the witch, refused to confess to her nature and her crimes. She endured longer on the rack than many of the strong men who had been torn apart on it before her. The pains she suffered were said to be so gruesome as to break the resolve of two of her tormentors. Two strong men in their prime had died while turning the wheel of the rack, a simple task that had proved too much for their hearts to endure. The witch could be heard cursing her tormentors and laughing with every turn of the rack, her macabre cackles echoing through the walls and to the ears of every man, woman, and child in town. She laughed with every turn of the rack. Every turn that pulled her body apart, tearing her ligaments and sinews and muscles like a goose at a holiday feast. With each wet sickening crunch and slippery tear of her body, she laughed more hysterically. Slowly, over days of untold pain, she was transformed into the Crooked Lady. When she finally found the sweet release of death, her body was stretched and deformed as a ragdoll played with too roughly.
When her corpse was heaped into the cart to be hauled away to her grave, her limbs were frozen in canted rictuses, stiffened by rigor mortis in the impossible angels into which the rack had pulled them. Her rigid corpse was as crooked as that of a squashed spider with its broken legs array.
Witches could not be buried in hallowed church ground. The body of the Crooked Lady was carted away and buried in an unmarked grave, so that none of her disciples could find her and perform their unholy sabbath at her eternal resting place. Though her grave was unmarked, it was rumored that a flat witch’s stone was laid over her, to keep her black spirit trapped beneath.
Any rational man would have thought that once the witch was purged from their township that all malaise and ill fortune would be purged along with her. However, after the witch’s death was when it seemed her curse came upon the town’s people in force. Some said the retelling of the tale over more than two hundred years embellished the aftermath, the deaths that followed. But whatever the truth, since that black day and unto the present, much misfortune was blamed on the Crooked Lady. Her legend grew with every year. It came to be said that her spirit was restless, that it wandered the township, searching for those pious men responsible for her pain and suffering.
All the children knew that if they were not good children, the Crooked Lady would come for them. Their parents had told them so, of course. The girls had been reared on her legend, just as they had heard of Bloody Mary and the Headless Horseman. It was said she would appear for especially naughty children, those who had been sent to their rooms to be punished. Katrina and Eleanor were counting on it. Not only that, there just happened to be a mysteriously flat stone in the rough shape of a coffin in the garden behind Roxbury Manor. The girls knew it was the witch’s stone marking the grave of the Crooked Lady. They decided it was brilliant planning on their part to arrange their punishment on All Hallow’s Eve when their parents were occupied with a party and they could sneak into the Purple Room that overlooked the witch’s garden grave.
It was a perfect night for two girls to summon the Crooked Lady.
The halls were dark as Eleanor and Katrina crept through them, their lacy dresses fluttering around their ankles. The merry sounds of the party wafted through the halls to them, ill-suited to their own dark preoccupation. The door to the Purple Room was thick walnut, looking black in the feeble light. Slowly, Katrina opened it with the key she had pilfered earlier that day. The girls nudged it open and crept silently inside. A thin veil of dust covered the floor and furnishings, and silver moonlight from a full harvest moon filtered through a narrow gap in the damask drapes. Strange shadows were cast across the purple walls and an open fireplace grinned like a monstrous mouth. The girls exchanged a look and nervous giggle.
“It’s perfect!” Eleanor whisper-yelled. She had been fascinated with seances of late, absorbing every bit of information she could find on the subject.
“It’s the best possible place for a séance,” Katrina agreed knowingly. Since her recent tenth birthday, she had developed an interest in the occult after hearing her mother speak of it in hushed tones. She had quickly thereafter become an occult authority. Although she was two years younger than her friend, they both recognized that she possessed the greater knowledge.
A slice of moonlight in front of the window overlooking the garden seemed an opportune spot for their activity. Dust swirled lightly around their feet like disturbed spirits as they scurried through the neglected room. Eleanor froze halfway across the hardwood floor. A white face stared at her from a black corner, stern and terrifying. She yelped with fright and clung to her friend; though older, she was the shorter of the two.
“Don’t be silly.” Katrina rolled her bright brown eyes. “That’s just a bust of granduncle Comstock.”
“He’s mortifying,” Eleanor said, eyeing the marble bust.
“No, he’s just ugly,” Katrina replied reasonably.
The far corners of the room were completely dark and shadows seemed to flit about as the girls crossed the room. Oil paintings hung on the walls, looking like framed black voids in the darkness, save for a few pearlescent white eyes that watched the aspiring mediums as they set out their artifacts. Katrina retrieved a piece of chalk and a neatly folded piece of paper. Eleanor lifted a chain from around her neck, a spear of amethyst as long as her finger dangled from it. The patch of moonlight by the window was just large enough to cast the two girls in its silver glow when they sat down crossed legged across from one another and began their work. The window overlooked the garden, the oblong presumed witch’s stone gleamed in the moonlight. Each girl carried a candle in a chamberstick that had been unlit to enable their stealth. They lit them now, so that soft flickering firelight encircled them and made the shadows in the further reaches of the room dance like eldritch beings.
“It doesn’t have to be perfect,” Katrina said knowingly as she wrote out the alphabet in precise block letters, keeping the rows as straight as she could. “It’s just a way for the spirits to talk to us.”
“I’ve heard that all manner of spirits can talk to you through this,” Eleanor agreed excitedly. “I wonder if we’ll find someone other than the Crooked Lady.”
“I hope it’s nothing too evil,” Katrina said as she finished the Z with a flourish.
“Too evil? You’re not scared, are you?” Eleanor taunted with a smile.
“I’m not scared!” Katrina was offended. “But if a stupid ghost breaks something in here, it’s us that will get the spanking for it.”
“I’ve been spanked before.” Eleanor shrugged. Neither girl was a stranger to being punished for their misdeeds. She studied the completed board. “I think you need to put Yes and No at the corners.”
“You’re right.” Katrina wrote the words in, then added another at the bottom. “I almost forgot! You have to put Goodbye, too. That’s the most important part of the séance, after talking to the spirits, of course. You have to close it properly.”
“Or what?” Eleanor asked, wiping away an errant mark of chalk with her fingertip.
“Or you let the spirits in for good,” Katrina warned with certainty. She had heard this spoken of many times. Although much of the girls’ knowledge on the subject of seances and the occult came from conversations they spied upon through the cracks in door jams, this seemed consistent. “If you don’t close the séance properly, the spirits get to stay here with us. You let the evil in.”
“Not all spirits must be evil?” Eleanor mused, more to herself. “Good people die just like the bad ones.”
“Maybe the good ones have better things to do than talk to people through spirit boards.” Katrina shrugged. She smoothed out the paper on the floor in front of her and looked at the writing upon it with furrowed brows.
“How do we start?” Eleanor asked eagerly, eyeing the paper. “With the incantation?”
“I’m not sure.” Katrina pursed her lips. “It seems a bit rude, doesn’t it? Just asking things outright?”
“You’re right. Father says it’s the height of rudeness to jump right into the direct business of things,” Eleanor agreed. She pulled her thick auburn braid over her shoulder and tightened the bow that tied it off. She dangled the amethyst pendant over the chalk letters, allowing the purple crystal to hover over the board as it pleased. She raised her voice and asked confidently, “We’d like to introduce ourselves to any spirits here. Miss Eleanor Winchester and Miss Katrina Burton. Is there anyone listening who would like to introduce themselves to us?”
They waited a long minute. Nothing answered them, save for the forlorn hoot of an owl outside.
“Maybe it needs to be more formal,” Katrina adopted a serious tone. “We’d like to commune with the dead, please.”
“Please,” Eleanor mocked with a snort of laughter. Neither girl noticed the way one candle flickered out of time, as though a hand had passed over it. Eleanor rubbed her arm with her free hand against a slight chill. “I’d say we have some rude ghosts on our hands.”
“Ssshhh!” Katrina reprimanded hotly. The feeling of being watched crept up her spine, as though all the eyes from the paintings had turned upon them. The amethyst turned, making lazy circles over the board, but it was probably from the way Eleanor had rubbed her arm. “Let’s try the incantation.”
Both girls leaned over the piece of paper laid out on the floor. They joined one hand each together and read it in unison.
“By this chant, I summon thee. Spirits of old, come forth and see. From realms beyond the mortal sight, answer my call on this sacred night. Guides and guardians of the astral plane, I beckon to you, break your chains. Cross the boundary between worlds unseen, on this night of All Hallow’s Eve. In this circle of magic, let us convene.”
They repeated the incantation a second and then a third time for good measure. By the third recitation, their words seemed to echo off the walls, lingering in the air and filling the room that had grown unnaturally still and cool while they spoke. The girls locked eyes across the scrawled letters, both aware of the eeriness that had descended upon them. Eleanor thought she saw movement outside from down in the garden below. But Katrina inhaled sharply and pointed at the amethyst. The purple spear hovered over the word Yes, the chain strained at an unnatural angle from Eleanor’s hand. The crystal danced over Yes the way a compass needle does so as it seeks North.
“Yes, we may convene?” Katrina whispered the question uncertainly to Eleanor. A creak sounded from a shadowy corner, making both girls jump.
“Who’s there?” Eleanor asked with a start. The amethyst stilled as though it now hung from a rigid wire instead of a fine chain. It moved no more.
The hairs on Eleanor’s neck stood on end as rigidly as the frozen necklace chain, a disturbing prickliness crawled over her skin like flies on carrion. With it came a rush of cold, less like a draft through a window and more like the girls now sat in an ice box. She felt an ominous gaze upon her, coming through the window from outside. She had never felt frozen by fear before, but now the simple act of turning her head required more effort than she possessed. Katrina’s eyes were blown wide as she looked around the dark, cold room, equally wrought with panic. Though Eleanor’s senses screamed for her to look out the window, Katrina raised a slender shaking hand to point at the center of the room.
Both girls watched in horror as the dust on the floor swirled lightly, disturbed by an unseen presence. A presence that moved from the gaping maw of the fireplace toward them with the deliberate patience of a stalking predator. Katrina let out a shuddered breath, it fogged from her lips in the chilled air. The amethyst jumped suddenly, dancing as wildly on the chain as a hangman on the noose. The dust whirled with new agitation, and one of the candles instantly snuffed out with a hiss. The chain pulled in Eleanor’s hand, but she didn’t look down. Despite the terror in her heart, a voice sounded inside her mind, like her own inner thoughts but far more commanding, as though a hand had reached into her thoughts and forced her attention back to the window.
A figure stood outside in the garden. It was dark, cast in strange shadows by the moonlight, but Eleanor was certain it had not been there when she had first looked outside. The figure, a black silhouette, was twisted and macabre, looking like a dead and ancient hanging tree with broken limbs jutting outwards at all the wrong angles. A sinister red glow surrounded its apex. Red hair! The right broken limb twitched spasmodically.
“She’s here!” Eleanor shrieked and sprang to her feet. She dropped the amethyst. It spun across the chalk letters of its own accord to Yes, where it drifted insistently like a leaf caught in the eddy of a stream.
Outside, the Crooked Lady was gone. Nothing looked amiss in the garden. A bang sounded on the door to the Purple Room, as loud as a gunshot to girls’ frazzled nerves. The door jumped on its hinges, but Katrina had locked it behind them when they entered.
The girls clung together, as if holding each other could save them from the infernal presence they had summoned. They both stared outside now, for the horror that approached from the garden was far more terrifying than whatever was inside the room with them. Closer now, the Crooked Lady leered at them from the garden below. Much closer. She had reappeared so near the window that they could see the sheen of moonlight glinting on her teeth – too sharp, too small, and too many – when she smiled grimly. Her broken limbs stood out at corrupted angles, giving her the silhouette of a crab. Her gait too was crablike as she shuffled forward. The girls screamed in unison.
The door to the Purple Room burst open as though kicked in from the outside, blowing a gust of cold air over the girls, sobering them. No one stood on the other side, only the darkened hallway and the pleasant sounds of the party carried on in another wing of the mansion.
“Run!” Eleanor shouted, her voice hoarse with dread, but Katrina held firm.
The amethyst slithered across the spirit board, the sound drawing both the girls’ attention for a brief second. It tapped on Goodbye insistently. The Crooked Lady had reached the window. She stood just outside, her head cocked to one side, a glittering string of saliva dripped from the low side of her joker’s smile. She raised a broken finger, pointing it as straight as her misshapen joints would allow at the two girls. Her long ragged fingernail scraped the window pane.
Goodbye goodbye goodbye, the amethyst tapped.
“We have to close the séance, or we’ll let her in!” Katrina dropped back to the floor, pulling Eleanor down with her.
Though their hearts raged in their chests and their palms were slick with sweat, they quickly completed the ritual as they had learned it through self-study. The Crooked Lady was no longer visible. Whether she was closer still or banished into the nether, they didn’t know, but black thoughts plagued their minds. The air inside was still as frigid as winter and their breaths were expelled as steam. They felt an ethereal presence around them, but somehow they knew it was different from that of the Crooked Lady. Although unnatural and otherworldly, the cold presence inside the room did not feel malicious.
With the séance closed, the girls ran from the room, fighting hysteria and feeling utterly mad. Without sharing a word of their thoughts, they knew they must never speak of the happenings of that All Hallow’s Eve amongst anyone other than themselves, not even to their parents. Lest they risk a stay in the madhouse.
Currents of excitement thrummed through Eleanor Winchester, alighting every sense and nerve ending, as titillating as the electric fixtures that were newly installed in her family’s estate in Devonshire. Tales of the fancy dress balls thrown by the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire had been the subject of great discussion among her and her girlhood friends, but she had never before had the opportunity to attend since she came of age. Tonight was to be the first night since her return from India that she could see firsthand what a true fancy dress ball entailed, and not merely the poor substitutes hosted by the English diplomats abroad. Count Winchester, her father, had been conscripted to oversee some matters of political delicacy in Bombay, and had taken his wife and only child with him. The expedition took years, long enough for Eleanor’s mother to succumb to fever and for her to grow from a girl into a woman.
Upon her return to England, she found a country that was far drearier and more stilted than she remembered from childhood. Then again, children should be less aware of these social constraints than fully grown and eligible women. Since being formally presented for courtship by her family the previous Christmas, she had been pursued like a tiger by sportsmen, and found herself growling just as prickly from the hunt as her feline counterpart. Young bumbling Lords and old lecherous widowers hounded after the beautiful young noblewoman. Her allure was not only her shapely hourglass figure, porcelain skin, bright blue eyes, and long auburn hair the color of a flaming sunset; her father was one of the richest men in England with no heirs other than his single daughter. Suitors vied for her attention at the events she attended. Each as scintillating as Melville describing architecture.
Although she knew it would be prudent for her to accept an offer and marry while still aided by her youthful beauty, she had never found herself prevailed upon to consider any offer for longer than it took for her to gorge to rise at the thought. She had been a little girl when women were given the right to own property in England and her father had made her understand well what that meant for her own personal freedom. A victim of a miserable marriage of obligation himself, he instilled a more independent view of romance in his only child, the future Countess and owner of all his holdings.
Being the game of choice for so many hunters had leached much of the joy out of attending balls and events. The mid-summer fancy dress ball at Devonshire House, however, was an exception. She had fussed over her costume until she was thoroughly pleased with the lavish scarlet gown that accentuated her nipped waist and full bosom. Many women would push the limits of extravagance with their costumes tonight. Eleanor’s dearest friend had commissioned a taxidermy fox to lay curled atop her hat and complete her orange and cream vixen costume that complimented her compelling beauty. That suited Eleanor less as a matter of preference. She had no doubts of her own beauty – it was a simple fact, as plain as stating that her eyes were blue – and it had been reinforced throughout her lifetime. She opted for a subtler finishing touch for her costume. A glossy pair of devil horns, carved from actual horn, secured by a lace tie hidden beneath her hair, and the train of her gown was trimmed with ribbons that mimicked flickering hellfire when she moved. She thought she made quite the handsome devil indeed.
Eleanor rocked gently in the velvet-lined interior of her carriage and looked out the window at the setting sun, growing hazy as it neared the western horizon. Although she would be met there by her father, he had not returned home from the business he had in the House of Lords. Seated next to her was her dearest friend, resplendent in her vixen costume that suited her perfectly. Katrina Burton was a stately and statuesque woman, beautiful in the mysterious way that kept men off balance. Her hair was the color of rich chocolate and her eyes were of deep mahogany, a combination that looked particularly striking against her fair complexion. The daughter of a fellow Count, they had bonded as children through their father’s friendship, but they had grown close as sisters from their mutually sharp wits and merciless tongues. Eleanor supplied the boldness in their pairing, while Katrina provided the calculation. They were equally wealthy, equally beautiful and suited to different tastes, equally unattached, and equally sought after by much of the eligible male population.
“About our wager,” Eleanor said, still looking out the window as the three stories of Devonshire House came into view. “I think that we should not limit it to words. It would be much more fun to include overtures as well.”
“A shilling goes to whichever of us receives the most odious approach from a man this evening. Thank heavens I should be rewarded in some small manner the next time a hapless idiot tells me that my eyes shimmer like a pint of stout,” Katrina scoffed. “What more would you have us expand it to?”
“Physical overtures from the men too meek to summon their voices in our presence,” Eleanor laughed. “Although you were greatly shamed by that terrible compliment, I daresay I had it worse when that skinny little Duke’s boy spilled his wine over my bodice after tripping over his own feet. Or the fat Baron who nearly broke your foot dancing with you with all the grace of a mule!”
“Reminiscing this way is making me far less enthused about the ball.” Katrina smirked. She was prone to sly grins and sultry moues in contrast to Eleanor’s wide smiles and easy laughter. Katrina narrowed her eyes at the numerous carriages that littered the grounds and the people who walked outside in formal dress and ornate costumes.
“But think of all the other ladies there whose night it will ruin to see us walk through those doors and put them to shame. We shouldn’t disappoint them.” Eleanor met Katrina’s eyes and they both smiled.
The carriage halted and a sharply dressed footman approached to open the carriage door. The doormen on either side of the entrance wore loud, white pompadour wigs, almost garish in their long blue tailcoats. The doors steadily opened for the women, admitting them as if they were royalty. Inside, the elegant sounds of a classical orchestra filtered to their ears and their noses were met with luscious aromas of spice and excitement. This ball was the event of the season, attended by most of the men and women in the House of Lords. Any and all eligible young Lords and Ladies would give their eyeteeth for an invitation. Most of the unmarried ladies present, and a fair share of the unmarried men, had high hopes for securing a prospect by the night’s end. No doubt this awkward mating ritual and all the flamboyant grandstanding that accompanied it was a great source of amusement for the more seasoned guests, a splendid form of entertainment.
A finely dressed butler escorted the ladies through a sprawling marble and gilded foyer, past a wide staircase twisting upward. Finally, he led them into a cavernous ballroom. People in costumes passed them, laughing and tipping glasses of champagne to their lips. Entering the ballroom, they were engulfed in an explosion of color and sound. The huge hanging chandeliers gleamed like kaleidoscopes, refracting the colors of the pomp and jewelry worn by the bustling attendees. Masked couples spun around the floor to the sound of the orchestra, a roiling ocean of ladies in gowns and gentlemen in tailcoats. Each wore a costume. Some elegant, some macabre, some gauchely overdone, but each unique and eye-catching.
Eleanor linked her arm with Katrina’s as they strode along the edge of the ballroom floor, watching couples dance in its center. Katrina was tall and lithe with a swanlike elegance, Eleanor was shapely and nubile with a feline allure. Between them, they commanded much of the male attention in the ballroom, and they shared a knowing glance. Numerous hungry eyes watched the pair of ladies walk the way vultures watch lions feed, lurking and waiting for any scraps that may be tossed their way. Each lady met the eyes that lingered upon her with a boldness that made the men look away first. Each was aware this was not the way to procure a husband, but no man had yet appeared to pique that particular interest in either of them.
A servant approached them with glasses of champagne perched on a silver tray. Lowering the tray, he offered the ladies each a flute they happily accepted. Although she maintained her aloof air, there was one man rumored to be in attendance of whom Katrina was especially hopeful. Herzog Von Zimmer held the equivalent rank of an English Duke and hailed from Berlin, meeting several of her criteria of being wealthy and of a superior rank to her own. He was rumored to be of great height, meeting another paramount criteria, that a man must be far taller than she.
Eleanor felt Katrina stiffen beside her, heard her inhale a sharp breath. Across the ballroom, the women spotted a huge man dressed in ornate golden robes. His height was accentuated by a red and gold crown, completing his costume that must be Charlemagne. He had a black beard and his strikingly blue eyes singled out the pair of women at once.
“Go!” Eleanor whispered teasingly to her friend. “I know how much it costs you, but try to look lost and innocent, and in need of a big strong man to come to your rescue.”
Katrina shook her head, but smirked as they separated, and made her way toward Herzog Von Zimmer, careful to make it none too obvious. Eleanor continued skirting the edge of the festivities alone. She came to a large marble pillar and leaned her back against it, content to sip her champagne and watch the petty drama unfold about her. She spied her father Count Montgomery Winchester, talking to a group of noteworthy men on the floor above, looking down over the ballroom, no doubt mocking the happenings below. He was a tall man, easy to spot with his shining bald head and bushy red beard, although he likely did not spot his daughter among the dancing sea of guests. Eleanor recognized two men who spoke to her father. One was the Duke of Devonshire himself, the owner of Devonshire House and the host of the ball; another was a tall blonde man with a jolly demeanor whom she recognized as Count Pierre D’Alencon. She recognized his choice of costume as well; dressed in an eighteenth-century frock with bloodstained bandages taped around each of his fingers and waving a large plumed quill for effect, he could only be the Marquis De Sade. There was a third man in their company whose back was to Eleanor. He stood much taller than the others, broad-shouldered with thick black hair hanging down over the collar of a dark green robe in medieval style. She did not recognize him, but she thought that fact might be prudent to rectify.
Watching the men on the balcony above, Eleanor paid little attention to the man who approached her from across the ballroom, tall and dressed in black. The man moved to the edge of the crowded room as she had done minutes before, as though he were stalking her trail, closing in on her from behind. The men around her father disbanded, Count D’Alencon clapping a hand on the broad back of the unknown man and leading him away, leaving the Duke of Devonshire and her father talking amongst themselves.
The man who stalked Eleanor finally stepped into her line of sight, deliberately making himself known. He was young, perhaps her age or even younger, and wore a smirk of conceit born of having too easy a time seducing women of his choice. He was undeniably handsome, in a dark sort of way. His hair was raven black, drawn back in a ponytail from a sharp widow’s peak beneath a wide-brimmed, magnificently plumed hat that was the height of fashion in the seventeenth century. Even his eyes were almost black, unnervingly, abyssal dark. He waited, seemingly for her to speak, no doubt used to flustering women. Eleanor was not so easily flustered and merely appraised him coolly.
“Madam, you look lost and innocent, and in need of a big strong man to come to your rescue.” His smirk deepened as he echoed Eleanor’s advice to Katrina back to her in a pleasing voice. “Might I rescue you from this doldrum and take you for a dance?”
“You cannot concoct your own witticisms so you must steal mine?” Eleanor retorted, smirking herself.
“I shall aim higher then, and steal the lady herself,” he stated confidently. Without waiting for her to extend it, he grabbed her hand and pulled her closer to him, set on taking her out for dance.
Eleanor was quick to react, twisting her wrist out of the man’s grip in a simple way her father had taught her – pulling against the thumb, which is always the weakest point of any hold. The young man looked offended by her denial and surprised by her anger. Her voice was a little too loud for propriety when she told him, “While I can imagine circumstances in which a lady would want to be commandeered by a man, it is surely not with a man whose name she does not even know, and let alone by a boy who is not yet a full man!”
“I compliment you, madam,” the dark young man hissed, all pleasantry gone from his voice. “And you dare to spit at me? Perhaps, I should respond in kind. Shall I show you what a man can do to a high-tempered woman?”
“I am too much for you, boy,” Eleanor laughed icily. “As I am for many men. I will advise you the same as I advise them all – to find a woman who is less. There are many such feminine creatures here tonight.” She waved her arm to encompass the ballroom. “I can readily spy several women nearly as pretty as I, younger also, and almost certainly of lesser difficulty.”
“Do you not know me?” The man adopted an empirical haughty tone, looking down his nose at her. “I neglected to introduce myself properly. William Le Gris.” He bowed deeply. “Heir to one of the largest estates in the country. I am as eligible as any man at this ball, and what are you but a spinster in the making? You presume to deny me?”
“Impressive. Yet, my family is far wealthier. Do not presume to think my affection can be purchased. If you are so stricken for female company, your reputation will surely carry you far at any brothel.” She smiled beautifully wicked. “Just as a novice should not attempt to ride a boisterous horse, may I advise you to contend yourself with simpler quarry? I’m not possessed of the patience required to train a boy up from a novice into a master in the ways of relating to the fairer sex.”
Laughter, deep and rich, drew Eleanor’s attention. It was good-natured laughter, not in mockery but purely in mirth. Before she could look for the source, she saw a poisonous look flash across William’s features as quick as a heartbeat before his mask of composure returned, but his black eyes remained narrowed.
“A wise man must know when he is defeated, Master William.” The laughing voice said and a huge hand clapped down on William’s shoulder, making the young man jolt and his expression sour further. The man was very tall, well over six feet, with luxurious black hair dusting his impressively broad shoulders. He was older, a man in his prime, and wore a green cape, trimmed with fur, and a medieval-style gold tunic. A likewise medieval broadsword was belted around his hips, which Eleanor took note, looked genuine and not a mere costume accessory. The man’s attention was on William, but it appeared he could not resist letting his eyes wander quickly over Eleanor’s figure; hooded eyes, the color of burnished amber, giving the man a lupine quality. The way he looked at her, brief though it was, thrilled her.
“Defeated?” William scoffed, roughly shrugging the man’s hand off his shoulder. “You admit defeat rather easily. It is not a trait I wish to emulate.”
“No?” The larger man laughed again. “Then by all means, carry on your campaign with this lovely lady. You were doing so well before my intrusion.”
Eleanor took a half-step closer to the men, cutting across William’s reply by addressing the larger man, “This boy is beyond hope, I’m afraid. But perhaps a man could teach him a thing or two about how to campaign a lady?”
The man grinned at her, his full lips framed by a black van dyke, enticed rather than deterred by her boldness. He took her hand and gave her a low bow, not unlike the bow William had enacted, but done with much more aplomb. He accepted her challenge by offering her his hand. “I am at your service, Miss Winchester.”
“You know me?” she asked as she placed her hand in his, marveling at the size of it, the way it swallowed hers completely.
“Would you believe it if I told you that your beauty is as renowned as that of Helen of Troy, and that I would know your face by that reputation alone?” He saw her primed to give him an eyeroll and added quickly in his deep, pleasant voice, “I have business with your father, Count Winchester. He told the Duke and I that his daughter had chosen not to wear a costume this evening, but to merely reveal her horns.” Reaching out with his free hand, he traced one long thick finger along the devil horn that protruded from her auburn hair, flashing a grin that was just a bit lopsided and very dashing. “I have heard the devil would be beautiful.”
“And who might you be?” She was genuinely intrigued now. In the span of a minute this rake had captured her attention more thoroughly than any man had ever managed. There was an intangible magnetism about him. His sharp features and imperial nose, while certainly handsome, gave him a villainous edge. She let her eyes drop to the protruding hilt of his sword, employing her most innocent lilt, “Your sword catches the eye.”
“A family heirloom,” he replied, resting his hand on the hilt, standing tall. There was something decidedly lewd in a man’s posture when he stood thus. “For the evening, I am Lancelot, a knight looking only to serve his queen.” He cast a sideways glance at William, wondering if the boy was learning anything at all. William still stood awkwardly to the side, watching the rapport that was so easily established between man and woman with a look of foul distaste. “On all other days, I am Sir Jacques.”
“A true knight?” Eleanor laughed pleasantly. “How romantic. And impressive that you have dealings with Dukes and Counts while not being in the House of Lords yourself.”
“Would you grace me with a dance, your infernal highness?” he asked while holding his hand out to her side, level with her waist, beckoning her to him.
“Surely, a man such as yourself has danced with the devil many times,” she teased.
“Quite true,” he agreed, stepping closer and placing his hand on her waist. “But never yet to the tune of Tchaikovsky.”
Sir Jacques had a manner that was commanding without being commandeering. The kind of masculine appeal that made a woman want to surrender without even having been asked. He spared one last amused look at William before leading her away, telling the boy, “A man must always approach a woman as he would the devil herself. He could just as easily lose his soul to either one.”
He stood a head taller than Eleanor, which only worked to his favor. He led her through the crowded ballroom, until they reached its center, as if displaying her for all to admire her beauty. When he pulled her into a dance, he seemed even larger, towering over her; she could feel the power in his body as he moved with her. Her pulse raced and she could not be sure if the room itself was spinning or if she was dizzy with pleasure as she was pulled across the ballroom in large sweeping twirls. He was an astonishing dancer, his movements deceptively agile. He was the perfect lead, giving and attentive, but easily powerful enough to carry her completely through every motion if he wished.
“I’m afraid William has not had the proper instruction when it comes to ladies,” Jacques said, instinctively glancing back toward the black-clad youth on the edge of the ballroom.
“Does a man need proper instruction to intuit that rudeness is an ill-advised approach?” she asked, not sparing so much as a flick of her eyes to the young man.
A few silver hairs caught the light as they danced, just enough to make the ebony of Jacques’s lustrous hair sparkle. Parenthetical dimples framed his easy smile and his eyes crinkled at the edges. He was older than she initially assumed, nearer to forty than thirty. He looked like he had weathered a few storms, but not so many that it undermined his attractiveness. If anything, his features looked as though they would have been gawky and awkward in youth, before his body filled out enough to catch up with his long limbs and large nose. Maturity became him.
“His mother died when he was quite young. The lack of feminine influence on a young man makes them all the more barbarous.” Jacques smiled warmly.
“You seem awfully concerned with William Le Gris and his amorous pursuits,” she said, her tone cooling, indicating her lack of interest in the subject. “Is he Arthur to your Lancelot? Why are you acting as his champion?”
“Concerned? No. But perhaps guilty.” Jacques smiled again, but it held a note of melancholy. “I should have given him a better example of how a man treats a lady well.”
Eleanor looked up at him in confusion, her brows knotting.
“My god, I thought you knew!” Jacques exclaimed, apologetically shaking his head. “I am Sir Jacques Le Gris. William, barbarian that he is, is my eldest son.”
Without giving Eleanor a chance to retort, he crowded her and stepped a long leg out beside her. Jacques dipped her backward until her back was level with the bend in his knee, his large hand supporting her back firmly as he bent over her. Her heart fluttered like a caged bird inside her ribs as he lowered his body over her. Her eyes glinted up at Jacques, bright glacial blue that made his heart jump as though he had plunged into ice water. Keeping his eyes locked on hers, he lowered his own body until the tip of his prominent nose skimmed her skin with the lightest touch, trailing from her sternum up her throat as he raised her back up from his dip, returning to his full height. Looking down at her once more, an appreciative sound like a purr rumbled in his chest as warmth flooded her body.
She realized with a start that many people had stopped dancing in favor of watching the handsome couple they made. The ladies envied Eleanor, the men envied Jacques. She felt an uncustomary rush of self-consciousness and tried to pull back, but Jacques held her firmly in place, close to his body, his focus entirely on her. William watched them a moment longer, feeling a mixture of jealousy, anger, and shock at the way this temptress had so quickly bewitched his father, before turning on his heel and all but stomping out of the ballroom.
“I’d hoped for my son to gain some experience with ladies of standing tonight,” Jacques said with a rueful set to his features. “But I fear I’ve done nothing but give him cause for jealousy.”
“What am I, then?” she asked with a note of offense. “A game rabbit to let the puppy hunt for experience?”
“Certainly not.” Jacques shook his head, his long hair becoming fascinatingly disheveled. “If anything, you are the hunter. Or at least, game far too dangerous for my sons to best.”
“Sons?” Eleanor raised an eyebrow.
“Two of them.” Jacques cast a quick glance around the room. “The other must be off causing trouble with Count Pierre’s boy. Nothing looks as though it’s on fire yet, so we may breathe easy for the moment.”
“It would be proper for me to allow another man to have a dance.” She made a small attempt to pull away, having enough of the talk of unruly man-children in whom she had no interest at all. Jacques felt the reluctance stiffen her body and held her tighter, not yet allowing her to escape.
“Let me just tell you this and then abandon the subject.” He lowered his voice until it was nearly a growl, “When I saw young William talking to you from up on the balcony, I thought what a lucky little scoundrel he was to have singled out the most beautiful lady in the room. Now, I feel like a far luckier man since he bungled it.”
Jacques danced with Eleanor through the next two dances, making quite a show for any eye thirsting for gossip. It was not until he could see a fine sheen of sweat glistening along her hairline that he slowed.
“Some air, Miss?” His hand squeezed her slender waist in time with his question and offered her his arm.
Jacques guided her out of the cacophonous ballroom and up the wide spiral staircase. He strode down a hallway to an open double doorway that exited onto a large balcony, enwrapped by stone railing that rose to the level of Eleanor’s ribs. Torches burned in sconces along the outer wall of the manor on the balcony, casting it in flickering firelight. Several other couples occupied the balcony already, but it was spacious enough to allow each their privacy. Although, it seemed that all their eyes turned to Jacques and Eleanor as they stepped out into the cool night air. Even murmured whispers met their ears.
Eleanor looked at them with amusement, then at Jacques curiously. It appeared that Sir Jacques was the subject of much interest among guests, for many eyes surveyed him surreptitiously.
“Surely, you must be accustomed to your beauty drawing attention, Miss Winchester,” Jacques drawled smoothly, deflecting her unasked question.
The directness of his flattery summoned a laugh from her in response.
“I am unaccustomed to women laughing at the compliments I pay them,” he replied, smirking as he led her to the rail. The balcony overlooked a garden filled with green hedges and pink flowers; couples walked through it serenely.
“How very boring they must be, poor things,” she retorted with a smile, finally removing her hand from his arm to place it on the cool stone and take in the beauty sprawled out beneath them.
Jacques rested his large hand on the small of her back as he leaned his hip against the rail next to her, his body turned to face her. The feeling of both his hand and his eyes upon her had Eleanor feeling even dizzier now than she had felt when he was spinning her on the ballroom floor.
“Tell me then, how I may admire your beauty without garnering your amusement?” he asked while lifting his free hand to gently sweep a stray hair away from her face, admiring the faint blush that bloomed on her cheeks as he tucked it back into place.
Before Eleanor could think of a suitable response, they were interrupted by an older woman who had walked unnoticed to her side. She had a tall pile of powder grey hair, and her face was plastered stark white with obnoxious red circles of blush on her cheeks in the style of an eighteenth-century French courtesan. Ignoring Eleanor completely, she addressed Jacques in a haughty, affected tone.
“I have seen you attend many balls, Sir Jacques, but I have never before seen you dance so long with a single partner.” She looked at Eleanor with disapproval before continuing, “Although now, after witnessing such a display of your considerable prowess in the act, I cannot imagine why not.”
“My desire to do so is very rarely piqued, Madam,” Jacques replied without removing his eyes from Eleanor’s so long as to spare her a meager glance. “However, when I so desire, I am very pleased to display it.”
“My daughter is an accomplished dancer,” the woman continued.
“Then she should have little difficulty securing a partner,” Jacques’s tone grew terse with his reply.
Eleanor paid her no mind, adding to the woman’s irritation.
“Had I known that you were openly soliciting young ladies, I would have presented her to you this evening,” the woman persisted. She sighed dramatically, making her displeasure evident as she took her leave of them both.
Her display elicited unabashed laughter from Eleanor that quickly infected Jacques.
“Upon further reflection, I could easily grow fond of hearing your laughter,” Jacques said as he laughed with her.
Other couples still watched on. Fragments of their whispered conversation met Eleanor’s ears. She clearly heard the words widower and accident. She thought she also heard murderer, but surely that was incorrect. Jacques must have heard something he didn’t like because he fixed the offending couple with a severe glare, his narrowed eyes burning into them relentlessly until they muttered a feeble apology and shambled away. He was a very large man, easily intimidating if he chose to be. He took a deep breath and a shadow of regret crossed behind his eyes. He pulled back from Eleanor, his jaw set as if he had come to some private resolution.
“I cannot in good conscience pursue you, given where this may lead, Miss Winchester.” Jacques shook his head, his tone contrite. He tried humor to lessen the blow, “If you inquire after my reputation, you will learn you are better off for having escaped me.”
“I am sure I do not take your meaning.” She began to bristle. She was not a woman used to being rebuffed.
“My son met you first and set his cap at you,” Jacques tried to make his deep voice soft, though it did little good.
“And he made a very poor go of it,” she huffed, planting her hands on her hips. “Am I the property of any man who lusts after me for a matter of minutes?”
“Certainly not,” Jacques tried to defuse her. “But I cannot cause a feud with my own son. Adding to that complication, I know your father and, as I said, I have business with him. It would not do for me to dally with you. A woman like you could make a man lose his good sense, and I cannot afford that.”
“Ah, and here I was thinking it was some neolithic male possessiveness,” she quipped icily. “When rather, it is just plain cowardice and uncertainty. No fear, Sir Jacques, I have no doubt there are men with stouter hearts than yours.”
“Your father did not exaggerate the sharpness of your tongue.” Jacques was taken aback, but also strangely enticed, like being drawn into a high stakes card game. “Rest assured, no man has a stouter heart than mine, but many have more foolish minds. They will look at a woman like you and see only her beauty, not the danger it conceals, like a serpent coiled beneath a rose. Unlike young William, I have the experience of knowing when I should approach with caution. A man is safe in the company of a woman he can take lightly. You, on the other hand, are a dangerous creature.”
“And how very knightly of you, Sir Jacques, to flee at the first hint of danger.” She had decided if she could not secure his affection, she could enjoy arousing his anger. Unbeknownst to her, she elicited the opposite effect, her tenacity served to set her apart from other women even more than her beauty. “St. George slayed dragons, but Sir Jacques quails from a mere woman?”
“The fire you breathe would have already burned St. George to embers.” Jacques grinned despite himself and his heart jumped involuntarily. It had been many years since he had felt this strange mixture of challenge, temptation, and passion. She stirred the most primal parts of him, those that existed deep beneath the civilized veneer of a gentleman.
A shrill female giggle carried up from the garden two stories below. Looking over the rail, Eleanor saw two couples walking together in a foursome in the garden. They appeared young, the ladies petite and simpering, the men lanky and enthusiastic. One man had short sandy hair, holding the hand of his lady in a death grip. The other man had longer black hair and was in the midst of some act of showmanship that had his lady giggling to the point of breathlessness. The men wore brown tunics and huge plumed hats of the same style that William had sported.
“It seems my younger son has a better instinct for charming women.” Jacques shook his head, but smiled down at the ridiculous spectacle. “That is Count Pierre’s son, Charles, and Theodore Le Gris.” The little blonde woman laughed again when Theodore took her hand and twirled her into his arms. Jacques looked sideways at Eleanor. “He always took after his father more than his older brother.”
Eleanor surmised that along with William, the three young men must be dressed as the Three Musketeers. Even from this distance, the resemblance between Jacques and the boy below was striking. The main aesthetic difference was the boy’s slender gangly build and the immature look of youth. She turned to look at Jacques, comparing the two, teasing, “You don’t look old enough to have two sons who are out terrorizing women.”
“I was married when I was nineteen, Theodore’s age, to a lady a few years my senior.” Jacques indicated his son below with a tilt of his chin. “My sons both came along soon thereafter.”
“What happened to your wife, if you don’t mind me asking so directly,” Eleanor asked.
“She died,” Jacques said curtly. A dark look crossed his features and he did not elaborate but to add, “Nearly ten years past.”
A dark figure strolled onto the balcony with an arrogant gait. Jacques straightened, making his posture less intimate when his eldest son approached. William pointedly didn’t acknowledge Eleanor as he strode to his father.
“Theodore is being an embarrassment, father,” William said flatly. He finally spared a cold glance at Eleanor. “I suspect you’ve been too preoccupied to notice.”
“The boy’s just having some fun.” Jacques waved him off. “You would be in higher spirits if you tried the same.”
“Making a spectacle of myself in front of strangers will not lift my spirits,” William sneered. “People are already talking about you also, father. Given the exclusive company you’ve kept this evening.”
“Let them talk, my boy!” Jacques grinned and leaned closer to Eleanor. “A man can never control what is whispered about him. It is a kind of flattery to be the subject of discussion for those less interesting unfortunates among us.”
“I find no amusement in it whatsoever,” William huffed as another girlish giggle rang out in the garden below.
“Every woman loves a man who is incapable of laughing at himself,” Eleanor quipped sarcastically.
“Come now,” Jacques continued speaking to his son. “Your soul is not so ancient that you cannot indulge in some fun yourself now and then.”
“Indulge in some fun? Like Theodore is up to tonight?” William smirked wickedly, his black eyes shining. “He is planning a prank, you know. He and Charles have been cahooting over it for days. I wonder if you’ll think it all in good fun when he embarrasses the Le Gris name in front of the Duke.”
“A prank?” Jacques asked, annoyed. “What delivery are those fools up to?”
“I haven’t the slightest.” William smiled again. Eleanor was quickly growing to hate his smile, as austere as a winter tundra, paired with his unnerving black eyes. His smile held none of the warmth of his father’s, nor was it a fraction so dashing. “We’d best take our leave before he makes his plans known to us.”
“I’ve a mind to stay a while,” Jacques said significantly. From back inside the door that opened onto the balcony came a clear harmonic melody. Everyone on the balcony turned to look through the open doors. The notes came from the same story, sounding clearer than the cacophony of the ball from the floor below. It was the sound of a harp, beautifully played. Jacques looked toward it curiously.
“Lord Pettigrew’s daughter plays the harp,” William said with disinterest. “She’s been trying to solicit an audience.”
“Good god, boy, encourage her!” Jacques looked aghast at this news. “Let her serenade you. She’s pretty enough, and from a good family. Have you learned nothing at all from your father?”
“I’ve learned that I will have the prettiest woman at the ball, or I will have none.” He looked at Eleanor with a hint of menace that went unnoticed by all but her. “Miss Pettigrew has little that interests me.”
Jacques shook his head and offered Eleanor his arm. “We should ensure the poor girl has some kind of audience, should we not?”
William stayed on the balcony when Jacques led Eleanor inside and across the hall into what had become a makeshift music room. Several other couples stood on the edges of the room and a few hopeful young men watched eagerly. Seated in the center of the room, playing a harp was a petite brunette girl. She was not conventionally pretty and had an unfortunate spattering of freckles, but her family’s money made her far more alluring than her simple features. She played beautifully, each note rang true and sonorous. William trailed behind and remained leaning against the back wall, his arms crossed over his chest.
More than the music, Jacques was aware of Eleanor’s proximity. He felt decidedly ridiculous, a seasoned man such as himself being thrown into a damn tailspin over a lady. He was no stranger to women. Rather, a self-admitted rake and hellraiser who had aroused many salacious scandals and enjoyed every moment of them. Since the death of his wife, he had lived his life as a bachelor to full effect. He was hardened by battle in his youth, having distinguished himself in a bloody campaign during the Second Anglo-Afghan War. His strategy and daring were instrumental in the British victory at Kandahar. Jacques had feared no man in his life and had never quailed from battle. Now, he felt a nervousness in his gut and a lightness in his head that were distinctly misplaced in a hard man such as himself. He took a breath to settle his nerves and clear his mind. It had the opposite effect when he inhaled the tantalizing bouquet of her hair. Her scent alone made his pulse jump like an eager racehorse behind the starting gate. Her skin was as soft as a rose petal when she brushed her fingers against his knuckles. He found himself powerless to disobey her feminine command to take her hand.
Everyone in the room was silent in respect for the girl playing, enjoying each beautifully plucked note. Every sound outside seemed even louder for its intrusion. Minutes passed as the song built to its crescendo. Bootsteps could be heard in the hallway paired with cheery male voices and female laughter. Theordore Le Gris all but stumbled into the room, not knowing that behind it was a young woman playing a harpsichord solo. He froze in the doorway, his green eyes wide with embarrassment as Charles D’Alencon crashed into his back from behind with a drunkenly boisterous laugh. Jacques flashed them a blazing glare.
Still playing the harp, Miss Pettigrew was startled by the ruckus caused by the young men. Her eyes darted to the handsome Le Gris boys, seeing William leaning against the wall and Theodore bumbling in the doorway. Distracted, she struck a foul note, the string twanging shrilly. The harp string snapped beneath her finger and whipped away from its fastening on the bridge faster than the eye could see. The string whipped back like a striking viper, slashing across Miss Pettigrew’s cheek. The end of the string with its twisted wire fastening caught her in the eye before she could even blink. Her eyeball popped like a bubble, spurting fluid the consistency of an egg white, and her check was flayed open where the wire had slashed across it. Even as her hands flew to her face, milky fluid from her ruptured eyeball sluiced down her cheek, mingling with her blood. Her terrible screams filled the room, pained and shrill, like a rabbit caught in a snare.
“Christ!” Jacques growled as he ran to the girl. Everyone else in the room stood stock still, transfixed by horror. He reached her and took her in his arms, supporting the back of her head with his left hand and pressing the handkerchief he had drawn from his pocket to her ruined eye to staunch the flow of fluid. He glared at the still-stationary audience and bellowed, “Fetch this poor girl a doctor! Hurry!”
The girl started to shake convulsively and whimper incoherently. Jacques had seen many men go into shock from injuries they sustained, and he had a basic knowledge of treating wounds on the battlefield. He knew there was nothing to be done about the girl’s eye. She could only be kept as comfortable as possible until it healed into an empty socket, the gash in her cheek stitched. He rubbed her arms and cradled her, trying to prevent her slipping into a state of shock.
Theodore and Charles had run to find a doctor, their female companions left standing alone, mouths gaping and tears spilling from their eyes. William appeared not to have moved at all from his place against the wall, watching the happenings with a kind of macabre fascination, his dark eyes glittering like obsidian. Eleanor snatched a drink from a young man who stood uselessly by and rushed to Jacques and the woman, holding it to her lips so that it might dull the pain a little.
Blood and injuries did not ruffle her. Before being informed it was not appropriate for a lady, she had wanted to learn all she could about veterinary medicine. She had persisted anyway, albeit more secretively, stealing medical knowledge on treating cats and dogs and horses and livestock wherever she could, being an unrelenting pest whenever a veterinarian treated her family’s animals. Animals were more difficult than humans in that they couldn’t communicate their pains, although for an injury like this, it made little difference.
Jacques did what he could to comfort the girl, but there was little. She curled into him like a child, crying and whimpering. The doctor must arrive soon. Eleanor faced him, her attention on the girl. He should not have been so captivated by her in this moment, but it was his first opportunity to study her openly. Her eyes were light spectral blue, intently focused on her patient, immune to distraction, her pillowy bosom rose and fell with her breaths. A swatch of blood streaked down the porcelain white of her jaw from where she had swiped away an errant strand of fiery hair. If it wasn’t decided in his mind before – if the truth lay hidden beneath the conscious part of him that would have denied it – Jacques was certain now. If his fate was that his path was to be crossed with that of the beautiful, dauntless creature that was Eleanor Winchester, he would not fight against it.
Carriage rides home after an event such as the ball were usually filled with laughter and the jovial recounting of events. Tonight, the only sound inside the carriage was the cadence of the hoof falls of the trotting horses that pulled it. The two young ladies seated in the Winchester carriage watched somberly out of the windows at the passing countryside, the darkened green hills dappled with glowing moonlight. Eleanor and Katrina found little to converse over after Miss Pettigrew had lost an eye and the events of the evening were cut as short as a severed harpsichord string. Count Winchester alone was in high spirits, smiling at a private thought as he sat across from his daughter and her friend. He was a large man, imposing to many with his full red beard and bald head, but he had a genial manner and bold sense of humor. Since the death of his wife, he had taken on the role of chief advisor to his daughter and even her friend in their amorous scheming. He had been surprised to find it a great source of amusement, seeing this facet of courtship from the lady’s perspective, which was far more devious than he had ever assumed.
“It seems to me you had a stroke of good luck this evening,” he remarked to Eleanor, pointedly eyeing a bloodstain on the skirt of her dress that looked nearly black against the crimson fabric.
“I often feel lucky after having an evening curtailed by the maiming of an acquaintance,” she quipped sarcastically. Both ladies knew there was no longer a need for any pretense of demure femininity.
“There’s no need to pretend women don’t secretly relish a woman being removed from the competition,” Count Winchester told the young women shrewdly. “When I overhear you ladies talk, I feel as if I’m keeping counsel with a pair of fledgling Lady Macbeths.”
“I feel no competition with a lady as plain as Miss Pettigrew,” Eleanor replied primly.
“I’ve never seen you on the hunt so intently before.” Count Winchester smiled wider, enjoying himself. “Care to tell me about your quarry?”
“I’m quite sure I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.” She fidgeted with her skirt as a pink tint flushed her cheeks.
“Quite sure, are you?” He poked her further and tried to wait her out with a heavy silence. When she offered nothing more, he continued, “In that case, it would be of no interest to you that I have ongoing business with Sir Jacques.”
Eleanor’s eyes darted to her father and her heart jumped. She waited for him to continue, but he did not give her any satisfaction. She huffed in frustration, “Fine, you horrible old man! What business do you have with him? And how ongoing will it be?”
“I wouldn’t want to bore you.” He shrugged, the corners of his blue eyes wrinkled with laughter. “What interest could you possibly have in any dealings I have with Jacques Le Gris?” Seeming to change the subject, he added, “Did either of you ladies notice the D’Alencon boy? He appeared to me to be quite popular. Don’t young women covet blonde hair like his?”
Eleanor and Katrina exchanged a sour look at such a noxious notion. Eleanor sighed and capitulated to her father, "You know very well I want to know everything you know about Sir Jacques.”
“Did you know he has a son of marriageable age?” Count Winchester mused, prolonging his daughter’s frustration. “He’s only a little younger than you and the heir to the Le Gris fortune. William Le Gris would be a smart match for any aspiring young lady, as would Charles D’Alencon. Count Pierre made certain I knew this before he and Sir Jacques and I could set about our business discussion.”
Eleanor glared at him and Katrina returned her attention to the countryside that passed by outside the carriage window.
“You prefer the father to the son, do you?” Count Winchester knew the answer and added his approval. “I can’t say I blame you. In fact, I think it’s the wiser choice. I’ve heard of him by reputation for years, though I’d never met him until recently. Sir Jacques doesn’t disappoint, he’s an impressive man. His sons may have that potential, but with no great wars in sight, they will likely never be forged in similar fires. I don’t imagine Sir Jacques will allow them to run out to the Sudan to fight the Madhist in the near future.” He paused, nodding to himself. “Sir Jacques is old enough to have gained some wisdom, but not yet so old as to have enough wisdom to know he should run like hell from a beautiful woman,” he laughed at his own humor. He noticed both girls’ attention had returned to him now that he was divulging information on eligible men. “As you know, I’ve been negotiating a lucrative business opportunity with the Prime Minister for months now. Count Pierre smelled profit on the air like a hyena on the veld and finagled his way in, as Pierre does. I was prepared to curtail his intrusion, but tonight I learned that Count Pierre wishes to bring Sir Jacques into our fold, which would be to the benefit of all.”
“And?” Eleanor pressed, knowing her father’s game of drawing out her suffering.
“And?” Count Winchester asked with a confused expression and paused on the brink of laughter. “And… the ongoing business I have with the Prime Minister, Count Pierre, and Sir Jacques could easily be conducted through correspondence, which is precisely where we left things this evening.” He paused again. “However, it would also be a fine excuse for me to summon Sir Jacques to our estate to continue our business.”
“When?” Eleanor asked, sitting bolt upright, instantly excited. “Do it quickly before some other woman snares him.”
“He doesn’t strike me as a man who’s easily snared. You may have your work cut out for you. A man in his position may not want the bother that comes with a wife, or with any serious entanglement with a woman,” Count Winchester cautioned, then spoke his thoughts aloud. “I could also invite myself to his estate under that same guise and bring my headstrong daughter along. Yes, I think it better to conduct our affairs in Jacques’s home, not ours. To serve your huntress agenda, it will be better to let Sir Jacques be the cock of the walk, in the position of hosting us and entertaining you. Any man will be more at ease in his own home. If he were to come visit us, he may be less inclined to insult me by making an overture to my daughter.” He grinned mischievously. “We will hunt the bear in his own cave. We will pay him a visit at Wargrave Hall.”
“When will this be?” Eleanor pressed again.
“Don’t worry, we’ll give chase before your quarry’s spoor goes cold,” Count Winchester laughed. He looked at Katrina who had been listening intently. “You are invited too, of course, Miss Burton, should you wish it. There are three eligible Le Gris men, after all, and plenty of scheming to be had.”
Through the carriage windows Eleanor admired the pastoral countryside enroute to Sir Jacques’s estate. They had been on his property for some time but had yet to reach the great manor house past the forests and the hills that rolled away like emerald waves. A light fog hung low on the ground, adding an air of mystery to the verdant landscape, as if any manner of unknown creatures could materialize from its veil. It was the height of summer, but the heat was not terrible. The promise of an early autumn and a cold winter hung in the air. Only a fortnight had passed since the night of the ball but it had felt like an age to Eleanor in her eagerness to see the handsome knight again. She hoped he likewise suffered, though she suspected this was a burden to be shouldered more by women than men. Her father had assured her that in his correspondence with Sir Jacques, he had peppered a few innocuous allusions to her that would not allow her to slip entirely from his thoughts.
The carriage turned down a private lane, lined on each side by dense rows of trees. Eleanor and Katrina watched as the estate came into view ahead. Count Winchester was not bothered to open his eyes from a nap until the carriage stopped at the final destination. An enormous manor came into view, four stories tall, not including the several towers that rose even higher into the sky. The dark stone facade gave it a medieval elegance, while its looming arches and peaked architecture added a foreboding quality to its otherwise luxurious aesthetic. The manor was dark yet charming, much like its master, Eleanor mused. The windows had the appearance of sinister eyes gleaming beneath the arched eyebrows of their frames. Indeed, as the carriage drew closer, the unmistakable sensation of being watched pricked her skin. She shivered despite the summer warmth and immediately felt ridiculous. If Sir Jacques watched her now from some perch inside his manor, that was exactly what she had hoped for. She wanted him to watch her, to pine for her, to covet her. She sat straighter as the eyes of Wargrave Hall watched the carriage approach, at once ominous and alluring, beckoning its guests inside with both a threat and a promise that they could stay forever.
Wargrave Hall had been in the Le Gris family for centuries, since the time of knights and crusades, a gift to an ancestor, another Sir Jacques Le Gris. Only a squire, the Sir Jacques of old had distinguished himself so impressively in the Battle of Arsuf leading to the defeat of the great Saladin that he was rewarded with a knighthood, an estate and acreage that was one of the finest in all of England. Wargrave Hall had been the ancestral seat of the Le Gris family since the end of the twelfth century. The original castle had been so repaired and remodeled as to be unrecognizable today in the Hall’s current incarnation in the gothic style with a heavy influence of turreted French chateaus, similar to the noteworthy Waddesdon Manor.
Despite the renovations throughout the centuries, Wargrave Hall was rumored still to sit upon a warren of underground passages, remnants of the ancient castle dungeons. The feature that remained largely unaltered since the time of knights and crusades was the Le Gris family crypt, a smoke-colored marble tomb that stood forlornly on a hilltop perch. Naturally, this was rumored to be haunted. These legends reached even the schoolhouses of London, the subject of many tales and lore. The rumors differed as to whether the specters were once members of the Le Gris family, cursed to wander the earthly plane for their vicious deeds in life, or if the ghosts were from the men and women killed by the many Le Gris warriors over the centuries.
The carriage circled around a large fountain as it approached the entrance. An enormous marble sculpture of a man and woman in an aggressive lover’s embrace, as though the man had just snatched the woman off her feet and into his arms, rose from the center of the pool, rivulets of water cascading down their pale stone bodies. So soft was the appearance of the flesh of the marble couple and so sensual was their embrace that it could have been sculpted by Bernini. The man’s hands held the woman’s gentle body against his rigid one, bowed over her arched figure with his lips ghosting the curve of her throat above her exposed breasts, her long hair streaming behind her. Only a carved sheet draped around his waist and falling across her hips gave the couple a modicum of modesty.
Only moments after the carriage came to a stop before the pillared front entrance, the double doors were flung open and Theodore Le Gris came bursting out, trotting down the steps to greet the guests. He was tall and skinny, his long limbs gangly as he hurried, and his friendly smile too toothy for his features, but his green eyes were bright and intelligent. He opened the carriage door ahead of the footman and informed the company inside that Sir Jacques was ensconced with Count Pierre and the Prime Minister, and that he had tasked his son with greeting his guests and ensuring Count Winchester was led promptly to the conclave. Theodore’s eyes lingered longest on Katrina and the sway of her long slender legs beneath her skirts when she stepped gracefully out of the carriage. The way she turned her nose up at him and withdrew her eyes from his should have offended him, but he found this aloof gesture lured him in deeper.
As he led the guests inside, Theodore didn’t share that Sir Jacques had specifically tasked both his boys with this obligation, yet William was notably absent. Theodore had nicknamed his older brother Black Billy for his black eyes and black temperament. He was aware of his older brother brooding even more than he was naturally inclined, his mood darker and his temper shorter as of late. The brothers had overheard an exchange between Sir Jacques and Count Pierre that had deeply angered William. Count Pierre had arrived at Wargrave Hall days ahead of the other guests, as was his custom. Seemingly in passing and with indifference, Sir Jacques had mentioned that Miss Winchester would make some lucky man a fine wife. Count Pierre had responded with incredulity and bewilderment to this innocuous comment. In the days since, the Count’s mood had devolved into an inconsolable sulky shadow of his usual ebullient humor, and he muttered occasionally about losing his only true friend and how Sir Jacques was a fool for wading into an obvious honey trap.
Theodore saw no cause for any reaction other than happiness for his father, or for his older brother, should that be the course events followed. The lady at issue was close in age to William, perhaps slightly older, Theodore guessed. He thought he could view her much more readily as a sister-in-law than as a stepmother, but he suspected that he would have little difficulty forming a friendship with her. He had inherited his father’s charm and his mother’s kind temper, both of which endeared him easily to new acquaintances and lubricated his interactions with women. Both of which were also attributes that had skipped over Black Billy entirely. In fact, the more he studied Miss Burton’s lissome figure and the movement of her long coltish legs as the ladies walked abreast of him, the more he hoped Miss Winchester would become a permanent tenant of Wargrave Hall. If Miss Winchester made Wargrave Hall her home, regardless of which Le Gris man she favored, Miss Burton would no doubt be a frequent visitor and Theodore found himself elated by the thought.
Theodore made introductions to the head servants who had turned out to greet their guests and acquaint themselves with Count Winchester’s butler and the two lady’s maids. The head butler of Wargrave Hall was a stern looking man with grey hair and a sturdy build. When he spoke, his Scottish accent was gruff and his words curt. He walked with a slight limp, but still appeared strong and able enough to roust a strong man in a brawl. Theodore explained that Mr. Graham had served under his father in the war in Africa two decades ago.
Inside Wargrave Hall, the air was chilled, a welcome reprieve from the summer day. Eleanor craned her neck to take in the splendor in view from the front foyer. True to the Le Gris name, much of the marble inside was stormy shades of grey, accented with white, black, and a few tasteful dashes of maroon. Theodore led the women to a grand staircase of white marble that wound upward and Mr. Graham remained with Count Winchester. A pair of winged dragons sat on their haunches at the base of each banister, guarding the upper levels. Their teeth were bared in snarls and their eyes were especially lifelike, looking as glossy as the clear eyes of vipers.
“My mother was superstitious,” Theodore said in an apologetic tone. He patted the horned head of one of the waist-high dragons. “She thought these warded off evil spirits like gargoyles atop a cathedral.”
“Think you can pass by them, dear?” Count Winchester teased his daughter to be met with a frosty glare. When she began ascending the steps, he added with a laugh, “Your dragons are asleep at their posts, Master Theodore.”
At the top of the first flight of stairs, the staircase wound sharply at a near ninety-degree angle on its continued ascension. Just before Eleanor rounded it, she was able to look back down to the foyer below when a booming voice echoed through it. Sir Jacques had emerged from whatever room he had occupied with the other important men and greeted her father warmly. Eleanor didn’t hail him, but his gaze was summoned wordlessly to her. Even across the distance that separated them, Eleanor was struck by the way the afternoon light glinted golden in his eyes, nor was it lost on her the way his jaw clenched for the briefest of moments when he sighted her.
“Miss Winchester.” Sir Jacques recovered at once and gave her a gallant bow. “I have failed in my duty as your host. With your indulgence, I shall make amends when our meeting is concluded for the day.”
She was flustered by the sight of him and her voice betrayed her when she teased, “Do not think I will let you off so easily, Sir Jacques.”
Katrina gave a polite curtsy and proceeded up the stairs, rolling her eyes at Eleanor’s flushed complexion when only her friend could see.
“I am a man who rises to a challenge,” Sir Jacques called from below. He then led Count Winchester to the library, which served presently as the men’s war room.
Theodore gave the ladies a tour of the Hall, showing them offices, lounges, solars, and a lavish walnut paneled library complete with rolling ladders affixed to rails running around the room to reach the highest shelves. He pointed out the closed double doors to the master bedroom on the second floor and the luxurious gardens that sprawled away outside of the window opposite them. His room and his brother’s were on the third story, as were the two adjoining rooms allotted to the ladies. Their rooms overlooked a large stables and a fenced paddock populated with grazing horses.
“Do you suppose we have time to relax before the men will finish their meeting?” Eleanor asked Theodore nonchalantly. In truth, she wanted time to pamper herself and refresh after a day of travel so she looked her best.
“You cannot truly want to sleep the day away now that we’re finally here?” Katrina taunted. They had not yet had time alone together to plot their next move, so she was caught unaware.
Theodore seized his opportunity, “Perhaps you’d like to see the garden while she rests, Miss Burton? Or the horses?”
Katrina looked pointedly at Eleanor, sharing a silent exchange that both women understood implicitly but left any man oblivious. An understanding passed between them and with knowing grins and nods, the women parted for the time being. Katrina allowed herself to be led away by Theordore and Eleanor closed herself in her room under the guise of rest.
An hour later Katrina burst into Eleanor’s room without knocking and seated herself on the large canopy bed. She rolled her eyes theatrically as she watched her friend primping and preening from her seat at a vanity.
“Do you think a little rogue will tip the scales with Sir Jacques?” Katrina teased.
“You never know which straw will break the camel’s back,” Eleanor met her friend’s eyes through the mirror.
“Beauty is not a problem for either of us,” Katrina said with a laugh. “It’s rather other aspects of our persons.”
“Well, I can’t conceal those blemishes with powder, so I might as well do what I can in the hopes that my beauty distracts him from them.” She blew a playfully obnoxious kiss at the mirror.
“Perhaps you might have better luck if you tried to break his back in more alluring ways.” Katrina smirked sarcastically. “I’ve no doubt Sir Jacques’s library has a plethora of inspiration for you. Shall we find a questionable book and the most contorted pose inside it? All that you have to do then is walk up to him, bat your eyelashes, and ask for him to tutor you on it as innocently as possible.”
“You’re terrible!” Eleanor laughed. “But that may need to be my next approach if looking pretty and waiting for him to take the bait on his own fails. Sir Jacques is a special challenge, though. A pretty face will not be enough for him, not for more than a night or two anyway. He will want more.”
“You’d best be prepared for a long and involved siege, then.” Katrina was laughing now too. “Should we feel like black widows, trying to draw these poor men into our webs?”
“Certainly not! No one likes spiders.” Eleanor pursed her lips and traced lipstick over them. “We’re much more like a carnivorous flower, like a pitcher plant. Pretty enough to lure them in so we can seize them.”
“Well while you’ve been busy trying to hide your horns, I’ve made real progress.” Katrina announced and sprang up from the bed. “I have enticed Theordore to tell me where the most interesting parts of the Hall are to be found! He went so far as to give me a badly drawn map. He wanted desperately to give us a private tour, but I told him you were feeling ill and not up for company, but perhaps at a later time. So, try to look pallid and act pitiable if we encounter him.”
“I don’t think it would be to my advantage to go wandering through hidden passageways out of sight,” Eleanor hesitated, fighting the natural inclination both women had toward all things dark and macabre that might spook them.
“Is it cold in here?” Katrina rubbed her arms, fighting back a shiver. “It’s like stepping into an ice box coming through the door.”
“I hadn’t noticed it before, but I daresay it is rather frigid, is it not?” Eleanor’s skin prickled with gooseflesh. Surely, she would have noticed it if the room had been that cold before? It reminded her of a similar feeling of inexplicable cold that had almost faded into her childhood memories.
“Theodore says the ghosts of his ancestors wander the older parts of the Hall,” Katrina shrugged off the feeling of cold and said salaciously. “He says there’s an old knight Sir Jacques was named after and a Renaissance lady named Centaine Le Gris who was burned as a witch because she was rumored to bathe in the blood of peasants. And those are just the two whose names I remembered! Oh, and there’s even supposed to be a haunted mirror, or ghosts haunting mirrors, or something of that ilk.”
“Do you think we can make a quick reconnoiter and be back before suspicions arise?” Eleanor looked out of the windows at the afternoon sun. They had perhaps two hours of daylight remaining before sunset, which was a predictable hour that the men might end their conclave for the day.
“Unless we get waylaid by some ghosts.” Katrina gestured impatiently. “Besides, if you quit being boring and come explore, I’ll tell you the ripest bit of information I gleaned.”
“Fine,” Eleanor sighed dramatically and joined her friend. “But the ripe gossip first! Should we get attacked by ghosts, I’d hate to die without knowing.”
“Well, I know you’re on pins and needles wondering how the late wife met her untimely demise. Don’t worry, it’s my mission to wheedle it out of Theodore.” Katrina crossed to the door and leaned in conspiratorially before opening it. “But, he already disclosed that this room was her boudoir for when she wanted her privacy.”
“I’m staying in her boudoir!” Eleanor exclaimed, unsure if she should be offended or encouraged.
“Theodore says it’s the nicest vacant room in the Hall.” Katrina looked around the room pointedly and opened the door. “He also says that Sir Jacques has been modernizing the Hall by adding electricity to it a few rooms at a time. This room, for example, has electric light, but most in the Hall still have gas lamps or rely on candles.” She dropped her voice to a comically wicked tone, like she would use to mimic a witch to scare a child, “But I don’t think we should discount that perhaps Sir Jacques is already placing you in her stead.” She added a wicked cackle. “He might not even know it yet himself, but feels compelled by some spectral impulse.”
Summer sunlight streamed in through the windows, giving the hallways a cheery feel, even brightening the faces that looked sternly out of the numerous oil paintings that lined the walls. Though the women walked side by side, Katrina directed all their turns confidently, looking only occasionally at the scrawled map. At the far West corner of the Hall was a turret like that of a medieval castle. Katrina confidently led them down a tightly spiral staircase inside it. They passed several narrow rectangular windows, the only source of light inside the staircase.
“Theodore told me that he calls his brother, William, Black Billy,” Katrina said in passing. “He says that he didn’t inherit the Le Gris eyes, which are always green or yellow or hazel, and that moreover, it fits his black heart. For brothers, they don’t sound similar at all, or even close.”
Eleanor lost count of the turns they made as they descended the staircase, but the final window they passed admitted only dim, shadowy light, and then the windows ceased. They must be below ground now, in the ancient part of Wargrave Hall.
“I wonder if the old dungeons are still intact,” Eleanor mused. The staircase was now gloomy and dark, the air far cooler and filled with the musk of centuries.
“According to Theodore, they are.” Katrina had dropped her voice without knowing, more befitting of the somber atmosphere. “Oh, that reminds me of a scandalous tale he told me about Sir Jacques and a visiting French noblewoman who fancied being chained up and whipped, among other torments. Some acquaintance of Count Pierre. Theodore said that Jacques was quite the accommodating host – that he took her down to the dungeons and entertained her there.”
Eleanor glared at her friend who only grinned.
At the bottom of the staircase was a wooden door, shorter than others she had seen and laced with metal trim in a medieval style. Katrina tried to open it stealthily, but it groaned like an old man rising from bed. Only darkness met them, and cold, humid air filled with the musk of earth and decay. Katrina retrieved a chamberstick from a pocket of her skirt and struck a match on the wall to light it. The single candle flame lit their surroundings for fifteen or twenty feet ahead. They stood in an old corridor with aged stone walls, caked with moss, and the floor beneath their feet had the feel of cobblestones. The air around them was cool as one might expect inside a cave, but it was not the unnatural cool that the women had felt shortly before.
Ahead there was a gentle bend in the musty corridor. When the women rounded it, they found the remnants of the Hall’s dungeon. The forepart of the dungeon had been cleared of cells and was repurposed as a wine cellar stocked with enough aged vintages to supply an army of sommeliers. Care had been taken in the restoration of this area, and unlit torches lined the stone wall in ancient iron sconces set between medieval tapestries.
Something shimmered just around a bend in the tunnel ahead of them. A faint green light seemed to creep around the corner, like the Green Fairy was trying to lead them to a well of absinthe. It was so faint, it might be a trick of the candlelight. But both women saw the same trick of light and exchanged wide-eyed glances. They clasped hands and continued.
Following the next turn, they were met with what remained of the dungeon from centuries ago. The iron cell doors remained, as did some other unique features such as heavy chains fitted with collars and iron handcuffs chained to the walls. Several of the cells were used to store what looked like medieval relics – weapons, shields, swords, even pieces of suits of armor. They were dented, bent, chipped, and otherwise scarred from battle and tarnished by age. This was not armor kept for show, as were many pieces in the upper levels of the Hall that were polished to a mirror-sheen and displayed on stands, but the battle worn equipment of the Le Gris line that had survived the centuries. Eleanor could almost feel the presence of the knights who had met their deaths while waging war in these suits of armor. She wondered if any of their ghosts still lingered.
As the thought flitted through her mind, a sword suddenly fell from its wall mount. The women jumped against each other with yelps of fright as it clanged on the stone floor, startlingly loud in the close stone dungeon. But, for good or ill, the ancient stone and mortar kept all sounds sealed within. Before they had recovered enough to assess the situation, the open visor of a knight’s helmet snapped shut, making them jump again. Their hearts raced, but no deep fear had taken root in their hearts. Their ears were perked for any sound, but all was as silent as the grave. Their eyes probed the dim chamber but saw nothing. Nothing felt amiss, other than the disturbed objects.
They would not be deterred so easily. They walked ahead.
Eleanor looked sharply to her friend as an epiphany hit her. “Have you kissed Theodore? You must have to get so much information so quickly.”
“Well, that depends on your definition of a kiss,” Katrina evaded with a sly grin.
“What definition are we using today?” Eleanor bumped Katrina with her elbow.
“Something that makes me want to kiss him again.” Katrina held the candle out toward a dented suit of armor.
“So, by your definition…” Eleanor persisted.
“Though I allowed him to make an attempt, I’d hardly qualify it as a proper kiss.” Something in the corner of a cell caught Katrina’s eye. “Oh, look! A torture device! It’s a real set of medieval pliers. Imagine how many fingers these have pulled off. And there’s a scavenger’s daughter! How fun!”
“I’d love to see a brazen bull,” Eleanor mused. “I wager there’s a pear of anguish down here someplace, too.”
From the corner of the cell, a tall dark figure shifted, the movement delineating its figure. Eleanor gasped and Katrina nearly dropped their only source of light. Both ladies froze with dread. The figure moved, looking like a tall man with a cape that swirled around his legs. The women stood firm, although the chamberstick in Katrina’s hand trembled. They both looked at the dark shadow and the shadow seemed to look back. It took an ominous step toward them, and for the first time since they had entered the dungeon, both women felt a sense of danger.
Before they could bolt for the exit, the figure lurched toward them, its long black fingers grasping for them. Katrina shrieked and Eleanor cursed, both of them jumping away to evade the creature. Then, the shadow stood straight and laughed in a cold, familiar tone.
“What do you ladies expect to find, wandering around down here in the dungeons?” William asked with cruel laughter on his voice. “You should strengthen your resolve if you’re so flustered by a sword falling off a wall.”
“A woman would be foolish not to be frightened by a black-souled bastard like you,” Eleanor hissed.
William bristled visibly at the reference to his nickname, Black Billy. He obviously did not approve of it. “Why exactly are you two hens sneaking around down here? If you want to seduce my father, you need only to lift your skirts. Do hurry it up, so he can be done with you as his next passing amusement, and the servants can scour your residue from the furnishings.”
“The cold air too?” Eleanor asked. “Did you affect that with your cold heart? You’d best take note from your father and brother as to how not to repulse women, lest you meet your end as forlorn as the souls trapped in this dungeon.”
Black Billy looked confused for a moment at the question of conjuring the cold. He ignored it and instead spat, “On second thought, by all means, seduce the old man.” He sneered and advanced on the women maliciously, his black eyes as dark as the shadows that surrounded him. “It may be the fastest way to be rid of you. He murdered my mother, you know. The price for becoming Mistress of Wargrave Hall will be more than you want to pay.”
Before going down to dinner, the ladies retouched and fussed over their appearance in Katrina’s room, fervently berating William amongst themselves. A timid knock sounded on her door, interrupting their conversation. Katrina answered to find Theodore standing on the other side with a gawky smile. He was clearly expecting to find her alone, and cleared his throat and shuffled his feet at the sight of Eleanor.
“Enter and recover your voice,” Katrina made light of his awkward silence and gestured for him to come inside.
“I heard what Black Billy did to the two of you,” Theodore said apologetically, his tall frame sloped slightly. “I wish I could make amends for him, but the truth is he’s just a vile bastard. It’s hard for me to tolerate him on a good day and I’m the closest friend he has. Father desperately wants him to marry so he will be of better cheer.”
“I’m so flattered to be thought of as the sacrificial lamb for that purpose,” Eleanor huffed.
“You’ve nothing to worry about. No one here has any designs of setting Black Billy on you.” Theodore smiled conspiratorially and took a seat very near Katrina on a settee. “I certainly shouldn’t tell you what I’ve observed...” He shrugged, wanting a carrot before divulging his intelligence.
“And here I thought you wanted to be helpful,” Katrina said with a cocked eyebrow, leaning away from him and giving him the exact opposite reaction he wanted. “Eleanor and I can continue speaking alone if we are to purely engage in conjecture.”
“No, no,” Theodore fumbled, and then stammered quickly. “It’s simple, though. I’ve never seen my father so disarmed before. He smiles close to as wide as I’ve been told is gawking at the mention of Miss Winchester.” He saw this interested both women and continued eagerly, “He’s downright discombobulated. I’ve seen him around plenty of women – begging your pardon, I mean to say that I’ve never seen him so out of sorts around one. If I didn’t think Eleanor was the cause, I’d be worried he was running a high fever.”
“What a well of useful information you are,” Katrina purred approvingly, leaning a centimeter closer. She was training him fast into being a loyal hound who would happily do her bidding.
“Anyway,” Theodore coughed uncomfortably. “That’s not why I came here. When I heard of Black Billy’s terrible trick on you, I came bearing a peace offering.” The women exchanged looks as Theordore withdrew a small silver flask from his jacket pocket. He held it proudly and swirled its contents. He unscrewed the cap and handed it to Katrina first. “See if you can guess it by smell.”
The strong scent of licorice wafted to their noses from the open mouth of the flask. The ladies grinned. Katrina played along and identified it as absinthe.
“I’ve seen father offer it to ladies before dinner,” Theodore said, now very much in the mood to divulge his family’s secrets so long as doing so pleased the beautiful women in his company. He stood, puffed his chest, and deepened his voice to mock Sir Jacques, “He would say, ‘Would you ladies care to dance with the green fairy?’”
Katrina clapped her hands in approval and Eleanor laughed. Theodore’s peace offering was well-received. They all agreed that they must drink only in moderation, for it would not do to be out of sorts at dinner, and absinthe was a powerful drink. Named for the smoky green color of the drink, the green fairy was known to grant visions and even hallucinations on occasion.
After the better part of an hour spent gossiping and passing the flask around, the three young people thought themselves quite responsible. They had left nearly half of the silver flask untouched – perhaps a third to a miserly eye – and therefore considered themselves still rather sober. It was no matter if they wavered slightly on their feet when they stood from their various attitudes of repose. Theodore didn’t mind at all if the ladies needed to hold fast to his arm for balance.
“Wait a moment!” Eleanor exclaimed as they sauntered past the door to her room. “I must reapply my lipstick.”
“You’re being silly,” Katrina sighed, leaning against Theodore.
Theodore smiled goofily and told Eleanor, “Take all the time you need.”
Only slightly unsteadily, Eleanor rushed through her bedroom door to the vanity. The tubes of her lipstick looked somewhat blurry as she searched for the correct shade she had applied earlier. She had to lean a little closer to the vanity mirror than usual to paint her lips well. Straightening, she stowed the tube of lipstick down her bodice and studied herself in the mirror, pursing her lips. Although it would have been highly inappropriate to raise the issue with Theordore, she ruminated on Black Billy’s accusation that Jacques had killed his first wife. Surely, such a terrible thing was untrue? But a nagging part of her mind told her that even if it was as true as the gospel and was a murder clear as day, that Sir Jacques was rich and powerful enough to have such a thing swept away under a rug and face no consequences.
Especially now, under the spell of the green fairy, her mind was plagued with gruesome images of horror. Visions dreadful enough to prickle the hairs on the back of her neck and make her again feel the icebox chill inside the former Lady Le Gris’s boudoir.
“What a ridiculous notion!” she scolded herself aloud, shaking her head to clear it even as she fought back a shiver.
She closed her eyes tight, fighting back some of the spinning inside her head from the absinthe. With her eyes still closed, she leaned forward on the vanity table, trying to steady the wave of dizziness. Her face was inches from the mirror when she opened her eyes. The reflection staring back at her was not her own. It was a slightly older woman, beautiful, with fine features, raven black hair, and striking green eyes. Eleanor looked at the face, into the green eyes, seeing but not comprehending. The woman in the mirror screamed, her mouth torn open by terrible pain. Eleanor jerked back as if she had received an electric shock. The woman in the mirror likewise jerked back, mimicking Eleanor’s movements.
Then the woman’s movement changed. Eleanor watched in the mirror as the woman turned around in frightened circles, looking around her with horror gleaming in her wide green eyes. The room in the mirror was no longer Eleanor’s room, but a hellish backdrop of flames. Wallpaper peeled off the walls in scorched reels and smoke billowed across the ceiling like thunderclouds. The woman’s dress was aflame and she screamed again as fire licked from her feet up her legs like a macabre candle. Somehow, Eleanor knew she couldn’t get out, though she didn’t know how or why. The woman locked eyes with Eleanor through the mirror and screamed again, shrill enough to curdle blood. Her scream dissolved into a harrowing plea, her voice as ragged as graveyard cobblestones, creaking from her charred throat. But Eleanor could not make sense of her words. She bolted from the room as the woman’s beautiful face began to sear and melt away.
Back in the hallway, Theodore was busy whispering sweet nothings in Katrina’s ear. They both paid little mind to Eleanor’s condition, aside from starting when she slammed the door too harshly behind her.
“Is anything amiss?” Katrina asked with only mild concern.
“Care for another sip?” Theodore offered her the flask.
“I’ve had quite enough absinthe for the night. Perhaps, for a lifetime,” Eleanor said shakily. The vision in the mirror was undeniably sobering. “The green fairy does not agree with me.”
Dinner that night was a lively affair with the guests all seated at a long dining table set for a banquet. Sir Jacques and Count D’Alencon were the most entertaining men Eleanor had ever had for company. Count Winchester and Robert Cecil, the Prime Minister, were more reserved, although most men were by Jacques and Pierre standards. Seated near one another, they continued whatever business had consumed them for the day. Black Billy sat near the Prime Minister, trying to worm his way into importance. Theodore had wheedled his way into the chair next to Katrina. The only disappointment of the evening was that Eleanor found herself directed to a chair several down from Sir Jacques where he sat tall and handsome at the head of the table, too far away to have any meaningful engagement with him. However, she did take note that he studied her openly and frequently, and smiled when he caught her eye. She thought that maybe he had seated her away from him so as to be less distracted by her.
Count Winchester had extensive dealings with the Prime Minister for years. They served on the same foreign relations committee when Cecil was in the House of Lords. As such, Eleanor had known him nearly as long by proxy. He had made it known many times that he thought Count Winchester had allowed his daughter to grow too headstrong for her own good. However, he respected a fine wit, regardless of the sex of its owner, and he enjoyed stimulating banter. Robert Cecil was bald, heavy set, with thick grey hair and a black beard. After the main course, he rested his hands on his rotund belly when his plate was cleared and leaned toward Count Winchester to have a private conversation.
“I wish you hadn’t brought that daughter of yours along for this tete a tete. Not for my usual reasons surrounding propriety, mind you.” He looked at Jacques whose eyes had flickered once again to his beautiful young guest and shook his head ruefully. “This is how empires crumble.”
“If my intelligence is current, that’s exactly what she’s going for,” Count Winchester laughed.
“Sir Jacques is a hard man,” Cecil added, thinking to himself that it did not do for such a hard man to look so – what, exactly? Giddy? “Do you want your only daughter beholden to such a man?”
“You know as well as I do my daughter would run rough-shod over any man who was not.” Count Winchester watched the same live theater with amusement. “I’ve known since she was a girl that she must find either a man’s man or a milquetoast, there can be no middle ground there.”
“The specter of murder that haunts him does not concern you?” Cecil prodded. “Ghastly business it was with his first wife.”
“Powerful men are prime fodder for all manner of hogwash and rumors, as you should know well. I’ve observed closely and for some time how Sir Jacques comports himself with women, and I’ve seen nothing to indicate he’d be indelicate with one. His fault lies in that he may like women too much for his own good. It concerns me more that if tries to gallivant around on Eleanor, he might find himself in a far grislier position than that of his first wife. I’ve aired that concern with her.” He turned in his chair to look at the Prime Minister squarely. “I’m a bit surprised by this line of inquiry. Sir Jacques has been your man for some years. You do not wish for his happiness as well as Eleanor’s?”
“Happiness, yes. And were it with a meeker woman who would know her place as a wife, I’d be elated for them both.” Cecil shook his head again. “I’ve invested much time and capital in Sir Jacques. It will not do for him to get drunk off a woman and forget his duty to Queen and country. Or far worse, come to see her command as outranking mine!”
“I see your concern.” Count Winchester grinned and added unconvincingly, “He may reject her.”
“What man would,” Cecil grumbled. Getting no reassurance from Count Winchester, the Prime Minister addressed Eleanor with a seeming non sequitur, “You’ve been unnaturally silent. Are you coming to accept that women are far prettier when they listen as opposed to speak?”
She bristled as he knew she would. “We’ll have the vote one day, and I will relish every moment of watching you politicians pander to us ladies as you grovel for it.”
Cecil laughed, holding his hands up. They commonly bantered like this, both good-naturedly. “Before you start down a war path, I have another question for you. A frivolous question, appropriate for a lady. What is your opinion on the supernatural? These days, I cannot attend a dinner party without having anecdotes of seances forced upon me. I’m shocked I haven’t been so assaulted yet tonight, given how we all know Wargrave Hall to be haunted.” He said the last with a teasing smile. “It’s long been a desire of Count Pierre to host a séance here.”
“Indeed, it has!” Pierre agreed exuberantly and pounded his fist on the table. “See, Jacques, now you have the blessing of the Prime Minister himself. Great fun, séances! You know how the ladies love them. It must happen!”
Jacques gave him a cautioning look. It was apparent this had been a topic between them before. “I’ll not have such nonsense conducted in my home. I’ve seen more death than anyone here – more than all the rest of you combined. I can tell you, there’s nothing intriguing or glamorous about it. No white lights, no loved ones waiting on the other side of veils, no lingering spirits.” Then he tried to make light, “I don’t like the company of most of the living, why would I want to invite the company of the dead?”
“Wait, now.” The Prime Minister held up his hand. “We’re committing that sin women accuse us men of – not letting the women voice their valuable opinions.”
The question of ghosts and the supernatural hit too close for comfort after the day’s events, but Eleanor remained composed. “On matters of the occult and the supernatural, I accept Pascal’s wager and must bet on the side of belief. It is surely better to be prepared for an encounter with a spectral presence than not. What has one to lose?”
“Prepared how?” Jacques scoffed without rancor. “Sounds to me like a good way to spook yourself and walk around jumping at shadows.”
Eleanor smiled at him, and posited, “There are supposedly no wolves in these woods. Knowing that, is it not still wiser to be prepared to handle an encounter with a wolf when you venture into the woods? Or is it better to rest on the knowledge that there are no wolves, and be wholly unprepared if you meet one? If there are indeed wolves in the forest, do you think that turning a blind eye to them or not believing in them will protect you, or merely make you easier prey?”
Jacques leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table, an attitude that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders. “If all I need to do to be prepared for an attack from beyond the grave is carry a pistol, I am sold on your logic, Miss Winchester.”
Cecil wanted to interrupt this more intimate exchange. He thought of a gruesome tale that would make most women retreat from a man. “Sir Jacques, you have no grounds to be a skeptic. After all, you are the only man here who is known as a ghost himself.”
Jacques shot him a look, imploring silence, his jaw clenching. “A tale exaggerated by those who were not there to witness it. And a dark tale, at that, hardly befitting dinner conversation in mixed company.”
“I find it highly apropos, as it bears directly on the business we have all convened here to discuss.” Cecil continued unchecked. “The Afghans called Sir Jacques the Ghost during the war. After Ayub Khan, the Emir of Afghanistan, betrayed us and violated the peace in ‘78, we tasked Sir Jacques with, ah, making amends. Even I’m not privy to all the details, but perhaps Jacques will regale us,” Cecil paused, waiting for Jacques to take the reins of the story. When Jacques contributed nothing but a stoic glare, Cecil continued, “By all accounts, Jacques sneaked into the Emir’s palace like a ghost. Like a ghost who butchered his entire guard, I might add. Heads were found impaled on spears, entrails strung across the floors, and bodies found torn apart limb from limb as if from some wild animal mauling.”
At this, Jacques did interrupt, “They killed many of my men. Having friends die in one’s arms inspires a man to violence.”
“To put it mildly!” Cecil continued. “Rumor, or shall I say legend, has it that Jacques somehow caught the Emir unaware and got a knife to his throat. Using his imitable powers of persuasion, Jacques was able to get the Emir to reconsider his position. He speaks the native tongue, as well as several other languages – rare in such a formidable soldier. To top it all, I have it on good authority that many of the Emir’s advisors believe Jacques to have mystical powers. It’s a palatable way for them to explain their fumbling of the palace guard to say their enemy can walk through walls. But you see, Miss Winchester, how this makes him indispensable in negotiating with the Emir.”
With a sigh, Jacques joined the conversation, “The good ol’ Emir is now in Bombay. Plotting. He’s narrowly skirting a course of action that could trigger another Crimean conflict. The consensus thinking is that it could result in a quarter million losses on our side alone.” Jacques spread his large hands. “But thank God for capitalism, gentlemen. The Emir is as greedy as he is shrewd, and with the idea Count Winchester posited this afternoon, I wager he will take the bait. The allure of an avenue of commerce through the Indian Ocean rather than for him to continue struggling across landlocked Afghanistan to Europe via the Suez Canal is a mighty incentive.”
William smirked at Eleanor as he quipped to Jacques, “If one didn’t know better, I’d think you sounded fearful, father.”
Jacques’s left eye twitched with anger, but he forced a grin in good humor.
Theodore jumped to his defense, “Father’s not afraid of anything!”
“Only a fool feels no fear,” Jacques said, glaring at William. “A brave man maintains control over himself and does what’s necessary in spite of fear.”
“And a smart man finds a way to avoid the danger all together,” Count Winchester added.
“Yes, that is our ultimate goal,” Cecil agreed. “But still, the Emir must be persuaded that it will serve both himself and his people if he serves as our agent in Bombay. This will require much tact and persuasion. And to disarm the Russian counterpoint, who will be testy at not getting the war they’re itching for. We cannot rule out the need to spill some blood in the course of our negotiations. Discreetly, of course. Given that complication, what better man for this political mission than Sir Jacques?” He paused before adding weightily, “Miss Winchester, you would agree then that he must get to India post haste?”
Now, she saw her potential role in all their mechanizing. It was not lost on her that Jacques had been watching her to gauge her reaction, as if he had more at stake now, more to consider that may be affected by his decision. As did her father, who had counseled her from a young age never to fall for a soldier, as it only invited heartbreak. Her answer to the Prime Minister was stern, “If you’re seeking outside opinions, Sir Jacques must have expressed some reluctance over venturing to India on your errand? If I put myself in the shoes of a man who has everything one could want in life, including money, title, and a reputation as a war hero, I can see little to be gained from such a venture and much to be lost if it goes badly.”
“Tales of such adventures are romantic and exciting,” Jacques said. “They tend to leave out the blood and sweat involved, the pain and toil. In reality, it’s a deadly game to play. I wouldn’t even consider it just for glory. I’ve had enough of that. It weighs heavily on my mind that I may be in a unique position to save the lives of a quarter million young men, if war can be averted by my action.”
Count Winchester saw an opening to aid his daughter and observed, “We’re not deciding things tonight at dinner. My approach may, and hopefully will, render all this maneuvering moot. Count Pierre and I are in agreement that money will be politic enough to motivate the Emir. As I said many times over today, we don’t need a stick when we have the carrot of opium. It would be more profitable to the Emir than diamonds. Profitable enough for him to eventually be free of the British yoke. Or so, we will make him think.”
With dinner concluded, the Prime Minister insisted the men take their leave to partake of cigars and drinks, and to continue their business at hand. Much to Eleanor’s chagrin. As the men adjourned, Jacques sought her out and took her hand to kiss it. His voice was low enough for only her ears, “I hope you will enjoy your stay here in Wargrave Hall as much as I have enjoyed your presence so far. I shall endeavor to be more attentive to my duty as your host in the coming days.”
By all appearances, Sir Jacques made little effort in being a more attentive host the following day and even a few thereafter. The ruminations of the so-called men of power consumed much of their time and attention, making even a sighting of either count, the prime minister, or Sir Jacques scant. The only time any of them were accessible for anything at all was during dinner, which was of course, far from the private affair Eleanor wanted. However, she and Katrina did not spend their days sitting idly.
On their second day at the Hall, they went for a ride out over the rolling grassy hills, using two of the four horses that had pulled their carriage enroute. Alone on a ride, they could also be assured of time alone without being overhead. They decided to make it their mission to explore as much of Wargrave Hall as possible and learn all of its secrets, with a secondary agenda of learning about the former Lady of the Hall. An inquisitive woman could spend months, possibly even years, exploring all that the Hall had to offer, especially when the personal secrets of its tenants both living and dead were added to the agenda.
Much of the Hall was as they expected, composed of sprawling hallways, winding stairs, and lavish rooms. Their biggest obstacle was getting distracted by all the interesting cornucopia of artifacts and art they came upon. Theodore was a helpful if over-eager guide and partner in exploration and Black Billy was to be avoided like a nest of spiders. They took particular interest in learning the identities of all the faces in the many portraits scattered throughout the Hall. They even kept a cheat sheet of the most interesting names and stories. Theodore was an enthusiastic storyteller of his ancestor’s exploits, and although neither woman would classify him as fully charming, they found him engaging.
One evening after dinner when the men had retired to the smoking room and the only light was from flickering gas lamps and the few scattered rooms outfitted with electricity, the ladies walked to meet Theodore who had promised to show them an area of the Hall they hadn’t yet explored.
Finally alone, Katrina nudged Eleanor and whispered, “I found out how the wife died.”
“Did you finally wheedle it out of Theodore?” Eleanor asked excitedly.
“Not quite. He divulged that she was an avid painter and that she died in an accident inside her painting room, but he wouldn’t give more details. So, I casually mentioned to the old butler, Mr. Graham, that it was such a shame to hear she was murdered, as the rumors say. He was all too eager to correct me and tell me all about it.” Katrina smiled proudly at her accomplishment. “She burned up in a terrible freak fire in her painting room! It was Jacques who found her too, apparently while she was still alive, and she burned to a crisp before he could get to her. Hence the murder rumors. They say he either started the fire or simply let her burn without saving her.”
“Fire would be a nasty way to go,” Eleanor said, shaking her head.
“Yes, but fire is also purifying.” Katrina smirked. “It cleared the way for you to move in on her husband, did it not?”
“You’re horrible!” Eleanor laughed. “But yes, all in all, it’s quite fortunate for me.”
They found Theodore at their rendezvous point at the base of the staircase on the second floor. He greeted them pleasantly, then led them up two more stories. Theodore took the women down a long hallway on the fourth story of the Hall. This story, they had learned, was home to the overflow of artwork and artifacts that had no place in the more cultivated floors below. The doors to some rooms were closed with white sheets covering the furnishings that had fallen into disuse. There was no electricity on this floor and some of the gas lamps were out. The relative darkness paired with white sheets draped over various oddly shaped objects gave the fourth floor an otherworldly feel. Adding to that effect were the battalion of old Le Gris family portraits that lined the walls.
The subjects of the portraits had many commonalities. Most of the born Le Gris’s had dark hair, strong noses, and hooded eyes, all of which were shades of green or brown, with a few painted outright yellow. It was equally apparent which subjects had married into the family, both men and women. It seemed the Le Gris’s of both sexes were drawn to beauty, or the portrait artists were very kind to their subjects. The attire of the men and women attested to the long history of the line, ranging from medieval up to the recent past. There was even a gruesome example of post-mortem photography of a young boy and girl who were posed together as if sleeping, betrayed only by the deathly shadows under their eyes and their drawn-back lips. Theodore identified them as Jacques’s siblings who died after accidentally ingesting lye in the course of a game of dare gone array. They had been younger than Jacques, though close in age and he was young also – supposedly, too young to recall the details when Theodore had inquired.
Theodore stopped them in front of a large oil painting, darkened by the patina of age and layers of dust. The gold plaque at the bottom of the gilded frame read, Sir Jacques Le Gris, the Devil of Arsuf (1154 – 1221). A large knight glared out of the portrait, his menacing angular features framed by long black hair. His prominent nose was slightly crooked as if it had been broken more than once, and several scars traced over his face. The most notable wound was an ugly raised scar that ran from his hairline, over his brow, and down his cheek to his jaw as it split the right side of his face. He wore a shining suit of armor and rested his hands on the hilt of his sword.
“Father is named after him,” Theodore said proudly of the fearsome knight in the painting. “He fought in the crusades and Saladin gave him the name The Devil of Arsuf. There’s a better portrait of him in father’s study. He’s riding his favorite war horse and holding a sword in that one.” He looked at the women and made his voice comically spooky. “But he’s not a devil anymore. He’s a ghost now. He’s one of the ghosts who haunts Wargrave Hall.” He finished with his best attempt at an evil laugh.
“Let me guess,” Katrina teased. “He rides through the hallways on his warhorse looking for heads to lob off?”
“You’re not so far off,” Theodore said seriously. “He’s a lost soul, tormented. He made many enemies on crusade. One of them found him as an old man and killed his wife – she was a redhead also. The villain beheaded her and threw her head out into the moat that used to surround the Hall back then when it was a castle. Sir Jacques killed the brigand but was too late to save his wife. Her head was never recovered. They say the heart went out of him after that. He was one of the mightiest warriors in our family, and he died of a broken heart.” Theodore paused to see if his recounting was having any effect on the women and was pleased to see they had moved closer together. “He still wanders the Hall searching for his wife’s head. It’s true. I saw him when I was a boy, down in the dungeon. He looked frightful and he was so big, but I don’t think he meant me any harm. He just gave me a once-over and walked straight through the wall.”
Looking at the painting and the severe venom yellow eyes that met hers from its canvas, eyes that looked eerily similar to the Jacques she knew, Eleanor sensed the truth in Theodore’s story, as if the Sir Jacques of old was with them now even as they spoke of him. The flames in the gas lamps danced to a stranger tune than they had moments before and the air around them had grown frigid, chilled but still. It was a feeling Eleanor decided she would have to grow accustomed to if she intended to make Wargrave Hall her home.
Eleanor and Katrina’s favorite room they had explored thus far in Wargrave Hall was the exquisite library. It was filled with enough volumes to spend a lifetime reading, ranging from topics of medical journals to philosophy to poetry to novels. It was apparent that Sir Jacques was an avid reader, which only heightened his appeal. The ladies were enchanted by the library and thought that nothing could intrigue them more.
Until Theodore informed them Sir Jacques had a private collection of books in his personal study.
That became their next nighttime mission, but they knew this mission must be far more covert than their simple wanderings around the Hall. It was certainly a breach of Sir Jacques’s privacy and utterly reprehensible. Which naturally made it all the more appealing.
They stayed up late together in Eleanor’s room under the guise of female chatter until well past midnight. When the old grandfather clock in the hallway outside the bedroom door tolled two am, they made their move. They carried only chambersticks, so as not to risk the hiss of gas lamps, and wore only stockings, so as not to scuff a shoe loudly on the floor. It seemed they were the only creatures awake in the Hall as they crept through its long, dark hallways.
“Does this bring back memories?” Eleanor asked in a whisper.
“Let us not summon the Crooked Lady again tonight,” Katrina teased.
“We could try to summon the Devil of Arsuf for a change of pace,” Eleanor said as they approached the closed double doors to Jacques’s study.
“Try to contend yourself with the Sir Jacques who is still among the living.” Katrina smirked. “If your efforts fail on that front, we will summon the old knight for you.”
The doors were unlocked when Eleanor tried them, but they creaked in protest when she pulled one open. The women froze, each cringing from the noise that sounded as loud as a wounded animal in the silence of the night. When they heard no activity in response after a minute of listening, they ducked inside and closed the doors behind them.
Sir Jacques’s study was tastefully decorated and decidedly masculine. The walls were ochre yellow with chocolate walnut paneling, and the vaulted ceiling was of embossed tin. One half of a side wall was a gun case with glass doors, each slot inside home to a rifle or shotgun. Some were beautiful, with the bluing gleaming like oil in the moonlight. Others had been well used, with scratches on their fine stocks and their bluing worn down to silver steel. European style mounts, which were only the skull and rack, were displayed on the walls. Several magnificent red stags and a few of what had to be African antelopes with four feet long black spiked horns. A pair of elephant tusks longer than Jacques was tall and thicker than Eleanor’s waist sat against the far wall on either side of a tall window with an arched frame.
Two oil portraits hung in the study. One was obviously the portrait Theodore had referenced of the crusading knight in full gleaming armor riding a great black horse into battle, his sword held high, red with the blood of his enemies. The other was a similarly styled portrait of the living Sir Jacques in an English Colonel’s uniform, mounted atop a black Arabian horse wearing green and silver Persian style armor.
Adjacent to Jacques’s imposing desk was the bookcase Theodore had teased them with. Compared to the big library, it was unimpressive and didn’t even span the height of the wall. It was a standalone antique bookcase with doors that could be closed and locked, though now they hung open. The ladies shared an excited look and trotted forward to inspect its contents. The shelves were filled with not only books, but curios that must hold special meanings for him, black leather journals that were presumably his own, and large rolled scripts that must be charts or maps. It seemed Theodore was correct, this was Jacques’s private collection of things that resonated to him as being deeply personal. Eleanor felt slightly guilty at studying his private collection. But not guilty enough to restrain herself.
More than half of the books looked like things that would have aided him in his military days – anthologies of adventures in Northern Africa, India, Arabia, and the Middle East. Several books were written in the languages of those countries, making Eleanor recall his fluency in them. There were books on history, philosophy, and military strategy, including Sun Tzu’s The Art of War, and books on horsemanship, martial combat, and weaponry. There was a framed photograph of a large man on a black Arabian horse against a backdrop of sand dunes. It had to be Jacques on the same horse he was depicted as riding in his portrait, although, in the real-life scene his head and face were covered by a keffiyeh but for his eyes to protect against the sun, and the black Arab was very clearly a mare as opposed to the stallion in the painting. On the shelf above, there was what seemed an out of place oddity: poetry. Jacques had a small collection of poetry, all with well-worn spines and aged pages. Sappho, Lord Byron, Keats, Blake, and two plays by Shakespeare, Macbeth and The Taming of the Shrew. Sitting upright inside the self, facing outward, was a framed page containing the poem Ozymandias. Eleanor was indeed getting a better picture of Sir Jacques and better feeling for him as a man. She had not thought him a romantic, but his tastes betrayed his heart.
The poetry was at eye-level for Eleanor, capturing her attention at once. From her taller vantage, Katrina was first enraptured by the higher shelf. She bumped Eleanor with her elbow and snickered at what she found. The subject of that shelf was clear, and the Kama Sutra was the tamest volume that sat upon it. The ladies took turns reading the salacious titles, grinning mischievously.
“Oh, I’ve only ever heard of this one!” Katrina whispered excitedly. “He has the entire serial of The Maiden Tribute of Babylon.”
“Nor have I seen so many copies of The Pearl!” Eleanor added, examining the complete set of all eighteen copies of the magazine, The Pearl, A Magazine of Facetiae and Voluptuous Reading.
“Now, these are rumored to be quite a romp. William Lazenby published them when his magazine was shut down.” Katrina pointed to copies of The Oyster and The Boudoir. The women had a curious interest in books describing the mysterious sex acts, but they had been able to actually procure copies of few.
“Do you think he acquired a taste for this while off at war?” Eleanor asked, tracing her finger down the spine of The Lustful Turk, Lascivious Scenes from a Harem.
“I’d expect so.” Katrina said, cocking her head in confusion as she read the next title, The Mysteries of Verbena House. “Though I’d suspect his tastes have been refined since by Count Pierre.
“The Nunnery Tales,” Eleanor read a title. “For all the fascination men have with virgins, I hope he’ll make the most of his first night with me and make a good showing of it.”
“So, it’s all decided then.” Katrina smirked as she eyed Venus in Furs by Leopold von Sacher-Masoch.
“Naturally!” Eleanor laughed quietly, then her eyes widened. They both saw at the same time the recently published anonymous novel, The Autobiography of a Flea from just last year. Eleanor and Katrina had heard wickedly good things and had been itching to get a copy.
“You have selected a well-versed man to train you,” Katrina quipped, still eyeing the naughty shelf.
“A lady should improve her mind through reading and developing new skills,” Eleanor replied sarcastically.
Seeing all the secrets the shelf contained was scandalous and illuminating, but it gave them no heretofore unguessed insights into Sir Jacques. Lest they read through his own private journals, which seemed a bit too intrusive. For now. Before selecting the lewdest book to flip through, Eleanor took another glance around the room and realized she had paid his desk no mind. Two books set on the desktop, obviously those Sir Jacques had handled most recently. One was placed squarely on the desktop with a handwritten note beside it. Eleanor walked to the desk and recognized it as one of the ladies’ favorite authors, Edgar Allan Poe. Katrina followed naturally and they both studied the compilation of Poe’s poems and stories.
The note beside it was more interesting. It was a stanza written in beautiful calligraphy, copied from Poe. Eleanor read it aloud.
“For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;”
“He is a romantic!” Eleanor exclaimed happily.
“You’re seeing what you want to see,” Katrina said reasonably. “That poem is about a dead woman, you know. He could full well be thinking of his first wife.” She lowered her voice to a teasingly ominous lilt, “Or worse, he could be thinking about entombing you in a sepulcher by the sea so he can lay beside you forever and ever.”
Eleanor rolled her eyes but laughed quietly. Both ladies then turned their attention to the other book. It was quite large, the size of an encyclopedia, bound in black leather. Oddly, it was completely devoid of markings, no author or title. Only a silver pentagram was embossed in the center of its front cover. The women looked at themselves and eagerly opened it.
Just inside the cover was a note written a different script from Jacques’s.
Seances are a great way to a lady’s heart. More importantly, to her nether regions! ~ Pierre
“Count Pierre is such a loathsome creature,” Katrina mused. “Yet, he’s not mistaken. I hate how entertaining I find him.”
“Indeed,” Eleanor agreed. “Although with some work, we may be able to recruit him to our side in matters Jacques sees as frivolous. Seances and the like.”
“I’ve never seen such a – I don’t know, serious – book on occultism,” Katrina said as they turned the pages. They were thick and yellowed with the patina of age.
The text was Latin, but both women were educated and fluent. The image of a thin black shadow of a woman caught their eye, sketched on a weathered page, making them pause to read. Much of the vernacular was difficult to trudge through and allowances for allegories had to be made. But they decided the message of what they read was that ghosts are remnants of humans, and like humans, they can be good or evil. Intuitively, the women realized they had known this since that fateful night in the Purple Room. They learned of a species of supernatural creature of which they had heretofore known little. Demons are entities of pure evil. They can appear in disguise as spirits, or even possess and command otherwise harmless or even good spirits to do their bidding.
They spent hours perusing the book that they named the Book of Pentacles. They learned much more than they had ever hoped for until they were forced to retreat by the grandfather clock tolling four am. Sir Jacques would arise soon, and they dared not be caught by him.
They vowed to return and learn more, for there was much more to learn in these dark matters than they had ever imagined.
Nights had been particularly restless for Eleanor since her arrival at Wargrave Hall, and it was not for lack of trying. She was not prone to long indulgent bouts of sleeping. Nighttime was often her favorite part of the day when she could be left alone with her thoughts, lose herself in a novel, or even take her horse out for a ride under the full moon when no one was awake to obnoxiously caution her against it. However, she had made a concerted effort to sleep long and well during her stay. Dark circles beneath one’s eyes were not a becoming feature, and she wanted to look her loveliest at all times while in the company of Sir Jacques. And yet it was he who was the cause of her sleeplessness! How could any hot-blooded woman sleep with thoughts of such a man running rampant through her dreams? During her short stay, she had awakened twice in a hot perspire, her skin damp and nightgown clinging to her body, pleasantly moist in other places as well. Her personal handmaiden, Agnes, who had accompanied her from home, complained of her own sleep being disrupted as well for entirely different reasons, conjuring tales of vivid nightmares and imaginings of shadowy figures lurking in corners. But she was a simple girl. Kind, helpful, and always well-intentioned, but simple. Eleanor gave her grim fairytales no weight at all. Strangest of all was that Katrina was oddly solicitous of company. Both women were highly independent, neither prone to needing the company of another. But since they had come to Wargrave Hall, Katrina had been loath to spend any time alone, not even in the wonderful library. It was another reason Eleanor had resorted to sneaking out before the world awakened.
Eleanor had never spent any significant time around a man of Sir Jacques’s vintage before. Given her upbringing, she was familiar with older men of her father’s peerage and, naturally, she had been a subject of interest among many young men near her own age who hoped to catch her eye. Most men she had encountered in their third and fourth decades were married, and therefore could hardly interact with her within the bounds of propriety; others were slovenly hogs who had let their bellies overrun their belts; and some, the worst of all, were nasty creatures who had at no point in their lives been endowed with either looks or charm, who treated women like a game of odds, taking as many bites at the apple of eligible women until they found desperate enough to give in. Jacques Le Gris fit none of these molds. He was kind and affable with a sharp wit, albeit commanding and intimidating; he had kept his body athletic and strong, and as finely sculpted as anything Bernini touched. There was another quality to him that was wholly new to her, something about him that called to her and alighted her senses. Beyond his looks and his size, he had a vigorous and masculine presence that drew her in like a hummingbird to nectar.
Just like seeing the finest horse at a sale, she wanted him for her own. And she had grown tired of waiting for him to arrange a private encounter with her. It was easy for her to decide that she would have him. In her mind, this was a simple thing. It was of no consequence that countless other women across England likewise had their hopes pinned on the handsome knight and his estate. They had all failed, or he would not still be running free as a stag in the wood. Eleanor Winchester was not a woman who failed.
Every morning of her stay at Wargrave Hall, Eleanor had watched from her window as Jacques Le Gris returned from the stables. Every morning, he finished his pre-dawn ride near the time she awakened and was handing his horse over to a groom while Agnes helped Eleanor dress. He was unaware of her appraisal, so it was an opportune time for her to study him properly when his keen eyes would not catch her looking at him, as they always managed to, even though she was being thoroughly stealthy. When he walked from the stables, she could let her eyes indulgently wander over him, lingering wherever happened to draw them, which more often than not were his broad shoulders and massive chest. She supposed that she ought to feel some sense of impropriety over the thoughts the sight of him induced, but she simply couldn’t bring herself to feel anything untoward about it at all. If a woman was not meant to admire a man, then fate should not place such an impressive example of one right in front of her.
Rather, she would be concerned her senses were failing her if she did not appreciate the look of him and respond the way she did to the masculinity of him. What manner of woman would not admire the sight of him striding across a grassy paddock, tall and proud, his white shirt open at the throat allowing his broad chest to peek through, his skin slicked with sweat from his ride. His hair was always wilder then too, with the morning breeze fingering through it. She liked him much better like this, when he had the look of a wild thing about him.
Best of all, he always took his rides alone.
Like a hunter learning when a stag came to water, she patterned her game. It was plainly obvious this was his favored morning ritual, a time he stole for himself before the demands of his day settled upon his shoulders. His habit was to take lone rides before sunrise and to sequester himself in the late evenings in his study with a cigar, a drink, and a book. The latter was of little use to her at present, but his riding habit was something she could use to her advantage.
Painful though it was for her, Eleanor roused herself before the first inkling of dawn. Stars still twinkled in the sky that was just lightening from black to navy. It was an unconscionable hour, but one had to make these kinds of sacrifices in their amorous pursuits. It was but one example of the woman having to carry the burden of seduction when men were too foolish to take the initiative for themselves. Besides that, this was one of the few, if not the only, hours of the day she could slip away unseen on a perfectly innocent errand and secure a private encounter with Sir Jacques.
Not wanting to alert anyone to her plans, Eleanor dressed in a simple riding habit that required no help from her handmaid. Her bodice was a shade of cornflower blue that she had been told often made her eyes more radiant and her skirt was simple charcoal. Without Agnes’ help, she didn’t bother putting her hair up in any intricate fashion, opting to braid her long tresses so that it hung down her back or unobtrusively over her shoulder. She appraised herself in the tall cheval mirror and thought that, given her haste taken to make herself up and the horrendous hour, she looked quite good. Though she had slept little, her body was thrumming with anticipation and her eyes were clear and bright.
Had she slept longer and her senses been more alert, she might have noticed the figure of the dark, stately women who watched her from the corner of her room. Her black hair blended with the shadows as did her long black gown, but her eyes glowed like embers. Or like the fires of hell.
Long before sunrise, Sir Jacques took his black coffee alone in his study. It was part of his morning ritual, known to all those in the household. Coffee was a taste he had acquired during his time fighting in the orient, although the grounds he could get here were a poor substitute for the black sludgy brew he favored. His habit was to begin his days alone in his study in the darkness before dawn and end them there as well in the darkness of nighttime, provided he was not entertaining female company elsewhere. He reclined in his tufted leather chair, his boots propped on his desk, as he sipped his coffee. He had half an hour before the customary time he went down to the stables for his morning ride. Customarily, this was his favorite time of day when he had the Hall to himself and before the demands of the day settled upon him, each one chipping away at his good humor until little remained.
The air inside his study was unusually cool, especially for summer. So cool that Jacques considered building a fire. Once or twice, he thought he could even see a tendril of steam on his exhaled breath. The feeling of being watched settled over him, looming like a physical presence over his shoulder. He felt it behind him, as though a cold body stood at his back. He knew the only thing behind his chair was the study window that overlooked the garden. Jacques was not a man prone to flights of fancy, let alone to fear, and he would not be bothered by such foolishness. He utterly refused to look behind him, nor toward the source of anything so nonsensical. He rolled his shoulders, physically shrugging off the strange feeling along with a few cracks in his back. Such sensations were not entirely uncommon in Wargrave Hall, but Jacques had noticed them more as of late, or for some reason, he had become more aware of them.
Before Jacques could reconcile the odd feeling with any rational cause, William strode into the study, closing the door behind him with pointed loudness. Jacques studied him over the rim of his mug. His son had grown into a tall man, although not as tall as Jacques himself, nor as tall as he had hoped for the boy, and neither did his shoulders have the impressive breadth of his father’s. There was much Jacques had hoped his son would inherit from him, such as his large hands and powerful build, but he had instead gotten the finer bone structure of his mother. His features were finer too. More handsome, perhaps, in an effeminate way, but they were crueler also. The boy’s harsh demeanor that had earned him the moniker of Black Billy was misplaced as from both his parents, neither of whom were cold nor cruel. And his black eyes that were a unique feature in the Le Gris family had unnerved Jacques since the day he had opened them. The more the boy matured, the less of himself Jacques saw in his eldest son. At least, Theodore took after him strongly. He could scarcely see a difference between his younger son and himself at the same age, except that Theodore had inherited his mother’s green eyes instead of Jacques’s feral amber color.
“It’s become apparent that you are playing cavalierly with the family estate, father,” William said testily without preamble.
Jacques felt his irritation bloom afresh for the day. He took a long drink before engaging. He decided against rising to the challenge and instead set his mug down on his desk and folded his hands in his lap, fixing his son with a fiery stare.
“It’s quite clear that Miss Winchester is playing you for a fool. I would think you have enough notches on your bedpost,” William continued. “If you want to feast on the little tart, eat your fill. But if you play fast and loose with the strumpet, you are also doing so with mine and Theodore’s inheritance.”
Jacques felt the rush of anger flood him so fast it left him lightheaded, his skin flushed hot and his hands curled into fists involuntarily. He would have shot to his feet and slammed his fist into the boy’s mouth had it been anyone but his own son. Instead, he sat up rigidly straight in his chair and tried to control the timbre of his voice when he growled dangerously, “You forget your place, boy. How aggressively do you want me to remind you of it?”
“Am I wrong?” William asked with cold detachment. “I think not. If you take this cock tease to wife and fuck an heir into her, that will affect your existing sons.” Jacques pushed menacingly up out of his chair to his feet, but William continued unchecked. “It is the height of irresponsibility, and additionally, thoroughly disloyal to both Theordore and myself. Under the law of primogeniture, Wargrave Hall and all the property and assets under your name will pass to me alone as the oldest son. I am the age of majority. Under the circumstances, it would only be responsible of you to yield your position as head of the family to me and take a stipend if you intend to act with so little regard for your existing sons. Run off to Paris or New York where such lurid liaisons are commonplace and where your decisions will not affect Theodore and myself.”
“Primogeniture only applies to an acknowledged heir, boy,” Jacques snarled, leaning over his desk like a wolf over a kill. He kept his hands planted on the desktop to keep them from flying at his son’s throat. “I am the master of Wargrave Hall, and I alone decide who inherits it. Place yourself in my way, make yourself my enemy, and I will disinherit your ungrateful ass and leave you to rot in the gutter with nothing.”
“You trained Theodore and me to fight since we were three,” William sneered. “You’re old and slow. You’ll be forty on your next birthday! You’re past the time when you could beat me in a fight.”
Jacques stormed around his desk, knocking his coffee mug off to shatter on his Persian rug and splash its contents across the floor. Warring with rage, he rushed William and grabbed his lapels, yanking the young man bodily off his feet to bring him up to eye-level. The thick vein in Jacques’s neck pulsed with anger. William tried to whimper something, but Jacques cut across him, “You’re a man now, not a boy, as you pointed out. The next time you find the balls to speak to me in such a manner, be prepared to fight me like a man.”
Jacques dropped William and shoved him back with unbridled aggression. William’s back slammed into the bookcase behind him with enough force to knock the wind out of his lungs, knocking several volumes off the shelves. Jacques feared he would not be able to restrain himself from true violence if William persisted. He was not known for his restraint in so many ways. To avoid his temper inflaming, Jacques stormed out of his study. He would expend his temper on the back of his horse.
Darkness had just begun to relinquish its hold when Eleanor made her way to the stables. There was enough soft light for her to see her way through the grounds, but not enough to make out the face of the groundskeeper she passed. The man lingered in the shadows of the Hall, no doubt tending to some shrubbery or something of the like, a dark silhouette only, his features hidden in shadow. It was early even for a groundskeeper to be about his duties, but she commended his diligence. No matter, she had not hauled herself out of a warm bed to ponder the comings and goings of groundskeepers.
For her plan to work, she had to reach the stables before Sir Jacques and have her horse already saddled when he arrived for his morning ride, lest it seem suspicious. It must not appear as though she had followed him or was inviting herself along with him during his private hour. It must be Jacques who invites her to join him. Though it was seldom if ever reality, men must think themselves in charge. A woman’s task was far more intricate, engineering the happening of things while framing it so that the man in her custody thinks himself in control.
Horses stuck their heads out of their stalls to see their visitor when she entered the stables, their ears pricked forward curiously at the sight of a new person. It was dark inside the stables, but Eleanor recognized Jacques’s horse at the end of the stable, a huge dapple-grey fit for a medieval knight to ride into battle. He stomped a hoof impatiently and arched his neck over the stable door, fiddling with the latch with his mouth. Like his owner, he too looked as though he enjoyed these morning rides. Midway down the stable aisle, her horse greeted her with a friendly knicker. She too would enjoy a brisk ride in the morning chill, regardless of her motives for doing so. She caught him and saddled him quickly so that she was ready when Jacques appeared, but she strategically left the breast collar unbuckled so it would look as though she was only nearly finished.
While she waited, she groomed her horse, taking her time until his black coat shone like obsidian. She watched the light brighten outside the stable doors until she could clearly make out the grounds outside. It was a pink morning imbued with soft light – the kind of light that made a woman’s features particularly alluring. Mist drifted over the grassy hills giving the countryside a mystical feeling. It was the perfect morning for her plans to unfurl, innocently, like the gentle blooming of a rose.
But where was he? Jacques had taken his morning ride every day she had been at Wargrave Hall. Surely, her luck was not so foul that today would be the day he forgoes it. Waiting and uncertainty made her grow irritable, cursing under her breath and stomping. Her mood infected that of her horse, and he too stomped the ground and danced in place, eager to carry his owner away from whatever distressed her and run until both their hearts were light.
That rotten bastard, she cursed under her breath, deeply offended that Jacques had broken the plans that he didn’t know he had.
Patience had never been one of Eleanor’s virtues, and it was some time past when Jacques usually took his ride. She buckled the breast collar and led her horse through the stable, striding indignantly with her chin held high. Her horse’s hooves echoed on the cobblestone floor of the enclosed stable, louder still due to his excited prancing instead of walking, taking three paces for every one he needed. Eleanor turned back to calm him, running a hand down his nose as she continued walking to the end of the stable. Her horse arched his neck and jerked on his lead, normal for a high-spirited animal. Looking back at him, she didn’t watch where she was going.
Turning out of the stable doors, Eleanor strode right into the unforgiving balk of Sir Jacques as he entered. The sudden commotion startled her horse, who threw his head and yanked her arm back. In her surprise and built irritation, she snapped at the man before she could catch herself, “A man as barbarously large as you should watch where he’s going!”
Jacques looked just as startled as her horse when he looked down at her. On instinct, he reached a hand out to steady her, but stopped it midway and returned it stiffly to his side. Instantly, she felt a hot blush stain her cheeks. This wasn’t going well at all. Jacques straightened and smoothed his jacket. His voice was polite but held no warmth when he replied, “My apologies, Miss Winchester. I am unaccustomed to concerning myself with guests in my stables, especially at this hour.”
From the set of his shoulders and the tension in his brow, she surmised that Jacques was in an unpleasant mood himself. Her momentary lapse in temper and ill-timed barb certainly hadn’t helped matters. She considered abandoning her plan and redoubling her efforts another day when the conditions might be more favorable. But no, if she let this opportunity pass, there may not be another. Even then, it would make her carefully arranged ‘chance meeting’ too transparent a ploy to attempt it again. This was her opportunity and she’d best seize it. Fortune favors the bold, after all.
Since she was already knee-deep in mire, she figured she might as well double down. It was always better to be the accuser than the accused. Planting her hands on her hips, she raised her chin and asked him, “Are you following me?”
“Of course not.” Jacques raised his hands defensively. “I ride most mornings. It’s the best time to find solitude. Usually.” His eyes narrowed as realization dawned. “Which I suspect you know well. How cunning of you, madam.”
“I’m quite sure I don’t take your meaning at all.” Her horse saved her from further inquiry by rearing in place. He was affected by the tension of the people around him, growing more restless by being held still.
“Whoa, you feisty bastard,” Jacques said to the horse in soothing tones, placing his large hand on the animal’s forehead.
“Well!” She raised her eyebrows in a challenge. “Since you have succeeded in thoroughly agitating my horse, I hope you will be good enough to hold him still while I mount.” Asking a man for help was a sneak attack her father had taught her, a way to slip past their guard that few could resist. It was a strategy from which Jacques was not immune.
For the first time, Jacques considered her horse. He was a big powerful animal, not a delicate lady-like mount. He looked from the horse back to her. “Can you handle that horse? Have you ridden him often?”
“Quite often,” she quipped tartly. “I raised him from a foal.”
Jacques didn’t argue, but eyed her horse skeptically as he took the reins and led him out into the open area in front of the stables. He stroked the horse’s neck to calm him, which had the unintended effect of calming himself at the same time. It was difficult if not impossible to remain agitated when trying to imbue calm into an animal. His eyes strayed to her as she bounded easily up into the sidesaddle, hooked her right leg over the pommel, and adjusted her skirts. He handed the reins to her, his warm hand brushing hers, and unbidden dropped his hand to her boot to check its fit in the stirrup. His jaw flexed and he seemed to make some internal decision.
“I am your host, Miss Winchester.” He looked up at her. From her seat on her horse, his face was level with her waist. “I would be remiss if I did not ride with you and show you the grounds.”
“I thought you didn’t want company?” she asked, not letting him off so easily.
“In rare instances, I will make an exception.” He pointedly grabbed the rein near the bit, holding her horse as he awaited her reply.
“Am I supposed to hold my horse here while you take your sweet time saddling yours?” she asked as her horse stomped and snorted impatiently, emphasizing her question.
“Yes,” Jacques said simply. “You can ride, can you not? If so, control your mount.” His tone remained stern but a shadow of a smirk played over his lips.
Jacques made quick work of catching and saddling his horse. He hoisted himself up into the saddle and sat tall and statuesque with his dapple-grey dancing beneath him. Both horses were filled with nerves and high spirited, ready to bolt away until their energy was spent.
“Lead on, Miss Winchester. I assume you have a plan this morning,” he said, letting his words linger, further calling her bluff. “As to where you intended to ride, I mean.”
“I had planned nothing beyond seeing what chance might bring me. Since you have unexpectedly decided to join me, I will defer to your superior knowledge of your own estate.” She smiled tartly back. “Take me on a ride, Sir Jacques.”
“Be warned, I am in a vigorous mood this morning.” However, he had to fight to keep a scowl on his lips. His black mood had nearly lifted. He found himself enjoying this lively banter almost as much as a lively galloping ride. The golden morning light had a curious effect on Eleanor’s features. He already thought her pretty, but this morning she looked especially beautiful. Was it her or was it something softening inside him, he wondered.
“Then take us along your most challenging route,” she said confidently. “Better yet, let us race along it! With a prize to the victor, naturally.”
“The stakes you may ask concern me,” he laughed gruffly now, unable to contain it. “What would you ask in the unlikely event that you win?”
“I’ll go easy on you and ask only for the right to compel you to join me on another ride, at the time and place of my choosing, irrespective of decorum.” She lined her horse up beside his, readying the animals to run against each other.
“I suppose I can endure that well enough.” He nodded. “And what do I get when I win?”
“Most men would want a kiss as a prize,” she said haughtily.
“Why would I exert any effort winning something I could steal?” He winked at her, enjoying the way a pink blush tinted her cheeks.
She recovered and returned, “Is that a note of fear I detect?” With an exaggerated sigh she added, “If you are afraid of losing to a woman, I understand.”
He pointed to the highest hillside in view about a mile away. Its sides were steep and one was pale-soiled giving it the look of a small white cliff of Dover. Mist circled through the trees at its base and the rising sun made its grassy crest glow.
“Should I lose you in my wake, I will meet you at the top,” Jacques told her cockily.
Without waiting for him to give the word, Eleanor whipped her horse with her quirt, sending him lunging ahead into an immediate gallop. She called over her shoulder, “To the victor go the spoils!”
Crisp morning air cooled her hot cheeks as her horse ran across the meadow that surrounded Wargrave Hall like a grassy moat. Jacques was close behind, their horses very equally matched and equally game. He found that he enjoyed his present view so much that he didn’t want to try to pass her. Her braid flew out behind her like an auburn pennant and she sat her horse erect with infallible balance. He had always thought women who mastered the art of sidesaddle had superior seats to men. It defied logic how they could keep their balance with half the moorings a man had from two stirrups.
Ahead of them was the first of two fences that separated them from the targeted bluff. Her horse showed no signs of balking, but Eleanor swatted him again lightly, wringing an extra burst of speed out of him. Jacques involuntarily held his breath, watching from a pace behind, as her horse took the jump. The beast sailed easily over the five-foot fence and his rider maintained her seat effortlessly. She looked back over her shoulder to smirk triumphantly at Jacques when he landed immediately after. Jacques kicked his horse harder, demanding another knot of speed until the animals ran alongside each other neck and neck. Wind whipped through Jacques’s thick hair, blowing it wildly around his face. He looked over at the woman beside him and grinned.
“I fear I may always be fighting to keep from being a step behind you,” he shouted above the thunder of hoofbeats.
Not just one step!” She laughed back at him. “Sometimes, even two or three. Men are slower beasts, I’m afraid.”
“Perhaps when they are properly disarmed,” Jacques agreed. “The term temptress was surely coined with a woman like you in mind.”
They approached the second fence, both horses running hard, competing with each other. Both again took it with flying ease. Now across the meadow, the horses plunged into the untamed growth of forest that surrounded the base of the bluff. They jumped over logs and weaved between trees as agile as a pair of stags. Jacques found his spirits lifted and his mood lighter than he could remember it. He realized it had been years since he had allowed his horse to run fast and free beneath him, and he wondered why he had stopped indulging in this simple pleasure. As their horses reached the hillside and lunged up it, still vying closely for the lead, it hit Jacques like a bucket of ice water that it had been even longer since he had felt so alive, so virile. He realized, too, that his situation was hopeless. If he allowed this woman to ride out of his life, he would be forever chasing a similar high that would be a counterfeit at best. He knew with a sudden clarity, that if he didn’t seize his opportunity, he would regret it as long as he lived.
Eleanor took the lead by a yard as they crowned the bluff. Her horse carried less weight and had more pent up energy from being cooped up longer in a stall. She let her horse slow down to an easy lope across the top of the ridge and reined him to a stop just before the hill sheared away again on the opposite side. Jacques stopped beside her, grinning broadly, his chest flushed where it peaked from the open collar of his white shirt.
“It appears that I am in your debt,” he acknowledged her win with a half bow from his saddle.
The winded horses snorted and blew on the crest of the bluff, calm for the moment while they caught their breath. The bluff was the highest point within view in any direction. Below, green hillsides rolled away like verdant waves on an endless sea, spilt by valleys and accentuated by untamed patches of forest. In the meadows nearest Wargrave Hall, horses grazed idly and cattle dotted the gentler areas. Further out, a small herd of red stag browsed along the edge of the treeline near a ravine as they returned to the safety of the forest to bed down for the day. The view stretched away for miles in all directions without a man-made structure in sight, save for the monstrous Hall and its surrounding outbuildings.
“Picturesque, is it not?” Jacques asked with obvious pride of his property.
“Is all this yours?” Eleanor asked of the countryside.
“Everything within view and much more beyond,” Jacques answered, waving his arm in an encompassing gesture. He looked at her sideways and smirked, “Impressed?”
“By the man or the view?” she teased. “The view is very fine, but I’ve yet to make a final determination on the man.”
“It sounds like you are judge and jury. I worry that you may think yourself executioner too!” he laughed fondly, enjoying himself. “Am I to have no voice in this?”
“It is probably best if you do not.” She nodded with mock seriousness. “Men are ill-equipped to make weighty decisions of the heart. Especially when said man presumes to deny the wishes of his own.” She looked at him knowingly and returned to the topic of the beauty before them. “My family’s property is nearly as large, but I admit yours is more beautiful. It has a wildness about it that mine does not,” she replied genuinely, then teased him back. “But my main concern is alleviated. I was worried that a mere knight would not have enough property to get a decent ride in on.”
“You speak as if things are already decided between us.” Jacques looked at her, intending to display offense but his disobedient features reflected only intrigue. “I’ve not made you an offer, Miss Winchester.”
“Not yet, that’s true. Perhaps my confidence is entirely misplaced.” She let out a disingenuous sigh. “My father tells me that if you are ever in want of a wife again, you will know full well that you can never do better. He says that my only downfall will be if you have resolved to live out your days as a bachelor.” She looked at him directly, piercing into his heart with those luminous eyes. “What he did not say but that I know to be true, is that you are a man who would prefer the consistent company of a woman. That your druthers would be to have a woman in your bed every night – a woman who belongs to you – as opposed to an assortment of inconsistent mistresses.”
“By god girl, you don’t mince words!” Jacques huffed indignantly, both at her directness and her accuracy. “And outside of your father’s wise council, just how do you come by your more salacious intelligence?”
“Just as you’ve no doubt inquired about me, I have conducted my own investigation. Women speak rather freely about such matters when they’re amongst themselves.” She smiled at the way he shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. It was endearing that he was so concerned about keeping her good opinion of him.
Jacques chewed his lip for a moment, thinking. It was a new experience for him to feel both like the hunter and hopelessly caught in an inescapable snare at once. It was both exhilarating and uncomfortable, but undeniably unmatched. He decided to meet her bluntness with his own. For the moment at least. “I’m much older than you. I’m fast becoming a grouchy old bastard. I’m not in want of more heirs. I’m embroiled in a host of unsavory rumors that have followed me for years. They would enshroud any woman I took for a wife.”
“Those sound precisely like the sort of problems a vibrant young wife could solve,” she replied easily. She touched the reins to her horse’s neck, bringing his head back around to face the Hall in preparation to return. “But if you do not share my interest…”
Jacques leaned down from his saddle and snatched her horse’s reins near the bit, stopping the animal. “Of all the shrewd assumptions you’ve made about me, it’d be a shame for your logic to go array now.” His face was near hers in this position, bending over his horse’s neck to grip her reins. “I want to know for certain that this is the path you wish to follow before we start down it beyond the point of no return. I have two sons who are more eligible than I and less marred by scandal. Are you sure that instead of the pups, you want to contend with the wolf?”
“Don’t demean me by insinuating that I don’t know my own heart, Sir Jacques.” She yanked her rein out of his hands, making her horse jerk his head in annoyance. “Although, in truth, I grow tired of being the pursuer. I have given you a fine serve. Now, I await your riposte.” Her eyes held a challenge more than her words, looking fixedly into his. “You are rumored to be a great soldier. Such a man knows how to wage a fine offense on the battleground of hearts. I would like to see it. A lady deserves as much.”
Jacques grinned wickedly and straightened in his saddle. He pointed down to a stand of trees below the bluff they straddled, nestled in between two hills. He made certain Eleanor followed his arm, her eyes sighted upon his mark. His voice was dangerously low when he told her, “How rude of me, Miss Winchester. I have been remiss in my duty as a suitor even before I knew I had assumed the role. Do you think you can beat me in another race? I hope that you can, because if I catch you before we reach those trees, the consequences for you will be dire.”
Before she could retort, Jacques smacked the ends of his reins down harshly on her horse’s rump. Her horse jumped away from the whip and lunged into a full gallop down the bluff. A less-skilled rider would have been hurled off over his hindquarters from the unexpected start. Her horse shot down the hillside with Jacques on her heels. The downward slope of the bluff was steep, the ground damp and loose. Their horses sat back on their haunches to keep from tumbling over forward, sliding down as much as galloping. The two horses reached the bottom with grunts of displeasure. Eleanor tapped her horse with her crop, sending the animal flying across the gently rolling meadow that sprawled out before them. Jacques ran close behind, the snorted breaths of his horse sounding as loud as a locomotive behind her. She aimed for the grove of trees Jacques had pointed out; it was thicker than it had looked from above.
The meadow sloped easily downward to a ravine, shrouded by trees. They ran inside, immediately surrounded by luscious greens and sensual pinks inside the blooming trees. With every galloping stride of their horses, the scenery grew more and more beautiful. Eleanor looked around her at the beauty quickly flashing by. She was so distracted that she nearly ran her horse headlong into a small pond. Yanking on her reins and sitting back in the saddle, she reined her horse into a sliding stop at the water’s edge. Jacques was immediately behind, but his horse was slower to stop and it plowed into the pond up to its knees, splashing both horse and rider. His horse snorted indignantly but Jacques only laughed.
They stood in a secluded glade, as cloistered and beautiful as a fairy glen. It was small, the size of a moderate sitting room, shaded and lightly wooded, and the grass their horses pawed was as luscious as a manicured lawn. Sunlight streamed down through patches in the canopy of trees above them, mottling the emerald grass with pale spots of peridot. The water rippled from the disturbance caused by Jacques’s horse, its crystal-clear surface shimmering with diamonds of sunlight. The water was so clear that the light and reflection of nearby trees were the only barrier preventing a view of the bottom of its depths. The remnants of an ancient rock wall crumbled down the water’s edge. Moss clung to the rock wall, snaking through every crevasse and creeping over most of its surface. It looked medieval. Birdsong rang through the trees in a natural symphony, unbothered by the human presence.
Eleanor looked around the beatific clearing, enclosed on all sides by thick forest. Jacques gazed upon her instead of the view. He smiled broadly, knowing by her expression that he had done well.
“I’m glad you like it,” he told her softly. “This is my favorite place on these grounds. I ride here often to find peace, although not as often as I once did.”
“It’s beautiful, Jacques,” she affirmed, still appreciating their surroundings.
“I’ve never shared this place with anyone,” he said more quietly but with more conviction.
Eleanor’s head jerked around, her eyes shot to his almost aggressively. “What about your wife? I don’t want to be lied to in the course of you trying to romance me.”
“It’s no lie.” He placed his right hand over his heart as he nudged his horse closer alongside hers until their knees touched. “She did not enjoy riding, nor much out of doors. There are no roads here, so she never accompanied me. I am afraid that I can offer a woman few firsts with me, but this is something I have now shared with you alone.”
She beamed at him, but she could think of nothing either suitably romantic or coy to say, so she only smiled and then further admired the beauty surrounding them. Sunlight danced on the pristine water, and she saw it was fed by a narrow brook that flowed between the hillsides, keeping the water clear and pure. Jacques stepped down from his horse and looped his reins over the branch of a tree. He walked to the side of Eleanor’s horse and offered her his hand to dismount, which she happily took. Jacques took the liberty of grabbing her waist as she hopped lightly down from her mount. He tied her horse beside his and led her to the medieval wall.
The wall remnants were only waist high on Eleanor and ran into the pond, a dead end to whatever pasture it had enclosed centuries ago. Jacques directed her to lean against its mossy rocks. She expected him to sit beside her but instead, he dropped to take a knee before her. Her heart jumped at the thought of a proposal, but he made none and unexpectedly took her right boot in his hand.
“What on earth are you doing?” she asked with a small measure of alarm, pulling her boot away.
“Do you not want to see what I enjoy doing most here, in my favorite place?” Jacques looked up at her from his kneeling position. Although, he didn’t have to raise his eyes far – kneeling, his face was level with her bodice. He took her boot again.
“What do you intend to do from that position?” She tried to sound imperious.
“The mind reels with possibilities,” he replied hungrily.
“You know very well a lady cannot do such things before marriage,” she huffed with annoyance, yet she was secretly enticed to let this handsome man do absolutely anything he wanted to her.
“What things might those be?” Jacques smirked. His large hand crept up the back of her calf, moving slowly as he would with a startled horse. “I haven’t told you what I want to do with you today.”
“You’ve given me quite a clear idea.” She tried to pull her boot away again, but he held it firm this time, his grip like iron.
“Do you not trust me?” His hand slid higher up to the back of her thigh just above her knee, stroking her there through the silk of her stocking. “What an irresponsible young lady you are to put yourself in the hands of a scoundrel like me. Out here, with no one to rescue you.”
“You’ve never given me a reason to distrust you,” her voice was firm, but her pulse thundered in her ears. There was nothing she could do to fend off such a big, powerful man. And she wasn’t sure if she wanted to. A disturbingly large part of her wanted him to continue despite her protests, to rip her clothes off entirely, and ravage her right then and there.
“What makes you think I’ll give you a reason to distrust me now?” Jacques’s grin took on a wicked edge. He saw clearly the effect he had on her and it spurred him on. She was as excited as she was afraid, and Jacques let that simmer inside her until her chest was beautifully flushed and her leg quivered in his hands. Finally, with his free hand, he unlaced her boot and pulled it off. Using the hand at the back of her thigh, he trailed it slightly higher until he found the top of her stocking. With tantalizing slowness, he rolled it down her leg and pulled it off entirely. He was pleased to see the way she held her breath but didn’t pull away. He could go much further now if he wanted, but he released her bare foot. Eleanor looked almost disappointed when he took her other foot and repeated the process of removing her boot and stocking.
Looking at her dainty feet and the muddy hem of her dress, Jacques pursed his lips in appreciation. Laughter wrinkled the corners of his amber eyes when he looked up at her. “What a wanton little hussy you are, baring your ankles to any man who bothers to pull your boots off.”
She kicked at him playfully and he caught her around one of her wanton ankles, holding her easily. He pushed up the hem of her dress and kissed her knee. It was the first kiss he had given her, other than greeting her chastely by kissing her hand. It felt like a brand, her flesh burning where his lips touched so gently. Jacques set her boots aside and pushed up from the ground. He took a seat beside her on the low wall and unceremoniously pulled off his own boots and socks.
“I’m very confused,” she said as he rolled his pants up over his muscled calves. “What are you playing at?”
“I’m doing what I often do when I come here.” He took her hand and stood, pulling her up with him.
Stroking her hand with his thumb, Jacques led her to a flat rock that protruded over the pond close below. He sat down and let his legs hang over to dip his feet in the water below, groaning with pleasure. He looked up at her with a smirk, waiting for her to join him. When she sat and dangled her feet in the water, it was so pleasantly cool that she gasped with delight. She looked at him sideways and narrowed her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me this is what you wanted to do with me?”
“That hardly seemed fun,” he laughed and leaned back on his elbows, his large body sprawling beside her. “I tried to warn you about me. I’m no gentleman at all, Miss Winchester.”
Relaxing, she reclined beside him. She watched birds flitter through the trees overhead and clouds drifting by through the gaps in the branches. Propping himself up on one elbow, Jacques looked down at her. Her impressive bosom was still flushed from their ride and her eyes looked exceptionally crystalline in the dappled sunlight. He felt himself drifting toward her, looming over her body, along with that inexorable pull of arousal welling deep inside him. Before he lost himself in a passion he could not restrain, he took a deep breath to clear his head and rose to his feet.
“We’d best get back before you are missed, Miss Winchester.” He offered her his hand. “Your father may shoot me if he learns of this.” As an afterthought, he added, “However, I would welcome your company any morning you wish to join me for a ride.”
“Eleanor!” Katrina ambushed her friend the moment she stepped inside her room. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you all morning.”
“I felt like going for a ride this morning,” Eleanor said dreamily.
“No, you didn’t!” Katrina accused. “We’ve known each other most of our lives. There’s nothing you feel like doing first thing in the morning unless it involves violence.” She eyed Eleanor critically, seeing the dirt on her dress and her hair that had blown undone. “I hope you haven’t let Sir Jacques get away with more than you should. A lady must hint at the forbidden fruit, or give a man a taste at most. You mustn’t let him take a full bite of the apple.”
“Sadly, no one bit me or so much as tasted me today,” Eleanor quipped and set about unbraiding her hair to brush it back out neatly. “What has you so distressed?”
“I agreed to play Theodore in a game of croquet,” Katrina said fussily. “But now, I realize that will entail him wanting to teach me, and me having to be pleasant. I’m really not in the mood to be pleasant today. It’s too soon for me to be wretched around him. I might frighten him utterly away. You’re so much better at faking these things. Come with me and smile on command when I cannot muster one.”
“I have a better idea,” Eleanor opened the door to her room and gestured for Katrina to follow her. “But I fear it will devastate poor Theodore not to have you all to himself.”
It was still early enough to find the men at breakfast. The Prime Minister was set to depart that day after his morning meal. He was an especially hearty breakfaster and the others accommodated him. It was of little inconvenience to Jacques, who could eat most men and some beasts under the table. They hurried downstairs and with a stroke of luck, encountered Count Pierre as he exited the breakfast room. His eyes were still bloodshot from drinking the night before, but his mood was high. The women both knew that merely inviting the man to play a silly game with them would have no effect, not when there was business to be done.
“Count Pierre, would you be good enough to help Katrina and I settle a debate?” Eleanor asked him with a smile few men could refuse.
“Please tell me it involves the shedding of clothing,” Pierre returned lewdly. Unlike most men who tried to hide such aspects of their personalities, Pierre embraced his nature.
“Theodore insists he’s a better croquet instructor than you or Sir Jacques,” Eleanor let the challenge hang in the air.
“Let me tell both of you ladies something.” Pierre wagged a finger in their faces. “There is no substitute for hard-gained experience. In all matters. Some young buck is not going to give you the same quality of tutelage that an old master can.”
Jacques had emerged from the breakfast room and stood behind his friend, grinning as he listened. His eyes flickered to Eleanor when he added, “But in matters of manipulation and espionage, I find there is no finer teacher than a cunning woman.”
“They can spare the two of us for the length of a game of croquet,” Pierre said to Jacques, nodding toward the room where Count Winchester and the Prime Minister could be heard talking.
Jacques stepped toward Eleanor and offered her his arm and a warm smile. “Is this more of your maneuvering?”
“I would never take credit for such a thing,” she teased. “Unless it’s well received.”
Outside, the sun shone brightly and the weather was warm and welcoming for an outdoor activity. Theodore’s face fell when he saw Katrina approaching him with an entourage that included his father. He stood, leaning on the handle of a mallet near the white wickets he had set up in a pretty elliptical pattern on the lawn. The balls were lined up, too, in a variety of colors.
Jacques leaned close to Eleanor and said quietly, “Let me guess, it’s the mallets that appeal to you?”
“You’re getting smarter by the minute,” she replied.
Jacques grinned. These ladies were grandmasters on the chessboard of romance. But he too could play games and call bluffs. “Since you’ve dragged me out here, I assume you’ll allow me to give you a lesson.”
“I’m not a novice,” Eleanor said as she took a mallet Theodore handed her.
“You’ve already bested me riding,” Jacques continued with amusement. “Is it wise for an aspiring young woman to best a man at every sport? Should she not allow him to impress her?”
“Besides,” Pierre joined in the obvious teasing. “Men are simply far better when it comes to hitting things. Even you cannot argue that point, Miss Winchester.” He flexed a skinny arm to make his point. “We have superior strength and bad tempers. We’re naturals!”
Eleanor laughed, then hefted her mallet, testing its balance. She pointed it at Jacques. “I think I could abuse you quite well with this mallet.”
“Now thatwould be something for you to write about, Pierre,” Jacques laughed.
“I’ve written so much abuse and flagellation, I’ve done it to death, I’m afraid.” Pierre sighed theatrically. “I’d like to think you’d know that about my publications if you weren’t so discombobulated at present.”
Eleanor and Katrina looked at each other and then at Pierre, each wearing expressions of confusion and embarrassment.
“Of course, this is far too lecherous a topic for upstanding ladies,” Jacques said with heavy sarcasm. “But Pierre is inflicted with the terrible burden of boredom brought on by his obscene wealth. To amused himself, he writes publications of an, ah, amorous nature under the nome de plume William Lazenby.”
Both ladies’ eyes widened. They didn’t want to admit they knew the name well.
“And why does he do it, you ask?” Jacques continued.
“To spread chaos, naturally!” Pierre exclaimed proudly. “It’s my sacred duty to ensure there’s not a limp cock or dry cunt in the land!”
Jacques glared at him, shaking his head. Even on such a topic, he would have modified his words in the company of the fairer sex. Pierre imposed no such restrictions on his behavior. Theodore blushed on behalf of the women, sure they were startled by the crude language and the topic in general. He had heard often about the delicate sensibilities of women. He was surprised to find them looking both intrigued and amused now. He was getting an unintended lesson in courtship from his father and Count Pierre.
“Do these stories all come from your imagination?” Katrina asked.
As they talked, Jacques moved behind Eleanor. He placed his hand over hers on the mallet, adjusting her grip and showing her proper form. Then, he moved her arm in a practice swing, pressing his body against hers from behind and moving his hips in time with hers. He looked pointedly at Theodore, indicating he might consider following suit with Katrina.
“Oh, inspiration comes in many forms,” Pierre said as he watched Jacques. He couldn’t help but foil his friend’s efforts. “I can’t tell you how many stories I have of horny old men tutoring young women in the dance of the bedsheets.”
Eleanor and Katrina laughed. The men’s game was up.
Pierre joined them laughing and added, “Imagine a romantic retelling of a sequestered getaway such as this. Two young, inexperienced ladies, seeking the tutelage from a pair of seasoned old rogues. Maybe the young bucks watching on, also to learn a thing or two.”
At this the women sobered, their demeanors changed to mild distaste. Pierre kicked himself inwardly for pushing too far. Jacques saw the change in the ladies, and jumped in to rescue the mood.
Jacques looked at Eleanor with an appropriately pained expression and said, “I only say this because I think it will appeal to you, Miss Winchester, but know that it pains me. Pierre had a rather prurient experience once during a séance. I’m sure he would love to regale you. I have no doubt it’s the seminal experience that converted him into such a staunch advocate for the occult.”
“Now, you must tell us!” Eleanor said excitedly.
“Even I, veteran that I am,” Pierre began with laughter in his eyes. “I have never before or since seen a woman possessed by such a randy spirit. The braggart forced the poor girl to strip out of her clothing entirely and then proceeded to cause her to writhe in the most obscene ways in front of me. I was utterly baffled as to how to cure her.”
“If I recall,” Jacques said, shaking his head. “You gave her the rod many times over while shouting Hail Mary’s into her ear.”
Everyone laughed at the lewd anecdote. Pierre made a point of reassuring the women, “Don’t let Jacques frighten you away from the occult. That one isolated event aside, I’m good at conducting seances. I’m something of an expert at them by now.” He caught Eleanor’s eye and told her directly, “Convince Jacques to let me host a séance in Wargrave Hall. I can promise you a night you’ll never forget. Don’t worry, Jacques will be there to protect you.”
After the men retired from dinner to plot over cigars and drinks and the ladies walked toward their rooms, Eleanor mused suggestively, “Wouldn’t it be a nice evening to investigate the dead wife’s painting room?”
“It’s not morbid enough that we know she burned up inside it, must we snoop through her things?” Katrina teased sarcastically.
“Can a lady ever really be morbid enough?” Eleanor laughed. “Surely not while there are dark secrets left to unravel.”
“Theodore says Sir Jacques hasn’t set foot inside since she died,” Katrina added as they hurried down the hallway with new purpose, their voices growing less discreet. “He said Jacques forbade him and Black Billy to go in there too, but that he used to sneak in anyway. He said he never saw anything out of sorts though.”
“Sounds like he needs some lessons on the proper use of a spirit board,” Eleanor deadpanned. “Shall we offer to teach him one night? It’d be a nice excuse for you to swoon and let him catch you.”
“I will never stoop so low as to swoon,” Katrina said with mild offense. “Although, maybe with you as the bait, we could draw out the ghost of the dead wife. If she’s after anyone, it would be you.”
“If she’s anywhere, she’d be in her lair, all right,” Eleanor agreed. She didn’t mention the image the green fairy had shown her in the mirror.
The women mounted the staircase and trotted up the stairs to the fourth floor. Once they had passed, William stepped out from the shadows to the banister. He watched their skirts swishing as they hurried the stairs, his teeth bared in a silent snarl of contempt for the nosey, conniving bitches.
They had only vague directions from Theodore as to where the painting room was located on the fourth floor, and a few wrong turns were made while searching for it. When they finally found the purple door at the end of a long hallway, oddly, it was standing open. Inviting.
The room was small and dim, the walls covered in framed paintings and canvases in various stages of completion. This was the first room that had been outfitted with electricity and there was a single electrical switch on the wall. Eleanor flipped the switch and several lights mounted on the walls flickered to life with only mild hesitancy.
A discarded easel sat in one corner, perhaps the one the artist had been working at when she was burned alive. The women looked around the room in stunned silence. The first thing they both noticed was the style of the paintings. Her art was no pastel emulation of Monet, but of macabre subjects, boldly painted. The most preeminent painting on the wall looked to be untouched by the fire. It was in the style of Saturn Devouring His Son by Goya. Instead of Cronus, it was a darkly beautiful woman with a crazed look in her green eyes, holding a male child down on a chopping block as he screamed in agony. She held a meat cleaver high, poised to sever his last remaining limb.
Despite being possessed of dark humor, both women were stunned by the graphic horror depicted so beautifully.
Another painting done in the same style showed the image of a heavily pregnant black-haired woman lying on her back in a birthing position. The angle was from over her shoulder where her lover might stand at such a time. Her head was thrown back in anguish as a black razor-clawed hand tore its way out from inside her swollen belly. Blood and tissue were captured mid-splatter by thick swatches of oil paint and confident brush strokes.
The most darkly painted was a depiction of a bedroom that was nearly black and done in silhouette. Four posts of a canopy bed glinted with scant light and a silhouetted male figure stood beside the bed. The scene itself could have been innocuous, but the execution was deeply ominous. Eleanor thought the man was Sir Jacques. Although no features were defined, save for his nefarious eyes painted as yellow as a candle flame, the silhouette was tall and broad, and the artist captured his commanding bearing. The way the man stood beside the bed in reserved menace led the viewer to think any woman who was the subject of his attention would have no option but to go to him and do his bidding. Impliedly, it would be far from loving.
Perhaps the most disturbing to Eleanor personally was the same slender dark haired woman with fine features standing at what could only be the gates of Hell. Her black dress blew around her long legs from the wildfires of Hell that raged at her back. The flames had already reached the hem of her dress and the tips of her long hair. She held out a hand toward a trio of people standing outside the other gates in a grey landscape. Two young boys and a tall handsome man who was clearly Jacques. One boy was halfway between the man and woman, captured mid-stride as he ran from father to mother. It was unclear if her raised hand was meant to caution her family to stay away, or if she beckoned them to join her in the flames. It obviously must have been painted before her death, and Eleanor shuddered with foreboding.
“Do you think this was her?” Katrina asked of a portrait that had been ravaged by the fire, its paint melted into strange rivulets and clumps, giving it a deeply sinister look.
Eleanor knew at once it was a self-portrait of the woman she had seen in the mirror, even though her features were mostly melted, save for her black hair and one green eye staring out of the canvas. Looking closer, Eleanor saw something that made her skin crawl. She had thought it only scorched paint at first, but a closer inspection revealed that in her self portrait, the late Lady Le Gris had painted a large hand resting on her shoulder. Someone or something was standing behind her in the portrait. But it was not a man’s hand. It was a black sinewy-fingered thing with talons gleaming like knifepoints.
“I’ve heard that some women go mad after having children,” Katrina said in a low, uncomfortable voice. She shrugged off the ominous feeling and strode to study another painting. “Maybe that happened to her.”
Eleanor didn’t have an answer but felt that she was seeing something far more sinister than the unraveling of a mind. She was looking at evil. Pure menacing evil. And a woman trapped by it. Eleanor still looked at the painting, meeting the single remaining green eye staring out of the canvas. The black clawed hand resting on her shoulder exerted control over the women even in its painted form. Eleanor stared at it. The black fingers twitched.
Before Eleanor could scream or even react, an explosion of light burst near her head and pieces of glass stung her cheek. The light nearest her had exploded. The remaining lights flickered, then went bright white and all exploded in unison, spraying glass throughout the room like shrapnel from grenades. Fire erupted from the first light that had blown with the strength of dragon’s breath, shooting so high it licked across the ceiling. One after another, the blown lights vomited flames up the walls and across the ceiling. The single green eye in the melted painting seemed to look out at Eleanor, shining and vivid. The black hand was gone.
Fire reached the first painting, consuming it almost instantly into a hellish immolation that spat sparks of searing paint like oil from a cooking pan. Katrina was much closer to the door, and she ran for it, shouting for Eleanor. Despite the ravening flames around her, Eleanor felt a gust of cold air surround her. She jumped into a run, only a few paces behind Katrina.
Katrina reached the door and escaped back into the hallway. But just as she slipped past the door, it crashed closed behind her.
Had Eleanor been a step faster, she still wouldn’t have made her escape, but she may have had her nose broken or been knocked unconscious when the door slammed shut in her face. Eleanor tried the knob, but it wouldn’t turn. The metal was as hot as a branding iron, leaving welts on her palm when she yanked her hand away. The door was locked fast and immobile. She was trapped inside with the flames closing in upon her. But the cold intensified, surrounding her inside the inferno.
Death by fire was much colder than she thought it would be.
On the other side, Katrina tried the door in a panic, but she couldn’t budge it. She pounded her fists in frustration a few times before accepting the futility of it. She fought the hysteria from her voice when she yelled through the wood, “Hold on! I’ll get help!” She sprinted away as fast as her long legs would carry her, searching for someone, anyone to help free her friend.
Katrina raced through hallways that were the most vacant she had ever seen them. It seemed help was always hardest to find when it was needed most. She flew down two flights of stairs, then finally down the main staircase and as she whipped around the dragon at the bottom of the banister, she collided with Theodore, so hard that she knocked him fully down onto his back. He looked up at her, immediately infected with the fear in her wide eyes.
“The painting room is on fire! Eleanor’s trapped inside!” she shouted at him as she vaulted over his prostrate form without slowing. “Get up and help her!”
Katrina ran on, she knew that the man who was most able and motivated to help her friend was Sir Jacques. Her lungs burned and her slippered feet slipped on the marble floors as she flew around corners. She burst through the closed doors to the smoking room and found the men inside amidst the strong odor of cigar smoke and cognac. Jacques shot to his feet, a cigar clamped between his teeth and smoke coiling from his nostrils. The men all sprang into action when she relayed her message.
Jacques looked particularly stricken as he charged from the room without even bothering to spit out his cigar. Jacques was a fast runner, but he had never sprinted faster than he did now, pushing his long stride to its limit. He lunged up the stairs three at a time and skidded around the corner into the hallway leading to the painting room. He sprinted down it like a madman. At the end of the hallway ahead of him, the door to the studio was closed. The doorway glowed ominous orange from the flames inside, looking like the gateway to hell. William and Theodore fought the door, alternating between trying to pull it open and shouldering into it to try to break it down. Jacques slid to a stop on the marble floor and grabbed both of his sons by the backs of their collars, he yanked them both back roughly with such force as to wrench them each bodily off the floor and send them flying backwards.
“The door opens out, you fools!” he roared. “You’ll never break it in against its hinges!” He pounded twice very hard on the door and shouted through it, “Eleanor! Drop to the floor. The air will stay freshest there.”
Backing a pace from the door, Jacques squared his shoulders and kicked the door dead center. The door shuddered on its hinges, but held firm. However, Jacques had no intention of kicking it down. He intended to kick through it. He kicked it again, savagely, and a crack appeared in the center of the door. Growling with effort, he kicked again and again until his foot broke through. Instantly, he felt the heat on the other side through his shoe, and it spurred him on. He frantically tore at the broken opening to widen it, then kicked out more of the splintered wood. It took precious seconds, but he finally kicked and tore an opening large enough to squeeze his huge body through.
“Eleanor!” he shouted into the flaming room. His voice was instantly hoarse from smoke and his eyes burned. He could feel the stinging heat on his face as wet tears leaked from his eyes. The room swirled with black smoke and licking flames, hiding every other detail within its infernal curtain.
He heard a tiny groan and staggered toward the sound. Through teary eyes, he saw her figure lying on the floor. She feebly tried to crawl toward him, coughing out smoke, and he ran to her as flames reared around him. Jacques pulled the lapel of his jacket in front of his face to shield him from the flames. He dropped to a knee beside Eleanor, pulled her into his arms, and lifted her as easily as a child when he shoved back to his feet. He tucked her face inside his coat and ran with her back to the door. The hole he had broken open was too small to admit both of them, so he handed her through first to Theodore as his head throbbed from the lack of oxygen.
Jacques glanced back at the inferno raging inside the painting room. He inhaled sharply in shock, throwing himself into a fit of coughing. Standing in the flames, clear as day, was the unmistakable figure of his late wife, her features as beautifully serene as he remembered, despite the blaze. In the portion of a second he spared to watch her, her once-lovely features began to sizzle and burn like bacon in a frying pan, sloughing away from her bones in red peels the way a candle melts. It brought back the horror of finding her fire-ravaged remains in this very room as fresh as a new bleeding wound.
In a panic born from more than just the flames, Jacques fought his way back through the splintered door. Back in the hallway, he wanted to sag against the wall and fill his lungs with fresh air. His sons were both there, as were Kristina and Count Winchester. Each wore a look of fright and concern. Jacques took Eleanor from Theodore and cradled her head in his arm – he would trust her safety to no one else. Soot was smeared across her pale skin, and there were ugly burns on the backs of her hands and her forearms from where she had hid her face behind them, but her eyes were clear and lucid when they met his.
Emotion spurred him to crash his lips to hers. It was not his finest kiss by far, given with bruising force and tasting of smoke and desperation. But it was the most grateful kiss he had ever bestowed, and he realized he never wanted to let her out of his arms again. He wasn’t bothered to explain himself when everyone looked at him with surprise, save for William, who watched sourly. Jacques should have felt embarrassed for kissing Count Winchester’s daughter right in front of him, but he felt nothing but relief and gratitude. Without a word, Jacques carried her down the hallway, holding her close, keeping her safe inside his arms.
Jacques, his sons, several servants, and every guest in Wargrave Hall lingered late in Jacques’s study. Jacques had washed his face and hands, and Eleanor had bathed and changed out of her charred clothing, but she had returned to join them. No one wanted to be alone that night, it seemed. Their discussions were a flurry of conjecture as to how the fire must have started. It was clear to the men that it had to be an electrical fire. Jacques was not impressed by the new installation of electrical wiring in the Hall and heatedly aired his grievances.
Though Eleanor and Kristina exchanged many looks, they didn’t muster the nerve to share what they had seen and felt inside the room before the flames erupted. It would profit nothing for everyone to think them mad. They had an unspoken understanding to try to unravel the mystery themselves, no matter how dark and twisted that lefthand path became. Likewise, neither Jacques nor anyone else familiar with the tragedy of his late wife mentioned it, but it weighed on all their minds just how close Eleanor had come to meeting the same fate. Jacques replayed the apparition he had seen in the flames over and over in his mind. He had seen mirages before out in the desert, they had that same wavering, otherworldly look to them. He decided that’s all it was, a mirage. A trick of his oxygen deprived brain and the searing heat waves.
Jacques was unable to sit, unable to remain still, and found it difficult even to confine his pacing to just one room. But he hovered near Eleanor where she sat at the end of a couch. He paced behind the couch and beside it, as near to her as a loyal hound. He wanted, needed, to take his aggression out on something before it boiled over onto an innocent bystander. Had he not instinctively wanted to keep his vigil over Eleanor, he would have raged through his halls until he found something suitable to punch or crush in his hands.
Most of the attention was given to Eleanor, fussing over her condition. Although she was perfectly fine and didn’t particularly enjoy that sort of attention. She did, however, like it very much when Jacques laid his hand possessively on her shoulder, squeezed her reassuringly, and lingered near her.
“It had to be an electrical fire,” Jacques grumbled for the fourth or fifth time. His throat felt as though he had tried his hand at sword swallowing, and his voice was coarse as sandpaper. “Damned, infernal electricity! I’ve been against it since day one! It’s no different from stealing fire from the gods and thinking there will be no consequences.”
“I don’t think lights explode like that just from electricity gone array,” Eleanor said cautiously. She knew it was the wrong time to challenge Jacques outright, nor to tell him all of what she had experienced inside the room. But she could nudge him. “And it felt cold inside. There was no reason for it to feel cold. I think the cold is what kept me from burning alive.”
“You’ve earned my good opinion faster than any woman I have ever known,” Jacques told her harshly. “Do not undermine it all now with absurd talk of the supernatural.”
“I didn’t mention anything supernatural at all,” she returned. “Perhaps that’s where your own mind wants to go.”
“Fucking absurd!” Jacques growled, more to himself than to anyone else. He thoroughly wanted to hit someone now. He both respected and resented her for being right.
“I’ve heard that before one succumbs to hypothermia, they feel overheated. Men have stripped down to nothing in the dead of winter before they die of cold,” Count Winchester pondered. Like Sir Jacques, he was a deep skeptic of anything that could not be scientifically analyzed and rationally explained. “Do you suppose it’s the same with burning? I’ve heard from a man who was tortured with a red-hot iron poker that it felt like an ice cube was being traced over his body, a trick of the mind from such intense heat and pain and burning nerve endings.”
“It stands up to reason far better than talk of ghosts,” Jacques spat the final word, shaking his head as he looked at Eleanor, making her feel foolish for offering anything. It wasn’t worth ruining the progress she had made with him.
“I cannot abide intelligent men being so willfully stupid!” Count Pierre exclaimed. He was one of the few men who had the clout and the gall to accuse the others of willful stupidity. “Miss Winchester did not even sustain any severe burns. A miracle in itself! She should have burned to a crisp! But it negates your argument that she was suffering so intensely that her mind was tricked into phantom sensations. You have an actual phantom on your hands, Jacques old boy. No so-called rational explanation satisfies all our questions. I’d bet on a lady ghost at that. Doesn’t this have all the flavor of a jealous woman about it?”
Jacques glared at his best friend, his temper smoldering.
“You’re wrong, father,” Theodore joined the conversation loudly. “Listen to Count Pierre! And to Eleanor, for Christ sakes! You’re pigheaded and refuse to see anything that doesn’t fit with your theory.”
“An electrical fire fits the facts better than anything else,” Jacques tried to keep his voice calm. He didn’t succeed. “If there are ghosts here, let them come out and set us all on fire right now.” He stood tall and held his arms out wide, inviting a challenge from any being, living or dead. “Come out, you dead bastards! Strike me down, cowards!”
Jacques’s aggression provoked Theodore, who had been bothered more deeply by the events than anyone aside from Eleanor. He jumped to his feet and shouted at Jacques, “What about mother? Was it an electrical fire that killed her too? Before there was even electricity in that room? You don’t want to think that it could be something you can’t punch unconscious, so it has to be bad wiring.” He stepped close to Jacques, too close. “If anyone is being a coward, it’s you! You’re afraid of something you can’t see and challenge to a duel. You’re afraid you won’t be able to save Eleanor like you couldn’t save mother!”
Instinct overtook Jacques and without a conscious thought, his fist was flying through the air of its own accord. Jacques slammed his right fist into Theodore’s nose, knocking his son bodily off his feet onto his back. The punch was thrown with only moderate force, not a devastating punch he could have dealt, but it was enough to knock Theordore to the brink of consciousness and cause blood to pour from his nose.
With a yelp, Katrina jumped from the couch and rushed to Theodore’s side, glaring up viciously at Jacques. In spite and retribution she looked at Jacques and told Eleanor, “This could well be you. You can do better than a man who can’t restrain his temper even with his family.”
Eleanor and Count Winchester looked on with surprise, and Pierre sighed at his friend’s faux pas. Black Billy crossed his arms over his chest haughtily and grinned. Jacques straightened and took a deep breath in an attempt to compose himself. He ran a shaking hand through his unruly hair and surveyed the room. There was nothing he could do to repair the situation at present and no point in trying to continue the evening reasonably. Instead, he chose not to say a word. He strode to where Eleanor sat on the couch, looking up at him with wide, surprised eyes. He was grateful he didn’t see fear in them, or worse, contempt. He bent enough to seize her hand, yanked it to his lips and kissed it rather roughly. There was no comfort or tenderness, but still, he forced himself to make an overture of some kind before storming away, silently telling her that he was still enamored of her. Even if he wanted to kill something with his bare hands.
Late that night when the hour was at its blackest, Jacques lay wide awake in his bed. A bed he had recently decided was too big and too cold for him to occupy alone, as he all too often did. Images from the harrowing events of the evening raced through his mind, worse now with nothing else to stimulate his thoughts. Katrina’s terrified face as she screamed for his help. His sons strained ineffectively at the door. Eleanor curled on the floor with flames roaring around her like hungry lions. The pain and dread in her sparkling eyes at her imminent death twisted his guts, but the look of hope and trust that overtook her when she saw him was also emblazoned on his memory. Emotions warred inside him, ranging from fear to relief to lust to hope, but most of all was anger. Anger boiled inside him, making his muscles taught and his pulse thunder. Anger at harm coming to the lovely young woman in his care. Anger at having no accounting as to why. And black, roiling anger at himself for being unable to prevent it.
Unable to maintain even a pretense of rest, he threw the blankets aside and shoved out of bed. Jacques slept in the nude and the feeling of the cool night air on his heated skin was invigorating after the tangle of sheets. He thought about walking outside to the pond on his grounds and plunging into the cold water for a swim. Although it had been some time since he had indulged in a late night swim, it was something he enjoyed immensely.
But that would resolve nothing.
He lit a gas lamp, pulled on a dressing gown, stepped into slippers, and left his room to expend some energy pacing his halls. He had no plan, nowhere in particular he was headed, but his feet led him along the familiar route to his study. He sank down into his chair, clamped a cigar between his teeth, and poured himself a whiskey, wishing instead it was one of the Old Fashioneds that Mr. Graham made to perfection. Yesterday’s unread copy of the Manchester Guardian sat in the center of his desk. Jacques had it delivered daily by courier. It might serve to distract him if nothing else. He looked around, thinking it would be easier to read with more light.
The gas lamp flickered on his desktop where he had set it, but his study was one of the rooms that had been converted to electricity. Theodore had bought him a fine electric reading lamp to christen the newly electrified room. It had a stained glass lampshade made to look like sunlight shining through trees, and Jacques hated to admit how much he liked it. He had used the little reading lamp daily in the past few months. He glared at it now, as if the electric lamp was in league with the nefarious electric currents that had almost killed Eleanor.
Inhaling deeply from his cigar, Jacques shifted it to the other side of his mouth and stared at the lamp. He leaned forward to study it more closely. He had never examined the workings of these new-fangled electric devices. It all still seemed like a kind of witchcraft to him. He blew a puff of smoke out around his cigar, making it bob on his lip. He traced his thick fingers along the cord where it attached to the lamp, turning the lamp upside down to get a better view. Something about the cord didn’t look correct, but he had never looked at it closely enough to pinpoint what bothered him. The length of the cord was coated in black, except where it attached to the lamp, which was only a bundle of copper wires. It looked as though the cord had been eaten at by rats, or molested by some other animal.
Motivated by curiosity more than anything else, Jacques tipped the lamp over on his table and fiddled with the injured looking cord. It still seemed to be attached, so he decided it was probably nothing. Jacques righted the lamp and took the cigar from his mouth to blow a few contemplative smoke rings. Returning the cigar to his lips, he rested his hand on the lamp’s base and pulled the little cord inside the shade to turn on the lamp.
The lightbulb exploded from an electrical surge with a pop and shocked Jacques’s hand where it touched the metal base. Sparks jumped out of the frayed cord at the base of the lamp, just enough to catch the corner of the dry newspaper aflame. Jacques jerked his hand back with a pained grunt and jumped back in his chair. Ash from his cigar fell onto his bare chest where it was exposed from his dressing gown. The newspaper burned quickly, the flames growing tall on his desktop. Jacques shot to his feet and beat them out before they got out of hand, cursing vehemently with every swat of his palms.
It was not a serious fire, but certainly enough to startle him. And he was a man used to gunfire and canon bursting around him in battle. It made him think how easily the ladies could have overreacted to the electrical fire in the painting room. Especially Eleanor being trapped inside it. She was rightfully terrified. It made more sense to him now, despite having no explanation for the door being locked from the inside. As Jacques stood leaning over his smoking desktop, the door to his study flung open. He was startled afresh to see Eleanor standing there, her chest flushed beneath her own dressing gown, and her long hair free of its pins and braids, cascading down over her breasts.
“Are you hurt?” she asked awkwardly, walking timidly into the room. “I couldn’t sleep, not after the day I had. I tend to wander when I can’t sleep. I heard you grunting and cursing in here.”
“We’re similarly afflicted.” Jacques looked down at his body, ensuring his robe hadn’t come undone during his recent calisthenics. There was no need to frighten the poor girl even more in one day. He tightened the sash of his robe and brushed some ash off his chest. He was still fuming from the lamp that now lay toppled over on his desk. As she approached his desk, he answered her unasked question gruffly, “The damned lightbulb exploded in my lamp and caught the newspaper on fire.”
As he said it, he looked up at her, worried another event with fire so soon might send her into an emotional tailspin. Women’s emotions were even more volatile than electricity. She indeed did look concerned, but then he noticed her attention was on his hands. They were blacked from the ash of the newspaper and singed mildly, but not injured. She gently took his huge hands in her dainty ones and inspected them herself to her satisfaction. Her touch was cool and silken soft on his callused hands.
“Do you think this was an accident too?” she asked, looking up at him. She didn’t mention again that she knew in her heart that the previous fire was not. “Two electrical fires in one night?”
Jacques quickly replayed the events over in his mind, allowing himself to delve to the very furthest reaches of his imagination out of courtesy for her. He recalled the image of his first wife in the flames and the feeling that accompanied it. No similar emotions had accompanied the mishap just now in his study. Now, all he wanted was to comfort her and not risk offending her again, so he restricted his reply to the present incident. “Nothing otherworldly had a hand in this. It was nothing more than an accident.”
Jacques glared at the lamp on his desk and his anger burned hotter. He grabbed the stained glass reading lamp he loved and viciously ripped the cord out of the wall. Then, for good measure, he ripped the cord out of the lamp base. He sat the lamp back down in its rightful place, intact save for its missing cord. “To hell with this blasted electricity. I can enjoy it just as well without.”
“Are you going to rip the electrical wiring out of the entire house?” she teased lightly.
“I just might.” He grinned and took her hand. “I think we’re both in need of some fresh air. Will you join me in the moonlight?”
She smiled prettily and squeezed his hand in agreement. Jacques led her through the darkened halls, aware of a somber feeling inside his home, the way a forest grows silent when a hunter fells a stag. He hadn’t noticed before that her feet were bare, so he modified his plan to accommodate her. Instead of taking her outside to the garden, he led her to a veranda that overlooked a fountain in which marble nymphs splashed an unruly satyr. Moonlight danced on the water like diamonds and the night air was just cool enough to be a pleasant reprieve from summer’s heat.
Eleanor felt the tension leaving her body as soon as she stepped outside. It must be the combination of the beautiful setting, the calming moonlight, and the best possible company. She leaned back against the outer wall of the Hall, still holding Jacques’s hand. He did the same and leaned his back against the wall beside her. He let out an indulgent groan, as if all the strife from the day was finally leaving his body.
The simple act of Jacques holding her hand in his rough paw imbued so much safety and calm into her, that she felt as though she could fall asleep right there at his side. She longed to have his arms around her fully, to feel the full measure of his strong embrace. She wondered what it would be like to have his arms at her beck and call, to command them to embrace her at her whim. They reveled in the comfort of each other under the soothing moonlight for a long while. Eleanor wondered if he had dozed off but when she looked at him, his jaw was clenched tightly, at odds with his relaxed posture.
“Penny for your thoughts?” she asked dreamily.
“I’m thinking that I should talk to your father.” He chewed his lip as he spoke, his voice hoarse from smoke.
“Whatever for?” she teased.
“You know full well.” He shook his head ruefully. “To admit defeat.”
“Regardless of my father’s position on the matter, you will still have to ask me properly,” she told him seriously.
“I thought since you’d decided things for me, that we’d dispensed with such formalities,” he laughed, lacing his fingers through hers. The shy strands of silver in his ebony hair caught the moonlight, sparkling when he moved.
“Don’t be a fool,” she scoffed, turning to look at him squarely. “You will never be dispensed with formalities such as romance so long as you are with me.”
“I am not prone to speeches or flowery words, darling.” He used the endearment for the first time strategically. It had the effect he intended when she blushed and smiled. “Shall I tell you that I have never felt so tormented? That I have never known such suffering until you walked into my life, aptly wearing devil horns?”
“That’s slightly better.” She leaned in toward him, wondering if she should kiss him, but she wanted him to take that lead.
“I know I will suffer greatly if I marry you.” He grinned at her, his warm amber eyes glinting in the dappled moonlight. “But perhaps that suffering will be less than if I do not.”
“One should always choose the path of lesser suffering,” she laughed, elated.
He swallowed thickly and chewed his lip. She was making him nervous, Eleanor realized as he looked down with uncharacteristic shyness. Without giving himself time to second guess, he pushed away from the wall and dropped to a knee in front of her. The proposal to his first wife had been more of an acknowledgement and had been done in writing. He wanted this one to be far better, for it to be real. The beaming smile that bloomed on her lips gave him all the nerve he needed.
“If I didn’t know it before tonight, I know now that I would rather face death than a life without you. I can count the times in my life I have known fear, and they are few. None has been so poignant as seeing you trapped in that flaming room.” His voice was still thick and hoarse from the smoke, catching in his throat. “I’ve never felt anything as strong as what I feel for you. Nothing I’ve ever felt before has had the power to devastate me, to undo me utterly. I am unsure if I have been the hunter or the prey in all this, but you have captured my heart regardless. I love you as I have loved no other. My heart now beats for you alone. Will you have it and me?”
“I may have loved you from our first dance, but after tonight I can have no doubts on the matter.” She smiled and ran her hand through his hair. “I can’t wait to be your wife.”
With startling suddenness, Jacques surged to his feet. He captured her in his arms and lifted her high off the ground, twirling with her excitedly and grinning like a madman. Her neck was level with his nose and he kissed it aggressively, teasing her skin with his teeth until he must surely leave a mark there for all to see. Returning her to the ground, he pushed her back against the stone wall and planted his huge palms on either side of her head, caging her inside his arms. He pressed his body against her, pinning her to the wall. He gazed down at her, triumphantly – the look of a man who had just won a battle or toppled a regime. Lust bled into his features, softening his lips until they parted and intensifying his eyes until they seemed to look into her soul. It was the first time she had felt the insistent hardness of a man, and it was much larger than she had ever assumed it would be. In contrast to that hardness, he stroked her cheek with his fingertips and his touch was full of nothing but tenderness. Slowly he brought his lips to hers and gave her her first real kiss. His lips were plush, his mouth hot, and his tongue caressing when it slipped against hers. Her arms flew around his neck, her hands tangled in his hair, and she moaned at the rush of sensations. He kissed her indulgently, savoring the taste and feel of her and every sweet noise she made. But nothing compared to the feeling of her soft welcoming body against his. He was desperate to meet her soft willingness with all of his hard insistence. His eyes were half-lidded when he finally drew back and he wore a drunken sort of grin.
“I have a demand of you as my future wife,” he said in a voice as smoky as the room that had almost claimed her life. “I will not wait until spring to have you. I want you now. You may choose an autumn or winter wedding, but I will wait no longer.”
“You are lucky, Sir Jacques, that autumn is my favorite season and that October is when I feel most alive.” She pulled him down into another kiss that was more aggressive than skilled.
“The season of the witch? Fitting.” He smiled fondly. “It’s no wonder you have bewitched me so effortlessly.”
The morning Sir Jacques’s guests were set to depart, they were all gathered for breakfast. The mood was lively and high, befitting the engagement between Jacques and Eleanor. It was as though the fire and strange events surrounding it had already faded into the distant past, the horror and fear replaced by happiness and hope. Besides not wanting to dwell on dark matters, there was much to plan in a very short time. August was nearing its end and the couple had decreed they would be married by mid-October. Sir Jacques had been in particularly high spirits, laughing easily and grinning broadly – like an idiot, according to Count Pierre.
When breakfast concluded, Sir Jacques stood from the head of the table and stopped them from adjourning. Standing tall and affecting a commanding air, he asked Count Winchester openly in front of the full company, “May I steal your daughter for an hour or so before I’m forced to part with her until our wedding?”
“I’d hate to see you break off your engagement with her because you get to know her too well before the manacles are fastened,” Count Winchester joked, but gave Jacques a look of warning. “But I suppose an hour won’t be the death of anyone.”
Jacques offered Eleanor his hand, the entire exchange making her blush furiously. He tucked her hand in the crook of her arm and led her through the Hall, walking with purpose, and out through a back entrance into the gardens. It was a beautiful midsummer morning with the rose bushes in full bloom in a cacophony of reds and pinks and the air filled with birdsong. Walking through such beauty, one could never account for the darkness Eleanor had seen and felt inside the stone walls behind her. She wondered if Jacques intended to kiss her, or more; to get something of substance from her to tide him over until they were wed. She was surprised when he didn’t linger to enjoy the garden and instead took her on a narrow path that sidestepped the hedges and flower bushes.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked curiously. The dirt path led them into trees that were unmanicured and part of the natural growth of the countryside. She was not opposed to traipsing around in the forest, but the shoes she wore were not correct for such a venture, nor for keeping pace with a fit man who stood a head taller than she.
“Something I should have shown you before all the fears of late were allowed to run rampant.” He gave her a reassuring smile.
They came to the rise of a gentle hillside and the trees thinned. Now, she could see their destination on the hilltop above them, backlit by sunlight. It was not a place in which she wanted to spend her last hour with Sir Jacques.
The Le Gris family crypt was built on top of a hill near the Hall. It was stormy grey marble, its front edifice tall and imposing. Twin dragons were seated on each side of the front face at the base of tall pillars, baring their razor teeth in a snarl to ward off enemies. Jacques let her breathe for a moment and study them before leading her inside. He struck a match to light a large torch mounted on a wall sconce just inside. Firelight danced over his features, accentuating their angles and casting a harsh and even satanic edge to his prominent nose, arched eyebrows, and eyes that gleamed like embers.
The marble interior was ivory white, accented with gold. It gleamed in the torchlight like a holy relic. It was cold inside, as one would expect inside a cave, but devoid of an icy edge. Three marble sarcophaguses lined each side of the crypt, evenly spaced. The furthest two were at the far reach of the torch, and barely visible in shadow at the far end of the crypt was a larger sarcophagus seated in the very center against the far wall. Symbols Eleanor recognized as occult could be seen scattered throughout the crypt amid the ordinary religious iconography. An all-seeing-eye engraved into a sarcophagus, an ouroboros encircling the name on a plaque, and numerous pentacles.
“Not everyone in the family shared my skepticism,” Jacques said, watching the path of her eyes. “Many Le Gris’s were members of secret societies. There have been many Templars in the line.”
Jacques placed his hand on the small of Eleanor’s back and led her slowly through the crypt. He strategically kept the torchlight away from the sarcophagus nearest the entrance, which belonged to his first wife. Eleanor read the names as they passed, Gerard, Rosaline, Nicholas, Benjamin, Georgette. The tomb at the end of the crypt sat in the very center and was of a medieval style. The lid was a life size sculpture of a huge prostate knight holding his sword. By his long hair and features, Eleanor could already identify him from the portraits she had seen as the crusader knight after whom her Jacques was named.
As she looked down upon the handsome carving, she felt an icy whisper against her ear. She jumped against Jacques, clutching his arm, making him grin down at her. She had been so focused on the knight that she hadn’t seen the open doorway in the wall behind his sarcophagus. It was utterly black inside and chilled air issued from it.
“The crypt descends many levels, some say all the way to Hell,” Jacques told her, aiming the torch at the doorway that led to the lower levels. “The most recent additions are here above ground. They are moved below successively when new tenants arrive. All except for the old Devil here. He’s laid there since the thirteenth century and will still be there when we’re all dust.”
“Why did you bring me here this morning?” Eleanor asked, hugging her arms against the chill and the naturally foreboding feeling of being inside a crypt. “It’s rather morbid, don’t you think? We’re getting married. We’re supposed to be starting our lives together. I don’t want to be surrounded by death.”
“Then we are of the same mind. That’s precisely why I brought you here.” Jacques smiled and took her hand. “I don’t believe in any of that supernatural nonsense that’s been such a topic of late. A grown man has no business believing in ghosts and ghoulies and long-legged beasties, and I don’t subscribe to it. But for you alone, darling, I’m willing to suspend that disbelief long enough to consider your position.”
“Suspend your disbelief?” Eleanor asked, unsure if she should be flattered or offended at the insinuation that her beliefs were silly and childish. “Temporarily enough to convince me to come around to your line of thinking, no doubt.”
“What more could you ask of me? I intend to further your education in a great many ways once you become my wife.” He grinned wickedly, then continued sincerely, “I wanted to bring you here, to what can only be the seat of all the spectral mischief at Wargrave Hall, to make introductions.”
“You mock me?” She pulled back her hand, crossed her arms, and glared at him.
“Perhaps, but not at the moment.” He found her temper amusing, and pointedly plucked her hand back from where she folded it in her elbow over her breast. He laced his fingers through hers, holding her hand tight so she could not retrieve it again. His deep voice echoed eerily in the stone chamber. “Most of the Le Gris’s are laid to rest here – those whose bodies were intact and available anyway, for many died violently or off fighting in faraway lands – and others are merely memorialized. As are their beloved wives and husbands who married into the family.”
“That’s lovely, but I have no intention of taking up residency here for some time,” Eleanor huffed.
“Nor do I, darling.” Jacques kissed her tense hand. “I earned a rather rakish reputation after my first wife died, I was a bachelor and I lived that lifestyle to my fullest. But I was always faithful to my wife when she was alive, and I will be eternally faithful to you. The Le Gris men are unfailingly loyal. It is a family trait that runs strong in us. And all appearances and reputations to the contrary, the Le Gris men have good hearts. Only our enemies need fear us. I tell you this, my beautiful darling, because no Le Gris would harm a member of his family. When you become my wife, you will become part of my family. Even if every ghost from this crypt haunts Wargrave Hall, none will do you any harm.” He looked at her seriously, pulled her close, and kissed her with all the tender passion he promised to give her as a husband. “There is nothing for you to fear from any Le Gris, living or dead. Not now, not ever.”
The season of the witch swept over the countryside like a wildfire, catching every leaf ablaze in hues of reds, oranges, and yellows. Autumn was the season when those wise in the ways of the old world knew that the veil was thinnest between the spirit and the corporeal worlds, and October was the pinnacle of devilry and witchcraft.
What better season for love to cast its spell over a happy couple on their wedding day?
A little chapel maintained by a friendly parson sat on the edge of the Le Gris grounds. Eleanor found it a fitting enough venue in which to have her wedding. It was an ebullient affair, filled with Jacques and Eleanor’s closest friends and family. In the spring, they would make a showing in London to satisfy those who could not attend their October nuptials on such short notice. Pierre had to be ordered not to dress in mourning garb at what he called Sir Jacques’s second funeral.
All eyes were on Eleanor when she walked down the aisle to give herself fully to the handsome knight. She had never seen him more dashing and resplendent; his hair thick and glossy, his eyes hungry, and his smile easy. She thought it a great pity that no one watched Jacques instead of her. No one would ever believe her if she told them that Jacques’s honeyed eyes glistened wet as she walked toward him; that she caught him hastily wipe some errant moisture from his cheek before taking her hands in his.
The golden hour of an autumn sunset bore witness to the first kiss between man and wife. The guests in attendance clapped and cheered, even if Sir Jacques kissed his bride a bit too passionately for decency. Katrina caught the bouquet, making Theordore’s heart race with anticipation as he pondered the implication. Laughter rang when Count Winchester interrupted the couple’s dance to ask if he could cut in. When Jacques gallantly agreed, the father of the bride pulled Jacques into a dance instead, much to the amusement of all.
Many looks were exchanged in acknowledgement of the ardor the couple shared, which was apparent not only in the way they kissed and kissed during the reception at Wargrave Hall but more so in the way they looked at one another throughout the day and long into the evening.
Even more so than Sir Jacques wanted his bride’s wedding day to be beautiful, he did everything within his considerable power to ensure her wedding night was magical. He didn’t rush her during the reception, despite wanting to take her right then and there. Although he had not voiced it aloud nor shared it with her, Jacques had made a vow to be a better husband his second time around. He considered himself a good husband, devoted and loyal. He vowed to be those things again for Eleanor, but to also be more romantic and loving. He had learned those were traits that required conscious effort and a bit of labor, and he vowed to make that effort valiantly.
When Eleanor finally inquired of him when they should retire, he swept her out of the reception so quickly that they failed to make all the appropriate salutations. Not that it mattered greatly, the guests had all come to Jacques’s mansion for a long weekend of celebration. At the base of the staircase, he lifted her into his arms as she laughed happily and bounded up the stairs with nary a step impaired. He was such a powerful man that although she was voluptuous, he made her feel light as a feather and tiny in his arms.
At the door to their bedroom, Jacques turned the knob then playfully kicked the door open in homage to the night he saved her life. She had never been inside the bedroom she would share with him, and she was pleasantly struck by its majesty. A welcoming spiced perfume with notes of cinnamon and orange scented the air, and she appreciated the attention to that detail. Eleanor noted the bedroom was not outfitted with electricity, and for this occasion, it was lit only by candles instead of gas lamps. Flickering golden light emanating from dozens of candles illuminated the room. The dancing hue of firelight blended with moonlight streaming in through expansive windows, their heavy brocade drapes tied open. An opulent bouquet of crimson red roses sat on the enormous admiral’s style desk that was positioned near the windows, perfect for Jacques to keep watch over the grounds of his imposing estate while seated behind it. The circumference of the bouquet was so large that Jacques probably could not wrap his arms around it.
The room itself was lavish and decadent with a color scheme of blue and gold. Even the vaulted ceilings were patterned in three-dimensional crown molding. The streaked marble floor was a few shades darker than the marble that formed a grand fireplace and mantle. A blooming fire filled the room with its glow and the soothing sounds of its crackles and sparks. Of course, the centerpiece was the bed. It could have been a trick of the romantic lighting, but the bed looked so large that she suspected Jacques had it built to larger specifications. It was a canopy style with carved walnut pillars. Matching the drapes in form, the canopy, too, was tied open, draping elegantly around the pillars.
While Eleanor’s eyes feasted on every detail and nuance of the room, Jacques strode to his desk. He made quick work of undoing the buttons on his waistcoat as he walked and loosened the cravat at his throat. Shrugging his jacket away from his broad shoulders and following with his waistcoat, he draped both over the back of the leather chesterfield chair that sat behind his desk. He studied the large bouquet as he untied his cravat. With care, he selected the finest scarlet rose he could find and walked to his bride.
Holding the rose out for Eleanor’s approval, he smiled as she leaned forward to inhale its perfume. He stepped closer to her until only inches separated their bodies. Instead of lowering the rose, he brought it to her lips and traced the silky petal over the bow of her pout.
“Did you know roses are my favorite flower,” she asked him, surprised to hear the husky notes in her voice.
“So my spies informed me.” He grinned handsomely. “Do you know my favorite flower? It is one with velvet petals and silky dew that blooms from a skillful touch in the darkest hours of the night.”
“My flower is yours to pluck tonight,” she told him, unable to disguise her nervousness. She was elated, but frightened too, for she knew he must hurt her.
“Are you ready to bloom for me?” He traced the rose down from her lips to her chest and down between her breasts. “I will wait, if you ask it of me. But tell me now, before I get drunk on you and lose all reason.”
She breathed deep the masculine scent of his body so near hers and felt the heat of him. His entire presence steadied her nerves and she swayed toward him, resting her hands on his enormous chest. Her voice was a whisper when she told him, “Make me yours.”
Jacques let the rose fall away and kissed her deep and slow, taking his time and relishing in the feeling of his lips on hers, patiently igniting the fuse of her desire. He moved with the same unhurried deliberate way when he unbuttoned his shirt. Jacques knew he had an impressive physique, and that his chest was one of his best features. In his experience his chest was what women liked best about him. Until they explored lower.
Still kissing her, he took her hands and placed them on its wide expanse. It was she who broke their kiss to push his shirt fully away and admire his broad and powerful torso. She ran her hands over the dense planes and ridges of muscle, feeling it firm as marble under her touch. His pale skin was decorated with a spattering of scars that her fingers found and traced. Jacques didn’t direct her and let her hands wander where she wanted. He was pleased to see how she delighted in his body, and he would use all of it to give her pleasure. A deep groan escaped his throat when her hand skimmed downward, following the line above one of his hips to palm the hard length of him through his trousers.
She clumsily worked his pants open, eager to see what all the fuss was about and if a man’s cock was worth all the curiosity she and her friends devoted to it. She dipped her hand inside his trousers, felt the hard hot length of him, and gasped. She had not expected him to be so large, and a new stab of trepidation hit her when she tried to close her hand around his girth.
“You’re going to tear me apart with this monstrosity.” She meant it to be teasing, but her voice betrayed her nerves.
“I promise my cock will drive you mad once you’re accustomed to me,” Jacques growled, descending into deeper passion. “You are woefully overdressed, darling.”
He turned her somewhat roughly to face away from him and began undoing the laces of her dress. With an effort, he calmed himself, reining himself back from the wild passion of wanting to ravage her senseless. He would take his time, he reminded himself. He was a good lover, and he knew it. His wife deserved his skill and his patience, and romance on her wedding night.
With care, he removed the pins from her hair so it hung down her back in a long auburn wave. He took a fistful of luxurious hair, tugging it in a way he knew gave a woman pleasure and leaned down to inhale its fragrance before attaching his lips to the delicate skin of her neck. While he unlaced her dress and undergarments, he licked and kissed and nipped her until his goatee had rubbed her porcelain skin red and she was mewing like a kitten.
Warm strong hands and long thick fingers caressed her as Jacques pushed her dress down her body and away from her to pool at her feet. Her back arched when his fingers trailed back up her thighs. Pressing her shoulders back against his broad chest, she felt it expand impossibly further as he breathed in her scent, pressing his large nose against her neck behind her jaw while he continued to kiss and lick at her skin. His left hand smoothed up the front of her body to her breast, teasing her nipple until it peaked with arousal. His right hand caressed her thigh, moving almost sneakily between her legs. He was pleased when his fingers slipped through the wet heat that had already collected there.
“You’re dripping for me, darling.” His deep voice thrummed through her entire body down to whirl in her abdomen. She inhaled sharply when he slowly pushed a thick finger into her.
She thought she felt very full, but pleasantly so. He seemed to distract her with those disarming kisses on her neck as he inserted a second finger alongside the first, making her gasp. She had never been so full and felt on the brink of pain. Certainly, the experimenting she had done with her own fingers couldn’t compare to what he was doing to her now. He pumped his fingers slowly and curled them, spreading her open and relaxing her. The initial brief pain had given way to pleasure as his thick fingers stroked against delicious places inside her she didn’t know existed. She moaned again, unable to stop herself, and bucked her hips against his hand involuntarily.
Feeling she was ready to take him, Jacques withdrew his hand, much to her displeasure. He lifted her into a bridal carry only to lower her gently down onto the bed. He shoved his trousers down his muscular thighs and paused beside the bed before joining her on it. Jacques took a lingering moment to admire the sight of his bride laid bare beneath him. He had never seen anything so beautiful; it was as though Aphrodite lay in his bed with long fiery hair splayed out beneath her and bright icy eyes gazing up at him. Her breasts were high and full, her waist tiny and nipped, her ass round and shapely; he thought even her pussy was beautiful, glistening in the candlelight and flushed as pink as a rose with her arousal, a flower blooming for him alone. And she was his. Her flower was his to pluck and keep forever.
“Nothing has ever compared to you,” Jacques purred honestly as he lowered himself over her, planting his hands on either side of her waist.
Dropping his head, he brought his lips to her breast. Lingering on her nipple, his tongue swirled around its peak while he sucked it lightly. He then trailed his mouth slowly down her body, traveling lower with every wet kiss. He paused to grin up at her and meet her eyes as he placed a hot wet kiss to the top of her pussy. Her legs trembled as he lifted them over his shoulders and settled between them. Wanting to taste the nectar of her, he parted her with a swipe of his tongue and kissed at her swollen lips.
“You’re a delicacy, darling,” Jacques groaned into her.
Eleanor had never felt anything like when Jacques licked into her. It was pure bliss, enough to render her incoherent, and he elicited it so easily with the strokes of his ardent tongue. Her hands quickly found themselves tangled in his thick mane as her hips bucked subtly against his face of their own accord. His amber eyes held hers in a burning gaze, only briefly falling shut when he savored the taste of her, as he worked her toward the edge of a chasm of pleasure.
She thought his appearance dangerous and intimidating, which she found deeply desirous. Merely the sight alone, of this dangerous and powerful man with his devilishly handsome face between her thighs, was enough to push her over the precipice. A rush of heat flooded her as she came on Jacques’s hungry lips and ardent tongue. He kissed and licked her ravenously, extending her pleasure as long as he could until her quivering subsided. Jacques gave her a reprieve by kissing her soft inner thigh, looking up at her and smiling proudly as her thighs trembled on either side of his head.
Eleanor felt boneless as he crawled back up her body, moving over her and caging her inside his muscled arms. His weight threatened to crush her when he lowered his body over hers, but she found she liked the feel of his weight on her. She was so lost in a delirious afterglow that she didn’t notice him positioning himself until she felt his thick cock nudge against her entrance. He felt impossibly large, too large. She clawed his back harshly and cried out with pain when he thrust inside her, forceful enough to tear through the resistance of her body with his first firm thrust.
Groaning with pleasure, Jacques seated himself fully inside her then rocked his hips gently and kissed her tenderly, trying to alleviate the pain he knew he caused her. There was nothing for it, she would have to get used to the size of him. Even after he rendered her as limp as a ragdoll and dripping with arousal, he could feel how intensely he stretched her. He had been too large for women in the past, and he was greatly relieved that she could take him even on her first experience. Every muscle in his body was taught with restraint as he forced himself to keep his thrusts shallow and easy, a difficult task when he wanted to lose himself in her. He knew that would be too much for her on her first night as his wife, that she couldn’t yet take him if he went at her with all his unrestrained passion.
He kissed her softly and nuzzled her cheek with his prominent nose until he felt some of the pained rigidity leave her body. He didn’t think he could make her cum again this night, but still he angled his cock in the way he knew would give a woman the most pleasure as he chased his own release as gently as he possibly could. Soon, he felt her moving in time with him and his heart filled with pride. There was still pain, but slowly Jacques built her pleasure up again until the agony from wanting release was more than the deep ache she felt from Jacques splitting her open. With the pain were sparks of pure bliss that shot through her with every thrust.
“Cum for me, darling,” Jacques growled deep and rich, burying his face in her hair. “I want to feel my wife cum all over my cock.”
As if at his command, she came a second time in heady waves of pleasure. An incoherent whine escaped her lips, an unexpected mix of searing pain and exquisite pleasure. Her pleasure bled into Jacques, pulling him over the precipice with her into an abyss of ecstasy. His eyes were crazed with lust, his lips curled in a feral grin, his hair a wild tangle. Jacques threw his head back, looking up at the ceiling like a wolf howling at the moon, similarly groaning long and low as he emptied himself inside her.
As Eleanor’s high subsided, the pain returned with a sharper edge. She felt him soften inside her and the weight of his relaxed body on hers was comforting, as were the soothing kisses he lavished on her neck. Caressing her with his lips, he silently praised and adored her until he finally rolled off her to lay beside her on his back. He pulled her onto his chest and wrapped his arms around her. She had dreamed of being held like this, of resting her head on his pillowy chest. She found the real experience to be far superior to her fantasies.
Raising her head from his chest, she propped herself up beside him and traced a pattern on his skin with her fingernails. His large hand stroked her back gently as he watched her with a soft smile.
“Are you pleased with me?” she asked, although she knew the answer with certainty.
“I realize now that I have never before known either happiness or pleasure until you, my beautiful darling,” Jacques promised with only very slight exaggeration. Smiling up at her, his eyes glimmered in the firelight, shining with reverence and unadulterated love.
As Jacques held her and drifted toward sleep, he began to wonder privately. Pascal’s wager, he remembered her saying. He loved Eleanor fiercely. Fiercely enough to suspend his pride and consider there were things in this world beyond his comprehension. He owed it to her to do his best to be prepared against any threat, corporeal or supernatural. Above all else, a husband’s duty is to protect his wife.
Warnings: NSFW. Humor. Romance. Soulmates. Violence. Non-Con Elements. Physical Aggression Toward Reader. Possessive and Jealous Behavior. Dominant Men. Bitchy Women. Conniving Wizards. Drugging - Kids today might call it Sex Pollen. Confusion. Duplicity. Bestiality. Orgies. Cuckolding. Exhibitionism. Misogyny. Old Timey Sexism. Toxic Men. Jacques/Pierre Canon as Developed by Silky and Myself aka Shithead Behavior. Bastardization of Shakesperean Tropes. Misuse of Shakespearean Quotes, try to count them all. Fear Not, No Attempts at Ye Olde English Contained Herein. ☠️Rey☠️
Don’t let the warnings scare you! This is Romance and Comedy.
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Author’s Note: Here’s a fic for my gorgeous bestie and sister witch, @in-silks-and-flesh-and-leather Let’s all celebrate her birthday and another @writer-wednesday in style with some patented Jacques and Pierre shenanigans!
This also expands my Wicked Fairytale Series where I give my own twisted twist to the classics, like Cinderella , Beauty & The Beast , and A Christmas Carol.
Author’s Note: Here is the opening to a big novel-length story I’ve been writing for myself. It seemed fun to share for @writer-wednesday If there is much interest, I will share more of it. It’s Gunfighter Flip and a modern Stuntman Mills AU. The Gunfighter Flip story is mostly horror and angst. The Stuntman Mills story is mostly adventure and romance. Edits my the amazing @kyloremus
Warnings: NSFW. Action. Smut. Violence. Blood. Hot Toxic Masculinity. Enemies to Lovers. Idiots in Love. The following warnings occur in a simulation in the story, so not really warnings, but just in case. Injuries to Reader and Mills. Alien Violence. Violence Against Children.
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Author’s Note: Let's run a competitive combat drill with Commander Mills! This is really just a lot of the self indulgent bs I like. Mills is named Nicholas in my canon and he's a fun cocky bastard here.
This is part of a big Mills story I'm working on that I'll post eventually, but this was also fun as a vignette. For purposes of this vignette, this sounds like the beginning because I’m incapable of just jumping into something without context, but it won’t be in beginning of the bigger fic.
A stout blonde knight in full body plate armor stood seven feet away from you on the tournament field. He was not wearing a helmet, letting you clearly see his ugly belligerent face and terrible mullet. Like you, he was sweating and breathing heavily, sounding like a snorting hog at this point in your battle. His sword and yours both lay broken and discarded somewhere on the field, along with each of your splintered shields. His last weapon was a long, vicious dagger, which he held in his right hand. You were armed with the same weapon, and you drew it now. Sunlight glinted off the sharp point of your dagger as you tested its weight and balance in your hand. Hundreds of peasants in the stands cheered.
The knight had bested you so far at swordplay, but he had lived on the wrong continent to benefit from martial arts and elite hand-to-hand combat training as you had. The knight squinted his beady eyes at you and charged, dagger slashing toward your throat from the side. You ducked below his sideways slash, you were more agile than the knight if not more powerful. You straightened as his arm passed over your head and immediately used your dagger to block his retaliatory backswing.
The daggers sparked with the clang of metal on metal, and you instantly struck a ferocious left elbow to the knight’s exposed jaw. Blood spewed from his mouth and he was momentarily dazed, his mouth hanging open from the broken hinge of his jaw. It was just the opening you needed. You reversed your left hand in an open bearpaw strike to his face with all your force behind it. You hooked your thumb under his pig nose when your strike landed, driving the sharp nasal bones straight up into his brain. It was a killing strike that required precise placement but relatively little force. The knight collapsed to the ground instantly, as quick as if you had shot him right between the eyes, convulsing and twitching spasmodically.
“Combat training session number sixty-nine, level eight complete,” the pleasant feminine voice of the ship’s artificial intelligence informed you. “Do you want to proceed to the next level?”
Years in stasis took its toll on a body. Even if you awoke quote ‘healthy,’ there were always physiological issues and side effects that came from being under for a prolonged period of time. Waking up from a relaxing nap that lingered too long or coming out from under anesthesia after a medical procedure could be hell, but that was nothing compared to a long-term stint in stasis. It was due to the body’s natural recovery and re-acclimation period that every human aboard the ship Artemis was awakened three months before reaching their final destination.
That and the equally paramount concern of forming positive relationships with the other people aboard. This was often the trickiest part of such a long-term and large-scale mission, and the component that was least predictable despite the most impressive science available. Even the most predictable psychological profiles could grow deviant under such conditions.
The planet toward which your ship, the Artemis, flew was cerulean blue and inviting, encircled by azure and golden rings like Saturn but far more beautiful. It had been dubbed Olympus by the man who discovered it due to its ethereal visage that made it look like home to the gods. Also, because it may indeed be home to the architects of your home planet, as tantamount to living gods as anything mankind had discovered.
The man who made the discovery of both the planet and the evidence of its possible inhabitants was the CEO of the largest mining company on Earth who had the authority to drill into the very heart of the planet. It was there, hidden in the depths of what Dante would have labeled a Circle of Hell that he had discovered a ‘map,’ more ancient than any human artifact, that detailed a chart of the universe far more thorough than anything NASA had ever dreamed. Using this map and his almost limitless resources, the man had discovered Olympus and had mounted an unprecedented expedition to discover her secrets.
That man was your father. He was now too advanced in years to take part on the mission into the unknown, so he sent the future CEO of his trillion-dollar company, his first in command. You.
The months-long final approach to Olympus was the perfect opportunity to get in peak physical condition. A new, unexplored planet held infinite possibilities for what one may encounter, from environment to wildlife to populace. Most of those possibilities, likelihoods even, were frightening. Even the best scientific estimates were only fancy guesses, and no one really knew what to expect when you landed on Olympus. The best anyone could do was to be as prepared as possible, both mentally and physically, which included being in your best physical condition. You spent long hours in the gym each day, both to hone your physique and your combat skills. It also served as a valid excuse to avoid obligatory interpersonal interactions and as a useful distraction from matters that had become far too intrusive in your thoughts.
Besides, it would take you years to work through every combat training simulation programmed into the ship’s computer. And you had to admit, you enjoyed shooting aliens, slicing samurais, and kicking that ugly knight’s ass every time.
Nicholas Mills was pissed. He was the Mission Commander and the pilot. He was the man in charge of any and every decision involving flight or course, and every military action or inaction once on-planet. He should be head of the whole fucking mission, but this was a private expedition, not a miliary campaign, and he had been hired by a CEO with too much money. Mills was a hired hand, and he resented the fuck out of it. This is what his life had come to after earning more bars on his chest than most generals, because of one fated military transport mission that had literally crashed and burned with him at the helm. Mills used to hate mercenaries, and now he was one himself.
But by God, the things that were under his purview, his control, he was still the Commander, and he didn’t take it lightly when someone usurped his authority. It was fast becoming a problem on this particular expedition, due to one intrusive source.
“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Mills boomed as he burst through the door into the combat simulator. At his intrusion, the drama that had been unfolding in an alien landscape of immersive three-dimensional holograms and virtual reality sizzled like static on a tv screen and then evaporated. The room was plunged back into its dimly lit innocuous gray walls and black foamy training mat underfoot. A rack of weapons that interfaced with the program and were otherwise impotent hung on the wall by the entrance.
“Now?” you huffed angrily. You had spent the morning training in virtual combat and scaling obstacles in the landscape, only to be interrupted now near the end of your programmed mission. You were sweaty and sore and entirely not in the mood for Mills and the omnipresent chip on his shoulder. “Right now, I’m getting ready to reprimand a subordinate.”
“Subordinate?” Mills scoffed, stalking close to you with his chest puffed in an aggressive display of posturing. “Honey, I’m the highest ranking officer here and nobody’s fucking subordinate.”
“Did you come here to debate semantics?” you postured just as belligerently, stepping close to him, unintimidated. “I would say that every man, woman, and animal on my payroll is my subordinate.”
“Animal, huh?” Mills glared at you, his jaw clenching and a little aggravated twitch jumping beneath his left eye. “I’ll agree I may be your beast of fucking burden since you’re technically the boss of this expedition, but I’m damn sure not your subordinate.”
“What was that?” You leaned in toward him, sarcastically raising a hand to cup your ear. “What did you call me exactly? I didn’t quite hear you.”
Mills continued glaring at you. Silently.
“Did you call me the boss?” Now, you smiled icily. “I’m glad you at least understand that simple concept. Yes, Commander, I am the boss.”
“I don’t give a damn what little pet names you like, you have no business overriding my flight commands.” Mills took another step closer to you, his amber eyes ferociously boring into yours. “You altered my course on approach to Olympus. I spent weeks charting the best course before we disembarked. Not to mention your proposed course will take us an extra two weeks to navigate. That impacts every resource on this ship, fuel included.”
“Your charted course takes us through an asteroid belt,” you accused and continued cruelly. “Didn’t you learn about flying too close to asteroids a couple years ago? I seem to recall hearing something about that.”
Mills glared at you for a long moment before releasing a controlled breath. “That was an undocumented field that my ship didn’t detect. This is totally different. I know it’s out there and where every rock is. I can fly through anything, including a known asteroid field. It’s cake.”
“I, for one, prefer my cake without large chunks of debris inside it.” You turned back to re-engage your combat training. “And since I am the boss and the owner of this ship, my preference is the one we will be abiding.”
Mills grabbed your arm, stopping you from walking away from him, and spun you roughly back around to face him. He leaned toward you and his deep voice was gravely. “I know what it’s like to have a ship full of deaths on your conscience because of a mistake. Believe me, Boss, you never want to know what that feels like.”
“I’d also prefer living a nice long life without knowing what it feels like to be blown to smithereens by flying into an asteroid.” You glared right back at him, meeting his eyes confidently.
“You hired me for a reason,” Mills growled, changing his tactic. “I did my homework and I charted the best course. You hired the best man for this job and you better fucking listen to him. I’m right.”
“I don’t take orders. I barely take suggestions.” You smirked and cocked an eyebrow. “Occasionally, I’ll make an exception in bed.”
“You want me to prove I’m man enough for you, is that it?” Mills smirked too, issuing a challenge he assumed you wouldn’t meet.
“I do enjoy some good old-fashioned chest pounding.” You looked around the stark simulator room, thinking. “There are thousands of scenarios based on what we know of the planet we’re orbiting. The simulator imagines all possible types of hostile alien species that we might encounter. And then for training purposes, creates a survival mission.”
“I know what it does, Boss. Haven’t you checked who’s in the top marks in the simulator’s history?” Mills quipped, intentionally flexing his massive chest and taking note when you watched hungrily. “I’ll give you credit, though. You do alright on the girly levels.”
“Girly levels?” you laughed angrily. “I train on levels seven and eight out of ten.”
“Isn’t that cute,” he said nonchalantly with every intention of poking you. You felt your skin heat with indignance as your eyes seared into his. Mills let his eyes trail down your body and then back to hold yours. “You sure are pretty when you’re mad.”
“If I’m pretty when I’m mad then you must want to be fucking dazzled, Mills.” You narrowed your eyes at him and addressed the computer. “Run combat drill, level ten.”
“Loading combat drill for two participants, level ten,” the pleasant voice replied.
“So, you like it rough, huh Boss?” Mills prodded you as he walked to the weapons rack and grabbed you each a blaster.
“I’m waiting to be impressed, Commander,” you told him as you took one of the blasters. The room around you began to transform into a dense green jungle as the program initiated, complete with the sounds of birds, insects, and the current of a distant river. You adjusted the watch on your wrist that interfaced with the ship’s computer.
“Hmmm,” he gave you a rich bedroom growl and cocked his blaster. “I’d never want to keep a girl like you waiting.”
“How shall we play, Commander?” you asked, adding a sultrily teasing lilt to your voice, intentionally pulling his focus away from where he needed it most for the simulation. You noted with pride when he shifted on his feet and cleared his throat. “Whoever makes the most kills wins?”
“If you can even make it to the finish line on level ten without an endgame wound, I’ll count that as a win in your corner.” Mills reached into his pocket and retrieved a cigar as thick as his finger.
“Ready to begin?” the computer asked.
Locking eyes with Mills, you both stated “Ready” at the same time.
Mills bit down on the butt of his cigar and smirked around it at you. There was rustling in the bushes beside you both. “I’ll play however the pretty girl wants.”
The jungle materialized fully and you were immersed in the world of the simulation, every sight and sound as real as if you were living it. You and Mills stood in an Amazonian jungle, claustrophobic with vegetation. The ground underfoot was mud the consistency of oatmeal. The sky above was bright crystal blue. In the jungle around you, the enemies were unknown and innumerable. In this drill, the enemy would attack until you completed the mission by reaching an escape pod.
An alien creature that looked something like a purple-black velociraptor with four legs and a bifurcated whipping tail leapt at you out of the trees from behind, too sudden and too fast for you to react in time. Mills yanked his blaster up to his shoulder as fast as a striking snake, firing a shot right past your ear into the open mouth of the alien. Its head exploded, splattering you both with black blood.
“Impressed yet, gorgeous?” Mills winked at you as a black droplet of alien blood ran down his cheek. Still holding his blaster by the grip with his thick forefinger resting on the trigger guard, he tipped the barrel back onto his right shoulder. “No? It’s only fair that I spot you one. Now, you better move that perfect ass of yours.”
A few steps into the jungle and there was a rush of bodies through foliage. You were prepared this time as a pair of the same dark alien creatures charged out of the bushes, gnashing their razored jaws and whipping their bifurcated tails. You had your blaster to your shoulder just as fast as Mills this time, and you were a millisecond faster on the trigger because you had less of an arc to swing onto the lunging bodies. Your first shot tore through the open mouth of the lead animal. Without even waiting to see its stride falter, you sighted on the second and sent a blast straight through its red eyeball.
“I like my game better.” You winked back at him, mocking his cocky flirtation. You now had two kills to his one. “Try to keep up, big boy.”
You walked abreast through the dense jungle, each of you alert to the smallest sights and sounds, your every sense on edge. Although competitive, you each trusted the other’s formidable skill in combat situations. You inherently trusted Mills, even if you didn’t show it – it felt oddly comforting to place your life in his massive hands. Mills’ prowess on the battlefield was almost unmatched, but it was his twenty-ten vision, preternatural reflexes, and predatory hand-eye coordination that secured him a seat in the cockpit of the finest spacecraft money could build, pioneering the most adventurous exploration in human history. You had read his military history, studied it like a collegiate textbook. Mills’ dishonorable discharge after the fallout of his infamous crash was a blemish on his impressive record, but it was a singular event and it did little to overshadow his legion of other remarkable accomplishments. Mills was a war machine, highly trained and battle-hardened. It gave you a searing flush of pride that was almost erotic when you realized that he was not watching you closely or double checking your gear or the way you handled your blaster – Mills trusted his life to you too, and that was perhaps the finest compliment he could ever pay you.
The sounds of animal life filled the jungle, behind, in front, beside, all around you. Most of the noises were alien to your ears, impossible to know if they were dangerous or innocuous. You and Mills followed a more open section of the jungle, a kind of path through the denser foliage that filtered you onward through the program toward your goal of locating your escape pod. Close ahead was the sound of rushing water. Mills pushed ahead of you, following his natural instinct to put himself between you and any oncoming danger.
“If something jumps out at us, I don’t want you to botch it,” Mills teased to minimize his natural chivalry.
“Trying to make excuses ahead of time for when you lose?” you challenged to his broad back.
“Nah.” He shook his head pausing in his navigation of the jungle to turn around and beam at you with amusement, his eyes as warm on your face as the morning sun. “I’m just playing the long game.”
“The long game?” you scoffed. “Can you think that far ahead?”
“I figure you’ll be in a better mood if you win.” Mills shifted his cigar, grinning lasciviously. “Maybe you’ll want to celebrate. Maybe I’ll get lucky.”
“Your luck is notoriously bad, Commander.” You smiled wickedly. “You really think I’d get involved with a subordinate?”
“Good thing I’m not a subordinate.” He picked up his pace, easily making you jog to keep up with his long strides.
The jungle ended in a small clearing with a rock ledge that overlooked a rushing river fifty feet below. A treacherous looking rope bridge was strung across the river, anchored to the sturdiest trees on both sides. Wooden slats were strewn haphazardly between the rope sides, offering a widely spaced and rickety morse code of steps across the chasm. It looked like something from one of those old campy adventure movies your parents made you watch as a kid, the kind with rugged men who snapped bullwhips and wore torn-open shirts.
“This looks promising,” you deadpanned, skeptically eyeing the bridge.
“Ready to get nice and wet?” Mills quipped, enjoying the sight of you bristle at his double entendre.
“We couldn’t survive a fall into that river?” It was more of a question than a statement, and you looked down over the edge at the rushing, white-crested current.
“Level ten is meant to kill you unless you get lucky, and I never did have the best luck.” Mills joined you at the edge. He pointed to an eddy that was a darker blue than the rest of the river, indicating greater depth. “That’s the spot to aim for if we have to take the plunge. Be sure to hit feet first. Better a broken leg than a broken back.”
“Very helpful,” you said sarcastically. Even though it was a simulation, your pulse thundered and your mouth went dry. Your palm was slick with sweat on the grip of your blaster.
“I try.” Mills grinned around his cigar, shifting it from one side of his mouth to the other. He gestured to the bridge. “Ladies first.”
“How chivalrous of you,” you sniped, narrowing your eyes at him.
“It is, actually.” Mills used the barrel of his blaster to point out at the frayed rope and missing slats in the center of the bridge. “I’m a heavy bastard. The bridge is a lot more likely to fall apart under me. Don’t you want a chance to get across first?”
He was right, but you still rolled your eyes before stepping up the bridge. You hesitated a moment, deciding whether to sling your blaster over one shoulder, which was less secure but would enable you to raise it quickly, or to sling it across your back, which made it impossible to drop but slow to bring into a firing position if needed. Mills guessed your conundrum and assured you, “I’ll cover you, Boss.”
Securing your blaster across your back with the sling crossing over your chest between your breasts, you tentatively stepped onto the first splintered wooden rung. After only a few steps, the rope bridge began to swing and bob precariously under your weight. The remaining boards were spaced far apart, forcing you to stretch out to reach some and hop across a gap to reach others. All that remained of some of the broken slats were splintered ends that would fray any flesh that was unlucky enough to catch on them during a fall. Fifty feet below you, the river churned in deadly rapids.
A shrill screech filled the air above you accompanied by the slicing of wings through air.
“Incoming!” Mills roared as he shouldered his blaster and bowed backward to train his gun high up into the air. Mills fired almost instantly and a flying black creature with a long pointed snout fell out of the sky, its leathery bat wings drawn into its body in death like a diving falcon. The creature’s large body fell so close to you that you felt the air move around you and the bridge swayed dangerously.
You fumbled with pulling your blaster sling back over your head to ready your own weapon as Mills shot again, sending another creature tumbling down. The bridge bucked under your feet from your flailing movement.
“Four,” Mills shouted, counting out his number of kills as the third flying alien fell from his shot. “Keep moving!”
Blaster in hand, you hurried further out onto the bridge. You took aim at the flying alien closest to you and fired, killing it instantly, sending it falling down to splash in the river far below. You mentally counted three and kept moving. The bridge was ricketier with every step. The wooden slats were crumbing away and the ropes were fraying, unraveling right before your eyes.
“Five!” Mills called as another creature fell down toward the river.
You looked up just in time to see the enormous black body falling toward you like a missile. You couldn’t dodge it on the uncertain bridge, but you raised your blaster to block the impact. The creature struck your blaster on its plummet, knocking you down hard against the wooden slats. The slat beneath you broke in half into ragged splinters and your leg shot through the new opening, making you fall down to one knee with the other leg dangling through the hole in the bridge. You tried to pull your leg back out, but your pants caught on the splintered edges and tore. You gasped when the splinters cut into your skin and blood flowed down your leg. You pulled harder, but the splinters only impaled you deeper. You couldn’t pull your leg free without breaking off half the splintered slat inside the meat of your leg. The injury wasn’t real and would be gone when the simulation ended, but the pain was real. Pain was a great training mechanism for humans and animals alike.
“Damnit to hell!” Mills growled at your predicament. He stopped himself before following his instinct to run straight to your rescue. “Wait, I’m ahead. If I just let you fall through and take a little dip, I’ll win our game right now.”
“Yes, and I’ll be in a wonderful mood after that. Think wisely, Mills!” you shouted, struggling to free your leg. “Besides, you’re one of those meat-headed hero types. If you let me fall, guilt will eat you up over not saving the damsel in distress.”
“I can’t argue that I’d rather fight aliens than deal with one of your nasty moods,” Mills grumbled and ran out onto the bridge, unconcerned about the way it lurched dangerously under his heavy weight. He shot another flying alien as he dashed toward you. The bridge swung and bounced under him, making the splinters dig deeper into you.
Mills shouldered his blaster and dropped to his knees beside you. The bridge swayed and the slats that now supported both of you groaned like dying animals. Mills grabbed the broken slat that impaled you and broke it off from the bridge, tossing it away. He quickly plucked out the biggest pieces from your thigh and pulled you to him, lifting you back up fully onto the bridge and incidentally into his arms. His voice was gravelly when he looked at your bloody leg. “Can you walk?”
“Of course,” you huffed and shoved up to your feet. Your leg stung like hell, but you could manage. You looked down at Mills, still on his knees, and forced a smile. “Waiting on you now, Commander.”
“Sure, Boss.” He smiled at you genuinely and pushed up from the bridge floor. Two slats broke beneath him with a crack like a gunshot, and he fell through the new opening. Mills caught a remaining rung, stopping his fall when his chest was level with the bottom of the bridge, his lower body hanging free and long legs kicking wildly in thin air. He grunted with effort as he began to haul himself back onto the bridge. The slat he held creaked portentously.
You rushed to help pull Mills up as he had just done for you, but movement below caught your eye. In the river, sitting in the calm eddy Mills had pointed out to you, was a pair of yellow eyes the size of basketballs, their slitted pupils focused on Mills’ dangling legs. You stopped cold. Before you knew what was happening, the creature shot out of the water, jumping up toward Mills. It was an enormous crocodilian animal with short horns decorating its brows and skull. Water cascaded off its scales as it flew up at Mills like a dolphin jumping up to snatch a fish. Mills jerked his legs up into a cannonball position as the creature bit at him. Its jaws filled with teeth as large as railroad spikes snapped closed inches below Mills’ boots. The leviathan fell back into the river with a torrential splash.
“See what being a hero gets you?” you asked sarcastically as your mind raced.
“Take your sweet time!” Mills growled at you, as he struggled to haul himself back up onto the crumbling bridge.
“Patience is a virtue,” you said with equal mockery. You shouldered your blaster and aimed it down at the creature as it readied itself for another jump at Mills’ legs.
“Not right now it fucking isn’t!” He kicked his legs as he hoisted himself onto the bridge.
Before Mills could draw his own blaster, the creature jumped again. You had it centered in your sights, but you waited a heartbeat longer until those deadly jaws opened wide. You fired straight down into the creature’s open mouth, down into its vulnerable pink throat. You fired again and again on automatic fire as blood erupted in the creature’s mouth and spewed upward in a fountain of gore. The creature growled in pain, gurgling through the blood gushing down its throat, as it collapsed back into the river. The animal thrashed like a dying fish, turning the river water red with blood and white with foam. Mills staggered to his feet beside you and watched the splashing death throes of the animal for a moment before pushing you on ahead of him across the bridge.
Firm ground beneath your feet had never felt so good. Almost as good as the huge hand Mills placed on your back when he stood beside you, just to ensure himself that you were safe and sound. This side of the river was home to a pink flowering tree, its branches hanging down low near Mills’ head. You looked at him, haughtily raising your chin and cocking an eyebrow. Your unspoken sentiment was clear. You saved his ass and made the bigger kill.
“It still just counts as one,” Mills grumbled, fully taking your meaning. “By my count, that puts you at four. I’m at six.” He winked at you again and leaned in close to you. “What do I get when I win, gorgeous?”
You reached to the low-hanging branches of the tree under which you stood and plucked the fullest pink blossom you could find. You brought it to your nose to inhale its scent while looking up coyly through your eyelashes at Mills. When he leaned closer to you still, you pulled back and tucked the flower into his hair above his left ear. His thick forest of hair held it easily. You laughed heartily at his scowl. “Even better than a blue ribbon!”
“Cute.” Mills glared at you playfully, but he indulged you and left the flower in place.
“Shake a leg, gorgeous,” you said flippantly, using his favorite term for you to mock the pink flower in his hair.
The vegetation was sparser on this side of the river, allowing you to walk ahead easily without having to bushwack through jungle. You both held your blasters in casual readiness, the barrels pointed at the ground and angled away from one another, but each with your fingers resting on the trigger guards. From that position, it would take less than a second to raise, aim, and fire. Mills eyed your competent bearing with pride – the way you moved, the way you handled your blaster, the stubborn set of your jaw. He had given you a few lessons and he was pleased to see that you had taken his instruction seriously, even if you would never give him the justification of telling him so.
A clearing opened before you, the grass shorter, only calf high. The clearing was filled with large green pods, covered with a mucus membrane. They were organic and omitted a putrid odor. There was a veritable minefield of them.
“This is new,” Mills commented, his jaw clenched and expression severe.
“Some form of alien life the program has anticipated.” You shrugged and raised your blaster.
“Whoa, let’s not get too trigger happy. We don’t know –” Mills was cut off by the sound of your blaster as you shot the nearest pod. It exploded like a ripe pumpkin, spewing green substance. It struck your cheek and Mills’, hot and the consistency of snot. It burned your skin like acid. You frantically wiped at your cheek while Mills creativity strung expletives together as he rubbed the substance off his own skin.
A figure rose from where it had been crouching in the center of the innumerable alien pods. A young girl, maybe nine years old, stood hugging her arms and shivering in terror. She was adorable, looking at you with huge dark doe eyes. The pods surrounded her, trembling like hatching eggs about to open. She hiccupped a sob and pleaded to you and Mills, “Help me.”
“Cover me,” Mills instructed you, already moving toward the girl, compelled by his heroic instincts.
“Like hell you are!” you hissed and fast as a ninja, you kicked out and hooked Mills’ boot mid-stride, tripping him. Mills hit the ground hard with a grunt. He looked up just in time to see you fire at another pod, the pod closest to the unfortunate urchin. The pod blew apart, coating the girl in acidic green ooze. She screamed, blood curdling and terrible, as her frail body melted and sizzled until she collapsed in a steaming heap on the ground.
“Oh fuck, you killed the kid!” Mills looked at you with an expression of shock. Then he grinned at you. “Bitch.”
“I’m not just a bitch, Commander.” You raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m the bitch, and don’t you forget it.”
“You get a program bonus for saving the kid.” Mills pointed at the smoldering corpse of the melted child with his blaster. “The program inserts kids here and there to manipulate your emotions. Make sure you can fight on when you’re really under duress.” He sucked his teeth with amusement. “But you need to have a heart to have something pull at your heartstrings, huh Boss?”
“I’ve never been burdened with that particular Achilles heel,” you replied easily.
Mills took his attention away from the pods long enough to let his eyes trail over your curves. “I bet if I try hard enough, I can find some spots on you that are nice and soft.”
“Don’t be such a whore with your heroism, Nick,” you told him seriously. “That’s an order. You’re authorized to use it on me, not on every other female of the species you may stumble across.”
“Jealous?” He grinned as he returned his blaster to his shoulder and advanced toward the pods.
“Territorial.” You followed at his side, blaster at the ready.
The other pods opened, blooming like obscene flowers, emitting an almost unbearable stench. The burning on your cheek suddenly faded into the back of your consciousness. A creature leapt out from a pod, something that looked like a huge slimy crustacean. It sailed through the air straight at your face. You and Mills swung your blasters at the unknown creature, shooting simultaneous bursts into it, exploding it mid-flight.
“I shot first,” you said, counting it as your kill.
“I got a feeling there’s plenty more where he came from.” Mills was ready when the next creature launched itself out of a neighboring pod, then another, and another. Mills fired immediately before you, and you both shot in rapid succession at the aliens that leapt from their pods like quail taking flight from underbrush.
In unison your blasters clicked impotently, indicating you were both out of firepower. You looked at your blaster incredulously and punched the breach as if you could clobber more charge into it. “What the hell! These aren’t supposed to run out of charge!”
“Welcome to level ten.” Mills slung his dead blaster over his shoulder as more pods opened. He grabbed you by the back of your shirt, yanking you with him as he ran from the clearing into the thicker brush. He drew a large hunting knife from his belt, holding it in his free hand. You had a knife of your own, supplied by the program.
Mills crashed through trees that caught on his clothing and brush that scratched his face, bowling a path for you as you ran behind in his wake. The alien crustaceans seemed unable to pursue you through the vegetation and you quickly outstripped them. Or perhaps, the program had better foes in store for you.
You were both panting for breath when a rock wall appeared ahead of you, halting your run. Mills turned to look back the way you had come, again automatically putting himself between you and any creatures that may be chasing you, but there were none. Satisfied that you were safe for the moment, Mills leaned back against the rock wall with a groan and let his breath steady. It was impossible not to stare at the rise and fall of his thick chest; not to follow the path of a bead of sweat as it ran down the cord of his neck and down below the collar of his shirt to follow the cleft of his chest.
“You sound practically pornographic,” you teased his heavy breathing. With an effort, you tore your eyes away from his heaving chest and disheveled hair and studied the wall.
“Are you turned on yet?” he asked with equal sarcasm, intentionally deepening his voice. He had already made his own appraisal of the wall, but he would let you come to your own conclusion.
“It turns me on knowing I have more kills than you,” you mused to poke him. You both had lost count after your last encounter.
“I’m not a sore loser.” Mills grinned at you wolfishly. “I’ll help you celebrate your victory.”
You rolled your eyes. “There’s no celebration until we figure out how to climb this.”
The vertical rock wall was about twelve feet tall with scant ridges of rock that could be used for hand and footholds. It wasn’t an impossible grade. A professional climber could free climb it, but you were not a professional climber. You suspected Mills could muscle his way up it. The man was in peak physical condition, agile, and powerfully muscled.
“Hop to it.” Mills waved at the wall, making no effort himself. “I’m just your subordinate, right? I’m waiting for your orders, Boss.”
“I think I can reach the top if you give me a boost,” you said, still looking up at the wall. Mills was well over six-feet tall, he could probably push you up at least seven or eight feet off the ground.
“Here I thought you were a capable, independent woman who could kick ass on level ten without needing any help from a lowly man like me.” Mills looked casually at his fingernails, stifling another grin. He used the blade of his hunting knife to scrape some alien blood out from under a fingernail.
“Are you trying to piss me off?” You pointedly didn’t ask him for help.
“You sure are pretty when you’re mad.” He pointedly didn’t offer any.
You planted your hands on your hips and sighed angrily. Mills ignored you. There was no other feasible option for you to scale the wall. “Fine, you arrogant bastard. Come help me.”
“Pretty please?” Mills suggested with raised eyebrows.
“Now.” You narrowed your eyes at him, and Mills figured he would have more opportunities to risk his life without angering you further just now.
Grinning at his small victory, Mills pushed away from where he leaned against the rock and walked to stand beside you. He propped his boot up on a rock so his thigh was a level ninety degrees. He looked at you and patted his thick thigh. You stepped onto his thigh and it felt just as solid as the rocky ground. He patted his opposite shoulder, helping guide your boot up and secure your foothold. Mills didn’t falter or shake as you used his body as a ladder. When you had both feet planted on both of his shoulders with your hands braced on the wall right in front of your nose, Mills put his hands under the balls of your feet and pushed you up as high as he could. He finally grunted with effort when he had you hoisted up at the full reach of his arms.
The top of the rock wall wasn’t far above you now. You scrambled for only a moment before finding a purchase to haul yourself up the rest of the way. Taking a seat on the ledge, you looked down at Mills. Neither of you had any rope or other means of climbing. He studied the rock briefly, choosing his climbing route. He stepped up onto a thin ridge of rock and hefted himself up high enough to reach a handhold. Grunting with effort, Mills lifted himself higher and higher as he climbed. Every muscle in his massive body stood rigid, keeping him in perfect balance, and his strong hands held his weight easily. He made scaling the twelve-foot rock wall look effortless, and you suspected he could keep up the same climb for long enough to scale a true rockface as well as the best climbers in the world.
Mills pushed to his feet and pulled you up to stand beside him. “Ready to admit level ten’s a little, ah, over your head?”
“Did you have to practice waving your dick around at all times or does it come naturally?” you huffed, shaking your head.
“Careful, your envy is showing.” Mills stepped close to you until your chests were nearly touching.
“Envy?” you scoffed. “Never in a million years –”
Mills ducked in to you, crashing his lips to yours and silencing your arguments. You moaned in protest for only a moment before your lips were moving in tandem with his. When your lips parted with a pleasured sigh, he deepened his kiss, his tongue sliding against yours. The feel of his lips on yours and the heady taste of him weakened your knees more than any exertion in the combat simulation. You swayed against him, feeling the hard length of his powerful body pressed against you. Mills wrapped his arms around you, drowning in the feeling of your body, lost in your kiss.
“Ready to call it a day?” Mills asked against your lips. “End the program and skip right to the celebration?”
“Never.” You smiled and pulled away from him.
Mills groaned as if in physical pain from the parting of your lips from his, hamming it up for your amusement, and set off into the jungle. The terrain was now a thicket of scraggy bushes and overhanging trees. Brush scraped your clothing and twigs crunched underfoot. You were about to suggest how Mills might celebrate your victory with you when an animal snorted in the bush ahead of you. Mills froze as did you beside him.
Gripping the handle of his large hunting knife, Mills looked into the impenetrable brush. The attack didn’t come from ahead, from the direction of the sound, but from the side. Noiselessly, a golden speckled animal lunged at you. It was an enormous feline with long saber fangs, razor claws, and glistening golden eyes. You too, held your knife, prepared to attack. Mills reared back his right arm and threw his knife at the charging animal, sending his blade flying end over end. His aim was perfect, striking the giant cat right in the center of its golden eye. The creature dropped in its tracks, instantly dead and twitching.
The second feline charged from ahead of you. It was the much larger male, the mate to the female Mills had just killed– a Nemean lion with its dark red mane whipping around its enraged face like wildfire. Mills was unlucky in that he stood between the animal and you, the first in its path. He had no weapon. Mills raised his left arm as the leonine creature jumped at him, shoving his forearm between its jaws as the lion tackled Mills to the ground. Mills roared in pain at the feeling of the creature tearing his skin and crushing the bones in his arm. The wound wasn’t real, but the pain was. Using his mangled forearm, Mills was able to hold the creature away from his face but barely so. The lion snarled and bit harder into the flesh of Mills’ forearm, ripping its head from side to side to get at Mills’ face.
The hunting knife in your hand felt small and feeble, but it was all you had. You rushed to where Mills wrestled with the lion, your blade held overhead like a slasher aiming for a cheerleader. You plunged your knife down into the back of the lion’s neck, at the junction of its spine and skull, feeling it cut through flesh and bone beneath like butter. The animal collapsed dead on top of Mills, entirely covering the man’s massive body. Mills groaned beneath the enormous carcass, struggling to push it off him. You threw your weight against the animal’s body, helping Mills to shove it off of him and onto its side to discover that Mills was laughing. Lying on his back, clutching his profusely bleeding left arm to his chest, the jackass was laughing, low and rich.
“Not bad, gorgeous.” He smiled up at you through the dirt and blood that streaked his face. “While I’m down here, you want to tend to my wounds?”
“I’m half tempted to give you more,” you replied, unable to keep from smiling. You went to the lion to retrieve your knife. The knife was stuck in the creature’s body as though it were in cement. You yanked on the knife with both hands, pulling so hard you moved the animal, but the blade held firm. “What is this? Is the program taking our knives now too?”
“Bingo.” Mills laughed again.
“So, what do we do?” you asked, frustrated. “You have the highest scores in level ten. How do we win?”
“Level ten doesn’t teach you how to win. It’s programmed to be unwinnable.” Mills sobered and looked up at you from his back. “It teaches you how to deal with fear in the face of certain death and to master that fear. Level ten teaches you how to die. To accept death as a possibility and to die well. To make your death count.”
“Who programmed that kind of bullshit?” you huffed, planting your hands on your hips. “I’m going to kick his ass when we’re done here today.”
“Now that, I’d pay to see.” Mills sat up painfully and tested his injured arm, flexing his hand into a fist. It was painful and bleeding, but functional. “I’ll give you three guesses, but you’ll only need one.”
Pursing your lips angrily, you extended a hand to Mills. His enormous hand was slick with blood when he took yours, letting you help pull him up to his feet. He grunted and winced in pain, but otherwise masked his discomfort to conceal it from you. He draped a heavy arm across your shoulders as you both walked on through the thicket. You knew he didn’t need any support walking, but you didn’t mind either.
After only a few painful steps, a thunderous roar tore through the jungle, louder and more ominous than anything you had heard before. The sound of something gigantic running toward you, crashing through brush, immediately followed and the ground shook with tremendous force. Mills took your hand and ran.
The jungle thinned into an open grassy meadow. The escape pod sat in the center of the meadow, gleaming like a silver bullet. Sprinting hard, you and Mills ran for the escape pod. Seconds behind you, the animal that pursued you burst from the trees – a huge brindle-colored creature that looked like a Tyrannosaurus Rex with fully developed forearms. Using its forearms, it galloped after you with remarkable speed. You had no chance, it would overtake you in seconds. Mills hazarded a glance back over his shoulder, just in time to see the creature make its final lunge, its jaws ready to close over you both. Mills tackled you to the ground hard, pinning you beneath his heavy body. He couldn’t save you, not this time, but he could die a hero and buy you a few more seconds of life with his own body. Mills looked down into your eyes, engraving the sight of you beneath him onto his memory, taking a breath to steady himself for the inevitable. He never liked the dying part of level ten. Despite having endured it for countless rounds, it was always disconcerting.
Suddenly, you shifted your body beneath him and raised your arm to point at the charging animal like a superhero ready to fire a bolt from your fingertips. With your other hand, you entered a command on your watch.
“Program override accepted,” the pleasant female voice of the onboard computer intoned.
The creature vanished as did all the menacing noises from the world of the simulation. You and Mills were left alone in the grassy meadow, you lying on your back with Mills’ massive body covering you. The light changed too, glowing rosy pink like the light of a soft dawn, giving everything it touched an ethereal glow. Mills propped himself up on his forearms, caging you inside them as he looked down at you incredulously.
“Personally, I’d rather learn how to cheat death than how to die well.” You smiled up at him mischievously. “My ship, my rules.”
“Clever girl,” Mills told you proudly. He noted the wounds on his arm and your leg had vanished along with the enemy creatures. “Does this mean we won?”
“No, just that we transferred to one of my own personal programs.” You sighed and let your legs relax and fall open to better accommodate Mills’ large body. “Do you like it?”
“I like what’s in it.” He hungrily eyed your body spread out invitingly beneath him.
Around you, the meadow had become more of a grassy cove in a secluded garden. Rose bushes encircled you, blooming in pinks and reds. More of the luscious trees with hanging branches and vibrant pink blossoms draped around you, making it romantic and intimate. Lush green grass spread out beneath you, littered with fallen flowers. The sky above was streaked with pinks and blues, looking like swirled ice cream.
Chirping birds could be heard from somewhere in the meadow and from further away the sound of a bubbling brook met your ears. The fresh aroma of roses and grass after a rain filled your nose when you inhaled. Even the light itself was soft and hazy in the verdant landscape, like that in a dream, and the twinkling yellow of luminescent fireflies danced through the air and between the rose bushes.
“Do you admit defeat, Commander?” you teased, arching your body sensually so your breasts pressed against his chest. “Do you concede I beat you?”
“If I do, are we going to celebrate properly?” Mills captured your lips, groaning in anticipation. He kissed you slowly, languorously, grinding his hips against you, pressing you down into the grass and letting you feel the heavy weight of his body. When he broke your kiss, he took your bottom lip between his teeth as he pulled back from you. “You want to do this here? Now? Where anyone could walk in and see you fucking your subordinate?” He all but ripped open your top, hastily freeing your skin to his touch and rubbed his calloused palm over the sensitive skin of your breast. “You don’t want to keep this – us – confined to your cabin as usual, like the dark secret we are?”
“Does it look like I care who sees?” you moaned impatiently as you struggled the rest of the way out of your top. You clawed at Mills’ clothing, yanking his khaki henley off over his head and throwing it away. His hair was even more handsomely disheveled, hanging down around his face and eyes. “I don’t care who knows about us, Nick. You should know that by now.”
Looking down at you with a grin, Mills admired your perfect tits, wolfishly trailing his tongue over his teeth. He pushed up to his knees long enough to yank your pants down and off along with your boots. “We’re both going to win now, my darling.”
“Darling?” You smiled and ran your hands over the bare expanse of his enormous chest. “What happened to Boss?”
“I’m the boss now.” Leaning over you, he rested his weight on his palms on either side of your body as he bent to kiss your navel. “And you’re going to be a good girl and cum when I tell you to.”
His lips trailed lower until they kissed at the waistband of your panties. He teased your skin with the scratch of his goatee before taking the thin material between his teeth and pulling your panties down your legs with his mouth. A rich, pleasured growl purred from his lips. With your panties still held in his bite, he met your eyes like a wild beast. He pushed your thighs wide enough to settle between them, relishing the sight of you glistening with arousal for him.
“You must like it rough,” Mills said huskily, lifting your legs to rest over his broad shoulders. “To be this excited when I haven’t even touched you yet.”
“You know how I like watching you sweat and grunt,” you sighed at the feel of him. “In all ways.” From his fingers to his tongue to his cock, Mills could make you shudder with every part of his body almost effortlessly. You twisted your hands into his thick hair and bucked your hips against his face. “Of course, being a badass while sweating and grunting doesn’t hurt things.”
“For you, darling, I’ll be the baddest man alive.” He groaned deep and hungrily into you, savoring you, his voice thrumming through your flesh. Licking, kissing, caressing you with ardor, he quickly rendered you too incoherent with pleasure to continue teasing him. Your thighs trembled on either side of his head with each sensation, your whole body asking him for more. He pulled away just enough to put two of his thick fingers to work, sliding and curling into you, feeling you tighten and quiver. “I think I found a trump card when I need to win our next argument.”
You thought of contestations, but they died on your tongue and escaped your lips only as lewd moans. A rush of heat ran rampant through you as your first wave of pleasure hit, flooding you with electric heat. The cool grass was a reprieve under your searing skin when you collapsed back, sated and recovering. Mills shoved his pants down his thick thighs, freeing his huge heavy cock that matched the rest of his massive and impressive body.
As Mills crawled over you, you gazed up at him in a portrait of sheer bliss. Looking down at you in return, his expression was just as full of adoration as yours and darkened with lust. Covering you completely until he was the ceiling of your world, he settled his huge body between your enthusiastically open thighs. Reaching your hands up to tangle into the dense waves of his hair, you pulled him down to meet your lips again.
Mills kissed you slow and deep as your arms wrapped around his broad shoulders. One of his hands rested by your head, his fingers softly caressing your cheek and hair – a sharp contrast to his rough, almost harsh thrust into you. You loved it. In the beginning, his incredible size had been an adjustment. Now, the feeling of being so full, so possessed, was nearly enough alone to send you into a frenzy. Mills rumbled praises and adulations against your lips, rocking your body with his motions.
Feeling his heavy body over you and his powerful muscles tensing beneath your hands, you could feel the way he used all of his great strength for your pleasure. Mills could be measured and sensual or frantic and rough, but he was always masterful at prolonging your pleasure indulgently. Your nails dug into the dense muscle of his shoulders, trailing faint pink lines across his skin as your pleasure built again, swirling in your core. Your hips moved in time with Mills’ rhythm, meeting his deliberate thrusts.
Your orgasm crashed over you in a wave of euphoria, your body seizing and clenching. Mills gritted his teeth in pleasure at the sensation of you growing impossibly tighter and hotter. With a primal groan, he buried his face in the crook of your neck and came in time with you, cresting with you and riding the high of waves and pulses together.
You dragged your nails across his wide back, soothingly now, and pulled him down closer against you as you felt his muscles begin to relax. Mills kissed up your neck, trailing his lips across your jaw and over your cheek. He rubbed his large nose against yours affectionately before kissing you for another long moment and then raising his shaggy head to gaze down at you.
With another heady groan, Mills rolled off you and onto his back, pulling you with him to rest on his chest. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close in his embrace, while his lips ghosted at your hairline. When he spoke, his hot breath brushed your skin. “I’d say we both won at level ten, Boss.”
You propped yourself up on his chest and looked down at him with a sultry smirk. You plucked a nearby pink blossom from where it lay fallen on the ground near you. It was even more resplendent than the last one. You tucked it into Mills’ hair, ignoring the scowl he gave you. “I’d say you deserve another blue ribbon for that performance, Commander.”
Maneater is such a fun read and you are the best ever writer in the Adam Driver fandom with all the amazing stories you create. What are your Dead Dove: Don’t Eat head canons regarding Commander Mills that pique your imagination?
Thank you so much for your compliments on my crazy stories and for taking the time to read them! I really appreciate it! And I always love getting asks and questions, so thank you for sending this in!
To be honest, I wasn't completely sure how to answer this lol. By most fics standards, I tend to write a few deviations toward the darker side of fics with lots of violence, murder, and mayhem! Beyond that, I usually save some horrorish themes and AUs for my annual Halloween celebration, which is always the most wonderful time of the year! Then, there are some themes that are often labeled dark that don't appeal much to me personally so I rarely think about them.
I personally don't do kid fics or fics with significant exes involved, so in my canon Mills never had a kid of any kind and in most cases never a wife. If I ever do write an ex-wife in, it won't be the positive relationship portrayed in 65. So, I don't have any HCs along the lines of that sort of thing.
I absolutely think Mills is capable of all kinds of murder and mayhem. I see him as kind of a Rambo figure and I could have a lot of fun with that. A former elite soldier with a lot of baggage from his past and an elite set of skills that make him both a formidable killer and an exemplary protector!
After crashing his ship, he could be shamed in his career and disavowed, whether by the military or by a private company, and he would obviously be bitter about this and perhaps reckless and even vengeful. Or perhaps, the reason he was stuck running low level transport missions to begin with is that he was growing too aggressive in his military career, liking violence too much, so he needed to be benched and sent away to run a simpler mission with no warfare at play.
I HC him as a cocky confident bastard and a total badass. Mills is definitely an alpha male who is dominant and commanding. This of course could translate into any area. He'd definitely want to take the lead in bed and would be a passionate and dominate lover. He would be exceedingly possessive -- probably the most possessive of all the men after his losses and his brushes with death. He'd be into marking, both giving and receiving, and you know he's loud and sensual in bed.
Mills is a man I could see who could get into some predator/prey sort of erotic games. He's an obvious survivalist who can thrive in the most rugged conditions. He would no doubt be into all sorts of outdoorsy pursuits, like hiking, climbing, even big game hunting. I definitely think he would be just fine, if not overly inclined, to enjoy pushing the absolute limits of what he could get away with in public with his girl. The only check on his personal comfort with ravaging his girl in the wide open in the great outdoors is what she will allow.
Along those same lines, I think he is a man who likes to watch. He's run lots of transports and missions with incalculable women in stasis that he's overseeing and protecting. The temptation to stray down voyeuristic paths would be both hard to resist and relatively harmless. So, why wouldn't he?
.....
Day in, day out, Commander Nicholas Mills is alone on his ship during his year's long transport mission. Alone with nothing but his thoughts, his fantasies. His duties include monitoring the status of each of person in stasis locked inside their glass and steel sarcophagus.
With each passing day he lingers longer at the woman, the magnificently beautiful woman who has captivated his attention as no other ever had in his nearly forty years. The people in stasis are all nearly nude, as is protocol, leaving nothing at all to the imagination as to the endowments of every male and female under Mills' care. Beautiful and innocent and blissfully unaware of his hungry wolfish gaze, you sleep peacefully.
Mills knows how wrong it is to stare at you the way he does when he passes your pod. He knows how dirty it is of him, how it's downright filthy. The thought makes him flash your sleeping face a devilishly handsome grin, sucking his teeth as his eyes devour every morsel of your luscious body. He wonders how sweet you smell. He imagines how delicious you taste. If he tries hard enough, he can feel the tight hot squeeze of your pussy around his giant cock when he fucks his fist. Leaning against your pod with his handsome face mere inches from yours, separated only by a thin veil of glass, Mills imagines thrusting into you over and over, possessing you entirely, as he strokes his cock. He groans your name and growls darling as if you can hear his praises, his way of worshipping at the alter of your beauty
Mills' hair falls around his face in a disheveled ebony curtain and he imagines cumming inside you, pounding into you with his large hands gripping your body, holding you pinned beneath him, making you endure him. More than anything, he wants to possess you entirely, to make you his. He imagines cumming all over you, all over your body in all the places his hands long to caress and squeeze. Instead, he paints the glass of your stasis pod white, longing and wishing that it could be inside of you.
He curses himself angrily every time when he has to clean off his own mess, but it won't stop him from doing it again. It's become his nightly ritual. He devises a plan that he should have thought of months ago. He'll learn everything he can about you -- he has the time -- and maybe by the time you awaken, he'll know just how to seduce you properly.
.....
Here are some ideas that I have as potentials for darker horror sort of stories that I may write for Halloween. No promises because my ideas and whims are subject to change lol, and as always the amount I post is really related to the amount of interaction I get. I write on average 1-3k words every day for myself or just for novel practice, but I post relatively little of that just because a lot of it seems to just be throwing it out into the void lol. But here are some potential Halloween thoughts:
Instead of crashing on a tropical planet with a single survivor, he crashes on a frozen planet with many survivors. That is, until he has to make the decision to save himself and his girl at the expense of the others. Aka Donner Party Mills!
Event Horizon Mills where his ship finds its way into another dimension that may or may not be what humans would label Hell. Possession and murder and mayhem ensue.
Mills is an absolute shoe in for anything adventurer related, which is one of my favorite things to write, so I can anticipate lots of ideas and stories surrounding that.
I also intend to do a sort of Mummy Au with Mills as the O'Connell figure, which could just be fun and adventurous or dark and horrorish, depending on my mood at the time.
Warnings: NSFW. Smut. Violence. Blood. Gore. Graphic Dinosaur Violence. Enemies to Lovers. Idiots in Love. Sexism in Survival Situations. Hot Toxic Masculinity. Character Crossovers. The Commander Mills Jurassic Park AU that had to happen.
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Author’s Note: Mixing two of my favorites together for a fun AU – Commander Mills and Jurassic Park! I hope everyone else has as much fun reading as I did writing! Mills is named Nicholas in my canon. As usual, edits by the wonderful @kyloremus!
Warnings: NSFW. Smut. Humor. Romance. Enemies to Lovers. Fur.
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Author’s Note: For a Valentine's Day special, and as a gift for the lovely and wonderfully talented @kyloremus , here is a fun bitchy Fashion AU inspired by Cruella DeVille and The Devil Wears Prada! This is only the intro, if it is well received, I'll do more with it.
Fashion is a viciously cutthroat industry where appearance and manipulation often win over sincerity and benevolence. Weapons of choice are razored nails, deadly heels, and backstabbing smiles. Everyone who is anyone and all the someones aspiring to be something in the fashion industry know there is no event more seminal than Paris Fashion Week. Statuesque models strutting runways, aggressive designers gauging their competition, and hawkish agents scouting new talent can all be found amid the crowds and press.
As the Editor in Chief of Annees Folles Magazine, your front row seat at every event was reserved. This season, Annees Folles had even surpassed Vogue in sales and influence. Before anything became fashion, it had to receive your stamp of approval and be featured in the pages of your magazine. Brands rose and fell pursuant to your approval or condemnation just like a gladiator’s life dependent upon the tilt of an emperor’s thumb. Among the other more illustrious attendees, were the heads of the most preeminent fashion lines in the world, the CEOs and moguls whose names had forged the foundation of modern fashion.
La Maison Gris, a relatively new brand from an old and noble French family, had made a meteoric rise to the very summit of the industry. Helmed by its formidable and charismatic CEO, Jacques Le Gris, La Maison Gris had firmly secured a position high among the most distinguished names in fashion. Le Gris had fast become synonymous with Chanel, Versace, Lagerfeld, Gucci, Valentino, Tom Ford, Dior, Dolce and Gabbana. Aided in his ascension by his calculating mind, his almost irresistible charm, his devilish good looks and imposing size, Jacques had steamrolled his competition like a tank over protestors.
Jacques Le Gris always dressed to the nines and was dashingly groomed and coiffed, his image immaculately maintained. From a finely tailored bespoke suit that flattered his impressive and athletic 6’4” physique, enhancing the breadth of his great shoulders and the taper of his fit waist, to a simple signet ring bearing his century’s old family crest that drew attention to his enormous hands, he used fashion to emphasize his towering size and noble bearing. He wore a neatly trimmed van dyke, and his thick black hair down to his shoulders. An intentional streak of silver shot through his glossy ebony mane like the milky way shimmering across the night sky, giving him the regal air of a melanistic lion. He was dressed now in pieces from his own line, a charcoal suit with a chic glen plaid pattern, black shirt, unbuttoned down two buttons from his throat, and a black overcoat with a subtle flair of silver Persian lamb around the collar.
Notably broader without exception than everyone in attendance and standing a head taller than most, save for the willowy models, some of whom hoovered near his airspace when in heels, Jacques cut an impressive and unmistakable figure where he stood next to the runway in the dimly lit audience. The room was filled to capacity with the crème de la crème of fashion, interspersed with the journalists and photographers who would relay their chosen highlights to the public. While he waited for the show to begin and the first model to strut down the runway, Jacques discussed his line with anyone who would listen, showcasing his renowned affability. He was cordial where others were aloof, a trait that had helped spur his rise to the top.
Jacques was confident that his spring line that was to be revealed at this show would impress all those in attendance, but still, it never hurt to grease the wheels with a few dashing smiles. He could charm almost anyone into submission, a talent that cut across many different lines of social interaction. Only one major player had remained staunchly immune from his allure, and she unfortunately wielded one of the most important opinions. In fact, it was as though the Editor in Chief of Annees Folles Magazine took pride, a morbid relish even, in eviscerating the designs of La Maison Gris. With each scathing article, La Maison Gris and its profits took a hit and took months to reclimb the ladder from several rungs below. To say Jacques was ruffled by it was an understatement, he was mad as hell. He had yet to meet the woman in person, which he assured himself was the reason he had so far been unable to exert the full magnitude of his charm and magnetism.
The lights dimmed and the music picked up tempo, indicating the show would soon be starting. Jacques was focused on the runway, and didn’t see you approach and squeeze in beside him for a place at the head of the runway. The room was packed as tightly as a nightclub, but filled with an exponentially more beautiful crowd. Jacques recognized you with a visible start, his affable manner momentarily dampened with worry, fear even, at being in the presence of the one woman with the power to unseat him from his high horse. The pen was indeed mightier than the sword when it was you who wielded it, writing the destinies of every hopeful designer in the pages of your magazine.
You were dressed in a Dolce & Gabbana dress of ebony lace that hugged and flattered your shapely curves to perfection paired with a charcoal gray double-breasted Burberry Prorsum coat with military-style epaulets and cuffs. You wore five-inch Burberry heels that, although pointed-toe stilettos, they were fitted with Burberry’s signature lug sole, adding to your combative appearance and reputation. Although it was dark in the room, you wore a pair of aviator sunglasses by Maybach, also in gradients of carbon, that concealed your infamously ferocious eyes. Your hair was elegantly styled and your bearing was as proud as any model on a runway, but your presence was of a military general standing on a battlefield.
The sight of you took Jacques’s breath away. He had never been so taken aback by a woman, so instantly devastated by beauty.
With a deep steadying breath and a visible effort, Jacques composed himself. It was absurd, he reasoned, to be so unnerved by a woman. He was a master at seduction, and what was business but a different kind of seduction? Both involved a degree of manipulation and power plays. Even if Jacques didn’t know how to deal with you as a cutthroat editor who struck fear into the hearts of men, he knew how to deal with a red-blooded woman.
“I think you’ll find the florals are luscious,” he whispered with a smokey depth to his voice. He moved closer beside you until your shoulders brushed, perfectly acceptable in the crowded room.
“Florals? For Spring?” you scoffed. “Groundbreaking.”
“Well… Florals are classics for a reason,” he stumbled at the sharp rebuff. “Spring lines always have florals. It’s what you do with them that matters, is it not?”
“Have you sustained a head injury?” you derided haughtily, turning to look at him briefly over the rims of your sunglasses. “Yes, follow like the little lemmings toward the cliff of the cliché and the mediocre. The market – that is, sellers who have already made you rich -- want to get their winter fashions off the racks. Something inventive, something charming and clean, for example, would sell regardless of the season. Are you marketing to the likes of Kohl’s or Target?” You dismissively returned your attention to the runaway. “Dolce & Gabbana is the only designer who has any business at all dabbling in seasonal florals. Perhaps, an honorable mention to Dior.” Jacques tried to retort, but you steamrolled over him. “But not La Maison Gris, I assure you, and my assurance is the only one that will ever matter.”
This silenced him as he looked away, a strange and foreign mixture of rejection and embarrassment mingling inside him with an all-too familiar anger. He then looked back at you tentatively, feeling hesitant to challenge you.
“Just last spring Vogue raged over my florals,” he stated with a confidence that for once he didn’t feel, his deep voice undercut by an undertone of fear. Because of his size and physicality, deep voice, and wealth, he often unwittingly intimidated people. He was unused to being on the other side of that scale, and he couldn’t recall being so as a grown man. It was a challenge, he realized, and he savored challenges.
“Then, they were novel. Now, they are tired and uninspired,” you sighed as if bored by his simpleness. “Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative -- that’s Oscar Wilde, mind you – and I do believe he had a sense of fashion. He even went to prison for his fashion genius, among other proclivities.”
Jacques’s handsome features broadcast he was ready to retort but thought better of it, chewing his lip instead to bite back the argument that wanted to leap from his tongue. As the first model made her appearance on the runway, the audience applauded, approving of her floral dress with fox trim. He puffed his chest and looked at you as if to say he told you so. The next model wore a lynx shawl over a dress of gold floral brocade.
“Mixing fur and floral, are we? I always thought fur looked best on its original owner.” You studied each ensemble carefully with the eye of a critic. “Models should be comfortable in their own skin, not someone else’s, don’t you think?”
“This line is novel, sleek and vivacious. If you wish to stand out and feel good about yourself, my line is for you,” he huffed and retorted as another model stalked toward you wearing a beautiful lavender dress trimmed with tasteful sable fur in a complimentary dusky hue. The crowd roared in approval. “Nature has evolved to flatter animals of every shape and size. Do you argue that natural evolution shouldn’t be used when one is designing clothes to flatter women?”
You paused at the audience’s enchantment with Jacques’s line. He, too, saw it was a hit and raised one eyebrow at you. The next model wore a sleek aviator jacket with a collar of sheared beaver dyed in a subtle chevron pattern. The crowd actually clapped at that one.
No matter, people often didn’t know what they really liked until you told them.
You gestured for him to lean closer and whispered conspiratorially, “Like I said, the unimaginative masses are easily impressed. They can’t do what I can do: convince the biggest retailers in the world to market your line, and the populace to buy it.”
Jacques took a deep breath, gathered his courage, smiled mischievously, and said with a seductive tenor, “Well, there is more than one way to skin a cat.”
“I suppose you would know,” you quipped as another lynx trimmed ensemble walked past. “Regardless, the details of your incompetence do not interest me.”
“My incompetence?” Jacques huffed. No one else in the world would dare to call him incompetent. But arguing the point with you would get him nowhere. He decided to try a different tactic. “Let us continue this tete-a-tete somewhere more private, and I’ll try to find something about myself that does interest you.”
“Bold of you to assume a ridiculous man like you could please me in any venue. Be assured, I am demanding in my personal life as well as my professional one.” You let your appraising gaze rake over his body. “I want the best. I deserve the best. And I demand the best. In all things and in all ways.”
“My fashion lines may bore you, belle comandante.” Jacques grinned and asserted boldly, “Trust me, as a man, I would make you purr.”
“I have no commitments and I find myself rather bored by Paris, but I’m sure you have a parade of floral harlots vying to charm you into letting them walk your next runway. Who would I be to deprive them of the valuable life lesson in regret they would learn from a night with you?” You eyed another fur-trimmed model skeptically. “Dear God, you’re not into furries are you?”
He said nothing more until the show was over, but a sly lupine smile played on his plush lips. When all the models had walked the runway and the din of conversation filled the room, he made you a darkly illicit offer. “I’ll make a bet with you. If I can make you purr for me, then you will write a splendid review of tonight’s show.”
Removing your sunglasses, you eyed him with unveiled skepticism. “And if I find you are not up to the task of pleasing me?”
“You won’t.” He winked at you.
“Graduating from fashion to prostitution, are you?” You raised a judgmental eyebrow. “I can’t deny it’s a better fit for you.”
“Not publicly.” He grinned at you, flashing a predatory glint of white teeth. “But for you, I will make a one-night-only exception. I’m a gambling man, and what higher stakes could I play with? If I can wring a good review out of you between the sheets, you will write a nice review for my fashion line on the pages of Annees Folles. We’ll enjoy ourselves in the process, that I promise you, cherie.”
“It is an interesting thought.” You smiled. “To wonder what I will find worthy of review. The before or the after?”
“Yes, I agree,” he boomed loud enough for everyone to hear. You had heard he was a showman and viciously sarcastic. “You know why failed designers become harping editors of fashion magazines? It’s a petty facet of human nature that we feel the need to tear apart others who have talents one does not.”
“Is that what you think?” you laughed at the absurdity, meeting his challenge and projecting your voice. “Designers are many. On the other hand, people who dictate the tides of fashion and control the very destinies of men like you are few. The truth is, no one can do what I can do.”
“It must be lonely at the top for a maneater like you,” Jacques teased, his voice low again. “Who keeps you warm at night?”
“Renew your offer at the end of the evening,” you replied coyly. “And I’ll decide who’s keeping me warm tonight.”
Nearly as important as the fashion show itself was the afterparty. This was where most of the schmoozing and deal-making were conducted, where connections were made and alliances were formed. Swanky upscale clubs were privately rented for these glamorous soirees. The afterparty for La Maison Gris was celebrated at L’Arc, the highly exclusive nightclub at the top of the Champs Elysees. Jacques had rented the club for the night, open only to those on his well-pruned guest list. The neon strobes of the club ordinarily played across a beautiful crowd but during Fashion Week, its lights never fell on someone who wasn’t either rich, famous, beautiful, or otherwise extraordinary.
Jacques was the man of the hour and had to make himself seen at his own party. You, of course, were on every guest list of every afterparty, but only an elite few were deserving of your attendance. After making your rounds at parties hosted by Dolce & Gabbana, Burberry, Dior, and Tom Ford, you decided to make an appearance at the La Maison Gris party and see if Jacques’s bet still intrigued you. Your arrival was just late enough to be aptly fashionable.
A redwood of a doorman recognized you and ushered you in ahead of a winding line of at least one-hundred hopeful partygoers, much to their displeasure. The floor of the club writhed and undulated with women in chic dresses and men in suits dancing in time with heavy driving bass. You would have been hard-pressed to squeeze up to the bar that was so tightly packed that even the attempts of waifish models were foiled by the mass of humanity.
The freshly bleached smiles of several of the biggest names in Hollywood caught your eye from various corners of the room. One perfect smile belonged to the actor who had just landed his big break in being cast in the newest reboot of the Superman franchise. Clark Kent du jour had the build of a linebacker, a square jaw to match, cerulean blue eyes, and jet back hair, complete with a Superman curl he had cultivated since landing the part. He had also been pursuing you since you had toured the set for a piece on the costumes, most of which had been crafted by Zegna. He wore a suit by La Maison Gris, complete with a dyed sable pocket square instead of the usual silk. Tragically, he had both buttons done on his jacket, a glaring faux pas that required all of your limited reserve to overlook. You could take the man off the farm, but you couldn’t dress the farm out of the man.
Aspiring models stalked through the crowd on mile-high legs like otherworldly creatures, eager to impress designers for a chance to walk down their runways. And there was Jacques Le Gris, standing in the middle of an entire harem of them. A flock of scantily and colorfully dressed models surrounded him like birds at a feeder, some batting their eyelashes, others stroking his body, others still giggling vapidly, all desperate for any crumb of attention he deigned to toss their way. Though you couldn’t hear what he was saying, he was gesturing magnanimously, smiling and laughing at his own infectious humor, and very much enjoying the attention.
The spectacle of the fawning models was enough to make you return Clark Kent’s smile just long enough to encourage him to make an approach. Your timing was perfect; like all the best predators, you had the gift of precision. Jacques noticed you just as the handsome actor made a beeline for you and procured a flute of champagne from the tray of an obliging waitress who flitted by on his way. The actor was only the first to approach you. Within moments, you too were encircled by a mass of noisome people, even larger than the group that surrounded Jacques. Everyone wanted your attention, your approval.
At the sight of Clark Kent sidling up to you, a dark veil passed over Jacques’s dashing features, turning them murderous for the breadth of a second. It went unnoticed by most if not all, but you saw it and you smirked. Clenching his jaw, Jacques pushed through the throng of humanity and shooed away the plumage of women, heading not toward you but to the bar.
You smiled as the actor handed you the champagne, trying not to dwell on the state of his tackily buttoned jacket. But you drew the line at champagne, telling him with your usual stridence, “Oh, you can keep that for yourself. I don’t drink champagne, but I’m sure a large country boy like you can handle mine and yours and many more after.”
The poor pretty idiot didn’t know if you were serious or teasing, but since he had no basis in experience dealing with such a direct and assertive woman, he took your harshness for humor and laughed. He would be so easy to rip to shreds, which could be a fun passing amusement. He was exceedingly lucky you were in a good mood tonight. Adding to your relative levity was the towering figure of the CEO of La Maison Gris striding purposefully toward you and fighting to keep his composure and grin through his jealous anger. He held a drink in each hand, filled with amber and ice.
“This is my party,” he said by way of greeting you, making his voice notably deeper than the actor’s. Jacques was taller, but only just, which added to your amusement when he tried to look down his charmingly hooked nose at his more classically handsome opponent. “How is it that you just waltz in here and everybody gravitates toward you like you are the sun.”
“I’ve found that Nietzsche’s herd concept applies in a variety of ways.” You smiled icily back. “The human herd often has a collective sense of who’s the most important person in the room.”
Still looking at the actor, Jacques wordlessly handed you one of the two drinks he carried. You accepted it with a raised eyebrow and lifted it to inhale its aroma. Then, you gifted him with a genuine smile. “You’ve done your homework.”
“I have. Your drink of choice is an old fashioned made with Midleton Single Pot Irish Whiskey and garnished with an orange peel.” He took a sip of his own drink, the same as yours, closing his eyes briefly to savor the taste. “But I think you’ll like this better. I prefer Redbreast twenty-seven year old Irish Whiskey.”
You took a skeptical drink, your eyes not leaving Jacques’s. The old fashioned was remarkably flavorful. “It’s tolerable, I suppose.”
“I better get a nicer review than that from you after I’ve given you a taste of something else that’s full-bodied and old fashioned.” Jacques winked at you as he took another drink.
“I’ve already been here fifteen minutes, and already this is growing dull.” You pointedly looked at the Breitling watch strapped to Jacques’s thick wrist. “When are you going to make it worth my while to have come at all?”
“Finish your drink,” he challenged and downed the better part of his own. He gave the actor a dangerous glare, but the other man was too focused on you to notice, still standing beside you, hopeful and oblivious.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said to Clark Kent with unveiled sarcasm, the man was utterly clueless. “I forgot you were there. You may go now.”
“I may actually grow to like you.” Jacques grinned and took your elbow, his large hand squeezing you for emphasis.
“I would expect so,” you replied haughtily. “It is a sentiment I acquire often but return sparingly.”
“Carpe nocturne, ma jolie fille,” he growled as he pulled you through the crowd and out of L’Arc to his waiting car.
Enroute to a more comfortable and conducive location, you and Jacques each downed two more old fashioneds as his driver maneuvered through the labyrinthian Parisian streets, overfull with tourists for Fashion Week. With his drinks, Jacques smoked a thick cigar on the drive, billowing smoke from his nose like a regal dragon through a cracked window. It came as no surprise you were both staying at the Ritz Paris, after all, it was the finest luxury hotel in Paris and some say in the world. You discovered it had been Jacques who had sniped the Suite Imperiale, the finest suite in the opulent hotel, out from under you, leaving you to book the only slightly less decadent Suite Windsor for yourself.
Jacques strode with you proudly through the lavish hotel, past numerous celebrities and icons. His hand rested possessively on the small of your back, leaving no doubt as to the nature of your evening.
“People are staring,” you said without a trace of shyness, relishing the attention.
“Let’s make it worth their while.” Jacques took your hand and twirled you like he was dancing with you and then dipped you for a passionate kiss in full view of the bustling lobby.
People indeed stared, their captivated gazes following as he then led you to the bank of elevators. Inside the elevator, he pushed you against the wall and propped his hands on either side of your head, caging you inside his arms as he loomed over you.
“Want me to say goodnight, jolie fille?” he asked, his voice dripping with husky desire.
Biting your lip as you paused to consider his words, you looked up at him. “Not for a few more hours.”
A broad toothy smile broke across Jacques’s features as the elevator chimed and you stepped out of his arms, enroute to his suite.
Jacques walked so closely behind you as you approached the door to the Suite Imperiale that you could feel the heat radiating off his massive body. Hot breath huffed on the back of your neck, raising goosebumps and sending electric currents down your spine. At his door, he handed you his room key and let you fumble with the lock while he trailed his hands down over your hips and then back up your thighs. Hooking his fingers in the hem of your dress, he pulled it up over your ass, the cool air on your skin a stark contrast to his hot hands. His broad chest pressed into your back and his head fell to your neck. His lips teased at you tantalizingly as he dug his thick fingers into your soft hips, pulling your ass back into the massive bulge in his pants.
“I knew you had a luscious ass,” he growled into your neck. He teased you with the scratch of his beard near your ear and smiled against your skin when he dipped his hand between your thighs and felt the moist heat of your arousal. “It would be a shame to ruin your lovely clothes. We need to get you out of them before they get too wet.”
You laughed breathily as you opened the door and stumbled inside with Jacques still pressed to your back. He kicked the door shut and spun you to face him, crashing his lips to yours as you each clawed at each other’s clothing. His jacket and shirt were the first to be discarded. You wanted to see his body before revealing yours, and you were not disappointed when he peeled his shirt away. His chest was larger and more impressive than you had guessed and his arms more thickly muscled. He had the finely sculpted look of a performance horse, massive, sleek, and powerful all at once.
Backing away from him sultrily, you slowly unzipped your dress as you angled toward the bedroom. Inspired by the Chateau de Versailles, the living room of the Suite Imperiale was done in burgundy and cream, with vaulted ceilings and enormous airy windows. The burgundy and gold drapes were open, letting the lights of Paris glimmer into the otherwise darkened room.
Before you could step out of your dress that had fallen to your feet, Jacques lifted you up into his arms, all but yanking you off the ground in his fervor. He was so powerful and solid that he made you feel weightless in his arms, a feeling that heightened your anticipation as much as his expert touch.
Jacques twirled once inside the suite’s bedroom with you still in his arms, taking every advantage to show off. This room was decorated in cream and mint with a green and mint brocade canopy enshrouding the lavish bed. Jacques laid you gently down onto the plush bedding and traced hot kisses down your throat and chest as he rose back to brusquely discard the rest of his clothing. You eyed his body shamelessly, very pleased by every magnificent part of him. His aurous eyes were even hungrier than yours as they devoured the sight of you.
“I’ve never seen true beauty before tonight,” he said reverently in a voice that was all smoke and darkness.
Jacques crawled over you, a predator over his prey, caging you beneath him with his impressive arms on either side of your body. When you put your hands on him, you could feel his heavy muscles tense and flex as he moved. The feel of him alone was a potent aphrodisiac. He could read all the signs of your body, the way you moved and sighed and responded to his touch. He knew you wanted him, and wanted him now. But Jacques wanted to savor you, to spend as long as he could possibly stand it, to sear every moment of this night into his memory like a firebrand.
Agonizingly slow, he returned his lips to your skin, kissing and teasing every part of your flesh he could cover. He knew he would have you several times tonight, and he decided he wanted to make you moan with his tongue before he made you scream with his cock. It was quick work for him once he settled between your legs and hooked your thighs over his shoulders. He had barely traced his name into you a handful of times when he felt the shuddering rush of your ecstasy.
Positioning himself above you, he captured your lips as he thrust into you, fast and fluid but gentle too. Slow at first, he followed the pace you set as your pleasure deepened. He was a consummate lover, and he shifted his hips until he knew his angle was perfect, like a marksman hitting the bullseye. He saw your features rendered beautifully distraught by pleasure, and he thought that he had never seen anything so lovely in the world of fashion and art as the sight of you beneath him.
Your arousal mounted as vigorously as he pistoned into you. Everything faded from your world until there was only the handsome man above you and the pleasure that flooded you until you were bursting with it. Jacques crested with you when a powerful orgasm throbbed through you and he carried you through every delicious shudder until you were both delirious with exhausted bliss. He kissed you with a slow lingering passion and when he pulled back, it was to look at you with adoration. His gaze was brief, but the emotion was unmistakable.
In the sultry minutes between your first session together and the next of the evening, you lay across Jacques’s chest, listening to his steadying heartbeat and the resonant timbre of his voice that sounded much like a contented purr beneath your ear. His hair was tangled and wild, and his chest glistened with a light sheen of sweat. His arms were strong around you and his hands huge and comforting on your skin. The man was an absolute fever dream.
“This is only the beginning, ma belle amour,” Jacques whispered much later that night, careful not to wake you. Even in sleep, he dreamed of you and of the bright and glamorous future you would forge together.
Jacques prided himself on being part of the 5am Club, but this morning he felt that he had earned some extra rest after his robust performance the night before. You told him that he was incredible, and he couldn’t disagree with you. He was an exceptional lover – he made a point of excelling in all areas of importance to him – and he knew it. He had pulled out all the stops for you. He wanted you not only pleasured but impressed; hooked, and wanting more and more. He grinned sleepily at the realization that, perhaps for the first time in his life, he was just as hooked after this first time as you were sure to be.
An obnoxious beam of sunlight soldiered through a gap in the curtains to shine on Jacques’s face, forcing him to blink into consciousness. Groaning at the light, he rolled over to curl into you and pull you close to him, and maybe have you again for breakfast. But his hand fell on a vacant sheet, cool to the touch. That brought him into full alertness like a bucket of ice water dosed over his head. He propped himself up on an elbow and brushed the hair out his eyes as he looked around the room. All of your things had been collected and were gone, and no sound emanated from the open door of the adjoining bathroom.
Jacques was alone.
No woman had ever sneaked out on him before the dawn. Of course, he had done so countless times to countless women, the number of which he couldn’t have remembered or even closely estimated with a gun to his head. But no woman had ever given him the same treatment. It was unthinkable! Jacques had only ever slipped away from women he considered unimportant, disposable – which, admittedly, were most of them – but he would never have ducked out on you, not after the night the two of you had shared.
Last night was only the beginning, he told himself, knowing it must be true. Anything that felt that good, that right, had to be only the start of something great.
A bitter thought slithered into his mind, worse than the gravelly morning-after taste on his tongue. Surely, he wasn’t a disposable fling to you. He couldn’t be. He was more than a one night stand, when he wanted more, anyway. It was unfathomable to think a woman, any woman, wouldn’t want more with him. It was blasphemous, even.
No, that couldn’t be it. Jacques knew you were a busy woman, you must have had things to do and places to be. He too was in demand and could hardly begrudge you the same. Throwing the covers aside, he stood and proceeded to walk around the room naked, looking for anything you may have left behind. He was sure he would find a letter or just a brief note, but there was nothing. He even fogged the bathroom mirror in the chance you were prone to mystery and had left a message on the glass that only mist would reveal. He called your suite, received no answer, and had no better luck calling reception. When he checked his phone to see if there were any messages from you, he realized with a sinking feeling that you had not exchanged numbers.
The room was as though you had never been inside it at all. Only the smell of your perfume on his sheets and the scratches you had traced across his skin were proof that last night had not been only a fantasy.
Never before had Jacques felt so compelled to chase after a woman, but he restrained himself. The rules of a burgeoning relationship were new to Jacques -- not that he ever played by the rules at anything -- but he thought it only fair that since you had been the one to leave, that the burden was on you to make the first contact. He waited for days for a call or email or text, at first angry and then despondent when nothing came.
Jacques Le Gris, the CEO of La Maison Gris, would not chase after a woman. But for this woman, this one singular woman, he consented to casually saunter in her direction. And he was not pleased about having to do so.
It was Friday morning, nearly a week after your evening together, when Jacques relented. He stood restless in his luxurious office, surrounded by walnut paneling, rich colors, and oil paintings. His office had a regal ambience reminiscent of a Victorian study but with a decidedly masculine touch. Every appliance was ultra-modern and colored in sleek carbon, contrasting chicly with the otherwise vintage style. Floor to ceiling windows looked out over the city of Paris, offering an unobstructed view of the Champs Elysees.
Being at the tops in your respective industries made you each easy to track down, even if then making contact was exponentially more difficult. Jacques called the main branch of Annees Folles Magazine in Manhattan and was given the runaround for the better part of an hour. Christ, it was worse than dealing with an airline. He wondered if he would have to fax a copy of his ID just to speak to a living human who had any authority at all. He was near the limits of his temper, his notorious good humor completely expended, by the time he was put through to your office.
“Editor in Chief’s office.” A curt nasally male voice answered Jacques’s call with a note of disinterest. “Armitage Hux speaking.”
“I’m calling to speak to the Editor in Chief directly, please,” Jacques said in his most diplomatic tone. He added his name, which alone opened most doors for him. “This is Jacques Le Gris.”
“The Editor is not to be disturbed. Furthermore, she only takes calls from those listed on her approved call list.” Came the snide reply. “There’ s no Jack.”
“Jacques,” he enunciated more clearly, adding more force to his voice. “Jacques Le Gris.”
“There is no le Grease on the list either.” A withering sneer could almost be heard through the phone.
“Le Gris,” Jacques corrected, fighting to keep from losing his temper.
“My apologies,” Hux answered without the barest hint of contrition. “Regardless, you are not on the list, Mr. le Grease.”
A frustrated growl slipped out before Jacques could stop it. “For fuck’s sake, ask her about me!”
“There’s really no need for profanity. I’ve already told you, she is not to be disturbed,” Hux continued in a tone that was now verging on bored. “Certainly not by people who aren’t important enough to be on her approved call list, Mr. le Grease.”
“Important?” Jacques laughed at the absurdity. “Do you know who I am? I’m the CEO of La Maison Gris!”
“I’m legally required to say that my opinion does not in any way reflect the views of Annees Folles Magazine, but I have always preferred Gucci,” Hux lilted in his superior manner.
“If Le Grease doesn’t spur her memory, tell her I’m the man she spent last Saturday night with!” Now, Jacques was pissed. Comparing his distinguished line to that family of garish Italians was like slapping a glove across his cheek. “She knew my name then because she was fucking screaming it!”
“Ah, maybe you’re on that list.” Hux smiled deviously, which could be heard on his voice.
Jacques ground his teeth until he thought they would surely crack while he listened to the other man’s unhurried keystrokes as he pulled up that list. Jacques made a mental note to clear that fucking list out for you real fast.
“Barber… McHenry… — forgive me, I’m skimming here — Mills… Ren… Zimmerman…” Hux read through each name with relish. “I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid that this list is Grease-free as well.”
“Listen, you trumped up little shit.” Jacques finally lost control of his temper. “If I have to get on a fucking plane, walk right in there, and kick the door down to her office —“
“Hold please,” Hux intoned, utterly unconcerned. Music only slightly trendier than elevator music assaulted Jacques across the line.
Jacques punched the end button with as much force as he could muster with his finger on the button that was too small for his thick digit. He caught himself just before he threw his phone across the room, and instead turned and swung a savagely powerful punch into the wall, slamming his fist straight through the plaster.
Bright and early the following Monday a fresh copy of the American edition of Annees Folles Magazine was delivered by courier to Jacques’s office. There was no accompanying note, but the magazine smelled of the sultry exotic perfume he remembered so well. Jacques knew with absolute certainty who it was from. It was longer than he wanted to wait for an overture from you, but at least it was something.
One of the subheadings on the cover read, A Special Editorial and Behind the Scenes Look into the New Fashion Line of La Maison Gris. Jacques seated himself behind his imposing desk, leaned back in his tufted leather chair, and propped his long legs on his desk, crossing his feet at the ankles. He intended to savor your special editorial on him and his fashion line, expecting to fall even deeper and more hopelessly into the abyss of his feelings for you, into this new and uncharted territory.
Jacques rustled through the pages, eager to find your editorial. Splashed across the page was an extra treat – a startlingly high-quality photograph of his runway with a model in a floral dress with fur cuffs, and front in center silhouetted by the runway lights, the pair of you stood side-by-side in the crowd watching the show. He decided to have it framed for his office, a memento of the night your relationship began. He imagined your smile when he showed it off to you in person.
Below the photograph, the article was not what he expected. It was five-hundred words of honeyed vitriol.
La Maison Gris, with CEO Jacques Le Gris at its helm, has been the rising star in the fashion industry and with good reason. His designs mix ultra-modern chic with the classiest and the most decadent styles history has ever seen. From Victorian era draping and corsets to Regency-esque frocks and slippers to beading and sequins that would flatter the most exuberant 1920’s flapper, Le Gris’s inspiration is regal and refined and imbued with his own signature twist and flourish.
Ascensions, however, are precarious. Climbing to the top in fashion is just as perilous as climbing Mount Everest. One misstep can cost one his career.
Confident in his own grandeur, Le Gris opened his show at Paris Fashion Week with a new line featuring a daring use of fur on every piece. Icarus, too, was daring in his flight toward the blazing Sun. Just like Icarus, Le Gris has reached beyond his capacity and will soon find himself plummeting back to Earth to crash and burn with so many other has-beens whose names are not worth remembering.
Swept up in his penchant for melding modern with iconic, Le Gris does not consider the advances that we as a society have made. No longer do we need to resort to the barbarism of the fur trade to clothe ourselves. Nor do we, as Le Gris would have us believe, need to resort to fur to dress ourselves in the finest fashion and haute couture. Rest assured, dear readers, La Maison Gris is not in the upper echelon of fine fashion and haute couture.
In addition to the heinous and overdone use of fur, Le Gris has the tastelessness to cobble together a kaleidoscope of florals ranging from pastel to electric. His florid color palette can best be described as ‘A Murder of Unicorns,’ as painted by Monet. It reminds one of a cheerily painted playroom inside a children’s mental institution. A more cultured eye will gravitate to Dolce & Gabbana for florals, to Burberry for iconic; and if one is looking for fur, a vintage fox, mink, or sable from a boutique will always carry the day.
Le Gris’s approach to fashion seems to be that a lack of quality can be disguised by flair and concealed with fur. This mirrors the man’s approach to life. A boisterous grandstander, Le Gris tries to project a distinguished air. However, like a magician’s trick revealed, all his flash and charm are little more than smoke and mirrors with no real substance.
A little fur here and there can make a girl purr, but an overuse, such as the spring line of La Maison Gris, is barbarous at best and utterly gauche at worst.
One wonders if Le Gris has the capacity to bear a defeat with dignity, but the smart money will bet on the negative. Like a scavenging hound, Le Gris will likely refurbish his failed spring line for another runway this coming fall or winter. He will certainly gain no traction on any runway of repute. With his brash sensationalism and garish taste, perhaps he shall find his true calling outfitting cosplayers or larpers.
Jacques crumpled the offending magazine in his fist as if he could choke the life from its Editor in Chief through the abused pages. He viciously ripped it in half, throwing each segment across the room in different directions. He wanted to punch another hole in his wall, but his knuckles were still scabbed and bruised from his recent outburst. Not for the first time, he decided to hang a heavyweight punching bag in his office. He glared around his office, looking for something to break. Why the fuck was everything his decorators chose some one-of-a-kind antique?
Sparing his knuckles further damage, he let out a savage growl like a wounded lion. Jacques was breathing as hard as if he had run a mile, his huge chest straining the buttons on his tailored shirt. As he tried ineffectively to calm himself, his shrewd mind began to calculate and strategize. After a few moments of huffing, he decided on his course of action. If you wanted to play dirty, he could roll in the mud with the best of them. Retrieving his phone, he dialed a familiar number.
“Jacques!” Pierre D’Alencon, the Creative Director of La Maison Gris, answered with friendly ebullience. “I was just going to call you. Drinks this weekend? I happened upon a gorgeous set of twins -- redheads, no less -- and of course I’m willing to share with my closest friend.”
“Put the twins on ice for now,” Jacques grumbled gruffly. “This is business. Did you see the editorial in Annees Folles?”
“I did, indeed,” Pierre’s voice lost a hint of its buoyancy. “Hence my offer of drinks and women to lift your spirits.”
“I’ve made a decision, and it involves you. If that glorified tabloid wants to blast me for using fur in my line, I’m going to single-handedly revive the fur-in-fashion trend! We’ll see who holds more power in this little game.” Jacques grinned devilishly at his own newly formed plan of attack like a knight finding a chink in his opponent’s armor. “Which is where you come in. I want to see designs for an entire line with fur on every piece by the end of the month. Get on it, Pierre! Give me your best.”
“Do you not think it best to respond with more dignity and sweep all this unpleasantness under the rug?” Pierre asked with a heavy sigh. “This is why you have PR people.”
“Who was it that said any publicity is good publicity?” Jacques asked, unphased.
“That would be the American spectacle, P.T. Barnum,” Pierre replied with resignation.
“Smart man. I always admired his joie de vivre.” Jacques smirked as he paced across his vast office. “That’s exactly what I want. I want a spectacle. I want a public circus. I want a showdown. We’re going to revive the fur trend, you and I, and I’m going to rub it in that demoness’s face!”
“Ah, so this is all motivated by astute business acumen and professionalism, is it?” Pierre gave a laugh that was ignored.
“Use every kind of fur you can get your hands on. The crueler the fucking better! Lynx, fox, sable, Persian lamb – all the cutest and cuddliest animals. Are chinchillas still a thing? Those too. Can we still get leopard? If you can design a full-length coat made of puppies, do it! Dalmatian with a lynx collar, how about that?” Jacques ran a hand along the shimmering silver streak in his black hair, thinking. “And I don’t want faux anything in sight. I want it all real, all genuine fur.”
Pierre confirmed his understanding of his marching orders and signed off. For so long as their mission remained retaliation and war, anyway. He also decided on a side-quest of sorts, to put his second greatest talent to work while he created a runway line trimmed in fur. He would try his best at figuring out his friend and boss’s quarry, and aid him in hunting the most dangerous game of all, a powerful woman. Perhaps if Jacques could seduce her personally, there would be no need to batter her into submission professionally, and Pierre knew he was just the man for both jobs.
Jacques was still wound up after the call, but now he had a course of action, a focal point, a target at which to channel his anger and frustration. The embers of rage still alighted Jacques’s nerves and the sting of betrayal still burned in his chest. He still wanted to punch something, to find a release. It was a poor substitute, but he ranted and bellowed instead.
“That frigid bitch!” Jacques snarled, glaring out of his window over the streets of Paris. “That shrew. That succubus. Satan. That woman is fucking Satan!”
What would the guys enjoy doing with you for Christmas? As a bonus, what are their favorite Christmas movies? Thank you for all your incredible stories! They’re the best of the best! 💛💛💛
Christmas HC’s for Modern Jacques, Mills, Flip, Kylo, and Clyde.
Thank you for your ask! These HC’s are always fun! And I figured I can sneak in one more blurb both for @writer-wednesday and one more for Clyde because I plan to retire him from my writing this year so I can focus on the big bad guys I like so much! From here on out, it’s going to be Jacques, Flip, Mills, and Kylo for the foreseeable future, and I couldn’t be more excited!
Edits by @kyloremus
AO3
Modern Jacques
Jacques’s gifts to you start by ensuring he is as handsome, well-groomed, and well-dressed as possible. He will have a fresh manicure and pedicure, a facial, immaculately trimmed beard, and perfectly coiffed hair before your date begins. His dress will be impeccable and his cologne expensive. He always looks great and is the most fashionable and debonair of men, but for special occasions, he takes extra care with his dashing presentation.
As a connoisseur of the finer things in life, he is a man who will spare no expense to wine and dine you. Unlike most unfortunate bumbling men, Jacques is a natural romantic. His overtures never miss their mark and he always puts a smile on your lips. Classical romance appeals to Jacques, so he often greets you with fresh flowers or artisan chocolates and a quality bottle of wine. He’s also masterful at seduction, and like all the best lovers, he gets your mind in an erotic mood long before he entices your body.
For a Christmas Eve date, he will begin the day by leaving a package on your bed in the morning that contains a designer dress, French lingerie, and a note telling you where and when to find him once you’re wearing his gifts. He will have planned in advance with reservations at an exclusive restaurant where the wining and dining begins. Afterwards, he will take you home and continue wining and dining you with wine and chocolates. He will put those huge hands of his to use and give you a first-class massage that he will keep relatively tame until you want him to make you feel even better. After pleasuring you the first time of the evening, he will share a sensual bath with you and then have you again. Along with more wine.
His actual gifts to you are things like original oil paintings and first editions of poetry and novels -- things that are as timeless as his love for you. He is also not above giving you a playful striptease or putting a ribbon on his cock like the gift it is.
Regarding movies, Jacques loves the classics but he can’t stand the singing, the dancing, and the camp. Something sober like A Christmas Carol narrated by Vincent Price is a win in his book. Even better, he likes a new fresh take on a classic. So as far as classics go, the revamped and much darker FX’s A Christmas Carol is one of his favorites. He also argues you can’t go wrong with The Lion in Winter, even though it’s not technically a Christmas movie. He has a weakness for lionhearted imperious redheads and Katherine Hepburn still had it even when she was older. Speaking of imperious redheads, one of his favorites is Maureen O’Hara, so even though he thinks the movie is juvenile, he is always willing to watch Miracle on 34th Street.
Mills
Mills is active and adventurous. For gifts, he thinks less along the lines of things and more of experiences. Having adventures with his girl and creating memories are the best gifts he can give and receive. He has taken you on some spectacular Christmas trips, such as to après ski lodges and climbing glacial mountains in Switzerland. A lodge in Zermatt with an unobstructed view of the Matterhorn is a favorite spot of his. That is what he will do for every Christmas if circumstances allow. Mills is a true alpha male, rugged, and steeped in robust masculinity. As such, he will also do whatever it takes to put a smile on his girl’s lips and he will always give one-hundred percent for her.
Picking out a tree together is his idea of a fun and simple Christmas date when the stars don’t align for something more extravagant. He would never settle for buying a tree, or worse yet having a fake one, when he can take you out and chop down your own. He will let you pick your perfect tree, all while making a day of it. Mills will be prepared with thermoses of hot chocolate, which may or may not be spiked with peppermint schnapps, and he’ll bring his own large axe along.
In the search for your tree, he will capitalize on the snowy forest and incite at least one snowball fight with you, which he will win by tackling you to the ground and smothering your protests with his lips. When it comes to the tree-chopping, he knows how much you enjoy watching him get worked up and sweaty, see his muscles strain and his hair ruffled and wild. He also knows how much fun you have watching him wrestle with a tree that is several feet taller than he is when he fights it into place in your living room. He plays it up for you, grumbling and cussing and making an ass of himself for your amusement. At home, in addition to the tree, he has mistletoe strategically placed to his advantage. A steaming hottub outside in the frigid cold is also a must, and he will make you shudder beneath the water while above steam enshrouds you and icicles form in both your hair.
In the event, you want to do something else for Christmas, Mills is always along for the ride and a perennial good sport. If it makes you happy, and results in him getting a reward after, he will happily endure an ugly sweater party and let you dress him up as horrendously as you please.
Although not really a Christmas movie, he loves Everest, a movie about men facing the elements and harrowing odds in the most dreadful conditions on Earth. For a romantic movie, he allowed you to bully him into watching A Winter’s Tale. There’s something timeless about a rough-cut man defying space and time to save the woman he loves. He knows all the best Christmas movie drinking games, too, and he usually wins them.
Flip
Flip always has a hell of a time trying to find the perfect gift for his girl. He’s not romantic by nature and a lot of romantic overtures make him feel like a preening peacock and has him wanting to kick his own ass. He is, however, very innately sexy in an animalistic way and he uses that to his advantage with women, whether he’s just playing the field or once he’s found the one. He has a cocky charm that he exudes effortlessly, and he is sometimes unaware he’s made a woman swoon until he catches her ogling him. He’s also just fine with making an ass of himself to make his girl laugh, which is always endearing.
He gets himself in trouble by being a sarcastic jackass, which is also an innate facet of his personality and transfers to gift-giving. Complaints he hears often from you are his late nights, and never knowing where he is and what he’s doing during those long hours. As a solution, he got you a police scanner one year, calling it an FPS – Flip Positioning System. He was baffled when he was forced to sleep on the couch for Christmas and for a few days after. He’s still salty about it instead of being thankful he didn’t get slapped. The best gift he’s given you was an original Colt .45 that he had custom engraved with your initials and his.
A perfect Christmas date to him is a long weekend away from the bullshit of everyday life. A few days spent in his cabin in the mountains with no distractions between you makes for a perfect Christmas. He will fill your days with slow dancing, warming you up after a day out in the snow, alternating between making you laugh and making you sigh in front of a roaring fire at night. He’s also great at manning a grill and cooks the juiciest steaks. Toasting smores over an open fire for desert makes them taste even better.
And if you happen to get snowed in and have to return a few days later than planned, that’s a bonus gift for you both.
You should have known better than to ask what his favorite Christmas movie was. He cocked a sarcastic eyebrow at you when he told you Die Hard. He can certainly relate to John McClane. He gets stuck working too much on Christmas and on top of it, his vacations have a way of taking a nosedive. Kiss Kiss Bang Bang is another favorite. It happens a lot where all hell breaks loose around him and he’s stuck cleaning up the mess and solving the case. He also relates to men whose mouth and sarcasm write checks their fists have to cash. In The Ref, Flip can commiserate with Dennis Leary on being stuck in a situation he’d prefer to punch his way out of.
Kylo
Kylo has a level of intuition that borders on the mystical, which is deeper still with his lover. He always seems to know exactly what to do to make you smile, and this obviously translates to gifts. He has an eye for the opulent and the lavish, and he enjoys nothing more than spoiling his lady and treating her like a queen. Jewelry always hits the mark, and he loves seeing it sparkle on your skin like winter frost on Christmas morning. Kylo also loves that anyone seeing you wear something so exquisite will know it came from him and that you belong to him. Trips abroad to exotic destinations like a Christmas market in Prague, or to a transparent igloo in Lapland under the northern lights, or an extravagant shopping excursion to the likes of the Champs de Elysée are also in his repertoire.
Wherever you may be, he brings your traditions with you to celebrate in any location, no matter how far you find yourselves from home. Spending Christmas Eve in with you and toasting you at midnight is but one of your many traditions together. A favorite tradition between you and Kylo is exchanging the lists you’ve made for each other detailing the particularly nice and especially naughty things you’ve each done throughout the year. It’s romantic to reminisce, and it also adds an extra layer of spice when it comes to dolling out treats and/or making amends as the situation demands. He will happily let you use him in any way you see fit to atone for all his naughtiness throughout the year. You’ll never forget the night he improvised by tying you up with Christmas lights before having his way with you.
Kylo’s favorite festive movies are the best of the baddies. Krampus is the best Christmas movie in his opinion. Unlike most unrealistic simpering plots, the nasty family in Krampus actually gets their comeuppance without salvation. Bad Santa also represents his level of holiday cheer. Violence, sarcasm, and alcohol are the best and only ways to deal with all the intrusively obnoxious vapidity commonly described as ‘cheer.’
Clyde
Clyde is old fashioned, and also knows he can’t go wrong with the tried and true. For him, the holidays are about family. Since you became family for him, he can think of nothing better for Christmas than doing something homey and traditional with you. He loves taking you out for a day in the snow or shopping in the old part of town at the authentic general store - established in 1899 and outfitted today with a myriad of festive decorations.
Clyde always has a Christmas party of sorts at his bar on whatever Saturday falls closest to the 25th. Every year, he takes it as a personal challenge to create a new custom drink for you. Something as spicy and sweet as he says you are. He will wear the obnoxious ugly sweaters you get him and slow dance with you to all the sappy Christmas songs you can play on the jukebox while the bar regulars heckle him. He doesn’t care. He only has eyes for you.
Afterwards, he will take you home for a Christmas movie marathon, wearing pajamas and fuzzy socks. He will make mulled wine on the stove and he always learns how to cook anything you particularly like. He’s not a bad hand at baking either. He will miss most of the actual movies because he will be too busy enjoying you instead of watching the screen.
For Christmas movies, he loves a good heist flick. He’s also a sucker for a good dark comedy. The Ice Harvest is a great witty heist-gone-wrong movie. Fargo is close enough to a Christmas movie. It’s good fun watching stupid criminals and inept cops with bad accents. Brings back fond memories for him.
Warnings: NSFW. Extra Smut. Language. Angst. Romance. Graphic Violence. Murder. Main Character Death. Light Violence Against Reader. Old Timey Sexism. Bastardization of Classic Literature.
AO3 Link
Author’s Note: Here’s my heavily bastardized version of A Christmas Carol with a festive sprinkling of Jack the Ripper! I rarely do crossovers in my fics, but for a one-time only Christmas and @writer-wednesday special, I threw in every character I write for, including a couple that I’ve otherwise retired. Edits by the wonderfully talented @kyloremus
