#the devils plans for idle hands

[fawnforevergone]

The Ultimate List of Dante References in Hozier's "Unreal Unearth" !!

Hello and welcome to my new-and-updated ultimate compilation of all 'Inferno' references I found in Hozier's new album! If I think of anything else, or if anyone else suggests something, I will be sure to add it, but, for now, enjoy this ridiculously long (you've been warned) list I made!

Since I didn't wanna make a post for every individual song and spam you all, the songs are separated by their respective circles! I hope that organises stuff a bit more :]

Usual disclaimer: I could be wrong about some stuff! I've read 'Inferno' and try to stick to the objective references, but sometimes I let subjective interpretation bleed through. If anyone has any corrections for anything, just lmk!! Okay, cool <3

DESCENT:

"De Selby (Part 1)"

We start the album not in the circles, but instead at the Gates of Hell. One of the main themes of Inferno is darkness, and these first two songs are embodiments of that.

The lyrics mention the idea of this being a "new empty space", suggesting that Hozier is being introduced to the feeling of Inferno through the relationship he's singing about, and, so, we begin the descent.

"The likes of a darkness so deep that God at the start couldn't bear." God is obviously a large theme of Inferno and is, biblically, the creator of light, hence the absence of it in Inferno. In fact, the first three stanzas all reference the heavy darkness of the threshold and its estrangement from God.

The Irish/Gaeilge lyrics roughly translate to: "Although you're bright and light, you arrive to me like night fall. You and I, together. You and I, metamorphized. Although you're bright and light, you arrive to me like night fall. The art of transformation is a dark art." The imagery of light and dark mixing together mimics the idea of walking from the brightness of Earth into the darkness of Inferno.

This entire album appears to be the recounting of a relationship and how it feels like walking through Inferno. Here we see the beginning of this relationship, of Hozier losing himself to the threshold.

"De Selby (Part 2)"

Part one appeared to be the step through the gates, whereas part two seems to be Hozier being enveloped by the threshold. In 'Inferno', Dante says the entrance to Hell is a darkness that no stars could shine in. We hear this shift from Earth to Unearth through the production alone; the weightlessness of part one falling into the heavy grunge of part two.

"Your heart, love, has such darkness, I feel it in the corners of the room." The theme of dark continues, as it will through the entire album, but, this time, Hozier feels it radiating from within his lover rather than the space around them. Though, him saying his lover carries darkness is not an insult. This extra depth to his lover is something more to know, something more to love. This idea actually differs from Dante, who sees the darkness as deceitful.

"I want to be so far from sight and mind." Inferno is a lawless place. He would be far from sight due to the darkness, and far from mind due to the insanity that persists within the circles.

"Let all time slow, let all light go." This lyric shows me that he has been submerged in the threshold. Again, the lack of light, but also the slowing of time. Punishment after death is eternal, something that time has no grasp on. Hozier is willing to let these aspects take a hold of him.

"I'd still know you not being shown you, I'd only need the workin' of my hands." Christianity is a heavy theme of Inferno, and this lyric plays on the proverb 'Idle hands are the devil's workshop', a proverb Hozier also hinted at in his song "No Plan" (from 'Wasteland, Baby!') - "My heart is thrilled by the still of your hand."

Now, though, Hozier's hands aren't idle, instead the opposite, his hands are working as God intended. Drawing us back to that idea we were given at the end of part one, we get the feeling that Hozier is bringing something light/Godly to Inferno, and he and his lover are fusing the ideas of Heaven/Earth and Hell.

FIRST (LIMBO):

"First Time"

We now enter circle number one, 'Limbo'. Limbo is an uneventful circle for those not worthy of punishment but also not fit for Heaven. It is mainly for those who do not believe in God, the unbaptised.

Firstly, to get to circles, Dante and his guide, Virgil, must be chaperoned by the Greek Psychopomp Charon down the river Acheron, and we see that in Hozier's first couple stanzas.

"And the soul - if that's what you'd call it, uneasy ally of the body - felt nameless as a river, undiscovered underground." This appears to be Hozier mentioning the river Acheron, one of the five rivers of the Underworld that surround Hades, and, in 'Inferno', are used to transport the souls of the dead to their respective circles.

"The first time that you kissed me, I drank dry the river Lethe." The river Lethe is another one of the five rivers, and is one that causes anyone who drinks from it to forget everything they know. Hozier is simply saying that kissing this person wiped his mind clean, similar to the end of "De Selby (Part 1)" where he mentions partaking in a transformation.

"Some part of me died / Some part of me came alive the first time that you called me 'Baby'." Relating to the previous quote, souls that drink from the river Lethe usually do so before being reincarnated, so they forget their past life. Hozier seems to experiment with the idea of being reborn by his partner's love for him - an idea prevalent throughout his entire discography.

"To share the space with simple living things, infinitely suffering, but fighting off - like all creation - the absence of itself." This lyric tells us that we should not ignore the privilege of living just out of the fear of dying. This lyric is reminiscent of "All Things End" and the circle of Heresy. Since Limbo is home to those who don't believe in God, the theme of Heresy is a very fitting one.

SECOND (LUST):

"When I was young, I used to guess 'Are there limits to any emptiness?'" The punishment for those in Limbo is to exist eternally with the curse of a hollow, empty feeling meant to represent the lack of God in their lives. This punishment seems referenced in this lyric.

[ i ended up thinking about this song more so if you want even more "first time" content, here ya go: "first time dante references." ]

"Francesca"

Into circle number two, 'Lust', we have the story of Francesca Da Rimini, a woman Dante spoke to during his visit to circle two. Francesca fell in love with her husband's brother, Paolo, and when her husband discovered the affair he murdered them both.

Hozier seems to be singing from the perspective of Francesca/Paolo but throughout the album we see Hozier liken his lover to aspects of Inferno - darkness in "De Selby (Part 2)" or Lucifer in "Unknown / Nth" - so the story of Francesca and Paolo is fitting as another metaphor here.

"Do you think I'd give up? That this might've shook the love from me?" Even in Hell, Paolo and Francesca physically cling onto another. They do not let their death affect their love.

"My life was a storm since I was born. How could I fear any hurricane?" The punishment in Lust is an eternal storm meant to replicate the throws of passionate love - a storm also depicted in the production of the end of this song. Hozier/Francesca/Paolo says that it's impossible for them to care about this punishment when life was already as treacherous as it was.

The whole chorus emphasises the imagery of Francesca and Paolo not being able to let go of each other.

"When the heart would cease, ours never knew peace. What good what it be on the far side of things?" Francesca and Paolo lived their love secretly and anxiously, so what good would peace be in the afterlife when they've already become accustomed to difficulty?

"Heaven is not fit to house a love like you and I." In the opening songs of the album, Hozier describes his lover as darkness, akin to something God cannot bear. Due to the depth of his lover, the mix of light and dark they've made, he believes Heaven would crumble beneath the weight of their relationship. That something as corrupt as Inferno is the only place suitable for them to live.

"I, Carrion (Icarian)"

Still in circle two, Hozier plays on Dante's own metaphor. In Canto 17, Dante refers to his own dread of descending Inferno to the same dread that the 'ill-fated Icarus' must've felt on his fall from the sky.

Hozier twists this, instead comparing his love to the hope Icarus must've felt as he flew towards the sun. He said, during a live show, this song is based on the idea hat Icarus never realised he fell, and woke up dead, too clouded by joy to realise what had happened.

"If the wind turns, if i hit a squall, allow the ground to find its brutal way to me." Again, we mention the storm of circle two. Lust is also said to have treacherous terrain - sharp rocks and jagged stone - that seems to be hinted at in the second half of this lyric.

"While you're as heavy as the world that you hold your hands beneath." This imagery seems reminiscent of the Greek Titan, Atlas, who holds up the Earth on his back. Dante talks about seeing Titans and Biblical Giants at the transition point of circle eight to circle nine, 'Fraud' to 'Treachery', which makes this lyric a sad hint to where Hozier will end up finding his lover; Taking the place of Lucifer in the deepest part of Inferno.

THIRD (GLUTTONY):

"Eat Your Young"

We enter the third circle of Inferno, 'Gluttony'. There are no specific references to Inferno, but the concept of gluttony is apparent. Hozier does what he frequently does throughout this album; He refuses to see the sin as "right or wrong" as Dante so stubbornly implies.

Hozier often divulges in a grey area, a spectrum or sale of severity, when it comes to the sin. Hozier's perspective seems more nuanced than Dante's, seeing sin as layered rather than objectively bad. In this specific song, he displays the different sources of hunger in humans, and where the line should be drawn.

"I'm starvin', darlin', let me put my lips to something, let me wrap my teeth around the world." We start, and reference back to in verse two, a sexual hunger, a harmless passion between two people. This is an innocent side of the sin, not deserving of the punishment of Lust which is to be ripped apart by Cerberus (the three-headed dog from Greek mythology) for all eternity.

However, Hozier moves onto the hunger of politics.

"Pull up the ladder when the flood comes." The government refusing to help the people when the sea levels rise.

"Throw enough rope until the legs have swung." When you don't have a ladder, you use a rope. This lyric plays on the notion of when governments give the impression they are helping, but are only making things worse - a take on the saying 'Give someone enough rope and they'll hang themselves', since what else are they meant to do with it?

"Skinnin' the children for a war drum, puttin' food on the table selling bombs and guns." The hunger for power manifests in war.

"It's quicker and easier to eat your young." Here, Hozier uses the common saying in a more literal sense, saying that if these politicians are hungry enough to destroy the world, they may as well physically eat their young, since it'll have the same effect.

FOURTH (GREED):

"Damage Gets Done"

This song takes place in circle four, 'Greed'! The title of the song alone is already very meaningful. In circle four, the main punishment is that the inhabitants are split into two groups and are forever forced to charged into each other and fight. Dante describes them are being so injured and damaged that they have become 'unrecognisable'.

The song is about greed within the changing of the world. It's about growing up and losing the naivety and innocence you once had, no longer able to ignore the burden of politics and money. Hozier and Brandi sing about the excitement of being young and in love, but, with the rise of inflation, it's hard to exist like that anymore - You need greed to survive.

"Wish I had known it was just our turn being blamed for a world we had no power in." This seems to be a reference to two things. One, the idea that governments blame the people for their own poverty, and Two, the idea of arriving in circle four by no fault of your own. It's not their fault they wanted more money with the world being how it is, but, nevertheless, they're being punished for it.

"I haven't felt it since then. I don't know when the feeling ended, but I know being reckless and young is not how the damage gets done." They talk about the enjoyment of the love they're singing about fading, and how they miss that, but they know that, again, this is not their fault. They know they didn't change, the world did, and they won't take responsibility for their 'sin' when all they did was adapt.

As aforementioned, the inhabitants of the fourth circle suffer extreme injuries, so Hozier saying "I know being reckless and young is not how the damage gets done" is him saying "I know that we are not at fault for being served the punishment of Greed."

FIFTH (WRATH / ANGER):

"Who We Are"

We enter the fifth circle, 'Wrath', where the inhabitants spend their time fighting to stay at the surface of the river Styx, another one of the five rivers of the underworld.

"Falling from you drop by drop." / "To hold me like water." These lyrics obviously give the idea of water, representing the river Styx.

"Or, Christ, hold me like a knife." This lyric comes in quite loudly, Hozier's voice strengthening with it. The subtle blasphemy of "Christ" and the violent imagery of "knife" comes across as a sort of anger. Being held "like a knife" is representative of how those is Wrath must feel - like they are something particularly dangerous, but still desperate to be held.

"We're born at night, so much of our lives is just carving through the dark to get so far." Again, this theme of darkness that is so frequently displayed in Inferno is mentioned again. After this song comes "Son Of Nyx", which Hozier said was the transition into the darker half of the album, and Nyx is the Goddess of the Night. Being "born at night" would make Hozier the son of the night, the son of Nyx. This gives the impression that, if the album is following on chronologically, this is the point where the relationship portrayed in the album begins to fray as Hozier starts to be consumed by the darkness.

"And the hardest part is who we are." Those in the circle of Wrath possess a 'savage self-frustration' that Hozier seems to represent throughout this whole song - A fierce annoyance with the way he and his lover let things go: "We sacrificed, we gave our time to something undefined", "Chasing someone else's dream", Etc.

SIXTH (HERESY):

"Son Of Nyx"

We have no lyrics for this song (though you can hear him faintly saying some things, one of which is him saying "who we are...") but we know it takes place in circle six, 'Heresy'. Heresy is a belief or opinion that is contradictory to religious doctrine, especially Christianity. As aforementioned, Hozier said this track is a transition song meant to replicate a descent into the darker half of the album.

Nyx is a Greek Goddess and is often known as the personification of night. She had many children all representing different things but the title would essentially mean 'The Son Of Night', and, as dissected in the previous song, we can see that Hozier sees himself as reborn into the darkness.

Once again, darkness is a large theme of Inferno, but Hozier saying in circle six that he is the Son of Night is particularly meaningful due to the association of light with God. He has been reborn as something that could not be further from God, something that opposes the idea of God, something of a Heretic.

Nyx was feared and respected by all, including Zeus, and, though I believe there is no reference to her in Inferno, she was described as residing in the dark recesses of the Underworld, which is heavily incorporated into Inferno.

"All Things End"

This song does not have many overt references to circle six but definitely incorporates the idea of heresy. As mentioned, heresy is an idea that contradicts (especially, but not always) Christianity. In this song, Hozier talks about the ephemeral nature of all things, particularly romance.

"When people say that something is forever, either way it ends." Whether it be death or a break-up, God doesn't plan for you to be able to spend eternity with your lover.

"Movin' on in time and taking more from everything that ends." Hozier, however, argues that things still have meaning beyond their end. That, even after moving on, we will remember and learn from the things we have lost.

"Just knowin' that everything will end should not change our plans." Throws back to the idea of the second verse of "First Time". If you avoided something just because it was going to end eventually, you would never achieve anything. That's like refusing to finish a movie just because you don't want to get to the credits.

When this concept of ignoring the end comes to death, we ultimately cross the concept of God. There are many rules people follow in religion, avoiding certain things because they are against 'God's Will'. Although this practice can be kept in moderation, it can quickly become self-imprisoning.

Not living your present life out of fear for an unproven afterlife can be limiting, especially if you dictate who you love due to what supernatural punishment may or may not follow. Hozier sings that we should not let God's plan interfere with what we need from life, allowing ourselves to indulge in love even if it will end - ultimately, Heresy.

SEVENTH (VIOLENCE):

"To Someone From A Warm Climate (Uiscefhuaraithe)"

This song places in circle seven, 'Violence'. Violence is split into three subcategories, or 'rings'; Violence against others, violence against self, and violence against God. I believe this song gives an overview of all three.

With this song, we recognise that the title says "To someone..." and Hozier said this song was a gift to someone who was from a geographical warm climate, but there is also a lot of heat in circle seven.

"A joy, hard learned in winter, was the warming of the bed." Throughout this song, Hozier describes himself as cold, and his lover as warm. The idea of warming the bed is a concept Hozier mentioned in his song "Nobody" (From 'Wasteland, Baby!') where he sings that, if he had a choice between the warm bed of his lover or performing on stage, he'd go home to the bed. Since this song comes after "All Things End" (the break-up song), this call back to "Nobody" could be instead referencing a permanent distance, rather than a temporary one (like the temporary distance in "Nobody").

"And, darlin', all my dreaming has only been put to shame." This could have two meanings. One, Hozier waking from a dream about his lover to find them not here. Or, two, Hozier's expectations of his lover falling short as their relationship has finally fallen through. These expectations could be a form of violence against self, the second ring, as he set himself up for heartbreak.

"And I wish that I could say that the river of my arms have found the ocean. I wish I could say the cold lake water of my heart- Christ, it's boilin' over." As mentioned, Hozier is cold, his lover is warm. His wishes he could find something to to fill the loss of his relationship, but he still feels the heat from his lover in every part of him.

"It's boilin' over." References the river of boiling blood in the first ring, violence against others, Hozier could be talking about the way his partner loved him, how that was almost an act of violence with how hard it is to now let go.

"Butchered Tongue"

This song has less references to 'Inferno', and is more of a commentary on the act of violence itself. Hozier sings of places and cultures lost to the violence of man, and he mourns this deeply.

"To say 'Appalacicola' or 'Hushpukena', like 'Gweebara'. A promise softly sung of somewhere else." This grieving for a time when native land wasn't colonised and culture wasn't violently erased is prevalent throughout the song.

In the second verse, he sings very strongly of the brutal acts inflicted upon Irish rebels by the British forces in the Wexford Rebellion of 1789. As we know, Hozier is from Ireland, and he incorporates both the Irish language and history into this album, and recounting such violent acts for this song feeds into the grieving of what has been lost: "Between what is lost forever and what can still be known."

In the context of 'Inferno', it feels as though Hozier is listing the sort of actions that would land someone within the circle of Violence whilst also appreciating the efforts those above ground take to preserve erased culture. Altogether, the song is a very moving commentary on modern violence.

EIGHTH (FRAUD):

"Anything But"

The eighth circle is 'Fraud', split into ten subcategories that are positioned around the circle in trench-like ditches, known as 'Bolgia'.

"I wanna be loud, so loud, I'm talking seismic," follows up with, "I want to be as soft as a single rock in a rain stick." Who he wants to be fluctuates between moderation and severity. He is changing, unreliable, possibly referring to bolgia one, Panders and Seducers. Seducers tend to 'lead astray', as Hozier's unreliable narration does.

The punishment of bolgia one is to be marched backwards and forwards rapidly whilst being whipped, very much evoking the imagery of a stampede: "If I were a stampede, you wouldn't get a kick." This alludes to the fact that if Hozier were sent to hell for the various sins he commits for his lover, he wouldn't resent them for it at all.

"If I was a riptide, I wouldn't take you out." The second bolgia of Fraud is for Flatterers, 'the act of giving excessive compliments, sometimes for romantic courtship'. Obviously, the song is filled with these compliments.

"I hear He touches your hand and then you fly away together. If I had his job, you'd live forever." The imagery of "fly away" gives the idea of ascending, perhaps to Heaven, as hinted at again by the idea of the longevity of living. Bolgia three is for Simoniacs, those who would sell church roles, offices, or sacred things. This seems to fit with Hozier saying that if he had a divine role, he wouldn't follow protocol, he would allow his lover immortality.

Simoniacs were sinners because they were disobeying God's trust, because the selling of divine roles would lead to corruption in the Church. Hozier is using this hyperbolically, saying that if someone were to sell him the role of God, he would most definitely be a corrupt power.

"I'd lower the world in a flood, or better yet I'd cause a drought." In bolgia four we have Sorcerers. Although Dante used this term in a more logical sense for fraudulent sorcerers - false prophets, fortune tellers, those who lied about the plans of God - Hozier uses the term in a supernatural sense. Sorcerers were punished for trying to interrupt God's prerogative, whereas Hozier is blatantly saying he would summon another flood, usurping God's plan overtly.

"I'm talking seismic." The bridge that leads to bolgia seven was collapsed by the great earthquake and, as we know, seismic activity leads to earthquakes.

"Worry the cliff side top as a wave crashing over." There happens to be a cliff near the entrance of circle eight that a large waterfall plunges over.

"Abstract (Psychopomp)"

This song appears to be the crossover point from circle eight to circle nine that I mentioned when discussing "I, Carrion (Icarian)". Before we get to that, the title itself is significant.

A psychopomp is a chaperon of death; Someone like the Grim Reaper, or Charon from "First Time", or Dante's guide through Inferno, Virgil. Here, Hozier is describing the act of hitting an animal with your car as taking on the role of a psychopomp, whilst also relating this idea to the act of letting a relationship die, leading it from life to death.

In the crossover point from eight to nine, Dante and Virgil stand and look at the large well that leads down to circle nine, 'Treachery'. The Titians and Giants burst out of the well, to big to fit, but their feet stand stubbornly in Treachery. I believe that, at this point in the album, Hozier stands here, too. He's visited all eight circles, and has one last place to go before he leaves Inferno, and ultimately his lover, behind. This song is him realising he has to let his relationship end, he has to act as a psychopomp for his love.

"Sometimes it returns like rain that you've slept through." Circle nine, 'Treachery', is a frozen over lake, aka a memory of water, similar to the residue of rain. With viewing this song as the predecessor to "Unknown / Nth", we can take this as a hint of what's to come.

"The Earth from a distance." Since Inferno is arranged in rings (like a circular staircase), Dante could feasibly look up and still see where he started his journey. The same way Hozier could look up and see where his relationship began, "De Selby (Part 1)", The Gates.

"Streetlights in the dark blue." We have the mix of light and dark again, as mentioned in the opening track, referencing back to Hozier and his partner falling in love.

"Darling, there's a part of me I'm afraid will always be trapped within an abstract of my life." Of course, Hozier is talking about the memory of the animal hit with the car here, but the way this relates to circle nine is beautiful. As we'll properly dissect with "Unknown / Nth", sat within the most central point of circle nine, the deepest part of Inferno, is Lucifer, the fallen angel. Lucifer was thrown down to Hell from Heaven, and found himself trapped in Treachery, his body too big to escape. Dante says that the more he struggles, the more stuck he becomes.

That moment he was struck down to hell is a moment he finds himself forever stuck in, just as Hozier is saying here. In the next song, Hozier relates his lover to Lucifer, but these lyrics are a gorgeous mirroring of Lucifer's experience, and another hint at the final circle we will now head to.

NINTH (TREACHERY):

"Unknown / Nth"

Okay, buckle in.

The ninth circle, 'Treachery', is also one split into subcategories, yet Hozier appears to be singing about the centre. The frozen over lake of Treachery gets more frozen the closer you get to the centre. The inhabitants start half-submerged in ice to fully plastered in it. Throughout Inferno, and the deeper we descend, a soft breeze becomes a strong wind, that, as we reach the centre, we find is caused by the violent flapping of Lucifer's wings. Here he sits, stuck and chewing on Judas, another one of God's biggest betrayers.

After "Abstract (Psychopomp)" Hozier is now exploring the final stage of his relationship. The circles of Hell had mirrored the love he once had, and Treachery is where it shall be buried. He also represents his lover as Lucifer, though not maliciously. In interviews, Hozier spoke about the song being about a heavy betrayal he suffered from someone he truly loved, and likening this to God and Lucifer is just heartbreaking.

"You know the distance never made a difference to me." The song is about knowing someone in their entirety, discovering their best and worst parts. Hozier uses Inferno to talk about the tiresome journey of finally knowing someone. He says he would've made the trip all the same, that he would've walked this far for his lover no matter what.

"I swam a lake of fire, I'd have walked across the floor of any sea." This mirrors the previous lyric, but also references specific parts of Inferno. The are many fires in Inferno, particularly in circle seven, 'Violence'. The sea floor lyric reminds me of the lake of Treachery. Though a surface, not a floor, the lake would still be below any seabed, since Inferno is geographically below the Earth.

"Funny how true colours shine in darkness and in secrecy." You guys are probably sick of hearing me say it but... Darkness is a big theme in Dante's Inferno. It is meant to represent the deceiving nature of humans when light is not being shone. Secrecy is a running thread through 'Inferno', too, as Dante finds many people he thought had done no wrong residing there. Hozier is simply saying how (sarcastically) funny it is that he only truly knows his lover in the remains of their relationship; How he only knows them after seeing them in their cruellest form.

"Where you were held frozen like an angel to me." There are many angel lyrics, but this one specifically references the ice of Treachery. The fallen angel is indicative of Hozier's experience: Seeing someone he regarded highly, even heavenly, falling from that pedestal and turning into something that couldn't be further from God's work.

"You called me angel for the first time, my heart leapt from me. You smile, now, I can see its pieces still stuck in your teeth, and, what's left of it, I listen to it tick. Every tedious beat going unknown as any angel to me." Hozier references his ex-lover chewing on his heart the way Lucifer chews on Judas. He listens to it somehow still ticking, however slowly, and at the end of the song we hear something akin to a heartbeat. The beats are "going unknown as any angel to me" since he can no longer recognise his own heartbeat after it has been mangled by another, and, since he mistook someone alike Lucifer to an angel, the idea of angels must be "unknown" to him.

"Do you know I could break beneath the weight of the goodness, love, I still carry for you? That I'd walk so far just to take the injury of finally knowing you?" We again have this imagery of walking far, referencing the journey of Inferno, and, even though he's aching with the realisation of who his lover truly is, he can't help but be grateful that he does now know them, no matter how painful that may be. That he would do this all again if it meant he at least got to the answer of who they are.

His weak heartbeat follows him through to final track as we begin the Ascent.

ASCENT:

"First Light"

The title is very meaningful for the Ascent. The song references both Dante and Virgil's ascent and the creation of light by God himself. Dante and Virgil leave Inferno through a tunnel that Lucifer left in the Earth as he was thrown down to Hell, and they emerge on the other side of the hemisphere. This song signifies Hozier stepping away from the relationship as he also makes that journey out.

"One bright morning changes all things." Dante is disorientated when he exits Inferno. He'd become so accustomed to the darkness that he asks Virgil, 'How is it that the sun progressed so rapidly from evening to day?' Hozier seems to recognise here that his relationship is no longer fit for him, that the darkness has become too encompassing, just as Dante realises on his ascent.

"The sky set to burst, the gold and the rust, the colour erupts...the sun coming up." Not only does this give the imagery of the birth of light, but it also represents Dante's view on his exit: 'Until...I saw the lovely things the sky above us bears. Now we came out, and once more saw the stars.'

"Like I lived my whole life before the first light." Hozier says that the darkness from his lover was so overbearing that it was hard to believe he'd ever felt light before - that light could not have exists with a darkness this heavy alongside it. It is a call back to "De Selby (Part 1)" - "A darkness so deep that God at the start couldn't bear."

"One bright morning comes. Darkness always finds you either way, it creeps into the corners as the moment fades." He speaks of bringing light to a moment between them, but has it quickly smothered by the darkness inherent in his partner. Another call back, this time to "De Selby (Part 2)" - "And your heart, love, has such darkness, I feel it in the corners of the room."

"After this I'm never going to be the same, and I am never going back again." This lyric is heart-breaking. Hozier states that Inferno has changed him, but he has no wishes to re-enter it. At the beginning of this album, he was begging for the likes of Inferno - "De Selby (Part 2)": "Let all time slow, let all light go." - and now he is desperate to get away from it. In "Francesca", he said, "At the end, I'd tell them, 'Put me back in it.'", yet, now, he's at the end, he's ascended, and he has no desire to go back at all.

He is letting go of his lover because he recognises that this pain was not worth it, that this love was not worth the punishment he received, so he leaves.

---

That was Hozier's Inferno !! I hope this was helpful to some people since it was very fun to make (I'm exhausted) and it's very enlightening to see how these lyrics relate to Inferno (I'm heart-broken) !! Okay, wooooo !! Enjoy !!!

[seventhcallisto]

PROLOGUE

—Deep Down.

Toc/cw; scenting. omega in heat. talk of s3x. featuring alpha g-idle. Language. Mature Content! Talk of gender, sex, and the weird system that a/b/o roles have, including the terrible hierarchy system. It's my series so I make my own rules, period!

Never, absolutely never, does a person get their second sex when they're born. It's no surprise they get it towards puberty, yet the majority of times, heats or ruts do not start happening until they're in their late teens- early twenties. Betas never went through that issue. They hardly ever were considered more than peace makers. For a while, they were the least chosen. While not as valuable as an alpha or as wonderful at comforting like an omega. There was still some dull middle ground. They weren't that special.

That was only for a bit, anyway. Eventually, omegas took that spot, lower on the hierarchy, whilst betas gained the middle place. You didn't agree with the system, though. It doesn't matter your second sex. It matters how you hold yourself, how you go about through life with a second sex.

And you stood by that for decades.

You took hold of a company and shaped yourself to fit their mold. Although a foreigner in this strange city, following a dream you didn't know you could grasp, you still went for it. You molded yourself to fit whatever they wanted. A calm, level-headed, peace-maker, beta. With a heart of fire and determination that'll set a field ablaze. You worked your ass off. Getting up as early as possible. Practicing. Making something of yourself. Training yourself. Learning the language.

Someone who could make even the quietest of omegas open up, and the loudest of alphas silent. You were a patient and composed person.

And when you came out on top, the very top, unreachable and untouchable, you knew you maxed out your potential. It was only then that you let it slip from your hands and into the grasp of another. You let them see what you could do, and now it was their turn.

They took it with stride. Quickly, you found yourself linked to a group you'd be a part of for life. You were surprised, to say the least.

"It smells like testosterone in here," you grimaced.

Eventually, you did get used to the stench of 8 alphas. Soon enough, you could actually smell their undertones. A mix of everything drowns every corner of the apartment you live in with them.

You were fairly the least popular in the group by a good amount. Sometimes, you chalked it up to people being oblivious. It never hurt you, why would it? You're a rare gem. Sometimes, it needs a light shined on it to really sparkle.

It's years later of cleaning up after messy alphas and teaching yourself tricks to get used to their behaviors, that you suddenly notice a difference in yourself.

"Hey, you smell different," seonghwa scruches his nose, a pleasantly surprised look on his face. You slip your shoes off in the doorway, closing it behind you. "New perfume," you reply, half hazerdly, sliding your keys into the key bowl. "I thought you liked your own scent?" He comes over and helps you with the handbag in your arm.

You hand it over to the taller guy, slipping your mask down your face. "I'm starting to stink, so i changed my perfume scent. Maybe your guys' stench is making me allergic, or I'm getting sick." You sigh tiredly when he hangs your jacket up in the closet. "No, not sick. I know what you smell like when you're sick," seonghwas eyebrows scrunch.

"You smell.. sweeter.. have you been hanging out with any omegas lately?" He questions, folding his arms over his chest. His white sweater is rolled up his arms, and his black pants hang loosely. Surely, if seonghwa is to lounge around, he's gonna do it with style. You laugh, avoiding his eyes when he catches you looking him up and down. "Ha, yeah, actually. I'm helping Kimmie prep for her heat. She plans to have a couple of mini devils running around this summer. Can you believe it?" You scoff, mentioning your long time once-trainee close friend who you grew attached too.

"Kimmie with kids, I would have never thought," you mumble under your breath, years ago you would of scoffed at the idea of young- impressionable kimmie, mature enough to consider having kids with her beta husband whom you also knew to be a trainee from before. Are you really getting that old? Seonghwa stares for a couple of seconds. His piercing eyes guide you up and down. You're staring back now. Seonghwa doesn't flinch. "Right, let's hope kim is ready for that," he laughs, and just like that, the tension breaks.

You both shuffle into the living room. Calling it a night.

Not even two days later, you're on the couch scrolling mindlessly on your phone whilst you wait for the guys to get dressed. The practice video for one of your group songs is soon. You've only been able to practice by yourself up until that point.

Yeosang takes a seat next to you, pushing you into his side. The alpha gently taps your leg to gain your attention. "What's up?" You put your phone down, giving him your full attention. "My scent is wearing off on you," he almost pouts. You smile, turning towards him and opening your arms. "Okay, c'mere." You beckon his face into your neck. Afterward, you let him take the lead.

It takes two seconds for you to realize he's not scenting you anymore. He didn't even start. "Yeosang?" You call out, threading your fingers on the back of his neck hairs. He hums, and it sounds so far away. His scent grows heavier. "You okay?" You attempt to pull back. he chases your neck. You can hear him breathing heavily, struggling to catch his breath after every strong inhale. His soft hand snakes around your neck, gently leaning your head the opposite way so he can get more room.

You follow, cause you trust your pack member. You can feel his mouth part, his lips drawing closer to your pulse. Your eyebrows furrowed. What are you doing? Obviously, something is up. You pull away from yeosangs grasp. Backing up just a bit. You put a hand to his chest to distance yourself. It's a few seconds before yeosang seems to come back, his foggy eyes focusing. "Sorry, I.. you smell really different lately," he admits, twisting his fingers in his lap.

"How so?" You question him. "Like.. sweeter. I can smell it linger, deep down under our scents I can smell.. an omega," he admits, his eyebrows twitch down. You haven't been to Kimmies house since seonghwa asked, yet you've completely washed and cleaned yourself of her scent entirely. You don't know what to say.

"Well," you fold your legs into your lap. "I think I might be coming down with something, I changed my perfume. It could be that, too?" You can't tell if you're reassuring yourself or yeosang. He hums. His eyes search your front, glancing up at you and then down to your neck where your scent glands are. "Could you wear one of my shirts for practice? I didn't get to properly scent you, and it'd make me feel better. " his tone is more of a demand yet hes still a little shy with it. Behind his eyes, you can see the strange look he casts aside.

You smile wearily. "Sure."

Yeosang had picked a black shirt he wore very often. It took him a hot minute, but by the time you watched him go through everything in his closet, the guys were done and slipping on their shoes. Once he was satisfied with his choice, he handed it to you. A shirt that would be tight fit for yeosang hanged off you. The deepest scents you can pick out are cocoa butter and honeyed citrus, like lemonade. There's the distant scent of strong tea. The cocoa butter blends well into his scent, perfectly layered. Perfectly yeosang.

You took a deep enhale, liking the freshness of his smell. Not noticing the satisfactory smile on yeosangs face, you slipped off into his bathroom and exchanged your shirt for his. Leaving yours behind. Once you came out, you were surprised to still see him there. His scent is everywhere in this room, heavier than normal.

His eyes look your form up and down. You give a tiny spin, smiling awkwardly. Finally, his eyes meet yours, clouded with an unknown emotion. It's a few seconds of silence. You never break off eye contact.

"We're gonna be late!" Hongjoong shouts out from the front door. His voice echoes in the hallway, leading to yeosangs' room. Yeosang smiles, looking away. He makes haste to the door and leaves you. You let the breath out you were holding. What was that?

Practice takes a hard minute to start, the coolness of the room makes it easier to warm up. You're not sweating when you begin repeating steps, adjusting what you deem unfinished or sloppy. Not long does the heat kick into the room. You find yourself removing your hoodie.

"Let's get started" the manager hits the button on the camera, beginning the recording. Your eyes follow your own movement. All of ateez has said you're the ace of the group, in everything you do it seems well-executed. You doubt that sometimes.

Every move and every breath is conditioned from years of practice everyday 'til you couldn't feel your legs. Sometimes you'd go as far as to even run, dance, and jump in terrible stilletos. Which worked out in the end since the majority of the time you'd have to wear heels or platforms to match the height of the guys during every event and performance.

Sweat pools on your collar, your neck, and your forehead as you work across the room. You can smell every one of the guys as they pass around you, a flurry of scents clog your senses. You try to focus on the choreography.

You tried until your shoulder slams into someone, throwing you off balance and onto the hard wood floor. Your elbow bounces off the wood. You slide to a stop quickly. "Fuck!" you curse at the sting in your leg, hip, and ankle. The room grows extremely quiet, the music stops as quickly. Mingi bends down to your level, shock still evident on his face. "Sorry! shit, my bad, are you okay?" He reaches for your head.

"Ow" you whine, like actually whine, instead of brushing it off like you normally would. Touching your elbow. You both simultaneously notice the blood dripping off your elbow. "Why aren't you watching where you're going!?" Yunho walks up to mingi. Mingi stands up from next to you. "I didn't do it on purpose!" Mingi defends, his jaw clenches. The two stare daggers, a tense standoff so sudden you don’t know truly if you falling is the cause of it or if something else is at play. Hongjoong steps forward to stop them. A heated discussion begins.

Wooyoung and San stand back, Jaws clenched, at any moment they look ready to pounce. Yeosang stands with Seonghwa and Jongho, who look just as concerned about the growing argument, yet their faces murge into something completely different at the smell in the air.

It's something no one can put their finger on.

Your ever growing weirdly sweet scent is surprising to even you, your gut twists in an unsettled way. You don't look at their faces, trying to understand the smell and your sudden shift. What the hell is going on with you?

"Boys, out in the hallway now, please" Jongsik. The manager you've had for years steps forward. As the oldest in the room take charge, the guys looked challenged. "What about her!?" Yunho shouts out, fustrated. In the distance another aurgument begins. Mingi squats back down to your level, gently pulling your attention back to him with his hands on either side of your face. "it's not that bad, yeah? It's alright?" He wants to reassure you. "Mingi" you practically whine, pulling at his wrist. The smell of harsh and swirling emotions makes your nose scrunch, it's intense and somewhat intoxicating.

You're dizzy.

Jongsik stands firm. "Out!" He repeats himself pointing to the practice room door. He reaches for mingi's shoulder. He who pushes the older man off, standing abruptly.

Hongjoong, the pack leader, is the one that rounds up the boys and pushes them out, even mingi. Before he shuts the door. He looks at you. He's so tempted to just run back in, coddle you and wrap your elbow in bandages. Yet he closes the door anyways.

There's no defiance or whining from you. because jongsik is a beta, and already mated. He's taken on a fatherly role to you when he pulls you to your feet. "I don't feel good.." You slur. Placing a hand on your head.

"Hey, it's gonna be alright. We're gonna get you to the hospital, alright?"

You lay on an examination bed, squirming by yourself. Anxiously you wait twirling your hand around the bandage on your elbow.

"This is something we've never seen before." With your heightened hearing, you can feel they're talking about you.

"She showed signs of being a beta for years. How could something like this happen so suddenly? It's impossible." Whispers echo in your mind.

What the hell is going on?

"Hello," a doctor, also a lady, steps in. her face is covered with a mask. "I'm Dr Liana." You try to focus, but the ache in your stomach is distracting. "It seems to have been there for a while, most likely due to continuous, omega activities, from what my colleagues and I have assumed."

"Have you been noticing anything different from your usual routine?"

You recount what you can, anything you find weird yourself. And there's so many clues, like when you stole each hoodie and wore it from everyone for a week straight just because 'you wanted too'. Or how touchy you've been recently especially with hongjoong, your pack leader. The scent change, the continuous need to please your members and let them have their way lately.

How you, oh God, how you've started collecting everyone's clothing in your closet, you called it a clothing pile. It's a nest. You've been nesting.

You've been not so subtlety feeding this hunger within you.

Realization has dawned on you for the first time in a month. And after a few more tests, you've spent a total of two days in the hospital.

Once you're out, you're immediately escorted to a heat sanctuary. A common locked and secure place for omegas going into heat.

"What I'm hearing is you're about to go into heat. It'll be a difficult process for you considering you're a beta turned omega, and it's fairly late for you to be getting your first heat, but I'm sure there's plenty of options for you."

There were plenty of other options, yet you opted for the least embarrassing and least dreadful one. It was too late to take heat suppressants. Now, you're stuck in a somewhat luxurious hotel room with glorified room service and plenty of meds to sedate you for a week or less. They're actually so you can't feel the actual pain that comes with a heat without having a knot to sedate the feeling. If you really hoped you could sleep it off, you'd be dead wrong.

The specific question of; "do you have anyone in mind that could take care of you during your heat?" Really lingered. You thought about it. Maybe more than once, but you turned it down. No way. Nooo wayyyy. You wouldn't dare go past the first pack of alphas your mind landed on. Wouldn't even touch that book or open it in your minds eye.

Everything is very sensitive for the first day. You sweat a ton. You feel like you've lost weight, although you eat when you're not... 'foggy'. You feel the sweat pool at every corner of your temporary bed.

Anything you can get your hands on you pull, hard, and rip and tear. A pile of blankets and pillows are strewn on the floor in one giant large pile. Every once in a while you'll come back to your senses and childishly get upset at what you're doing.

No you've got nothing against omegas. You just didn't ask to be one, so therefore you're mad about being one.

Once satisfied, you spraw out and get to working on yourself with whatever you can, clothes and all. Toys. Plugs. Lube. You would have never guessed you'd end up this way. You name it, and they have it. They say there's nothing more satisfying than a knot, yet you don't enjoy the idea of what comes after. Pups? Ew. Is there even anything to counteract that? How do people just sleep with a stranger during a heat and not feel scared about what will happen in the moment? There's nothing wrong with it. It's just not your particular cup of tea.

As a beta, or.. when you were one, it wasn't very hard to find someone to hook up with. Betas have the abilities to hook up with anyone, alphas, omegas, and other betas. Although pregnancies and knotting aren't as easy for betas(you're not a big fan of wrapping it) it'll work eventually if tried enough. There's this middle ground for betas who can have it all. Relationships get difficult when you aren't as drawn to each other as an alpha and omega are, but with patience, it'll work.

There's this gross scent lingering under your skin, you can still smell the scent of your old skin, the beta you once were is suddenly being washed away by a sweet, tropical smell, an omega in full bloom. It's your second day. Yet you couldn't get more miserable. Two or three more days of this? Seriously.

You've never been a girly girl, begging for your way or kissing up to get it. You were commonly told you were a tomboy growing up. Maybe that played its role on your first designated sex. Your company pushed that role, too. Tough girl act. Rapper, Dancer. Never the face of the group. But you weren't complaining. You were the top of top trainees. Nothing could beat you down.

Yet, dressing up in baggy clothes and never looking sexually appealing was your role in the group. Tomboy rapper. Compared to the beginning of fourth gen, you were considered a girl crush but nothing else. least lines, least screen time, least roles. I mean. You trained for this, right?

Now you're stuck with a new second gender you didn't ask for. Pushing you farther behind the scenes. Just your luck.

As soon as your first heat ends. You realize you weren't as bad. Apparently, the first heat ever is the easiest. You're supposed to get worse. Seriously. Worse? God. You can't take this. You go to the only people you know won't make a big deal out of your new.. thing.

Soyeon places a hot cup of tea right in front of you. And you can smell the scent suppressant coming from the steam. "this is supposed to help?" You sniff at it warily, grimacing at the factory like smell.

"You came to us, at our dorm, smelling like the biggest ball of 'fuck me please', take it or leave it." She clicks her tongue at you, propped up on her bed. Minnie takes a seat opposite of you, as does shuhua. "You cant even smell me, you're on scent suppressants" you groan, swirling the tea. "How do yall cope." You sigh and chug the content of the large tea cup. Soyeon laughs, minnie grimaces, and despite having a shocked look, shuhua pumps her fist in encouragement.

You've come to the group of alpha women cause, well, they're your best friends. And they're the most encouraging about any and all supplements and suppressants. They've single handedly encouraged everyone you know to take suppressants. From the front door, you hear it open and close, stepping down the hallway comes yuqi and miyeon, who do a double take.

Yuqi takes a giant whiff, and her eyes bulge. "What happened to you!?" She coughs at the stench of omega. Something she doesn't find common in their room when you're around. Miyeon scoots to the side when Soojin pushes through with a cake of some sort and a tiny charcuterie board. She places it down in front of you. You can tell the alpha in her is desperately trying to please you.

"Somehow, our poor, once beta, girl friend has changed sex." Soyeon speaks through a bite of twizzlers. You don't comment at her choice of words. Yuqi and Miyeon scoot into the room, staring at their doting member.

"There you go." Soojin pats your head and takes a seat on the bean bag in front of you. "Thanks," you sigh, digging in. The cake, which soojin explains, is a long-lasting scent changer. Magic is baked into every bite.

As for the charcuterie board. It's just something to get you some protein with the lack of good supplements in your system. In her eyes, you've lost at least half of your body weight. You haven't. Yet she's still encouraging you to take care of yourself from such a rushed heat.

"Poor girl," miyeon sighs, "I've never heard of that happening to anyone before. How's that even possible?" She takes to removing her hoodie and placing it down properly. Yuqi shuffles off her bag. Plopping onto the bed next to you. "How'd the guys react?" She steals a piece of meat from your board.

"I haven't told them" you sigh, the room goes silent.

"That's fucked up" yuqi laughs. Miyeon slaps her ankle. "So we're the first to know?" Shuhua confirms, you nod. "Wow, I'm sure they'll be happy about that," soyeon laughs lightly. You tear your eyes off shuhua. "What do you mean by that?" You clearly speak, eyebrows pulled down. Minnie places a hand on your ankle to get your attention. "Well, we're your girl pack. We'll always be your girl pack." she looks nervous.

"But the last time I hung out with you, your boys stared at me like I was an intruder in their territory." she pats your ankle. Your eyebrows pull taunt. You want to defend them. "What? No way.." You truly think about it. "Whatever you say, your boys aren't as good as we are at keeping up with our contribution to not being alpha whores" soyeon sighs pushing to sit up. "Especially mingi, he's the whoriest of them all, he goes into rut every week it seems. He needs a heavy dose of rut suppressants." she takes another chunk off her twizzler.

"You shouldn't feel obligated to tell them first. Butt.. you shouldn't be surprised when they get upset about you telling us first." The girls all nod. You fall back onto soyeons pillows. A puff of sandal wood and cinnamon surrounds you. Slowly dying down as the tea takes its hold on your heightened senses. "Maybe I should have thought this through," you rub at your eyes.

"You're always welcomed here." soojin clears your mind, patting her hand against your hip in a friendly gesture. "This won't change anything. You're still my- our best friend," soojin speaks on behalf of the girls. Everyone hums to confirm.

"Thanks," you say genuinely. "It's a bit late for you to get a drive all the way home, What'd the company say to the guys?" Miyeon perks up from the edge of the bed. "Something about me needing medical evaluation. I'm pretty sure they think I'm still in the hospital." Yuqi scoots up next to you. "Did you check your phone?"

You didn't even think about it, pulling it from your pocket. You try to power it on. "No, everything was rushed. I didn't have a chance to check anything before I had to give it up so I wouldn't expose the place I was at." The screen doesn't light up. It's completely dead.

"It's dead," you pass it to soojin, who already had her hand out to take it. She plugs it into soyeons charger. "Well, I guess you're stuck here." Shuhua and yuqi topple on top of you, squishing you into the mattress.

"Sleepover!"

The next morning, you wake up sore. Not because of anything the girls did but because of such a long trial of whatever you did to yourself in the haze of heat. You groan when you shift your hip, burying yourself closer to the center of the makeshift bed you made in the living room.

The night was full of movies and being doted on by every one of the girls. Things aren't supposed to change because of your new sex, and that's remained true. They just baby you a little bit more than usual. "Shuhua, 'mega! Come eat! Now!" Minnie yells from the kitchen. The nickname startles you, something you've never heard before is somewhat pleasent to your ears. There's stomping towards the living room. Your head slams back down onto the pillow, pretending to sleep.

"I know you're awake." yuqis smile can be heard through her words. You can't help the prying of your lip. "Nu-uh," you grin, eyes still closed. "Get up!" She jumps on you, pulling you into a suffocating hug that she wiggles around in. You laugh and pull her equally as close. After the struggle of a couple of seconds, your exhaustion returns. Your arms fall limply around her waist.

"You doing alright?" She asks, picking herself up and off of you so you can breathe. "Yeah, I just tired myself out this week." you laugh, embarrassed. "Don't worry," shuhua perks her head up from the couch next to you. "You should have heard when yuqi had her first rut," shuhua laughs menacingly, yuqi springs up. "Shut up!" She yells. "She wouldn't stop! All night and day! We had to quarantine the whole top floor!" Shuhuas words stop on occasion when yuqi is wrestling to cover her mouth. You laugh at them.

"Hey," soojin stands over, ignoring her members. "Hi," you smile back. "Hungry?" She lends you her hand, pulling you up off the floor. "Starved," you take it, embracing her rose filled scent.

A platter of delicious food is placed right in front of you. Breakfast in their apartment is somewhat new to you. You've never really been able to stay long when you visit. Maybe you're starting to realize the guys have a stronger hold on you than you thought. Speaking of the guys. As soon as you finish your plate, Soojin places your phone down in front of you. The screen is still black, signaling she hasn't turned it on.

"You're gonna want to answer your boy toys before they stalk you down themselves," soyeon gestures. She's not wrong.

You power your phone on and let it reboot for a second. Yuqi is still eating with shuhua, talking to miyeon and minnie about something you don't pay attention to. Your phone makes a continuous notification sound when all of your messages pop up.

104 missed messages. 32 missed calls.

You're in deep shit.

Taglist: @0325tiny @bratty-tingz @lelaleleb

(Thank you for reading ♡)

[another-lost-mc]

Idle hands are the devil's playthings.

Perseverance | SOLOMON x afab!Reader 2.3k words | NSFW | Smut | Established Relationship Content warnings: Pet names, (mutual) masturbation, phone sex, teasing/orgasm denial, sex toys, sex magic, cursing, aftercare, implied past Asmo x afab!Reader x Solomon, implied/referenced kink/relationship negotiations. Reader uses gn!pronouns. Insatiable AU: [Part 1] [Part 3]

You know Solomon is up to something the moment he strolls into the RAD student council chambers unannounced. He was supposed to meet you at the House of Lamentation later - so why is he here now?

He returned from his trip to the human world early that morning, and you tried to tempt him to come see you before class. You missed him after nearly a week of not being with him, and you were desperate.

“I know, darling, I missed you too,” he said on the phone, but his voice had that mischievous tone that made you shiver with anticipation. “I have a few more errands to finish before I can come see you. I’ll fetch you after dinner this evening, and then I’m all yours.”

You reminded yourself that throwing tantrums about wanting your boyfriend to fuck you senseless wasn’t appropriate behaviour. The messages he sends you certainly don’t help. He reminds you of all the things he missed about you while he was gone and what he plans to do to make up for his absence. 

You're confident that you're prepared for whatever else he might do to tease you while you're stuck at RAD. You keep a kit in your locker that contains several pairs of clean underwear, a soft washcloth and a small bottle of liquid soap. It’s useful for days like today when you’re so fucking needy that your arousal soaks through your underwear; your thighs feel unpleasantly damp and sticky if you don’t change them.

When you can’t stop squirming in your seat, you ask to be excused and rush from the classroom. You lock yourself in one of the staff washrooms so you can relieve yourself in privacy. You pull down your uniform and lean against the wall, hand inside your underwear so you can tease your throbbing clit and stuff your needy hole with your fingers. It’s a futile effort to relieve the ache inside you that’s driving you to distraction. It works for a while, but desire still simmers inside you endlessly, constantly threatening to boil over with each depraved thought you try to ignore.

Your kit is going to need replenishing by the end of the day at this rate. You’re using up your spare clothes and taking self-care breaks between classes so often, it feels like a new record for you.

You can’t help yourself; Solomon has been sending you text after text of filth, spilling loose all his own fantasies about what he wants to do to you. He describes in excruciating detail what he imagined when he fisted his cock during those lonely nights without you. He also reminds you that he still has something planned to punish you for the video you sent him.

Oh, right - the video. It was two days ago when you woke up with your hand in your pajama pants while your hips rolled pathetically against your mattress. You called him and his voice was still thick with sleep, but he knew what you wanted. He guided you through two orgasms, his rough voice in your ear telling you how to touch yourself. You obeyed when he told you to stop and listen to him instead, letting the slick sounds of his hand around his cock tease you until you begged him to let you come too.

A couple hours later, you were in class and copying notes from the blackboard when your D.D.D. pinged with a message from Solomon. He wanted to inform you that he had an important meeting later that day, so you might not hear from him until that evening. The next message he sent was a picture - presumably from that morning - of his hand wrapped around his cock and a pearly-white rope of cum trailing up his naked belly.

That bastard.

You raised your hand to excuse yourself and you nearly ran from the classroom. Once you were alone in one of the nearby washrooms, you fucked yourself with your fingers and muffled your cries with your other hand. You changed your soaked underwear for new ones and spent the rest of the day deciding how you wanted to repay him.

When you got home from RAD that afternoon, you locked yourself in your room and rummaged through your toy drawer. You sent him a generous gift of your own: a video of you fucking yourself with one of your favourite toys. Your pleased noises combined with the obscene squelch of your slick as you thrust the toy in and out of your hole. You teased your nipples between your finger tips and when you came, you cried out his name with the toy buried deep, kissing your cervix; your free hand teased your clit through the aftershocks. When your body finally went limp, you said his name one last time with a breathy sigh.

His response to your gift was him telling you how naughty you were. Apparently, he received your message during a very important meeting. Even without sound, the video of you - beautiful, lustful, incredible you - nearly drove him mad. He had to excuse himself to deal with his cock, achingly hard and leaking inside his trousers.

Oops. 

It was difficult to feel guilty about it at the time, especially since he didn’t mention the video again until today.

The student council meeting is almost finished, and Solomon is speaking to Diavolo and Lucifer about something. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, and there’s something unreadable in his stare.

You look away and try to think of anything but him and his cock and what you’d like him to do with it. The other demon brothers are still mingling in the room and chatting amongst themselves. No matter how much you might want Solomon to fuck your brains out, as hard and as rough as possible, you don’t want to make a scene in front of them. You can be patient a little longer.

You need to retrieve your belongings on the dais before you can go home. You're surprised by the strange tingling between your legs as you walk. The sensation increases, and you suck in a breath to keep yourself from gasping when there’s a soft, teasing pressure against your clit. You try to ignore it and keep walking, but your knees buckle when the pressure travels through your folds and teases against your entrance.

You reach the dais just in time; you lean against it, palms slicked with sweat as something slips into your needy hole and massages your walls. Whatever it is is rubbing that soft spot deep inside, and you're on the brink of ruin. You clench your jaw to keep yourself from moaning when pleasure surges through you out of nowhere.

The orgasm leaves you winded and you’re panting heavily, but everyone else seems too distracted to notice. You look over your shoulder and spot Solomon across the room. He catches your eye and holds up his hand, his fingers wiggling playfully at you. He starts rubbing his bottom lip with his forefinger and you can hear him hum in agreement in response to whatever Diavolo just said to him.

You stare at him, mouth open in shock, when you feel the vibrations of his hum inside you. Your walls instinctively clench around nothing, and he winks at you before he looks away.

That absolute bastard.

You’re not sure what sort of magic he’s using on you or how it works. All you know is that you're exhausted and desperately fighting the temptation to collapse on the floor. You're one devilish smirk or teasing touch away from becoming a writhing, sobbing mess for everyone else to see.

You can feel him trying to coax more pleasure from you, but it's too much. You can't possibly endure more of this, not without completely humiliating yourself in front of your friends. There’s an exit to the side of the dais, and you manage to push through the door on your trembling legs. The sensations between your legs stop suddenly, and you head for the nearest washroom.

You’re not sure how long you’re in there, rubbing at your swollen clit and biting your lip to keep yourself from screaming. When you’re finally spent, your entire body is shaking. You feel hot and sweaty, and your clothes are damp and sticking uncomfortably to your skin. You groan loudly in frustration when you realize you left your bag - and the remainder of your kit - in the student council chambers.

It’s only when you hear a chuckle echo in the empty space around you that you realize you forgot to lock the door. Thankfully, you recognize who it is and nearly sigh with relief instead.

“I brought your bag,” Asmo announces when you poke your head out of the stall to make sure he’s alone. “I sensed something was going on between you two and figured you might need it.” He left it on the counter for you, and you clean yourself up as best as you can before going home.

“Appreciate it,” your voice warbles pathetically. Your throat is parched and you wince from the discomfort of choking down your moans and cries earlier.

Asmo looks you over, and you can tell that he’s equal parts curious and concerned. “It’s been a while since the last time I saw you look like this,” he notes. “What’s gotten him so worked up this time?”

You cup water into the palms of your hands and splash your face; it’s a cool relief for your warm cheeks. “I might’ve sent him a dirty video during a meeting when he was away.”

Asmo laughs - he can imagine the details, so he doesn’t ask for them. However, his worry for you doesn’t fade. There’s still a noticeable tremor in your legs. “Did he stop what he was doing to you?”

You nod and start peeling off your bottoms and underwear. You’re too tired to go back into the stall to change, and it’s nothing Asmo hasn’t seen before. “As soon as I left the student council chambers.”

“Good,” Asmo nods. He knows the rules as well as you and Solomon do - he helped you write them, after all.

You’re wiping yourself clean with the washcloth from your kit - it’s a quick, sloppy job, but you still feel a little better. “Was he ever like this with you?” you ask curiously.

The question surprises him and Asmo hums for a moment while he considers his response. “Like this? No, not really. The times we were together before - before you, I mean - it was more like an itch he needed to scratch. He had his moments, sure, but nothing like the way he is with you.” Asmo laughs, and it sounds almost bitter. “You two bring out the worst in each other, in the best possible ways.”

Their history together isn’t something you normally bring up, and you’re worried that you might’ve hurt Asmo’s feelings. He has a frown on his face, and his eyes look a bit sharp, like he’s annoyed by something. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

He tilts his head curiously when he looks at you, and his lips tick up in amusement. “Don’t get me wrong, I still have my little moments of jealousy,” he admits, but then he clarifies for your benefit, “but it’s not you I’m jealous of.”

You’re not entirely surprised by his admission. The opportunities he has to indulge himself with you are rather limited, and it’s been a while. It almost makes you feel guilty when he helps you like this, his eyes so full of concern and affection for you. He loves you unconditionally, making no demands of you; he’s only ever cared about your well-being.

You adjust your clothes and try to smooth out the wrinkles of your uniform. Your reflection in the mirror still looks like a slightly worse-for-wear version of yourself, but you look better than you did before. You catch Asmo’s gaze in the mirror, and you both smile at each other. 

“Thank you for checking on me,” you murmur appreciatively when he turns you around to face him.

He pulls a stray hair off your jacket. “There’s no need to thank me. I wanted to make sure you were alright.” He looks a little bashful when he admits, “it’s not very often I get to spend time with you like this. Solomon is very greedy with your company - not that I blame him.”

You feel a little flustered when he hands you your bag. “For what it’s worth, I miss you too.” There was more than one occasion during Solomon’s absence when you considered going to Asmo for comfort, or for relief. They were desperate thoughts in your most neediest moments. Even in your lust-fogged state, you knew you’d regret asking him later. He would’ve said no - or forced himself to say no, most likely - no matter how tempted he was to give you what you wanted. 

Perhaps it’s time to revisit some of the rules.

It’s almost like he can sense what you’re thinking because Asmo gives you a knowing look. He drapes an arm over your shoulders so he can pull you into his side, and you lean against him gratefully as you walk together. “You know, there’s an event at The Fall next week I think you might enjoy. You’re both welcome to join me.”

You glance up at him and worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “It’s not one of those events, is it? Because I really don’t think I can stomach it a second time.”

He presses a kiss into your hair. He told himself he wouldn't take you back to one of those events again, even if you begged him to. “Of course not. This is one of the club's regular dance events, but the theme sounds intriguing. I think we'll be able to enjoy ourselves, together.” His playful tone intrigues you, and you promise to consider it.

The student council chambers have emptied by now, and you head towards the exit instead. You see Solomon waiting for you both in the distance when you step outside. “I'll ask him about it later, okay?”

Asmo gives Solomon a subtle thumbs-up behind your shoulder to let him know you’re alright. “There’s no rush.” He winks at you just to see you get flustered all over again. “I have a feeling you two won’t be doing much talking tonight.”

[scuttlingcrab]

The Stranger

A little piece through the POV of my favourite devil, Raphael.

Bored at a party, Raphael seeks a delicious new soul.

Mortals. So tiresome.

Raphael sighed as he played with the golden chalice between his fingers, twirling the stem before taking a long sip of wine. He sat in the corner of the politician’s great hall, observing the ludicrous banquet before him. He lost count of how many of these wretched dinners he’s had to attend. Keeping up appearances. And for what? Silly little souls that didn’t amount to anything.

His eyes slowly moved across the candle lit scene before him. A gaggle of the city-state’s most famous high ranking officials flooded the room, indulging themselves in the overflowing barrels of wine, rich sweets, and succulent meats stacked to the ceiling. Dukes, Duchesses, City Officers… fools, the lot of them.

The air was buzzing with slimy scheming and whispers of menacing manipulations, the rank smell of lust lingering above the heads of the guests. A gaudy band occupied the other end of the room, a bard sang a flat tune at the top of their lungs that made even Raphael’s skin crawl.

He unfortunately knew everyone, their deepest darkest secrets, what fuelled their nightmares, what got their lips salivating. He couldn’t escape the desperation. There were more important things to attend to. The Crown. His plans. And yet… here he was. Another wasted evening in Baldur’s Gate.

A fat faced Duke approached Raphael, about to burst from the seams as he bowed, muttering some pleasantries.

Ah, Alistair. Signing your eldest away to relieve those crippling debts. How original. Raphael clenched his teeth as he bowed in return. 

“How are your accounts as of late, Alistair? Plentiful I hope.” Raphael grinned.  

The Duke blushed and quickly nodded, his sagging cheeks swung along with the movement. He whispered a messy thank you before disappearing back into the crowd. 

Raphael snickered to himself. Imbecile. 

His eyes soon stopped, fixating on a woman he didn’t recognise. Raphael nearly missed her, she seemed to blend into the shadows. Her face was long and pale, her auburn hair loose and flowing to her thin waist. She was dressed eloquently but like her face, the design was plain. Her brows furrowed as those dark eyes darted across the room like search lights, until locking eyes with Raphael. 

Raphael’s eyes twinkled, his grasp on the chalice tightening. The woman’s expression didn’t change as they stared at each other. What a curious new creature. 

Their moment was interrupted when a large man approached the woman. He swayed, leaning a hand on the wall to balance himself. He took his other hand and grabbed the woman’s cheeks, pushing her head against the wall. The man’s face grew redder as he shouted at her. Whatever he was expressing, it was inaudible over the idle party chatter and the bard’s horrendous music.

The man took the woman by the hair and pulled her out of the room, causing a riptide to tear through the other party guests. None of them seemed to care about the lovers quarrel, as the hole the man created soon filled back up again.

Raphael finished the last of his wine, placing the empty chalice on the table before slithering through the crowd, a slight pep in his step. Alas… some fun.

Raphael’s feet floated over the dark marble tiles, his pulse quickened, excited about what he might find ahead of him. The castle halls grew quieter the further he slinked away from the banquet. Finally free of that Bard’s vile performance. He really did need to take care of that so-called musician.

The quiet didn’t last long however, the angry man’s shouts now reverberated through the passageway. 

“Yo-you’re g… go… going to w-w-ish you were ne-never born after th-this…I wi-will kill yo-u AND you-you’re bloody family!” The man bellowed, his slurred speech barely comprehensible. 

“Yoland! Stop this madness, pl–” The woman’s pleas were interrupted as she screamed out in pain. 

The shouts muffled and Raphael slowed his pace, keeping to the shadows. Ahead he watched as the man called Yoland kicked open the doors to the Duke’s library and threw the woman inside. Yoland stumbled in after her.

Raphael crept, peeking in through the open doorway. Yoland had the woman pinned up against a bookshelf, holding her by the throat. She squirmed in his arms. 

“You b…bel-belong to ME!” Yoland hissed. 

The woman reached behind her, desperately trying to grab on to a book, to something. She managed to grab a small bust of the Duke, slamming it against Yoland's face. Yoland released her and clutched his head. The woman fell to her knees, gasping for air. She quickly crawled away but Yoland lunged after her. The two wrestled each other on the floor until Yoland was on top, ripping at her dress and pulling at her hair. 

“NO!” The woman shouted and lifted a leg into the air, clawing for her right boot. Raphael raised an eyebrow. Clever girl, no need to intervene after all.

She struggled to pull out a small dagger hidden deep in her boot, nearly losing her grip on the hilt as she dug it into the back of Yoland. He screamed in agony and attacked her harder, hitting her head against the floor. She stabbed again and again and again until Yoland's movements slowed and he soon quieted, dying on top of her with a demeaning grunt.

The woman whimpered as she lay under the corpse. It took her a few minutes but she managed to wiggle her way out from under him, still clinging on to the dagger. She rose to her feet, standing over the corpse. 

Raphael straightened his posture, running his fingers through his hair to check all was in order. Showtime.

“My, my… what have we here?”

The woman spun around, her hand shook like a twig caught in a tempest as she held the bloody dagger at Raphael. 

“Surely you aren’t going to use that on me?”

She backed away but stumbled over the corpse. She fell on her backside and the dagger flew from her hands, sliding near Raphael’s feet. 

“Tut tut, I come as a friend, not an enemy.” Raphael took a step forward, he held his right hand to his heart, pledging his allegiance. 

“Who are you? One of Yoland's bloody goons?”

Raphael couldn’t help but laugh. Rather loudly. 

“Oh, oh my dear, I am sorry. Please excuse the rudeness. This is unbecoming of me. Too heavy on the wine this evening.” Raphael cleared his throat. “No, no, my dear, my name is Raphael. And I am very much at your service.” 

Raphael bowed. He paused before taking a step to retrieve the dagger. He heard the woman’s heart stop beating as she held her breath, her eyes growing wider. She grabbed a thick book and held it in front of her like a shield. Raphael knelt down, slowly, as if he was approaching a rabid animal. He turned the blade around in his hands, so that the hilt now faced the woman. 

“Please… I insist.” 

She remained silent. Despite Raphel’s kind gesture, she moved further away from him until her back hit against the far bookshelf. 

“What do you want?” She asked.

Raphael looked down at the large corpse in the room, the pool of blood getting closer to his pointed leather boots. 

“This Yoland is going to be missed, surely. His friends, or what did you call them? Goons? Yes, his goons will be coming soon. How will you manage?”

The woman swallowed, staring intensely at Raphael. Her hair was dishevelled now, half of her face covered in blood and her dress nearly ripped in two. How delicious. Like a direwolf backed into a corner. He could smell the rich fear oozing from his new prey. He was so close. Just a little more patience. He could wait, especially after such a drab evening. 

“What do you suggest then?”

“I’m only a passerby, my dear, helping a lost soul in need of some help.”

Raphael placed the dagger on the floor and snapped his fingers. A burst of flame revealed a silk handkerchief in his hands. He carefully removed the blood from his fingertips, going over every inch of his palm, careful not to miss a spot. He snapped his fingers again and the handkerchief disappeared. 

“A… warlock?”

“No, no my dear, I’m something far better than that.”

Shouts soon came from the hallway, multiple gruff voices calling out for Yoland. Raphael and the woman continued to stare at each other as the echoes got louder, the words becoming more coherent. 

“Tick, tock, my dear. The goons fast approach.”

Rapheal extended his hand once more. The woman paused before accepting Raphael’s invitation. Raphael’s lips curled into a cheeky smile as he looked deep into her eyes. 

“That will do. Thank you.”

The instant their hands touched, Raphael snapped his fingers and the two were engulfed in a warm, welcoming inferno. It was only for an instant but the flames dropped like a curtain revealing his central chamber. He stepped away from the woman and approached a roaring fireplace, standing beneath a portrait. He turned to face her with a grin, lifting his hand in a sweeping gesture, indicating the walls around him. 

“Welcome, my dear, to the House of Hope!” 

The empty chamber echoed his welcoming words. The room was spotless, the table neatly filled with a variety of food and drink, to ease the tension of any weary guest. Yes, less opulent than the banquet this evening but far better in quality. 

The woman took a moment to balance herself, leaning against the table. Her cheeks were flushed and a gloss of sweat covered her forehead. She surveyed her surroundings and her eyes darted to the painting behind Raphael. 

"Ah, the painting. Yes, my dear, I had it commisioned many moons ago. One of my favourite pieces yet." Raphael turned to admire it as well, placing a proud hand on his hip before turning his attention back to the woman.

The woman’s grip on the table tightened. Her eyes darted over the glistening horns, the massive wings, and the sharp claws of the painting’s subject. She looked at Raphael in horror and then back at the painting again, looking at the flames lapping around the Devil depicted in the artwork.

“Yo… you…”

The woman collapsed. Before her body could hit the floor, Raphael snapped his fingers and the woman dangled inches from the ground, her knotted hair softly grazing his polished floors.

Raphael flicked his wrists and the woman flew into his arms. 

Must be the heat. Raphael smirked as he delicately carried his new creature across the chamber to a large chaise lounge. He lowered her slowly into a comfortable position, eyeing her hungrily. 

"And you didn't even tell me your name. No matter, my sweet, I shall find out soon enough." Indeed, the Devil looked forward to hearing what she had to offer. 

[cherrycola27]

Idle Hands

Author's Note: I want to preface this by saying I know that this isn't my usual content. This mini-series is a result of my insomnia fueled rewatch of Outer Range, adhd, the high amount of Lew content we have been getting lately, and my dive back into country music. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it nonetheless

Series Warnings: Language, alcohol consumption, violence/ fighting, rodeo inaccuracies, smut. 18+ Minors DNI. Banner Credit: @thedroneranger

Masterlist Next Part

...........................................

Part 1: The Devil's Handiwork

Rhett hadn't planned to end up at the Handsome Gambler tonight, honestly.

But with Perry in jail, his parents on the outs, and Maria having left town, the Abbott house was just too—quiet.

So, he hopped in his beat-up old truck and headed into town. He had only planned to stay for one beer, really. But after he finished it, he realized that another one couldn't hurt. And boy, was he glad he talked himself into a second one.

Truthfully, Rhett was on his fourth beer now. But that was all because of you. Your band had been setting up when he first walked in and took a seat at the bar. Rhett had scoffed and rolled his eyes when he saw you.

You had on some well-worn cowboy boots, a flannel draped over you, and a pair of blue jeans that had to have been painted on because the fit you just right.

He figured you were one of those pop-country wannabes that seems to grace the bar more and more frequently.

But the minute you stepped on stage, Rhett knew he was wrong about you. You were different in the best way.

You didn't sing the songs that were all over the radio, that were upbeat, and full of life.

No. You sang songs about love and loss and betrayal. Songs that reminded him of the old country his father had raised him on.

And you were so convincing when sang them. Your words haunted him. The shake of your silver tambourine enchanted him. Drawing him in with every note. They bar must have had almost fifty people in it from here or there, but Rhett swore that you were singing right to him.

He was so bewitched watching you that he didn't realize how much time had passed. Soon, you were announcing your last song. It wasn't one he was familiar with, but he found himself tapping along to the beat as you sang

"Oh, lord, I need a little help."

You crooned into the microphone as you met his eyes.

"Oh, lord, come and save me from myself"

You sighed as you trailed your hand across you the tidbits of lace that peaked out from under your shirt and up your neck.

"And that devil's in the market for a pair of idle hands"

You finished with a wink and a crimson smirk across your face.

Rhett wiped his palms across his faded jeans as his very own hands, that had been setting idle just moments before, wrapped around the neck of his beer and brought it to his lips. He downed it in one gulp as you made your way off the stage and down to the crowd of on lookers, straight towards him.

Rhett fumbled with his wallet, trying to quickly pay his tab and leave, because in his head, he knew that you would be trouble.

He grabbed his hat from the bar and secured it on his head. He turned on his heels and collided with whoever had the misfortune to be behind him.

Rhett quickly caught himself and looked to apologize to whoever he crashed into, only to be met with you standing in front of him.

"Leaving so soon, Cowboy?" You spoke to him sweetly, voice flowing over him like honey.

"Y—yes ma'am." He stammered out.

You cocked your head to the side and clicked your tongue, not moving from your spot. You reached up and adjusted the hat that now sat askew on his head.

"Shame, I was hoping to have a drink with a thirsty cowboy, but if your whistle has already been wet, I guess I can find someone else." You sighed as you trailed your fingers down his bicep and looked up at him through your lashes.

"I—I suppose one drink couldn't hurt." Rhett stuttered. Your warm fingers on him was making it hard to think.

"Perfect." You smiled at him with a devilish grin.

Rhett swallowed thickly. He knew that this was either going to be the best or worst decision of his life. He just wasn't sure which one yet.

"So, Cowboy, you from around here or just passing through?" You ask him as the two of you settle into a booth tucked away from everyone else at your request.

"Born and raised here." Rhett answers you as he fiddles with the label on his beer before taking a sip of it. The hops of it dance across his tongue. Smoothe and familiar. It's a local brew, not something you can find at every bar and store. It surprises most people that Rhett drinks with when they see him order something niche.

"I've never seen this kind before. Is it any good?" You ask him as you gesture to his drink.

"S'one of my favorites," Rhett mumbles as you slide closer to him. Now your thigh is pressed against his. He can feel the warmth radiating off of your body.

"Wanna try it?" He offers as he tips the neck of the bottle towards you. "Sure." You grin at him.

Rhett expects you to take the bottle from his hand, but instead, you surge forward and connect your lips with his.

He lets out a surprise gasp, which allows you to slide your tongue into his mouth. Rhett relaxes into you. One of his large hands curling at the nape of your neck. But just ask quickly as you kissed him, you pulled away, leaving him breathless.

"You're right. It does taste pretty good." You breathe out as if nothing had happened. A laugh bubbles out of Rhett as he shakes his head and takes another drink.

"You're something else, darling." He chuckles. "Y'know, I just realized I never caught your name."

Now it's your turn to laugh. You smile at him sweetly before telling him your name. He repeats it back to you in his gravelly draw, and you think that it's never sounded better.

"You've got a mighty fine name, darling, but I think I'll call you Honeybee." He says.

"Oh, and why's that, Cowboy?" You challenge him.

"Because you're sweet with a little sting. And you can keep calling my Cowboy if you want, but Rhett works just fine, too." He smiles.

"Rhett." You draw out his name like the melody of one of the songs you just sang. Even though he's only heard you utter it once, Rhett can already tell he's addicted to the way his name falls from your lips.

"So where are you from? Because I know it's not from around here. I'd remember a pretty face like yours." Rhett asks you.

"You think I'm pretty?" You fire back. He cracks another smile and nods.

"I'm from Oklahoma. But I've been on the road for a while, following a dream." You tell him. "How the hell did you end up here?" He asks you. "My aunt and uncle have a ranch here. I'm spending the summer with them. Trying to reconnect with my roots." You explain.

Rhett shakes his head and realizes that your aunt and uncle's ranch is a few miles away from his family's. He hopes that means he'll get to see you more this summer.

"So what do you do for a living, Cowboy? Or do you just hang out in smokey bars all day?" You ask him. "I work on my family's ranch, and I ride bulls." He tells you with a shy grin.

"A bull rider. Guess that means you like to walk on the wild side?" You raise an eye brow as your hand comes to rest on his thigh. You trace lazy shapes over the faded denim.

"I've been known to take a few risks." Rhett says as he shifts closer to you.

"Is that so?" You ask him as you slide your hand along his thigh until it's resting atop of his obnoxiously large gold belt buckle that he won in his last rodeo.

"Yes, Ma'am." He replies calmly. You lean in closer to him. So close that he can smell the floral perfume you're wearing. Your lips are millimeters from his ear. "I may not be a thousand pound bull, but I sure could give you one hell of a ride tonight, if you're up for it, Cowboy." Your hot breath fans over him.

Rhett shutters at your words. And you smirk, proud of the effect you have on him. You go to pull your arm away, but he catches you by the wrist and places your hand over his bulging jeans. You cup his length through the fabric and press your thighs together.

"I think I might be the one giving you the ride of a lifetime." Rhett practically growls out.

"We'll see about that, Cowboy. I've been known to hold my own. I'm staying at the motel across the street for a few nights until my aunt fixes up the guest room at her house. I'm in room six. See you there." You wink at him before dropping a key onto the table and sliding out of the booth.

Rhett shamelessly watches you walk towards the exit. And when you turn back to blow him a kiss, he notices that the stetson hat that was once on his head now rests atop yours.

Taging some who might be interested: @shanimallina87 @teacupsandtopgun @wkndwlff @daggerspare-standingby @dakotakazansky @startrekfangirl2233 @hecate-steps-on-me @na-ta-sh-aa @katieshook02 @je-suis-prest-rachel @soulmates8 @diorrfairy @eli2447 @xoxabs88xox @djs8891 @roosters-girl @sebsxphia @rosiahills22 @dempy @callsign-magnolia @alchemxx @withahappyrefrain @lt-spork @bradshawsbaby @seitmai @kmc1989 @bcarolinablr @itsdesiree86 @waywardhunter95 @hisredheadedgoddess28 @whatislovevavy @inkandarsenic @tomanybandstolove @jiminie-08 @dingochef @skipchat @laracrofted @bobfloydsbabe @lewmagoo @sunlightmurdock

[safarigirlsp]

Wargrave Hall

Victorian Jacques Le Gris x OC Eleanor

Word Count: 55k (partially complete)

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, The Ninth Gate, 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.

*******************************************************************************************

England, 1888

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.

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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.”

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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.

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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.”

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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.”

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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.”

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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.

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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.

A tall fireplace with a marble mantle was set into the wall opposite the gun case. The mantle was decorated with trinkets and effects that must hold special meaning for Jacques. Among them was an open case with a red velvet interior that showcased several military medals. Above the fireplace hung a pair of huge medieval battleaxes, each longer than Eleanor was tall. Their crescent blades, glinting in the candlelight, crossed each other in the center of the wall, forming an X. Eleanor was reminded of the sword Jacques had worn at the ball where they met and how he had referred to it as a family heirloom. She wondered if it had belonged to the first Sir Jacques Le Gris and also how many such deadly heirlooms still resided within these walls.

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.

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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.

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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.”

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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.”

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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.

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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.

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Now that she was mistress of Wargrave Hall, the new Lady Le Gris resolved to make it her home. No presence, human nor spectral, would get the better of her or make her frightened of her own home. Out of respect for Jacques’s stoic beliefs, or rather, disbelief in all things intangible, she decided she would not burden him with any strange happenings she may see or feel. Everyone had their own demons to battle, after all. The last thing she wanted to be was a meek woman who needed her husband to check under their bed for the boogeyman. She was a strong woman and that is what Jacques had fallen in love with. She would adhere to it.

Most of the wedding guests remained at the Le Gris estate the next day and would stay through the weekend. Which meant the couple had little reprieve from their duties of host and hostess. Jacques had awakened her early on their first morning as husband and wife to attend to their guests, after assuring his new wife that he would love nothing more than to spend the entire day in bed with her. It was a sentiment she shared, although her body needed a reprieve from his attentions. Gallantly, Jacques offered to entertain their guests alone and make appropriate excuses for her so that she could linger later in bed and then enjoy a hot bath in her new master bathroom.

The master bath had an enormous clawfoot bathtub large enough to easily accommodate three normal-size people, or Jacques and another very comfortably. Eleanor looked forward to sharing it with him often. Now, she reclined alone in water that nearly reached her chin, scented with rose-petals and frothed with Parisian soaps. The water was steaming hot, as hot as she could tolerate, fogging the windows and the mirrors. She was brutally sore. Not just in the area she expected to be. Her entire body was sore and in the strangest of places, even in muscles she never knew existed. Her inner thighs ached from clamping tightly around Jacques’s hips and there was a kink in her neck from using his chest as a pillow throughout the night, firmer and thicker than the down she was used to. There were small bruises on her thighs from his fingertips and marks from kisses that were too rough for her delicate skin. She felt thoroughly used, bordering on abused. It was a wonderful feeling.

Reclining in the bath, letting the hot water soothe her aches, it was easy to let her mind wander. She thought her future had never seemed so bright, every possibility laid bare before her like a road made of golden cobblestones. Such thoughts were pleasant for a long while, until she was relaxed and drifting toward that state between wakefulness and dreaming. The bathwater began to cool and as it did, her mind took darker turns. As thoughts often do when one approaches sleep, hers turned toward down an eldritch path. Images danced across her mind in flashes, like glimpsing curious beasts through the trees when walking an unknown trail through the forest.

As a girl, she had loved Grimm’s Fairytales and so she did not think it odd when the image of a young woman perfectly fitting the description of Snow White came into her mind. A woman of around twenty, lithe and beautiful, with skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair as black as ebony walked through an unknown castle-like hall. Eleanor watched her from behind as the black robe she wore whirled in her wake. Then she was inside the woman, seeing what she saw, feeling what she felt. The great hall was crowded, every person wearing the same black robes and masks as well – frightening, hellish masks, like the leering faces of a demonic army. Ahead of her, Eleanor saw through the woman’s eyes an enormous altar covered with a scarlet cloth. And she knew what it was for. She was to submit upon it to someone unknown to her. She knew only that it was the highest honor in this secret order to which her family had belonged for longer than her husband’s family had lived in Wargrave Hall. She forced the thought of her husband from her mind. Tonight, she didn’t belong to him, and he need never be the wiser when he returned from war. The thought of what was to come frightened her, but in a thrilling way. Her heart raced with equal parts fear and anticipation as she approached the altar and the congregation around her began chanting something low and sonorous.

In that omniscient way one experiences dreams and semi-consciousness, Eleanor was aware of her own thoughts and was simultaneously aware of the happenings around her physical body while dreaming, as if she hovered above herself, watching the real world from some astral plane. She saw herself lying in the bathtub, surrounded by the pink glow of morning light from the fogged bathroom window. But she was not alone. A black figure stood in the corner of the bathroom behind her. The figure stood grimly still, looming, lurking, watching over Eleanor. It reached out a hand toward the back of her head. A spindly-fingered, razor-clawed hand with tar black skin.

Panic yanked her back to consciousness. Splashing in the bathwater, she flailed upright instantly, and looked behind her. There was nothing more than an empty corner, brightly lit by morning sunlight. The bathroom looked as peaceful as it should have been. But the air was chilled, as if the morning frost of autumn had crept in through the windows.

Standing from the bath, she looked around more cautiously but still saw nothing. The cold raised goosebumps on her bare skin. Paying the cold and her nudity no mind, she walked through the large bathroom to check every corner, water dripping from her with every step. She saw nothing amiss. The fog on the windows and mirrors had begun to drip down their faces, streaking lines across the glass. There was a tall cheval mirror in one corner, tall enough for the tallest of men to admire himself full-length. Jacques was fond of them. She had seen several through his home, including one in their bedroom. Streaks of moisture dripped down the glass in winding trails.

Slowly, Eleanor walked to the tall mirror. The fog on the glass seemed to melt faster. She stood before the mirror and felt the pinpricks of terror erupt along her spine. Words began to form in the mist of the mirror. They appeared across the glass all at once, in no sequence or pattern Eleanor could discern, as if the spectral hand that wrote them did so in the greatest haste. Eleanor read them as fast as the words appeared in the mist and just as quickly melted away.

Get Away From Jacques

The words appeared across the mirror, one in the upper corner, one in the middle bottom. Jacques appeared dead center. They dripped away nearly as quickly as they appeared. Eleanor should have been terrified, and the impulse was certainly there, but the message angered her more than it frightened her. She would not be scared away from Jacques by anyone, living or dead. She opened her mouth to say as much, but more words wrote themselves in the dripping fog.

Die Inside Wargrave Hall The last word stuck in her mind, instantly carved into her memory. Hell.

As Eleanor read the final word, a green eye met hers out of the mirror. Eleanor startled, a strangled yelp escaping her throat as she jumped back. She collided with a firm presence behind her, and full panic flooded her. A huge hand clamped down over her mouth, stiffing her scream before it reached her lips. Even the green eye in the mirror widened with terror and vanished along with the melting mist that ran down the glass in rivulets.

“This is a compromising position to find you in, darling,” Jacques’s deep, familiar voice rumbled in her ear from behind and his free arm snaked around her waist.

“Jacques?” Eleanor instantly relaxed in his strong embrace, feeling his rigid body against her back. The hand that had covered her mouth ran down the front of her body, lingering on his favorite places. “I’m so glad you’re here. Did you see what was in the mirror?”

“Only my beautiful wife.” His voice was a purr and he ground against her. Judging by the way his cock dug into her, already demandingly hard, he was lost to all else in the world. “I came to fetch you. People are wondering about you, asking if I am already widowed again after the wedding night I put you through.” He laughed at his own dark humor, kissed her neck and steered her back to the bathtub. “Upon reflection, I think they can wait.”

“You didn’t see anything amiss in the mirror?” Eleanor asked again, looking back toward the mirror that now only reflected the image of Jacques embracing her.

“I’ll take your mind off whatever it is you think you saw in the mirror. A wife must sate her husband’s demons before any other.” At the side of the tub, Jacques dipped a finger in the bathwater. “This is far too cold, darling.” He turned on the hot water. Then he bent her over, placing her hands on the side of the tub. He pulled his cock out of his trousers and leaned over her back to whisper in her ear. “Watch the mirror now if you want to see something amiss. I’ll give you a fine show.”

He took her from behind as hot water replenished the tub, giving her new aches and the new sensations and ecstasy that accompanied them. Then, he joined her in the bath and showed her the pleasure to be found by riding him astride. By the time he helped her step unsteadily from the tub, there was no chill in the air nor writing on the mirror, and she was sorer than when she had arisen that morning. However, Jacques was the most ebullient she had ever seen him, and almost too affectionate for propriety, which made her beam with happiness. To say the least, he appeared pleased with and proud of his new wife. She hoped none of their guests would comment on her not making her first appearance of the day until lunch.

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Sir Jacques was not of the species of idle rich men content to grow fat and lazy. It was a source of pride to him to handle his own affairs and not delegate them, as many wealthy men did. Eleanor was pleasantly surprised to learn also that he valued his physique and cultivated it like any other asset. She too made it her prerogative to learn all the matters pertaining to Wargrave Hall and the Le Gris family assets. In reliance on assurances by Count Winchester, Jacques allowed her more leeway in this regard than most husbands would think prudent. Additionally, since Count Winchester was directly involved in Jacques’s most serious business endeavor at present, he would have been hard pressed to deny her. He was pleasantly surprised at her aptitude for such matters, and found in her a confidant and sounding board for business ideas. Not only had she been trained in matters of business by her father as the only heir to his estate, she was also smart as a whip and learned quickly. She had what he considered a decidedly female edge that he had never thought could be an asset in business matters, but he quickly came to accept that she had far deeper insight than him into interpersonal strategic skills. He quickly came to find her observations and insights invaluable.

It was so natural a progression from the object of his desire to a confidant in all other matters, that Jacques didn’t even balk when he realized how suddenly and how deeply he had come to rely on her. When his mind drifted along paths he tried to prohibit – thoughts of the fires in Wargrave Hall, one that had claimed his first wife and another that had almost done the same to his new wife – he found it hard to reconcile the shrewd, rational woman he found in Eleanor with a woman prone to bouts of hysteria or superstition. Many women who believed in the supernatural were hysterical at best, if not suffering far more egregious afflictions of the mind

As husband and wife, they continued the shared ritual of their morning rides. Jacques found he enjoyed them much more when she accompanied him. It was strange for him to think that only weeks before he had valued his solitude above all else, when now he took great pleasure in her company and looked forward to their rides so that he could ensure he had her all to himself. He knew it was out of sorts for a man to find pleasure in a woman’s company outside of the bedroom, yet he relished it. Jacques enjoyed their rides so much that he took it upon himself to convert her into an earlier riser. It was a task that had thus far proven too much for even his hardheaded determination, but he would not admit defeat so easily.

It was a rare morning that Eleanor made it to the stables before Jacques, and he undertook the duty of saddling both their horses. This was one of those rare mornings. Jacques was waylaid in the foyer by some urgent matter between his sons in which he had to intervene to prevent a brawl. In the short time she had lived in the Hall, she understood Jacques and Theodore’s desire to find William a woman who could be a sacrificial lamb to his black temperament. She had already made inroads into matchmaking schemes with several women. Naturally, they were women Eleanor disliked intensely. Instead of dealing with the prospective women directly, she had sent letters to their mothers, who had the ears of their fathers, who in turn could command the girls to marry whomever. It was a delightful bit of conniving against women who she felt deserved it.

Jacques and Eleanor were ambushed at the bottom of the stairs in the front foyer by the squabbling young men. Jacques immediately fell into a gruff exchange with them while Eleanor lingered on the last step from the bottom, watching over Jacques’s shoulder. From her elevated vantage, she was only a few inches shorter than him. Choosing against listening to whatever problems Black Billy was causing that morning, Eleanor pulled Jacques into an open-mouthed kiss in full view of the jealous and surly youth. It was a tactic that she knew irked Black Billy beyond any verbal barbs she could sling at him, and it had the added benefit of ensuring Jacques didn’t forget that he was making her wait while dealing with the petty drama unfolding between his adult sons. She stroked Jacques’s chest then flashed Black Billy a venomous little smile, trotted down the stairs and away down the foyer, leaving the warring men to each other.

It was a cool October morning with grey clouds hanging low and mist swirling over a landscape tinged with the colors of autumn. A breeze nipped at Eleanor’s cheeks, making her pull tighter the coat Jacques had given her, charcoal grey wool trimmed with mink and quite warm. Outside the stable, a pair of ravens pecked at the ground and watched her approach. There was always scattered grain around the horses and, of course, quality feed year-round, making the stables a great draw for birds. Ravens were a dominant presence around the Hall and particularly near the stables. Once Eleanor had gotten used to them, she found she enjoyed their dark presence hovering near like watchful spirits. They were intelligent birds and remembered who treated them kindly and who did not. Despite Jacques’s protests not to encourage them, she would always throw a handful of grain out for the ravens when she went for a ride. They hopped and chirped excitedly when they saw her coming. The birds would occasionally hiss at Jacques when he tried to shoo them away, and they particularly hated Black Billy, who would throw stones at them.

The horses were restless, stomping and snorting inside their stalls. Eleanor caught her horse and led him out to saddle him. The horse was on edge and spooky, blowing and prancing sideways. His eyes rolled back white when he saw three ravens hopping on the ground at the stable entrance, cawing animatedly. Eleanor tried unsuccessfully to calm him and resigned herself to saddle him with difficulty while he danced in place and fought his tether. It was rare for him to behave so strangely. He was a high-spirited animal, but not flighty or easily spooked.

Outside the stables, the clouds were growing darker and denser. It would be storming by midday. But there was still ample time for their morning ride. Five ravens watched her from the stable entrance. The ravens cocked their heads from side to side curiously. She tried to shoo them away, for they appeared to be bothering her horse. They ignored her. A pair of them hopped inside, perhaps out of the building wind. Her horse reared, yanking back on his tethered reins.

On the coldest day autumn had yet seen that year and with a building storm, it wasn’t unusual for horses to act more unruly than normal. A drop in temperature and an imminent storm almost ensured horses would act more hot-blooded than any other time. It was to be expected.

She went to Jacques’s horse, who was even more agitated and kicking at the walls of his stable. He responded to her long enough for her to bridle him, but he lunged by her through the stable door, knocking her against it. It took all her strength to rein him in enough to tie him off and saddle him. By the looks of him, he had been in a dither for some time. His dapple-grey coat was darkened with sweat to the color of tarnished silver and there was white foam between his legs. His nostrils flared red and his eyes rolled white as he snorted and stomped and shook his head. He was far more agitated than could be accounted for by the temperature drop. If she didn’t know the animal, she would have questioned his mind.

A commotion at the stable entrance drew her attention. She thought Jacques had finally come to join her. Instead, she saw more ravens. A whole conspiracy of them. They stood at the entrance in a black line, several ravens deep, hopping and flapping their wings, cawing loudly. The horses were very troubled now, fighting their leads and watching the ravens frightfully. Eleanor waved her hand belligerently at them and shouted to scare them away, but they were unbothered by her posturing. Two lead birds hopped closer to her down the stable aisle. One held something in its beak, but she couldn’t make out what it was.

“Eleanor!” Jacques shouted from outside. His heavy bootsteps could be heard as he approached. From the sound of his stride and his tone, he was in a foul mood after his dealings with Black Billy. “What are you doing with all these damned ravens?”

“I haven’t done anything!” she called back over the cacophony of ravens cawing and horses snorting.

“I told you not to feed the bastards!” Jacques replied angrily. “Will you never learn to listen to me? A husband is entitled to some obedience from his wife.”

“You married wrongly for that, handsome,” she called back, trying to make light, but it was difficult while in the midst of an unruly menagerie. The leading pair of ravens hopped down the stable aisle toward her more quickly, seemingly with purpose, the lead bird still holding something in its beak.

Jacques came into view outside. He waved his arms and shouted at the birds, trying to scare them away without success. He kicked aggressively at the nearest one, which only narrowly avoided his boot by taking flight. It perched on the top of the stable and hissed down at him belligerently. Jacques would not tolerate a treachery of ravens blocking his path into his own stable. He drew the pistol he carried on his belt when they went riding, aimed it at the ground near the bird closest to him, and fired. The shot was deafening in the still morning, the bullet kicking up dirt in front of the birds, sending a clear message of intent. In an explosion of black, they burst from the ground and took flight. But they didn’t fly far. Most of them settled on the stable roof or in the nearest trees, looking down at Jacques, hissing and cawing their displeasure at him.

Jacques entered the stables like he was marching to war, his lips set in a thin line, his jaw clenched, and eyes burning. His bearing alone frightened the horses even more.

“Let’s pass on our ride today,” Eleanor said as he walked to her side. “If this business with the ravens isn’t unsettling enough, the horses are acting terribly. Besides, there’s a storm coming and I’d rather not be caught out in it.”

“I’m not going to be scared out of our ride by a flock of blasted birds my wife has overfed to complacency. And I know you’re not afraid of a spirited ride, darling.” Jacques winked at his innuendo, making an effort to recover his good humor. He took the reins of his horse and slapped the beast’s neck harshly, enough to get his attention but far from enough to hurt a thirteen-hundred-pound animal. Jacques addressed his horse, “Best behave, I’m in no mood for an argument from you too.”

Even with Jacques’s warning and his aggressive demeanor, his horse tried to bolt as soon as he was untied. Jacques had to yank back on the reins to bring him under control, which only served to incense Jacques’s temper. The wind had picked up, blowing Jacques’s hair around his face when he led his horse out of the stables. Eleanor followed, leading her own nervous horse. Ahead of her, the dapple-grey swished his tail and wrung it round in circles, his haunches bunched. Jacques led him to the place they usually mounted, a clear area free of obstacles in front of the stable.

As Eleanor passed beneath the stable awning, something fell down from above in front of her face. She looked up first and her eyes met dozens of little beady black ones shining back at her from the ravens on the roof. They cocked their heads and looked at her with some unknown intent. She looked at the object that had fallen just in front of her feet. It looked like a sprig of lavender, luscious purple blooms on a green stem. Curiously, she picked it up and smelled it. It wasn’t lavender. Her horse reared, but she let him yank away from her and bolt. Her attention was elsewhere.

Jacques raised his long leg to mount his horse. The animal watched him with wild, white-rimmed eyes. Eleanor shouted a warning as she whipped off her grey coat and shook it at Jacques’s horse, snapping it at the animal’s sensitive nose. The horse reared in fright and jumped sideways, away from Jacques, who only had one foot in the stirrup. Off balance and with no hold, Jacques was knocked over backward, sent sprawling on the cold ground in a tangled heap of long limbs and vigorous expletives. Jacques’s horse bolted away, wringing his tail and bucking as he ran. Eleanor ran to Jacques as he pushed up from the ground.

“What the hell are you thinking, woman?” Jacques barked at her, yanking his arm away when she tried to help him up. He stood and dusted himself, glaring at her.

He was interrupted by a loud squeal from his horse, who was now halfway across the paddock. The horse was crazed, bucking and kicking and squealing as if he was surrounded by a swarm of bees. The ravens cawed excitedly, watching the spectacle. Jacques and Eleanor were equally transfixed. The horse bucked so hard he started to sunfish, turning his belly up toward the sky like a fish dancing on a line, twisting and contorting in a way that would have unseated the best equestrian. Then he paused, shook his head, and began to rear, pawing at the sky with his front hooves. He reared several times, the last so high that he fell over backward onto his back. From where they stood, they heard a crack like a gunshot when the wooden tree of Jacques’s saddle broke under the horse’s weight. It was one of the best ways to get killed on a horse. The horse rolled to his feet and bolted again, this time running straight through the wooden four rail fence without check. The fence shattered around him, sending splinters flying like grenade shrapnel, but the horse ran free uninjured.

Jacques and Eleanor watched in silence. If he had been on the horse through that escapade, he would have been a skilled enough rider to stay mounted long enough to get seriously injured, if not crippled or killed. Eleanor handed him the purple sprig. She had recognized it instantly, memories flooding back of the many times she had burdened her father’s veterinarian with hundreds of questions. It was a plant that was particularly toxic to horses.

“Astragalus. Locoweed,” she said. The ravens cawed in approval. “It makes horses go mad.”

She went off to recapture her own horse, who appeared similarly affected. She needed to work fast on both of them and try to flush the toxin from their systems, or the effect of the poison would be permanent and the horses would have to be shot.

Anger boiled inside Jacques as he looked at the pretty-colored plant in his hand. This was no ghostly occurrence. A hand of flesh and blood was behind this mayhem. The thought of an unknown man attacking him and his beloved wife in their home set his temper ablaze. Jacques would tear him apart, limb from traitorous limb. He craned his neck to look up at the dozens of ravens who watched him from the stable roof like a congress of little demons, and for the first time he doubted his own reason. A human culprit was behind this, of that he was entirely certain. But now, he was not entirely certain that there were no other forces influencing the happenings at Wargrave Hall.

A raven squawked at him, an utterance that sounded very much like Beware.

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Soon after, Jacques had business in London and his new wife missed her best friend, so he combined both errands. While Eleanor and Katrina enjoyed tea together, Jacques met Pierre at their gentlemen’s club, The Reform Club.

A light haze of smoke drifted through the club and tones of exclusively male conversation filled the room. Pierre had secured them a corner table where they could speak of delicate matters privately. Jacques leaned back in a soft leather chair and crossed his long legs. Even after their lengthy discussions on what they had deemed the ‘Bombay Problem,’ Jacques still wanted another drink before coming to the main thrust behind his meeting with the count.

“I’m sorry to say you’re looking well. I’d hoped you were suffering tremendously, ready to send the ball and chain off to a tower somewhere and resume our philandering.” Pierre leaned forward to light the new cigar Jacques put between his lips. “She must be working her rejuvenating magic on you.”

“I’m straddling the line of being well-fed by her affections and worked to the bone by them,” Jacques said and blew a ring of cigar smoke. “My back has ached since our wedding night."

“How’s married life the second time around?” Pierre talked to pass the time. He knew Jacques well enough to know there was some weighty matter percolating in his mind. “Still full of bliss? Or has the terrible and inescapable reality of it settled in yet?”

“It’s better than I remember.” Jacques grinned genuinely. “Or perhaps I’ve chosen better this time. Being a husband suited me the first time, but I am fonder of it now. The good is better and the bad is lesser.” He laughed to himself at a private thought. “Although, the little woman has one hell of a temper.”

“That’s an example of the good being better, is it?” Pierre teased.

“It’s well worth it, I assure you. Her hot temper presents itself in a myriad of ways that are very much to my benefit,” Jacques said with pride. “She’s a slave driver. I probably have some marks like any other beast of burden.”

“So, take a week to recover,” Pierre suggested helpfully. “Come visit me. I’ll see to it you’re nicely pampered by some gentler ladies.”

“I’m a married man,” Jacques laughed at his friend’s transparent attempt. “You’ll simply have to pine over me like so many despondent ladies.”

“Hopes dashed again!” Pierre exclaimed and slapped the table with comic theatrics. “Here, I’d hoped that you wanted to meet to discuss some form of gallivanting. Alas…”

“I’ve come to discuss far more distasteful matters.” Jacques grimaced at the taste of the words on his tongue. “I’m ready to capitulate to a goddamn séance at Wargrave Hall.”

“You’re not leading me on?” Pierre asked excitedly, leaning forward across the table.

“Sadly not,” Jacques grumbled sourly. “I’m only allowing it for the sake of my darling wife.”

“Oh, are we going to try to convene with all the evil spirits in your home? Wives and whatnot included?” Pierre prodded Jacques with his finger, physically ribbing him.

“I think it’s all a load of manure, as you well know. Lunacy! Contagious lunacy, at that.” Jacques glared at Pierre. “But Eleanor is convinced there’s something amiss in our home. A séance might be the best way to show her it’s all hokum. I want you to put your best foot forward. Do all the inane little rituals you do and give it your best effort. I want to give her a chance to say and ask whatever she wants – and see that nothing’s there to answer from beyond the grave. Give it the old college try, as it were.”

“But what if something does answer?” Pierre asked more seriously. “I tell you, old friend, it’s not just hokum.”

“Now, look here,” Jacques leaned over the table, resting his elbow on it and waving a large finger at Pierre. “I’m doing this to calm her, to set her mind at ease. To make her comfortable in her new home. Do you hear me? I don’t want any damned antics or theatrics. Understand? And no loose women, for Chistsakes.”

“I’m insulted and appalled that you think I, of all people, would be prone to antics, theatrics, or keeping the company of loose women.” Pierre covered his heart with his hand, looking deeply offended. Then he smiled lewdly. “But I must know how she persuaded you. I’d like to hear all the details of what tactics your blushing bride had to employ on that front. Do tell!”

“She hasn’t even asked it of me,” Jacques replied solemnly, with the attitude of a commander riding off to a hopeless battlefield. “Caring for her is my duty, as is protecting her. That duty isn’t obviated because I don’t like what it entails.”

At the thought of caring for his wife, he hastily drew a large pocket watch from his inner jacket pocket – her wedding gift to him. Flipping open the beautifully engraved gold hunting case, he checked the time and saw he was late to pick her up from tea. As soon as he could take his leave of Pierre with a hasty goodbye, he hurried out of the club. At first, he wished he didn’t look quite so much like a man who was so eager to please his wife and loathe to upset her. There were terms for such a man, all of them highly unflattering. Then, he grinned to himself and stood straighter. When had Sir Jacques Le Gris ever wanted to hide his nature nor given a damn about the opinions of lesser men?

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All Hallow’s Eve fast approached and Sir Jacques wanted to get the ludicrous business of seances over and done so that it didn’t corrupt the winter holidays. He found winter the most peaceful time of year, when a man had the fine excuse of cold and snow to stay inside and enjoy his woman in front of a fire. He was already plotting how he would keep certain rooms a bit colder than usual so Eleanor would seek out his warmth and invite his arms around her all the more.

Shortly before All Hallow’s Eve, Sir Jacques and Lady Le Gris hosted their closest friends for a long weekend of what Count Pierre called his ‘dark delights.’ Pierre and Katrina were the only outside guests invited, for it would not do to have word of such happenings spreading far and wide. Jacques assumed Pierre would bring a woman along to keep him company. He brought two. He represented that the pair of blonde twins were adepts at the occult, a medium and a psychic. Jacques suspected their true talents lay elsewhere.

Count Pierre presented his guests as Mirabelle, who was the medium, and her sister Giselle. They were barely distinguishable, both pretty and petite with the physique of ballerinas. Mirabelle was one of Pierre’s favorite ladies on his rotation. She had earned his favor many times over outside of the bedroom, which was a rare feat. He was most impressed when she allegedly used her mystical powers to rid him of his first shrewish wife in a boating mishap. He was convinced she could hold counsel with the dead. Moreover, he was endeared by her willingness to share him with her twin sister and how she turned her second sight away from his other frivolous pursuits. He vowed to marry her one day. Although, he never said when that day might come.

Pierre was ecstatic for the happenings he had tried to engineer for years. He knew that a bit of fright and excitement were just the tonics to have his two ladies grasping for a strong manly arm to hold. His excitement was nearly matched by that of Eleanor and Katrina, who had both experienced brushes with the supernatural. However, it was known by all that the extent to which any of them could indulge in occult rituals was limited. Jacques had made a great concession by allowing a séance, but it would push the bounds of his indulgence to suggest convening with the dead every night of the long weekend.

The group of friends and family gathered the first night after dinner in Jacques’s study, smoking cigars and downing drinks, genuinely enjoying one another’s company long into the night. Jacques had a lifelong friend in Pierre and he saw the same in Eleanor and Katrina. He knew if Theodore had his way, Katrina would soon be a member of the Le Gris family as well. Jacques hoped for the sake of both women’s friendship that his son didn’t bungle it. If only the times weren’t progressing so fast, for Jacques could no longer simply approach the young lady’s father and make an offer of marriage the man couldn’t refuse on behalf of his son. It was a dreadful thought that his son’s matrimonial success hinged on his own charm, which was budding gracelessly at best.

“Is this not the finest of all the seasons,” Pierre pontificated with drunken profundity, waving a half-full glass of whiskey. He ran a finger down Mirabelle’s diaphanous sleeve. “It’s when the veil is thinnest, you know?”

“The veil?” Theodore asked with a laugh. “Your mind is never far from women’s undergarments, is it?”

“The veil is that which separates the world of the living from the dead,” Katrina said, hooking her arm through Theodore’s. “Now is when the veil is especially thin.”

Pierre narrowed his eyes at the woman for upstaging his presentation, which Jacques watched with amusement and teased, “It’s been a downhill slide for us men since we allowed the ladies into University, has it not?”

“Yes, well, that travesty should serve to teach us gents to be more open minded.” Pierre gave Jacques a stern look. “Even in all those things we may normally find unnatural.”

“I’m here, am I not?” Jacques spread his arms wide. “Welcoming the unnatural into my home. I’m as determined to try to see through the veil as if it was the chemise of my beautiful wife.”

“The thinning of the veil begins with the fall equinox and endures until the winter equinox,” Black Billy added with interest, earning a baffled look from Jacques at his knowledge in such matters.

“The very best time for a great many occult enterprises,” Pierre added enthusiastically, catching William’s eye as he did. “If ever a spirit is going to speak to us from beyond, it is now. We’ve timed it well.”

“As if the damned ghosts aren’t nosy enough already,” Jacques added good-humoredly. “Banish them from our bedroom and bath at least, won’t you?”

“A little company in the bedroom can liven things up on occasion,” Pierre teased, looking between his two female guests.

“Livening things up has never been a failing of mine.” Jacques winked at Eleanor. “Is it, darling?”

“No, no, I forbid this romantic nonsense,” Pierre said loudly enough to cut across the newlyweds. “You’ve the rest of your lives for such frivolities. We are gathered here this weekend for mayhem and merriment! I shall not allow the evening to end without some sport.” He looked from one woman to the next. “What shall it be, ladies?”

A round of discussion on the topic of festive games ensued among the ladies. It was settled easily when Katrina asked Theodore, “What game will you win as my partner?”

“I’m the family champion at charades,” he answered proudly. “My team always wins.”

“That sounds like great fun,” Eleanor agreed, forcing Jacques to concur. “Let’s have folklore for our topic. Any character from fiction or legend. All those gorgeously frightful stories we all love.”

“Yes, any character or creature,” Katrina added. “But since it is nearly All Hallow’s Eve, we must make them born from horror. No Mr. Darcy’s or Edmond Dantes.’”

Everyone wrote a few names down on small pieces of paper that they folded and placed into an obliging tophat Jacques had in his study. They divided into teams of two, each comprised of one amorous couple, which left Giselle and Black Billy paired together. Eleanor generously volunteered her husband to go first. She was pleasantly surprised to see him undertake his role with enthusiasm. Jacques drew a piece of paper from the hat and read the name as he stood for a moment before the group in the center of the room, hands on his hips, pursing his lips in thought. Decided on his presentation, he held up one finger indicating one word. Then, he bared his teeth in a snarl and leapt at Eleanor where she sat on a couch with Katrina and Theodore. He attacked her neck with playful bites and kisses as she vainly tried to push his heavy weight off her. It took her several moments to stop laughing long enough to correctly identify him as a vampire. He decided playing a vampire was a fine excuse to seek out her neck throughout the evening.

Jacques’s vampire was followed by Pierre, who replaced Jacques in the center of the room after drawing his answer. An empty mug lay on Jacques’s desk. Pierre extended his arms straight out in front of him and lumbered stiffly around the room until he came to the desk. He pointed at the mug and put his hand to his ear, indicating ‘sounds like.’

Leaning close to Eleanor, Jacques whispered in her ear, “It seems our medium cannot take a simple hint. It rhymes with stein.”

“One would think you two were the married couple,” Eleanor teased. “But is he the doctor or the monster?”

Mirabelle shook her head in confusion at the hint, but correctly answered, “One word,” when Pierre held up one finger. Pierre tapped his nose for ‘correct’ and then pointed at his crotch with an inane grin. Mirabelle’s brow furrowed in thought. Then, she clapped her hands and exclaimed, “Frankenstein!”

“Right you are,” Pierre applauded her.  

Eleanor whispered to Jacques, “Don’t tell me he calls his dick Frankenstein?”

“Wishful thinking on his part. Remember, Frankenstein is eight feet tall.” He grinned, as Eleanor rolled her eyes and shook her head.

Pierre draped his arm over Mirabelle when he returned to his seat beside her, remarking, “How I’d have loved to have been at old Lord Byron’s party that gave birth to both of those stories. I’d wager even I could learn a thing or two about debauchery.”

Eleanor surmised Katrina had confided some of their shared experiences when Theodore did his best impression of the Crooked Lady for his turn, holding his arms cocked over his head and shuffling across the room. Although there was nothing sinister about the young man, both Katrina and Eleanor were reminded of the creature they had seen long ago, stalking them from a moonlit garden. Not to be outdone by her partner, Katrina indicated two words. She mimicked a terrified woman running from something, shielding herself from an attack. Theodore made the first guess at Jack the Ripper, but everyone agreed that since he was purportedly real, he did not meet the criteria of being a creature of folklore or fiction.

“He’s a myth perpetuated by the bobbies,” Pierre argued in support of Theodore.

“At least you can say for him that he will be remembered,” Black Billy added with relish. “How many men can say as much?”

“I’d like to meet Jack alone in an alley like the women he preys upon. I wouldn’t give him the courtesy of using a knife to rip him apart,” Jacques said before Theodore correctly guessed Katrina’s character as Spring-Heeled Jack, a black-clad creature with metal claws and red eyes who likewise preys upon the women of London.

Black Billy took advantage of his hated moniker and with a few canine growls, led his teammate Giselle to identify his character as the fearsome black demon that took the form of a black dog or mule, and who, according to legend, heralded doom and bad fortune. Eleanor made similar advantage of her dark red hair, using it to lead Jacques to guess her draw of Red Cap, the foul monster who prowled the countryside in search of bodies left from war so he could soak his cap in their blood. If Red Cap could not find already dead men, he was happy to create his own crop of corpses.

The turn came again to Jacques, who was now in high spirits and genuinely enjoying himself. With pride, he announced to the room, “I’ve drawn well. This round is in the bag. Married couples have an unfair advantage. I know what my wife’s been reading.”

Taking center stage in front of the couch and chairs, Jacques pulled the collar of his black jacket up as high as he could and hunched down behind it until only his aurous eyes and arched eyebrows peeked above. He comically thrust his hips, mimicking riding a horse while swinging an imaginary sword.

“He’s right!” Eleanor laughed. “I just read The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and I would know the Headless Horseman anywhere. Although, I picture him to be a bit less ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” Jacques huffed playfully. “I’d best that headless bastard on his finest night.”

“Best him at what, pray tell?” Eleanor asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Riding or swordplay? That match would make for quite a sight.”

“Or giving head, perhaps?” Pierre added lewdly.

“Only my darling wife can attest to my talents there.” Jacques winked at her.

“I’d prefer you stay in character as the vampire over the horseman,” Eleanor said coyly.

“As you wish, my love.” In a lively mood, Jacques took Eleanor’s hand and pulled her up from the couch. He made a show of retrieving his pocket watch, flipping open the engraved gold case, and looking aghast at the time. “This vampire needs to take his bride to bed before I burst into flame with the sunrise.”

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Before joining their guests for the séance the following evening, Jacques capitalized on the goodwill this concession had earned him from his wife. Though his temper was much subdued after vigorously enjoying her, he was still far from eager for the nights’ events. As they redressed inside their bedroom, Eleanor stood in front of him while he relaced her corset a bit too roughly behind her. She turned to face him and pulled some thick ebony strands of his hair free from his collar then adjusted his silk cravat. She had chosen a burgundy cravat for him that contrasted handsomely with his black waistcoat. He glared over her head at nothing, burning a hole into the wall, chewing his lip.

“I marvel at how lucky I am to have the strongest, bravest, most loving husband,” Eleanor gushed playfully. “I think you’re the most handsome man in the world. Except when you’re sulking.”

“I’m not sulking. I never sulk,” he said sulkily.

“You mustn’t look more frightening than the ghosts,” she teased. “If you scare them off, we will have no success at all and we’ll have to try again.”

Jacques grumbled and, choosing to make fun of himself for her amusement, gave her a wide, grimacing smile. He offered her his arm and led her down to the library, for that was the room Pierre and Eleanor had decided together would be the best setting. Jacques had mandated only that it be a room without electricity. Should there be fire sprouting from the walls or explosions of light, he didn’t want yet another debate over the wretched electricity.

The room glowed warmly, lit by dozens of candles. The library was naturally filled with strange shadows cast in various nooks and crannies. If there were spirits in the mansion who were attached to objects, as Pierre said was only natural for them, there were three prime locations for such spiritual anchors. The dungeon, which was far too cold and dreary. The fourth floor, but it was dusty and now also smelled of smoke and acrid burnt wiring. Filled with books and artifacts from almost every person who had lived and died in Wargrave Hall going back to its inception, the library seemed the logical setting.

Portraits of several long-dead members of the Le Gris family hung on the walls, their oil eyes keeping a gleaming watch over the assembly of guests. One large portrait was of a darkly handsome man in a military uniform with a brilliant red coat, cream trousers, and knee-high black boots. It was Sir Nicholas Le Gris, Jacques’s father who had been a war hero, instrumental in the victory at Waterloo. He was older when he settled into the role of husband and father for the second time, the marriage that had produced his only surviving son. The family he began in his twenties all met with tragedy, necessitating him to try again for an heir.

A fire roared inside a cavernous marble fireplace. Above the mantel was a newly painted portrait of Jacques and Eleanor. It was done in a more modern style that Jacques thought too casual but Eleanor loved. She had commissioned an artist unknown to him, John William Waterhouse, a twitchy little man with a bushy beard. Jacques intensely disliked him at once. However, even Jacques couldn’t argue that his talent was profound. In the painting, the couple strode arm in arm through a garden aflame with an autumn palette. They looked at one another adoringly, both their features and expressions astutely captured by the artist in lush and almost loving detail.

Refreshments to suit every taste populated a console table against the wall, including a few specials for the occasion. Theodore held a snifter of smoky green absinthe and Pierre was indulging in one of his favorite delicacies, coffin liquor. Jacques found the substance obscene and strictly forbade the harvesting of any from the Le Gris family crypt, but Pierre had brought some from his private collection. He thought it the best way to prepare for a séance by putting one foot in the door to the underworld. Eleanor curiously eyed the coffin liquor. It looked like watery apple cider with a likewise darker pulp that had settled at the bottom of Pierre’s glass. Jacques threatened to never kiss her again if she drank any.

A circular table had been set up in the center of the library with chairs set for the eight participants. Its surface was lit by three long taper candles. Centered on the table was a weathered spirit board with the look of age about it and the feel of having been touched by the other. A pointed hexagonal quartz crystal rested on the board, an item spirits could use to point out letters and form messages. Although the room was pleasantly lit and filled with good friends, there was an ominous air about the table. The spirit board was a presence in itself. A presence that even Jacques’s defiant senses acknowledged in some creeping way, the same way they often gave him a feeling of being watched when he knew he was alone.

The last couple to join the table, Jacques held a chair out for Eleanor, then took his seat beside her. He sat across from Pierre, who was straddled on either side by a blonde twin. Katrina sat between Eleanor and Theodore, who had Mirabelle the medium on his other side, and William sat grimly between Giselle and his father. Jacques squeezed Eleanor’s thigh and rested his hand there, glaring at the board with surly skepticism. Eleanor whispered animatedly to Katrina before they began. Whereas Pierre’s interest in the occult was secondary to the effect it had on women, Eleanor and Katrina both had a deep-seated interest in the mystical since they had gotten their first unforgettable taste as children. They had devoured every book on the subject, including Pierre’s mysterious Book of Pentacles. By now, they very likely knew even more than Pierre and his blonde twins.

Pierre clapped his hands, commanding the attention of the table, “Are we ready to see what the spirits have to tell us?”

Everyone assented eagerly, save for Jacques, who grunted noncommittally. Eleanor leaned in close to him, ran her fingernails tantalizingly up his thigh, and whispered in his ear, “You agreed to this, now play along. Stop acting like a petulant little boy who doesn’t want to eat his vegetables. Don’t you want me disposed to reward you later?”

“Yes, darling.” He gave her an exaggerated smile and sat up straighter.

Theodore smirked at the way his father sat like a trained circus lion on a podium under the whip of his wife’s tongue. He remarked to Katrina, “I’m going to start calling Eleanor the Lion Tamer.”

“Appeasing is not the same as taming,” Jacques said but couldn’t help smirking at the barb. He rolled his eyes when Eleanor played up the image and affectionately ruffled his black mane.

“Let us begin,” Pierre announced. “Before Jacques adds more impertinent young ghosts to the house.” He adopted a somber tone and continued, “Everyone join hands. And remember now – this is serious – no one must break the circle until the séance is complete. It’s a matter of protection. A séance must be closed properly.”

Jacques scoffed while everyone else nodded.

Pierre looked at Jacques sternly, a very rare expression for him, and told him seriously, “Hear me, old friend. At this table, I outrank you. I am in charge and you will do as I say, or you could bring harm down upon us all. I must be able to command the spirits without you interfering.”

“We’re commanding them now?” Jacques asked with a grin. “Why don’t we just command them all to go back to hell and be done with it?”

Eleanor kicked him under the table and Pierre chided in a paternal tone, “The spirits do not conform to our rules. Tonight, we must play by theirs. You can choose to play along with the proper etiquette and do as I say, or you can choose to sit outside the room like a problem child. Spirits can see our thoughts, project our emotions, act out our demons. It is imperative that our minds stay clean of negativity and that none of us, Jacques, provoke the spirits.”

Though Pierre would conduct the séance, as a medium, Mirabelle would be the conduit through which any ghosts could communicate. Neither of them had ever encountered a spirit strong enough to manifest physically nor converse audibly with the living, but they could communicate through Mirabelle. They may whisper in her ear things that no one else could hear or put thoughts directly into her mind. Sometimes, a spirit might even possess her. She had been possessed by a succubus, or so she had alleged, during the séance Jacques had attended with Pierre when she had made quite a spectacle indeed. Pierre had given Jacques an exceptionally scandalous recounting of the aftermath and how he came to refer to certain female secretions as ectoplasm.

“Join your hands and open your minds,” Mirabelle said firmly. She needed her own hands for the work she would do, but she instructed Theodore and Pierre to rest their hands on her shoulders to complete the circle. Jacques kissed Eleanor’s hand before lacing his fingers through hers. Trying to follow his father’s lead, Theodore did the same with Katrina, earning an eyeroll from her. Mirabelle placed a notepad and pencil on the table in case she needed to transcribe any messages from beyond the grave. She guided them through a few deep, calming breaths and placed her hand on the hilt of the quartz. Giselle put on quite a show with the breathing, her bosom heaving deeply, until she achieved a trance-like state with vacant eyes.

“Let us begin,” Mirabelle said and closed her eyes. She muttered an indecipherable chant to herself, barely audible above a murmur. With heightened awareness, Theodore thought he saw the candles flicker more than usual and Pierre was certain he felt a slight chill on the air. Eleanor and Katrina exchanged looks. They felt nothing like the disturbances they had experienced when playing with a spirit board as children, nor like any of the haunting sensations they had felt in the mansion. Tension made each minute drag long and the anticipation was agony as minutes upon minutes passed with nothing happening. Jacques caught Eleanor’s eye and made an expression of terminal boredom, which did not amuse her.

Jacques was convinced of the theatrics of the proceeding when Mirabelle’s eyes rolled back to white and she began to tremble. Jacques barely restrained himself from giving a hearty eyeroll. He would have to ask Pierre if she acted so artlessly in all settings.

“We are not alone,” she said in a rasping voice that was a far cry from her sonorous feminine lilt. Jacques coughed to contain a bout of laughter. Mirabelle’s attention shot to him, her eyes still rolled back white. “You joke, Sir Jacques, but what is here with us tonight does not.”

He thought it was an easy guess to assume he was joking in his own head. How could he not be?

“You fight against the afterlife,” she continued, looking at Jacques with those unnerving white eyes. “But you have walked among the dead longer than any of us. You are surrounded by death. Your parents, your brother and sister, your first wife, so many friends who died at war, and countless souls you reaped yourself. You fear the world of the dead. You fear you are cursed to live a life with one foot in it. Cursed to lose all those you love before their time, and have only their ghosts to haunt you.”

Against his will, the hairs rose on Jacques’s arms and a sensation crept up the back of his neck. It was like the sigh of a lover, whispering in his ear with deathly cold breath. He rolled his shoulders to shake it off and gripped Eleanor’s warm hand more tightly. He wouldn’t let this hocus pocus get to him. Eleanor felt him stiffen beside her, and then she felt it too. The air was cooler and far heavier, like the air near the sea as opposed to the air on a mountaintop, but with the chill of a tomb. Something moved between them like a heavy mist, weaving among the people at the table. Theodore’s eyes shot open wide and Katrina inhaled sharply. Eleanor tried to open her mind to any message while Jacques closed his against it. Pierre grinned and Black Billy looked utterly unnerved, more so than any of them, his black eyes wide and searching the room.

Mirabelle smiled sinisterly and croaked in her strange voice. “An ancient spirit haunts this house. He knows his living namesake is troubled and wishes he could ease it. But he says that he cannot do so, that only Jacques can help himself. Only he can help her. Le Gris men must fight for those they love.” She directed a question at Jacques. “Does this mean anything to you?”

“Not a damn thing,” he snapped, refusing to think of Sir Jacques of old. He looked at Theodore and warned him, “Don’t you go feeding her any information.”

“I can see him!” Giselle joined in, her eyes shut tight, seeing with her psychic mind. “He’s tall and frightful.”

The crystal twitched on the spirit board and the air was notably colder. Mirabelle inhaled deeply and shuddered, looking almost as though she was in the throes of ecstasy and continued, “He says you asked him a question when you were a young boy and you saw him in the study. He says the answer to that question is sitting beside you.”

Before he could suppress it, a look of visible unease flashed across Jacques’s features. The message bothered him. He looked at Eleanor. He forced a laugh and scoffed, “Ask the old bastard if he’s the one who’s been scaring my wife. If he was in the bathroom with us the other day, I’d like to have a word with him in private.”

The crystal snaked across the spirit board to No. Mirabelle closed her eyes, looking strained and said, “But he warns you should not be complacent. He says, beware.”

“Of what?” Jacques asked irritably. “Telling a man to beware is not overly helpful.”

“There’s another spirit here,” Mirabelle said. “A woman.”

“She’s beautiful,” Giselle added. “But melancholy and fearful.”

Eleanor and Katrina looked at one another. Theodore stiffened and Jacques bristled. Jacques leaned over the table angrily so that Eleanor had to hold tight to his hand to keep him from breaking the circle. Though the medium’s attention was elsewhere, Jacques commanded her in a dangerously low voice, “Don’t you fucking dare pretend to talk to my first wife.”

Everyone save for Jacques was now enraptured by Mirabelle and the way the quartz jumped under her fingers.

“Who else is here?” William asked, his abyssal eyes glittering.  

“Mother, were you murdered?” Theodore interjected.

Jacques shot him a look filled with menacing warning, but before he could respond, Mirabelle’s hand shot up to Yes. A gust of cold air swirled through the room, snuffing out one of the candles.

“Is the person who murdered you here?” Theodore asked again.

The crystal danced on Yes. The extinguished candle whipped across the table as if flung by an unseen hand. It flew between Jacques and William, Jacques ducked his head as it passed close by his cheek. Mirabelle began shuddering again and as if of its own accord, her hand began writing on the notepad with strange halting scratching movements, like something was yanking her hand roughly around the page.

Mirabelle groaned, “There’s so much she wants to tell…”

“Are you trying to scare me away from Jacques?” Eleanor could no longer contain herself and called out, “What was the message you tried to send me in the bathroom mirror?”

Mirabelle’s hand twitched again on the page and started writing in another direction, transcribing a new message.

“Enough of this!” Jacques bellowed at Pierre, but his friend was too engrossed to pay him any mind.

Giselle started whimpering like a frightened puppy, staring with glazed eyes at a far corner of the library, into a black shadowy alcove.

“She has a message for you, Sir Jacques. So, you’ll believe her,” Mirabelle said, her hand flying across the page. “She says you were demanding when you met and wouldn’t wait for marriage, that she was pregnant soon after knowing you. She lost that first child, but you did what was honorable by her regardless before you went off to war. She says you didn’t love her when you married, but that you promised her you would grow to.  And you did.”

“I said enough,” Jacques rumbled darkly, his jaw clenching and shoulders bunching. But no one knew his first wife was pregnant when they wed, save for the two of them. Just as no one knew she had lost that first child. He had pushed her hard to submit to him before marriage, but had done what was honorable when they both faced the consequences of his impatience. Ironically, it was the loss of that first unborn child and comforting each other thereafter that had kindled their love. It was a dark secret he had never shared.

“Something else…” Giselle’s voice died in her throat.

Eleanor saw a dark figure move in the corner of the room, as if the shadow itself had come to life. Its features were murky, but its menace palpable. She thought she heard a woman screaming in terror, but it was very faint. Almost as if the voice sounded inside her mind. She knew somehow that it was not only a scream, but a warning of something terrible approaching.

“Another presence has joined us,” Mirabelle said in a quavering tone. “I’ve never felt anything like this.” The color drained from her face until her skin was as pallid as a corpse in a winter marsh. Her shaking grew worse until her teeth chattered. “I can feel Lady Le Gris. I feel what she feels. So much pain. She’s terrified.” Her whole body began to shake uncontrollably as if she was electrified and white froth appeared at the corners of her mouth. “She’s burning again. Fire eating away at her skin. She’s screaming so loud! Don’t you hear her?”

Provoked by the medium’s foul words and the painful memories they brought to the fore, Jacques lost control of himself. Shooting up to his feet, Jacques yanked his hands free and slammed his fist down onto the table with enough force to crack the wood and knock over the two remaining taper candles, sending them rolling across the table. Theodore caught one, but the other candle rolled over Mirabelle’s notepad, catching the paper on fire.

“Jacques, no!” Pierre cautioned and Eleanor tried to hold Jacques’s arm. Katrina patted at the burning notepad, trying to salvage the message Mirabelle had transcribed. Giselle was crying in terror, covering her eyes.

“I’m done listening to charlatans!” Jacques roared. He snatched the spirit board off the table and broke it over his knee, splintering it clean in two. He slung the two halves across the library in opposite directions. He grabbed Eleanor’s upper arm and yanked her up harshly, holding her beside him. “My wife is done with this hoax.”

“He’s coming!” Giselle sobbed shrilly. The shadow swelled in the corner, leaching all the light around it. “My god, he’s coming!”

“He comes now!” Mirabelle shrieked just as a full grand mal seizure overtook her. Mirabelle’s head jerked back and her teeth clacked audibly. Pierre grabbed her behind the neck to steady her. When he brought her head back forward, her mouth was filled with blood from where she had bitten nearly through her tongue. It spilled from her lips mixed with white froth as she seized.

Eleanor wrenched herself free of Jacques’s hold and helped Pierre with Mirabelle. Pierre laid her on the floor and Eleanor turned her head sideways so she couldn’t swallow her tongue and inserted the pencil between her teeth so she couldn’t bite through it.

Eleanor saw Katrina pat the last embers out of the papers and swipe the surviving pieces into her hand to tuck them away. Katrina nodded that they were safe. They looked at each other with knowing trepidation. They hadn’t closed the séance, and now there was no way to do so. Theodore looked bewildered and sought Katrina’s hand for comfort. Even Black Billy was anxious and placed an unsteady arm around the shoulders of Giselle as she whimpered. Holding the seizing medium, Eleanor’s eye caught on a badly singed corner of paper that had flitted down to the floor beside her. The handwriting was poorly scrawled and difficult to read. But she quite clearly saw one scratched word. Hell.

“You’ve gone and done it now, old friend,” Pierre said to Jacques, his voice full of vitriol and notably unfriendly, looking up at Jacques from beside the seizing Mirabelle. Candles still flickered in the room, but it was decidedly darker, as though the shadows at the edges of the light were now darker or had crept a bit closer.

“Done what, exactly?” Jacques asked with a measure of guilt. “Allow a hoax, a goddamn All Hallow’s Eve prank, to go too far? You’re blaming the wrong man for that one.”

“This was no prank, you pigheaded fool!” Pierre shouted, emotion and fear making his voice hoarse. “And unless I’m very mistaken, you, my friend, have just let the evil in.”

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© safarigirlsp 2023

Tagging some haunting beauties!

[eddiemunsons80sbaby]

Everybody Hurts

Chapter 10

Pairing: EddieMunsonxReader

Summary: You needed to escape, escape from your life, your messy divorce, and all the pitying looks. Looks you couldn't ignore when everyone in town had known you and Cam, had known your shame and failure. So, you took the first job you could get, teaching third grade in a town called Hawkins. Little did you know, you were walking right into another messy situation, a messy situation with big brown eyes and long dark waves. But he's resistant, at times unbearable and you start getting curious about the town's past, his past, especially when things don't start adding up.

18+ Only for eventual smut

Next chapter: 11/01

Word Count: 6.5K

Masterlist

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

“Got any big plans this weekend?” queried Leslie as the two of you headed out of the school on Friday afternoon. 

You had stayed behind for about a half an hour to finish up your lesson plans, really not wanting to have to do them over the weekend again. The whole Lance and Charlie situation had eaten up most of your planning time the whole week and you were not looking forward to that meeting on Monday. You’d spoken with Principal Washington that morning and he was going to sit in to ensure the meeting stayed civil. That at least gave you just a bit of comfort. 

“No. No big plans,” you answered, holding open the door for Leslie, stepping out into the warm sunshine. You may have let your kids have an extra ten minutes of recess today because it was just too beautiful not to and you needed that extra ten minutes. This was the time of year when you relished every ounce of perfect weather, your body breathing a sigh of relief that dark, gloomy days of winter were behind you for now. “I am thinking of grabbing Chinese tonight and maybe renting a couple of movies. If the weather stays like this, I’ll probably work in my garden some more. Maybe I’ll even get to the hardware store and start the work to give my front porch a fresh coat of paint.”

The thought cheered you and you needed something to cheer you up after the debacle that roller skating had become. By the time you came back off the rink, Eddie was gone. Dustin told you he said he’d had enough of skating and taken off. You had allowed yourself to feel guilty for only a brief moment before you remembered it wasn’t your fault. 

If he was insistent on being so miserable all the time then that was on him. You had allowed him to occupy too much of your brain space for too long. You were done worrying about what he thought of you, done trying to get him to be your friend, hell to just be okay with you existing in the same space as him. You didn’t have to get along with Eddie Munson to spend time with the rest of the group. You would just avoid each other. He didn’t have to speak to you. You would have plenty of other people to converse with, far more enjoyable people.

“Really? You’re planning to work on your weekend off? Girl, I have no plans other than relaxing. This week has been hell.”

“That it has,” you grumbled. “But when else am I going to get anything done around my house? Besides, keeping busy keeps my mind off things. It’s therapeutic for me to work with my hands.”

“Well, you know what they say. Idle hands are the devil’s playground. Oh my god. Speaking of the devil…holy shit, what is Eddie Munson doing here?”

Leslie’s words took a minute to register in your brain. Eddie? This could not be happening. Not just as you were convincing yourself to stop obsessing over the man. The last thing you needed was him showing up and sending you straight down the rabbit hole again. You’d promised yourself that you were going to stay away from him, to keep as much distance between you as you could. That was going to be hard to do if he kept showing up at your work. You’d taken enough of his shit and you were done with it.

You glanced over to find him just as he’d been the other day, leaning back against the side of his van, a cigarette dangling between his fingers, looking like he belonged there. Looking like he hadn’t been an absolute dick to you last night. Like this was just a normal occurrence, him showing up at your work, waiting for you to come out. Absolutely not. You were not going to do this again. 

“I’ll see you Monday,” you blurted to Leslie, quickly hurrying over to the bike rack, your shoes tapping across the pavement, trying to get out of there before he had a chance to notice you. If you could just get on your bike, pedal out of the parking lot, maybe he would think he’d missed you and just leave.

“Uh…okay, see you Monday,” Leslie replied in confusion, narrowing her eyes toward Eddie’s form as she made her way to her car, her steps clicking just a little quicker as if she were frightened. 

The sight of your coworker rushing away like Eddie was the bogeyman caused your hackles to rise before you reminded yourself that you weren't caring about him anymore. It wasn’t your battle to fight. It wasn’t your business what anyone in this town thought of him. He’d made it very clear what he thought of you.

You pulled your bike out and were just hopping on when a hand caught your arm. Your eyes shot up even though you already knew who it was, the knowledge sending your body into panic mode as your shoulders and chest tightened. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears. You fought to control your breathing and maintain calm but the very presence of him was like a tsunami of stress and tension, your entire body reacting to him.

“Hey, what are you doing? Didn’t you see me standing over there?” Eddie inquired, his look one of curiosity and confusion. 

“Yeah, I did,” you snapped simply, grabbing onto your handlebars, placing one foot on the pedal, ready to take off. How could he look at you like nothing happened? How could he stand here like he was surprised that you were trying to get away, that you were ignoring him? Why was he even here? Was he really that dense or did he just not see anything wrong with his actions?

“Whoa, hey.” A forced laugh rose from his chest, fake and grating, letting you know that he was not that dense. He knew exactly why you didn’t want to talk to him, his eyes wide and anxious. “You’re not just gonna take off, are you?”

Your teeth gritted with tension, your hands gripping the handlebars painfully, feeling as if you were a rubber band that had been pulled so tight it was about to snap. He’d stretched you to your limit and your control was fraying. You were going to lose your shit all over him in this parking lot if he didn’t walk away.

“Why in the hell are you here?” you managed, inhaling through your nose, your eyes focused ahead of you, scared that if you looked at him you would start screaming. As teachers came strolling out of the building, eager for two days of freedom, you couldn’t do that. You couldn’t have all of your co-workers thinking you were some kind of lunatic. That gossip would spread through the school like wildfire. Hell, it would probably spread through the town before the weekend was out. The new teacher in Hawkins was completely certifiable. Nobody would want you to teach their children after that.

“I thought we could go to the junkyard to look at parts for the car,” he explained, as if it should be the most obvious thing in the world, and it only infuriated you more how casual he could be after being so vicious last night. “Remember? I called you on Wednesday and told you about it.”

This seemed to be the routine the two of you were setting up. He’d be a total asshole and then he’d show up and want to talk to you like nothing had happened, like you were friends. Just brush it all under the rug and move along until it inevitably happened again. Because it would. Of that you had no doubt. It was only a matter of time before he decided something about you pissed him off. It was an incessant merry-go-round of moodiness where you always wound up in the same place and you were done with it. You were beyond ready to get off this ride. 

“You have got to be shitting me,” you growled harshly. “Just…no. No.”

“What do you mean no?” he scoffed with a snort, his head tossing back, sending those dark waves swaying.

“I mean no, Eddie. N-O. It’s a fairly simple word, only two letters. Did you somehow miss all that shit I said to you last night?” you demanded. 

“What? You mean after I fell? That was just…it was nothing. Look, we were both just annoyed and we got grouchy. It wasn’t that big of a deal. I forgive you, okay?”

“You forgive me? You forgive me!” you screamed, not even caring who heard you anymore. “You have got to be kidding me. You’re the asshole and you’re forgiving me? It is a big deal! It’s a big fucking deal, okay? You are absolutely the most annoying human being I have ever met and that is saying something because I was married to an absolute jerk. I’m done! I’m beyond done with your bullshit.”

Eddie’s arms folded over his chest, his stance widening as if he were preparing to challenge you. His tongue ran along the corner of his mouth, “Then how are you going to get your car fixed, Prom Queen? If you don’t go with me then I don’t have the parts. If I don’t have the parts, you don’t have a ride.”

“Have somebody else work on it. Hell, I’ll have it towed to a shop a couple towns over and pay for the damn labor. I don’t care as long as it means I don’t have to spend one more goddamn minute of my life with your miserable ass!”

A loud snort sent waves of anger racing under your skin, “Good luck with that, princess. You take it anywhere else and you won’t be able to afford to get it fixed. They’ll take advantage of you the minute they see the pretty teacher in the tight sweater walk in. Enjoy walking to work once winter hits, sweetheart because you won’t have wheels.”

“I did it this past winter and I can do it again if I have to,” you stated, refusing to back down. The last thing you needed after the mess your divorce had been was to dive into another complicated situation. He might be beautiful. He might be sexy. Hell, he might be the most attractive man you’d ever laid eyes on but the stress that came along with him was not worth it. 

“Suit yourself. I was doing you a favor,” he huffed, stepping back, holding his arms out wide. “You think you’d be a little more appreciative when someone offers you free labor. Guess you are the little stuck up bitch I thought you were from the moment I saw you at the lake.”

“Fuck you,” you hissed. “You have no idea who I am. You’ve never even bothered to find out.”

Your feet slammed down on the pedals, flying away from him as fast as you could so he couldn’t see the tears that were already blurring your vision. 

___________________________________________________________

You sat on the floor of your living room, cartons of the Chinese food you’d grabbed sitting on the coffee table in front of you. You spooned out some rice and then some almond boneless chicken onto your plate. Grabbing an egg roll, you took a large bite, wishing for the familiar comfort food to fill the gaping void within you. The sweet and savory combination filled your mouth but it brought no joy. You could not shake the feeling of dismay and agitation you felt after your confrontation with Eddie this afternoon. 

You’d tried to let it go. You came home and did a load of laundry, cleaned the house from top to bottom, all the things you usually put off because you were bone tired by Friday afternoon. But today you’d needed to be busy, your body tense with unsettled energy.  None of it had helped, not even the three mile bike ride round trip to pick up the food had stopped your brain from going round and round, picking apart every single moment of your encounter. 

Eddie obviously had baggage. Hell, it sounded like he had an entire luggage set, possibly a U-haul’s worth that he was dragging behind him everywhere he went. It sounded as if the man had been through some of the most awful shit imaginable and you felt for him, you really did, but it wasn’t your job to save him. And it didn’t excuse him treating you like garbage. You couldn’t even manage to be his friend. What in the world had Steve been thinking, throwing around the word love? Yeah, like that was ever going to happen.

You took a deep swig of the extra large glass of wine you’d poured yourself, wishing you could just make him go away but you couldn’t. Your brain insisted on keeping him in the forefront. What was it about him that wouldn’t let you rest? That had you in some kind of chokehold? No, it wasn’t your job to save him but you found that you really wished you could even though he was so rude to you. You wanted to be the one. You wanted to see those eyes melt, that smile that lit up his whole face, and you wanted it to be for you. Shit, you were even more messed up than you’d thought, pining for some guy who was clearly not interested.

You picked up the movies you’d grabbed from Family Video before you stopped at the Chinese place. You’d grabbed The Craft, Scream, and Romeo and Juliet. Romeo and Juliet was out for now. You couldn’t stomach the thought of a romance right now. It had seemed like a good idea at the time because even though it was a romance, it was tragic but tragic was the definition of your life currently. Even with the two of them dying in the end, you did not feel up for gushy words and goo-goo eyes. 

Gushy words and goo-goo eyes were not in your near future and that was okay. Alone seemed okay. Alone was probably what you needed right now anyway. Sure, you and Cam had been split up for a year but the ink on the divorce papers was barely dry. Getting into any relationship right now was a horrible idea, something you shouldn’t even be considering. Maybe you would just embrace the inevitable turn your life was going to take, go down to the shelter, adopt a handful of cats, and become the crazy single lady you were destined to become anyway. 

A knock at the door startled you. You jumped as your wine sloshed over the side of your glass. 

“Shit!” you exclaimed, grabbing a paper towel, mopping at the front of your shirt. Damn. At least you’d gone with the white instead of the red tonight or your shirt would be a goner.

Sighing, you tossed the paper towel down onto the coffee table and made your way to the door, annoyed with whoever decided to interrupt your quiet evening to sulk. You weren't in the mood to be good company for anyone. Pulling open the door, your eyes went wide, an audible squeak releasing from your lips when you found Eddie standing on your front porch, a brown paper bag in his hands. 

He clearly mistook your surprise for annoyance because he stepped back, holding the bag up in front of him as if it were a white flag of surrender. You could not wrap your brain around Eddie Munson, the guy who’d just a few hours ago called you a stuck up bitch, standing on your porch. What in the hell was he doing here? Had he not gotten the message? What was with this guy?

“Look, I know I was a dick and if you don’t want to talk to me, then fine. I get it. You’d have every right to but I…” His spare hand ran over his face as he groaned. “I can be a total asshole sometimes. Okay? I know that and I don’t mean to be. I just get so damn mad sometimes. It’s…forget it. It doesn’t matter. Anyway, I didn’t know if you’d eaten or anything and Max said you liked the BLT at the diner so I brought you one.”

You stared at him silently, your eyes going down to the bag and then back up to his face, your brain racing to catch up to the words coming out of his mouth, trying to make sense of what was happening right now.

“You brought me food?”

“Yeah…I mean, you do eat, right?” he asked, a hopeful smile on his face, looking at you as if he were talking to a bomb that could go off at any moment.

“Obviously I eat. Is this your idea of an apology?”

“Well, yeah,” shrugged Eddie. “I was a jerk and I’m trying to make up for it.”

“Have you ever considered just saying you’re sorry? I find that works really well. You know, actually admitting that you feel bad because you were wrong?” you demanded, your confidence returning as your anger returned, remembering the nasty words spat from his mouth in the school parking lot. 

“Oh come on. I bought you food. Doesn’t that count?”

“Not really,” you insisted, folding your arms, leaning your shoulder against the doorframe. You turned your head, gesturing to your coffee table covered in cartons. “Besides, I already have Chinese food so I’m all set for dinner but thanks.”

You grabbed the door, moving to close it, done with this conversation. This guy was insufferable. He couldn’t even manage a real apology. Before you fully closed it, his hand shot out, pushing back, resisting. 

“Okay, okay. Look, I’m sorry, alright?” he groaned, those brown eyes beseeching you to accept it, to not make this worse for him than it already was. “I’m sorry I was a dick. I shouldn’t have called you a bitch.”

“Damn. That looked so painful for you,” you teased with a smirk, impressed but also unable to help yourself from torturing him just a bit. 

“It really was so please don’t make me do it again,” Eddie pleaded but the muscles in his face relaxed, his mouth cracking into a smile that was like a beam of light breaking through a suffocating darkness. “Anyway, I’ll just leave this with you.” He held the bag out in front of him. “Maybe you can have it for lunch tomorrow or something. Sorry about bringing you food you didn’t need.”

“Wow. Two sorries from you in a matter of a few minutes. I’m impressed.” You glanced back at your coffee table, the ridiculous amount of food you’d ordered just like you always did when you got Chinese. 

You were suddenly overcome with the desire to not spend the night alone wallowing. You didn’t just want to not be alone, you specifically wanted Eddie to stay. It was so stupid. You knew it was stupid but suddenly you found you couldn’t bear the thought of him just walking away even if you might be playing with fire when his mood shifted once again. Maybe you were setting yourself up for pain but you found yourself willing to get burned if it meant spending time with him. 

You cleared your throat, filled with uncertainty at the prospect of being rejected by him, your words wavering as you spoke, “Actually, I ordered way too much food. I am never going to be able to eat all that. You’re welcome to share with me. I mean, if you haven’t eaten dinner yet.” 

Eddie suddenly looked like a deer in headlights, his expression twisting into surprise. His eyebrows raised, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, clearly stunned by your offer and you instantly wished you could take it back. You just wanted to reach out and pull the words back into your mouth. Of course he didn’t want to join you. He was probably just trying to make nice for the sake of the group, trying to make sure he didn’t get told off by his friends again for being a jerk to you. That didn’t mean he wanted to willingly spend time with you. 

“You know what? Forget it,” you backtracked, shaking your head, a forced laugh that was both awkward and far too loud bursting from you. “You probably grabbed something at the diner, right? I’m sure you don’t want to spend your Friday night hanging…”

“Yeah,” Eddie interrupted, nodding. His lips pursed together in a pout that had your knees wobbling. “Yeah, I would, actually. I love Chinese. I didn’t get anything at the diner. I was kind of in a rush because I didn’t really want to bring you cold food. Cold food doesn’t seem like a great apology. I mean, no one wants to eat cold fries. I mean, I have eaten cold fries because you’ll eat anything when you’re stoned, you know? Jesus Christ.” He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. “Okay. Shutting up now. Anyway, yeah…I mean, if you’re not taking the offer back then yeah, I would like to share your Chinese food.”

“Okay. I mean, no, I’m not taking my offer back,” you laughed, stepping back and waving your arm toward the living room. “Come on in.”

Eddie stepped inside, his eyes moving around the small space as he walked, roaming over the kitchen that was in such need of a complete renovation and the living room, the photographs you had displayed on the walls. He stopped, examining a picture of you with your parents and your sister from when you went to Yellowstone National Park when you were nine. 

“This you?” he questioned with a wry smile, his finger pointing at you in your brown bell bottoms and a garishly bright orange tunic with yellow flowers. 

“Yeah, that’s me. My mom was really into seventies fashion if you couldn’t tell from all of our outfits. Pictures of me from two until about eleven all have highly questionable fashion choices.”

Eddie chuckled, “You don’t want to see my pictures then. In fourth grade my Uncle got me a denim jacket and pants for pictures with a plaid collared shirt. It’s…unfortunate.” He made his way down the line, pausing and tapping on a picture from six years ago, you at twenty-four, rocking ripped jeans, a flannel, and dark make-up. “Damn. Teach is looking all badass.”

“Nirvana concert in Chicago,” you told him with a quiet laugh. “My best friend…well, my ex best friend and I went. That was 1990, I think. We had the most amazing few days. The concert was epic, something I will never forget but we also did all the touristy crap in Chicago. We saw the Bean, ate deep dish pizza, and hit up Old Navy Pier. We went out dancing and drinking and stumbled back to the hotel at three in the morning. We used to do shit like that all the time. She was my concert partner, my adventure buddy. At least she used to be.”

“Is she the one that…?” he trailed off as if he couldn’t bring himself to actually say the words, surprising you with his tact when so many other times he hadn’t cared if what he’d said bothered you. 

You shrugged, “Yep. My best friend since sophomore year. I didn’t think anything could ever change our friendship but walking in on her bouncing on top of your husband kind of changes things.”

“Damn. That’s really messed up. Like, the lowest of the low. What kind of friend does that shit?”

“They claimed it just kind of happened and they never meant for it to. Then once I figured out it wasn’t a one time thing, they said they never wanted to hurt me but they just hadn’t been able to deny their feelings for each other. Usual cheater bullshit speak.”

“So, they weren’t just fucking?”

“Oh no,” you snorted, gesturing for him to follow you to the food. You sat down on the floor and Eddie followed suit, his knee brushing against yours, the tiny contact creating a ripple effect through your entire body that quickly turned into a tidal wave of desire. “She’s living with him in my house. Well, I guess it’s not my house anymore. Nothing is mine anymore. He got the house, all the furniture, my car, the dog…Cam made sure he took absolutely everything he could before he was officially done with me like he was the one who had something to be spiteful about.”

“Jesus. Sounds like a real asshole. Your dog, too?” Eddie’s eyes melted, just the way you’d hoped for them to, sweet ooey gooey brown that seeped right into your soul, warming it, coating it in a sticky barrier that was keeping the bad things away. 

“Yep. My sweet Marley is now with Cam and Cassie.”

“Didn’t you fight him?”

You watched as Eddie grabbed an egg roll and took a bite, those full lips wrapping around the crispy dough. Jesus, his lips were perfect, like two plush pillows you wanted to sink into. He chewed, his eyebrows lifting, reminding you that he was waiting for an answer. You straightened up, leaning back against the couch. 

 “Oh, uh…well, I tried. I fought him for months but I’m a teacher and he’s a real estate agent. He sells big money homes, like six figure homes. I couldn’t afford the kind of lawyer that he could afford. It just kept going on and on, meeting after meeting. Every single time we’d come together and I would make a demand, he would counter it. I just got so tired of fighting. I got sick of having to deal with him all the time. Seeing him was…painful and awful and nasty. We could not be in the same room without saying the most hateful things. I just wanted it over, you know? I felt like I was stuck…just standing in one spot, like someone hit the pause button on my life and I wanted to fast forward to the part where it got good again. Hell, where anything happened again. So, I just signed the papers and let him have everything. That’s why I don’t have a car. I barely had anything when I moved. Once I made a down payment on this place, there wasn’t much left over. I had to save for a while. Hence walking to work in the freezing cold.”

“What an asshole,” Eddie said again, brushing his hands together, crumbs flying off and onto the table and floor. “Shit. Sorry about that.” He began to wipe his hand across the table, attempting to collect them.

You laughed, “It’s fine. I’ll just wipe it down and vacuum later. Don’t worry about it.”

“So, you caught them and then you left and they just shacked up together? And then after he was the dick who blew up your marriage, he left you with nothing?”

“Pretty much. Except they didn’t start shacking up together until a couple of months ago. They tried to claim that when I caught them it was the first time but I knew better. Turned out they’d been sleeping together behind my back for a year. I found some charges that didn’t make a whole lot of sense.” Your lips pressed together and you looked down at your hands. “Pretty stupid to not realize your husband and best friend are screwing around, huh?”

Then his fingers were on your chin, lifting it, forcing you to look into those eyes and your heart was going to propel forcefully from your chest and spill messily all over him. It was the most casual touch and yet the most intimate. It was causing emotions to stir within you that you would rather push back down but it was futile. No matter how many times you told yourself to forget this man, to not let him affect you, your body and your heart had other ideas. 

His adam's apple bobbed hard in his throat as he swallowed, his eyes flicking down to your lips so quickly that you wondered if you’d just imagined it. You could have because you wanted it badly, wanted him to kiss you, wanted him to replace every touch, every thought of Cam. To record over it the way you used to record over your VHS tapes. Erase the bad, wipe it from existence as if it had never happened, new footage of something better, something good.

“You’re not stupid. That ex of yours is the one who’s stupid,” Eddie stated, his thumb coasting just under your bottom lip. You had to fight the urge to wrap your lips around it and pull it into your mouth. What in the hell was happening to you? “That ex best friend of yours is stupid. They both did something horrible and they lost you. That’s got to be the dumbest thing they could have ever done.”

Your breath caught in your throat, feeling as if you were on the edge of your seat. Was something about to happen? Adrenaline and anticipation coursed through you as Eddie’s face tilted down toward yours. His eyes moved to your mouth and this time you were certain it did because it wasn’t a fleeting glance. They lingered. 

“Eddie…” you breathed, terrified to move, terrified of what was about to happen while also being terrified of what would happen if it did. 

Those earth-toned eyes moved back up to yours, widening slightly as if just realizing what he was doing. He released your chin, clearing his throat as he leaned back. Your heart fell when he scooted just the slightest bit further away from you. He grabbed onto a carton of food, spooning some onto a plate. 

“Anyway, yeah, what total assholes,” he muttered, shaking his head, his gaze now completely focused on his plate. 

What in the hell was it about you that stopped him? The way he’d been looking at you, it sure seemed like he was interested but if he was then why did he stop himself? You hadn’t stopped him. You didn’t think you’d given any indication that you didn’t want it. You were certain you wouldn’t have been able to stop him even if you wanted to. Your body wanted this. Did he just get caught up in the moment and then remember it was you? The girl he only tolerated for his friends sake? Maybe he wasn’t into you like that. 

“Umm…well, I picked up some movies and I was going to watch one while I ate if you wanted to watch with me,” you offered, attempting to salvage some of your bruised pride after his obvious reconsideration of kissing you. 

“Sure, what did you get?” he asked, still purposefully not looking at you, only making the knot in your stomach twist that much worse. Definitely not interested. Jesus, you were an idiot.

“Romeo and Juliet, The Craft, and Scream.”

“Oh! Scream, definitely. I meant to get to the theater to see that but I never did.”

“Yeah, me neither. Kind of unheard of for a horror movie to make it out of the theater without me seeing it,” you commented, rising from the couch to pop the VHS into the player before sitting back down. 

You immediately started focusing on your food but that knot in your stomach was making it hard to actually want to eat anything anymore so you gave up. Placing your hands on the couch, you pushed yourself up and onto it, wanting some more space between you and Eddie. A barrier between what you wanted and what he clearly did not, a safe space where the two wouldn’t meet, where you wouldn’t humiliate yourself. 

“You like horror movies?” he inquired, following you up and onto the couch but about as far as he could be from you, sitting all the way in the opposite corner, only cementing your belief that he wasn’t interested in more than just hanging out. 

“Oh yeah. I love them. I don’t know if there’s a horror movie out there that I haven’t seen. Cassie loved them too so she always went with me. That’s probably why I haven’t seen it yet. Cam couldn’t stand being scared. Her and I always did all the spooky stuff together, movies, haunted houses, that kind of thing.”

“Sounds like Cam’s a bit of a pussy on top of being an asshole,” snorted Eddie with a roll of his eyes. “So, what’s your favorite scary movie?”

“My favorite? Well…I am pretty partial to the original Halloween,” you answered. “You can’t do much better than the actual bogeyman, the embodiment of true evil. Some of the sequels not so much though.”

“Ugh, tell me about it. That third one was one of the worst things I’ve ever seen.”

“Season of the Witch? Yeah, could have done without that one. The entire plotline did not make any sense at all. Michael Myers wasn’t even in it. Like, what was the point? Honestly, if it wouldn’t have been called Halloween, I might have felt differently. It wasn’t an awful movie but it wasn’t at all what I expected. I know they said it was supposed to be an original movie, different movies all based on Halloween and Carpenter didn’t plan on continuing Michael Myers but how could you not? What about you?”

“Nightmare on Elm Street,” Eddie stated without hesitation. “Nothing beats Freddy Krueger. The man can kill you in your dreams. There’s no escaping his claw glove. That’s a real monster, man, one that can get you anywhere without even having to really touch you… can get you even in your own mind…” 

He paused, his body stilling, eyes glazing over with that haunted look again as if he was witnessing some horror within his mind that you couldn’t see. Instinctually you reached out, placing your hand on his arm and he jumped, coming back to reality. He looked down at where your skin touched and pulled his arm back from you quickly, his spine straightening. 

“Sorry. Uh…yeah, so anyway, I was thinking if you didn’t have plans tomorrow we could go to the junkyard and look for those parts for your car. It shouldn’t take too long. I won’t take up your whole Saturday but then I can start getting to work on it for you, possibly even have you behind the wheel within a couple weeks.”

“Oh…” You tried to calm the excitement that bubbled up within you at the thought of spending a day with Eddie, reminding yourself that it wasn’t what you hoped it to be. Hanging out together didn’t mean to him what it meant to you. You were going to have to get the hell over this one-sided attraction. 

“I mean, we can do it another time if you’re busy. You got big plans with Harrington or something?” he questioned, looking at you from under those ridiculously long lashes, those full lips pressed together.

“Steve? Why would I have plans with Steve?” you asked, flabbergasted by the sudden question. What was it with him and Steve? Why did he keep asking you questions about him? 

His tongue teased at the corner of his mouth, something you noticed was fairly common for him, like a nervous habit. Just like playing with his rings and as if he knew what you were thinking, there he went, twirling one of the chunky pieces of jewelry around his finger. He shrugged one shoulder.

“I don’t know. It kind of seems like maybe you two have a thing?”

“A thing?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, you two seem like maybe you like each other or something.”

“Me and Steve?” you laughed. The irony of it was just too funny. If he only knew how wrong he was. You’d probably be better off if you were into Steve but no, your brain couldn’t possibly make the smart decision. That would be too easy. “Where did you get that idea?”

Eddie’s fingers grabbed onto a chunk of hair, bringing it over his mouth. “Well…you guys looked pretty cozy at the bonfire and on the couch at Nancy and Jonathan’s. You were chatting all close at the roller rink the other night. I mean, to the casual observer, it would appear maybe you two were a thing. He is your type, isn’t he?”

“And what exactly do you think my type is?” you challenged, folding your arms over your chest as you stared him down. 

“Oh no. I’m not going there. I will not be sticking my foot in my big mouth again,” chuckled Eddie, shaking his head. “No way. Anything I say is just going to piss you off.”

“Me? You’re the one who’s always getting pissed at me.”

“Am not,” he scoffed, blowing a raspberry at you. 

You gasped, lifting one of the throw pillows and whacking him in the stomach. He threw his head back, that laugh that was like the most beautiful song rumbling out of him and you couldn’t help the pleasure you felt at knowing you’d caused it. It brought you more elation than you cared to admit that you could bring joy to this man who was so damn serious and surly all the time.

“Bullshit! You run hot and cold constantly. One minute I think maybe you like me and then the next it’s like you can’t stand to be in the same room with me.”

“Not true. I do like you.” Eddie’s eyebrows suddenly shot up his forehead and he began tripping over his words, appearing flustered. “I mean, like you’re cool, you know.” He shrugged. “You’re fun…to hang out with, like friends. We’re friends, right?”

“I don’t know. Are we?” you asked, genuinely wondering. 

“Yeah.” He nodded, eyes rolling up to the ceiling and then back to you with a sigh. “I think we are. I mean, we’ve just had dinner together and we’re watching a movie. And not because we’re hanging with the group. We’re just hanging out, me and you. That’s friends stuff, right? That’s what friends do.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, leaning back against the armrest, pulling your knees into your chest. You wrapped your arms around your legs, propping your chin on top as you considered him. “Yeah, that’s what friends do.”

A pang of disappointment sounded in your chest at your own words. You couldn’t deny that you’d hoped he felt something more between you, that the brief hope you’d had that he thought about you differently was true. But he clearly didn’t so you tried to push those feelings away, focusing on the positive. At least he considered you a friend. After all, wasn’t that what you’d been trying for from the beginning? Just to be friends with him, just to get along?

“But I am free tomorrow to look for parts,” you said, bringing them back to the original question he’d asked. 

“Cool,” he said simply, a small smile on his face, the two of you turning your heads to the television as the previews finished and the movie began. 

Chapter 11

Taglist

@tlclick73 @bebe07011 @eddiesguitarskills @witchwolflea @nailbatanddungeon @emilyslutface @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @corrodedcoffincumslut @mmunson86 @josephquinnsfreckles @katethetank

[nickfowlerrr]

here is the masterlist for the seven writing event.

all submissions will be linked below.

a huge thank you to everyone who has gotten or plans to get involved with this little event. i’m having a great time working on my own posts and even more, am looking forward to continuing reading and going through all of yours. so thank you, thank you, thank you! 🩵

if you’ve posted your work already and don’t see your submission(s) here, please message me.

to the lovely readers: if you enjoy any of the work listed below, please take the time to leave a comment on them and reblog the posts. it really helps with engagement and can be very motivating, and just so meaningful, to the authors and creators. we all appreciate you so much for diving into our little fantasy worlds with us and interacting with what we share in this community. thank you. 🖤

deadline for submitting: november 14, 2023

last updated: november 17, 2023

Fics

Envy

If I Can’t Have Everything, Then Let Me Just Have You - (andy barber x reader) - @writing-for-marvel

Don’t Blame Me - (bucky barnes x reader) - @buckets-and-trees

Greed

for the hope of it all - (lee bodecker x curvy!reader) - @nickfowlerrr

a bird in a cage - (dark!august walker x reader) - @witchywithwhiskey

Kindness

Weight of My Love - (wanda maximoff x reader) - @moonfaeriebunny

Lust

everything I want… - (bucky barnes x plus size!reader) - @thornsnvultures

All Good Girls Go To Heaven - (mafia!bucky barnes x OC) - @sebstan2020

idle hands are the devil’s playthings - (demon!steve kemp x reader) - @filthycagedsoul

Patience

Please Say, Please - (bucky barnes x reader) - @angelltheninth

Pride

Let All Light Go - (dark!alpha steve rogers x omega!reader and alpha!bucky barnes x omega!reader) - @buckets-and-trees

pride - (lee bodecker x wife!reader) - @thornsnvultures

Pride Goeth Before The Fall - (royal!au nick fowler x reader) - @tumblin-theworldaway

Wrath

Starring Role - (dark!natasha romanoff x reader) - @moonfaeriebunny

Welcome Home, Daddy - (winter soldier/bucky x pregnant!reader) - @winterarmyy

When You Fall on Me Like Night - (alpha!bucky x omega!reader and dark alpha!steve rogers x omega!reader) - @buckets-and-trees

Moodboards

Envy

bucky barnes moodboard - @nickfowlerrr

Greed

lee bodecker and max burnett - /nickfowlerrr

Pride

lloyd hansen moodboard - /nickfowlerrr

Wrath

andy barber and nick fowler - /nickfowlerrr

[empressofmankind]

BEGGARS SHAN'T BE CHOOSERS - Part I

[Crocodile x F!OC]

SFW

(A/N) Better known as the 'Impel Down' fic, I kept mentioning the past two weeks. This is Part One. Of five? Of ten? I've given up. The total draft was > 12k. So, I split it in 3x 4k. And then, I noticed today the 'first part' had grown to >7k. So, I've split it again. I have a clear end in mind, but how long it'll take me to get there...

Originally, this fic was meant to focus around Buggy, but then a 2.53m unit of absolute bullshit got in the way. Shivs and her world class plans, good gods. Post-Alabaste, the mens are stuck in Impel Down. Shivs is dead set on springing the clown from prison. However, she'll first need to figure out where they're keeping him. On account of his devil fruit powers, she suspects level 6. And she has an excellent alibi to demand visitation to level 6. For once, the legal quagmire of technically still being married to Crocodile is going to work for her. Right? RIGHT??

In this first part, we'll join Shivs and Benji (and Mani!) as they get ready to, and make their way for, Impel Down. That's it, that's all that happens, and it took me near 4k. I am so long-winded. It's a terminal condition, I know.

Tag(s): Considering this is the entré, there isn't actually much to tag for? There's fluff and humour. There's a 10-year-old running around saying the absolute funniest shit as things go straight over her head. We got Mani the scaly golden retriever Bananawani along? Oh, and one (1) good marine.

🐊 🐊 🐊 

Beggars Shan't Be Choosers - Part I

“They're stupid clothes,” Benji said, her brow wrinkling with petulant annoyance. She was wearing a crispy white dress shirt, a green-on-ochre striped vest and grey slacks. She'd refused a dress of any sort. Her flame orange hair was neatly brushed and her small face wasn't covered in grease paint for once.

“I think you look handsome,” Shivs said as she pinned her own red hair up with a two-pronged kanzashi fashioned with golden lotuses whose inlaid blue diamonds had not seen the light of day in years.

“I look stupid.”

“Look. I am not comfortable in my clothes either,” Shivs said and indicated the mid-thigh sheath dress of black lace on dark grey broadcloth she wore. She'd decided on sheer stockings to go with it, but no gloves. 

“You look pretty in them.”

Shivs turned back to the mirror to finish pinning her hair and adjusting her bangs to fall neatly from under the strings of her eyepatch. “That is the idea, yes.”

Benji put her hands in her pockets, kicking her foot, making squeaky noises against the deck boards. “What am I supposed to look like? I don't want to be pretty.”

“You are supposed to look like the most capable and well-behaved child to ever grace the Blue.” Shivs pinched her cheek, gilt bangles jangling. “And you do when you don't stand with your hands wearing out your pockets like that.”

Benji took her hands out of her pockets. They idled a moment, undecided, but then she clasped them behind her back. “Your neck looks naked.” 

Shivs laughed at that because the bateau neckline of the dress could certainly use something. “Yours too.”

She plucked one of Buggy's patterned neck scarves from a drawer and tied it around her daughter's neck, tucking the ends into the vest. “There.”

“You should wear a pretty necklace,” Benji said, though her eyes were on the scarf. She seemed to like that, at least.

Shivs didn't have all that many necklaces conventionally considered ‘nice’. Going through the few she had in her thoughts, she picked up her modest jewellery box. Then paused as her gaze lingered on the bottom drawer of her vanity. Maybe she should… She pulled the drawer open and reached among clothes she rarely wore, patting around until she found the old music box.

Its silver had blackened with age and negligence, but even so, its delicate engravings of waves and tall ships were fine. If she polished it now, the oxidation remaining in the fine creases would help pick out its details better than ever before. She didn’t, of course. And she didn’t open the lid either. She couldn’t remember if it was wound up, and didn’t want to hear its melody if it was.

Instead, she held it with both hands and turned its engraved body as if removing a lid from a jar. With a click, the top section came off. Within the tiny compartment revealed lay a small, gold hoop with a bent hinge. She’d long since let the earlobe puncture it used to occupy close. Taking a thin string from her jewellery box, she suspended it from that instead.

“Like so?” Shivs asked, drawing Benji’s attention as she fastened it around her neck.

“Don’t you have anything sparklier, like your hair thing?”

Shivs brushed the kanzashi. Though the era of having such things aplenty was long behind her, she was loath to detract from the last one that remained to her with lesser gems. Besides, he’d notice.

“Sadly, no.”

“Oh?” Benji gave her the thumbs up. “Gold is pretty too, I guess!”

Part of the reason she’d picked it was that it was 24-carat gold. Just like the kanzashi.

“Can I do your makeup?”

“Only if you do not turn me into a clown,” Shivs said as she sat down at her vanity so the girl could reach her face. Benji grinned and set to work.

When Benji declared she was done, Shivs turned to the mirror and had to admit the little girl was now officially better at this than her. She’d gone for a dark burgundy smokey eye with a flawlessly thin line of gold right at the root of her eyelashes and a touch of white on the waterline. It made the hazel of her good eye pop like nobody’s business. She was pretty sure the dark red lipstick was Buggy’s favourite to use himself.

“I like it,” Shivs said and Benji beamed. “Now, I just need shoes.”

“I'll fetch some!” 

Benji was up and running out of the cabin before Shivs could protest. It was only a few minutes before the girl returned, clutching shoes in her arms. And not just any shoes, either. She held up gold-tinted, faux leather gladiator sandals with six-inch stiletto heels that would be a trick and a half to walk on. Where had she even found those?

“These will look awesome with your hair thing and necklace!”

She didn’t disagree as she put them on, but hoped the floors of Impel Down would be neatly packed concrete and nothing else. She hadn’t walked on heels like these in half a decade. Throwing a long bridge coat the rosy beige of dunes about her shoulders, she turned to the floor-length mirror.

Benji looked her up and down with the pinched expression of a critical, pint-sized costume designer grading their latest creation. “You look very pretty.”

Benji wasn’t wrong. She did look nice. Her mood sank, settling like an anchor in the pit of her stomach. She looked like his wife.

“Why is it OK to lie today?”

“It's not a lie.” Shivs shook the morose feeling and picked up her small black bag, its gilded chain rattling as she double checked its content. “More like, hm.”

“Make believe?”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose it is,” Shivs said as she snapped the bag closed and hung it from her shoulder. “It will be easier to convince them to let us visit if we look the way they’d expect.”

“Why would they let us visit uncle Crocodile? Aren’t those visits for, like, if you’re his mom or sister or baby or something?” Benji’s small face was filled with healthy scepticism, hands in her pockets once again. “We should pretend he’s my dad.”

Shivs flinched and struggled to keep her smile from faltering. “Well, only if we have to.”

“They’d have to be pretty bad people to stop a kid from visiting their father.” Benji took her hand. “I hope uncle Crocodile knows where dad is.”

“I am sure he knows.” Shivs gave Benji’s hand a squeeze. She’d no idea how she’d find out where Buggy was if Crocodile didn’t know. She couldn’t exactly demand that information on legal grounds like she had done with him. “Is Mani ready, too?”

“Yes! I scrubbed her squeaky clean and even picked her teeth and scales. She’s eaten and done a big poop.” Shivs tried to let the girl’s bubbly chatter lift her spirits. “I borrowed one of Richie’s sparkly collars and she looks flashy in it!”

“Sparkly? That sounds amazing.”

“It is! She likes sparkly things.”

“Let’s fetch her then and go before we are too late.”

Benji glanced up at her as they left the cabin. “How can we be late for an appointment we didn’t make?”

“We can be late for the only ship going there today.”

🐊 🐊 🐊 

Benji had wanted to stand upon the prow as the government ship approached the Gate of Justice out of Enbies Lobby, because the skipper had said the Tarai current that would see them to Impel Down was chock full of sea kings. Shivs sat on a deck chair with a glass of wine, watching the girl run back and forth with binoculars she’d weedled from a matelot. On account of the seastone laminated hull, she doubted they would see any. However, there was no need to dunk on her chipper mood.

They were not the only visitors, more had trickled aboard to form a modest but motley company on the deck. She’d caught snippets of conversations as they walked by: a mother visiting her son; a brother, his sister. And she had a good guess what some of them were whispering about as they stole glances her way. She’d neglected to list any details regarding who they’d be visiting, but, in hindsight, she supposed the pony-sized bananawani lounging beside her gave it away. 

She’d tied Mani’s rhinestone-infested lilac leash to her chair leg, to discourage the reptile from wandering or - worse - deciding to take a swim. Not that she had any illusion as to its ability to pull the chair straight from under her if it wanted to go. But Mani was a creature of habit and minimal effort. A minor inconvenience such as this would be enough to keep her snoozing on the deck.

“Spotted any big ones?” Shivs said when Benji came towards her for a sip of lychee ramune.

“Not yet.” Benji plopped down beside Mani, putting her skinny arm around her scaly neck as she slurped lemonade. “Did you know bananawani hunt sea kings?”

“Really?” 

Shivs remembered the way the casino halls would darken as they swam by, their shadows passing beyond the glass as they glided towards the feeding platform. The unwitting sea king never stood a chance.

“They are their only known predator and totally hunt them,” Benji babbled happily while enjoying her drink. Mani’s eyes were still closed, but she’d shifted to lean into the little girl’s petting. “Do you think sea king tastes good?”

The water would run red but only for a short while, only until the currents whisked it away. Theoretically, the creature could make it out for the Rainbase oasis connected to the Sandora river.

“I bet Mani would prefer sea king chow,” Shivs said.

“I don't think they sell that at the pet stores.” Benji pouted as she hugged Mani. “She won’t be able to have a sea king snack until she’s big enough to hunt them herself.”

Hopefully, that would take a while yet. Bananawani could grow to colossal sizes, dwarfing mid-class tall ships. Shivs had no idea what they were supposed to do with a fully grown one. Or how to afford feeding the beast if there was no prey for her to hunt on her own. Rain Dinners’ bananawani never hunted alone.

Benji emptied her bottle with a big, noisy slurp, waking Mani. “Maybe we should have brought something?”

“A deck would have been nice,” Shivs said as she watched them. “We could have played slapjack.”

“No, I mean, for uncle Crocodile?” 

Shivs flinched.

“You always say that it is nice to bring something when you visit someone. Especially if you want something from them in turn?” Benji scrunched up her face, rubbing Mani’s thick scaly neck. “I have, like, half a bag of marshmallows, but I didn’t think to bring them.”

“I have something for him, don’t worry about it.”

🐊 🐊 🐊 

Impel Down was a fortress as ugly as it was unimaginative. It spilled onto the rapidly approaching horizon as a grey stain overtaking the limitless freedom of the open sea. And as they drew near on the Tarai current, its squat towers and crenellated battlements came into ever sharper focus until they dominated their entire surroundings. Curiously, there were no cannon embrasures, machicolations or any such defences one might expect from a proper bastion. 

A fleet of warships rested at anchor along the approach to the underwater prison. The modest passenger ship they were on was dwarfed by the marine dreadnoughts they passed as the current pulled them inexorably towards the prison’s colossal gatehouse.

Benji had returned to the prow for the approach, and Shivs joined her there.

“It’s so huge!” Benji stared wide-eyed at the thick walls as they sailed under the barbican and into the secured harbour proper beyond. Mani sat beside her, holding her own leash.

“The vast majority of the complex is actually underwater.” Shivs counted the cannons peeking down at them through the embrasures, out of habit more than anything. She wondered if they had a standing firing crew to man them.

“Are we going underwater?” Benji hopped from one leg unto the other. “The Calm Belts are supposed to be full of Sea Kings! Maybe there will be a window, and I can see one? Maybe there will be wild Bananawani too!”

“It is a prison, so I don’t think there will be windows,” Shivs said in an attempt to calm the girl’s excitement and avoid utter disappointment if that turned out to be true. “It does reach quite a ways below the water surface. A few kilometres, perhaps? Yes, I think so.”

“Wow.” Turning to Mani, Benji added: “Let's find a window, I bet there will be wild Bananawani! You can say ‘hi’!”

Shivs took her by the shoulder when she saw the other visitors disembark. “Come, let’s not be late.”

Benji glanced up at her as they walked to the gangplank. “For the visit we didn-?”

“Don’t say that,” Shivs interrupted her with a quelling look.

“Right.” Benji smiled again and took Mani’s leash. “Come on Mani. Can’t be late!”

They were funnelled through the gatehouse and into a courtyard patrolled by marine sentries. Here, too, cannons peered through embrasures on all sides. Evidently, the prison was more concerned about threats to its security rising from within than without.

“Visitors for level 1 and 2 inmates, that way,” a young marine officer said as he gestured to a colleague. “Level 3 and up, with me.” The few people that joined them as they went to the marine officer gave the juvenile Bananawani plodding beside them a wide breadth. 

The officer led them up steps and into an wholly uninviting lobby. With its worn plaster walls and dirty grey linoleum floor it did its very best to make you want to leave as soon as possible. No seats, no plants, no windows, no nothing. 

“Registration check.” The marine officer motioned them towards the looming concrete counter on the other side of the unpleasant space. “In an orderly manner, gentlefolk.”

Benji put her arm around Mani, leaning into the large reptile and putting her nose against its scales as she eyed their casually hostile surroundings.

“What’s his name?” The marine officer’s tone was amiable, conversational.

“Hers!” Benji said, holding on tighter to the Bananawani.

He tried to catch her gaze with a smile. “Big girls, both of you.”

“Her name is Mani.”

“Ah, ‘she who averts harm’,” he said, and Shivs appreciated his attempts to make Benji feel comfortable. “A wise choice for such a hardy animal.”

“She’s very sweet and tough,” Benji agreed as she snuggled Mani. “I love her.”

“I am sure she loves you very much too.”

“What is your name?” Benji asked. “Mine is Benji!”

“Nice to meet you, Benji,” the young marine said. “Mine is Toby.”

By then it was their turn, and Shivs approached the desk. It was higher than such things normally were, for she was not a particularly short woman and yet she need not bend down to meet the registrar’s gaze.

“State your name and purpose?” the woman said, hands poised to take down the information.

“Figarland Seonaid. Conjugal visit,” Then added when she saw her transcribe it as ‘Sheona’: “That is without the H, and spelled with N-A-I-D.”

The registrar gave a sign of neither interest nor recognition. “Visiting?”

“Crocodile Niall.”

The woman paused when she heard that name. And Shivs ignored the whispers she could not quite catch from those behind her in line.

“Niall. N-I-A-L-L. Not ‘Nile’.”

The registrar flipped through a thick binder, finger running down a table packed with dense handwriting. “No visitation registered.”

“Preposterous,” Shivs said, overacting an affronted tone. “A signed request for visitation has been approved weeks ago.” 

“There is no record of it, ma'am.”

Benji let go of Mani to fling her arms around Shivs’ waist instead, and gave the registrar and marine officer her most watery of wobbly baby looks. “Mommy, I want to see daddy!”

Shivs rubbed her shoulder, giving the registrar the pleading look of parents the world across trying to desperately manage a child on the brink of wailing. Benji's little sob into the fabric of her dress was very convincing. Mani paced around them, uncertain but riled by the sudden change of mood.

“Can't you put in an expedited request?” Shivs suggested, trying her damndest to sound sincere. “She'd been looking forward to it, and we get so few chances.”

“No registration, no visitation,” the woman said as Benji took in a breath to start a wail.

Toby shook his head. “Let me see what I can do,” he said as he produced a small, earpiece Den Den Mushi and put the sea snail against his ear. A few transmissions later, he turned to the registrar and held up his hand. “Two visitor badges, please.”

With due reluctance the registrar handed them over to him and he turned to Benji. “There you go, kiddo,” he said as he gave her one, and then Shivs as well. “Courtesy of the vice-admiral making the curator see reason.”

“You're the best!” Benji beamed. “Look, mom, I am number 17! What is yours?”

Shivs looked at the scuffed 13 on the badge. It reminded her of a poker table she used to deal at, and the memory settled in the pit of her stomach like a fetch of cannon balls. “Not as high as yours, sweetie.”

“Come, I will see you two down to the right level,” Toby said, and led them to the elevator room beyond the lobby. There were four, two on the left and two on the right. He took them to the far right one, the doors opening as they approached.

“Awesome!” Benji said as she rushed inside, Mani hot on her heels. For the elevator was made entirely of armoured glass and provided a grand view of the ocean sprawling all the way across the horizon. The afternoon sun kissed the waves, setting sparkles to the white-capped water. And Shivs felt it beckon in her bones. 

Benji gave him a hopeful look. “Are we going underwater?”

“We are,” Toby said as he put a key in the control panel and turned it.

When the doors slid closed, Shivs suppressed the sudden and overwhelming urge to get out, to leave and never look back. To stay at the surface, where they belonged. I have to, she told herself as she clenched her hands into fists around the chain of her handbag. Bugs is down there, and he hates the dark beneath the waves.

The elevator jolted to life and Shivs closed her eyes, ignoring the sound of the lapping waves against the glass as they submerged, focussing on Benji’s excited noises instead. When she opened them again, they were enveloped in blue. Sunlight still penetrated, sending curtains of light through the water. Less so with every foot they descended, as the blue grew deeper, darker.

“A Sea King!” Benji screamed, spooking Mani as she glued herself against the glass. In the far distance, blurred in the shifting hues of the blue, swam a long, serpentine creature, its body undulating as it made its way from somewhere to elsewhere. 

“It could be the Prince of the Deep,” Toby said as he came to stand beside her. “It has about the right shape. Colour too, perhaps.”

Benji glanced at him, her eyes large and eager. “Prince?”

“Yes, because he is a prince among his kind. The largest Sea King in this part of the Calm Belt,” Toby said. “Ten times larger than Coral Grove, our largest dreadnought.”

“Wow.” Benji pressed her face against the glass. “Mani could snack on that for years.”

“Wouldn’t it be tough for her to hunt such a large creature?” Toby said, not without humour.

Benji rolled her eyes. “Not right now, she’s a baby. But she’ll be big and strong one day! Bananawani hunt Sea Kings, did you know?” she said and babbled the poor marine’s ears off about the large reptiles for some minutes.

As the armoured glass elevator descended to deeper water, their surroundings became steadily darker. Shivs put her gaze on the glass floor and the pitch black abyss below. It was easier to face the darkness approaching than the light receding, the sparkle of the sun on the water surface dwindling as you sank. The sea has never been friendly to man.

Beside her, Benji had put her arm around Mani as she looked up. No more sea kings down here.

“The 6th level is also called ‘The Basement’,” Toby said, making the girl glance away from the ever more distant sunlight. “Do you know why?”

Ghosts in the attic and monsters in the basement, Shivs thought as she recalled the sailors’ idiom about grief with its haunting memories and stowed feelings.

Benji eyed him, holding on to Mani still. “Because it's dark and far down?”

Because nobody goes there if they can help it. Shivs stared at the watery dark beneath their feet. The sea floor might never come and she'd not be surprised.

“Nope!” Toby said, his smile bright in the dimming light. “Because it is where all the cool people stay.”

Benji’s mood lit up. “My unc- Dad, is super cool! He's actually made out of sand, like, for real.”

“Are you made out of sand?”

Shivs gaze snapped onto him like a hawk. He was looking at Benji, fondness soft on his youthful face. He couldn't be much older than 20 or 22.

“I don't think so?” Benji let go of Mani to brush at her clothes, then glanced at him. “Do you want to pet her?”

Toby smiled. “Absolutely.”

🐊 🐊 🐊 

Horny hell seat reservations - @tiredemomama @smut-goblin @ruledbyproblematique @momodwriter @littlemountainwolf @fanaticsnail @feral-artistry - except there's no horny. Croc isn't even in it either. I feel like a cheat.

[guinea-pig16]

Something Better || Chapter 4: Apart of the Team

Ghost x Reader x Soap

Fic is below the cut !! This is apart of a series, so please read the previous chapter here !! Enjoy!!

______________________________________________________________

Word Count: 3,200+

Warnings: Talk of past injuries

______________________________________________________________

You sit on the couch in the break room of the base, mindlessly scrolling through your phone, bored out of your ever loving mind. 

You had been working non-stop the past week, planning, gathering intel, reading debriefs, writing reports, you name it you were doing it. Unfortunately for you, Laswell had taken notice of your workaholic attitude. Why were you working so hard? Well, your nightmares had begun to come back, along with memories you didn’t want to deal with. So, you kept every second of your day occupied, making sure you would collapse into bed at night exhausted. It’s like they say, an idle mind is the devil’s workshop.

Laswell gently reminded you that you needed to take a break. When you refused, she all but threw your ass out of the intel room, relieving you of your duties for the weekend.

“You can come back Monday at 8. Until then, I better not see your ass in here, understand L/N?” She said, a slight glare in her eyes. You reluctantly agreed. What else could you do?

At first, you tried to work out at the gym. But you felt the eyes of the soldiers on the base burning into the back of your head as you limped over to one of the machines. You quickly decided to do something else. Then you tried to read, but 1. You had no interesting books, and 2. It didn’t stop your thoughts from overwhelming the words you tried to read. Then, you tried to write something, a hobby your nurse from the hospital suggested you pick up. But, once again, it didn’t stop your thoughts from surging up like a storm. 

So here you were, sitting on this old couch, going insane with boredom. 

You groaned and leaned your head back. Your phone wasn’t helping much. You could feel the memories begin to claw their way to the front of your mind.

“Oh, Hey there, L/N! Good te see ye!” You heard a voice say. Your head snaps upwards and you look to the entrance of the break room. Soap was standing there, giving you a grin. He was dressed casually, in a black t-shirt and jeans. Right, You thought. The General gave the team the week off.

“Oh, Sergeant. Nice to see you too.” You say, returning the smile.

He waved a hand. “Ach, told ye ta call me Soap, L/N.” He walks over to you and sits at the opposite end of the couch, giving you plenty of space. “What’re ye doin’ here? Thought ye never stopped workin’.” That earned him a dry chuckle.

Soap had seen you around the base the past few days, but all you could spare him was a smile and a wave. You never had the time to talk.

“Ahh, Laswell’s relieved me of my duties for the weekend. She’s making me take a break.” You say, going back to mindlessly scrolling through your phone.

Soap lets out a sound of acknowledgement and sits there, observing you. You don’t notice it, as you’re preoccupied with your phone. He notices your tired expression, how you were fidgeting with the edge of your coat. You were unknowingly bouncing your leg as well. You were antsy, anxious, and trying to distract yourself from something. Soap thinks for a moment.

“...Ye know, me an’ the others are goin’ to the bar tonite. Ye should join us! It’d give ye somethin’ ta do, aye?” He said hopefully, scratching the back of his neck. You turned and looked at him.

You thought for a moment. You didn’t really know the team all that well. You had only really spoken to them during the first mission, along with the occasionally passing ‘hello’. You weren’t sure if you wanted to get to know them better. You weren’t too fond of getting to know anyone nowadays. You’ve spent enough time with other task forces to get an idea of what people thought of you. They’d just pity you. You opened your mouth to politely decline, but then you saw Soap’s hopeful eyes.

He was extending an olive branch. He was giving you the opportunity to open up and let loose. How could you say no to him?

“...Ah, what the hell. Why not?” You finally say, putting down your phone. Your lips twitch upwards as you see a bright smile spread across his face. Maybe they’ll be different.

“Sweet! We’ll be meetin’ at the bar jus’ doon the road at 7 tonite! Lookin’ forward ta seein’ ye there!” He said, and you nodded.

“Alright, see you guys there.” You say, standing up searching for your cane. Where the fuck did I put that thing..? 

You feel a tap on your side and look over. Soap had your cane in his hand, and nudged you with it.

“Must’ve fallen and slipped under the couch, aye?” He said, a small grin on his face. You smile back and take your cane from him.

“Thanks. See you later, Soap.” And with that, you walk out of the break room.

Soap watches you go, a small smile on his face. He reached out, and you reached back. He hasn’t been this excited to drink since he was a teenager. 

Hopefully tonight will be fun.

___________________________________

You stand at the bar’s entrance, a minute till 7. You hesitate to open the doors. You haven’t had a night out like this in over a year. Hell, you haven’t had a drink in over a year. You were nervous. You weren’t sure how this would go, and if you drank you weren’t sure what you’d say. Your hand falls from the doorknob. Maybe this was a mistake… You’re about to turn to leave, when a voice calls out to you.

“L/N! Good to see you! How’ve you been?” You turn around and see Price approaching you. He’s dressed casually, just a jumper and jeans. Still wearing his hat though. He smiles at you.

“Ah, Captain Price! I’ve been good, you?” You reply, hoping he didn’t see your hesitance. He stands next to you at the entrance.

“I’ve been quite well! Been enjoying my week off. Speaking of offtime, Laswell force you to take some?” He asks. You relax slightly and roll your eyes.

“Yeah, she all but kicked me out, saying if I came back before Monday she’d whoop my ass. Which I don’t doubt she would.” Price chuckles at that.

“Yeah, she’s a fiery woman. Always looking out for her own, though.” Price grabs the door handle. “Can I get the door for you?”

You hesitate slightly, considering whether or not you want to join in tonight. But with Price standing right there… You can’t turn back now.

“...Yeah, if you’d be so kind.” He nods and opens the door for you. You hobble inside, your cane gently clacking on the ground. You enter the bar and memories flood back of nights spent in celebrations, drinking until you’re leaned over the toilet, stories being swapped, and chatting long into the night. It’s a relatively small bar, just a few tables and of course the seats at the bar itself. There’s a pool table in the corner, along with a small jukebox. The lights make the bar feel warm and cozy. Thankfully, there aren’t many people here tonight.

“L/N! Good ta see ye, mate! An Price, glad te see ye make it, old man!” Yells Soap. He’s sitting at the bar, dressed in the same black t-shirt and jeans from earlier. You see Ghost sitting next to him, looking over his shoulder at you, dressed in a black hoodie and dark jeans and of course, a mask. Gaz is leaned against the bar next to Soap, his face brightening when he sees you and Price. He’s dressed in a hoodie and jeans as well. 

“Hey! Glad to see you two!” Gaz says, waving you two over. You hesitate slightly, Price walking past you. You hobble over to them, feeling nervous. Gaz moves to the side and lets you take the seat next to Soap. You pull yourself up onto the seat, and see Soap move to take your cane for you.

“I’ve got it.” You say quickly. He stops, and watches as you let out a sigh as you get comfortable, your cane looped around your arm. 

“What’ll ye be havin’ tonite, eh?” Soap says. He’s curious to see what you’ll drink, what’s your favorite and least favorite. 

You consider a moment. “I’ll just have a lager. Not really interested in drinking much tonight, y’know?” You say. Soap nods in understanding. He waves the bartender over for you, and you order. Soon enough, your drink is out in front of you. You take a sip and welcome the clean crisp drink, its fruity notes setting off in your mouth. Man, you’ve missed this.

“So, what have ye been busy doin’ these past few days?” Soap asks, leaning forward slightly, taking a sip of his drink. Ghost perks up slightly, listening in on the conversation. He’s also been curious as to what you’ve been up to.

“Ah, nothing really special. I’ve mostly been running papers between offices. Other teams have been asking for my feedback on their plans, so I’ve been on a lot of calls lately. Planning, strategising, researching, the usual.” You reply. You swell with slight confidence as you see Soap look at you, impressed.

“Sounds like ye’ve been a valuable asset, L/N! We’re lucky ta have ye, ye know?” He says, nudging your shoulder. You sit there a moment, before giving him a genuine smile. It feels nice to be appreciated.

“You can just call me Y/N.” You say, grinning, taking another sip of your drink. He smiles at you.

It feels like he’s starting to break through that shell of yours.

___________________________________

“Oh my god, you should’ve seen their faces as I walked towards them! They looked like they were going to shit their pants!” You say, holding back laughter. You were telling the team about your first mission as a strategist. They looked absolutely appalled when you told them about how the team treated you. Even Ghost’s eyes narrowed as you told the story. 

“And then I walked towards the Captain and knocked him to the ground with my cane, and I got up in his face and said,” Your voice lowered slightly. “‘Listen here you little shit, I don’t give a damn if you like me, but you do not ignore a direct order.’ He looked like he was going to piss himself right then and there!” Soap, Gaz and Price let out a laugh at that. 

“That was really bad ass of you, L/N! I better be careful and not get on your bad side then!” Says Gaz, chuckling. 

“Just follow orders, and me and you will get along swimmingly.” You say, laughing. 

Soap and Ghost look at you, impressed. That Captain must’ve been twice your size, yet you knocked him down a peg with just one sentence. Soap admired your resilience against such idiots. If it were him in your shoes, he would’ve already beaten them to a pulp for their ignorance. He slightly wishes he had been there to see it.

“Bet they respected ye from that day onward, aye?” Said Soap, sipping his drink. You chuckled slightly, remembering their scared faces.

“That they did. They never once questioned me again and paid attention to every mission debrief. Almost felt sorry for them, poor bastards.” You say, taking a swig of your lager. You were starting to feel a small buzz from the alcohol. This was probably your third drink of the night. Man, when did I become such a lightweight?

Gaz stands there, thinking for a moment. “Hey, L/N… Can I ask you something?” He finally asks. You, Price, Soap, and Ghost turn to him, curious.

“Yeah, what’s up?” You reply. 

“...What happened to your leg?”

Everyone goes silent. Ghost and Soap’s eyes widen slightly at the blatant question. Why the fuck would he ask that? Soap thinks. Soap shoots Gaz a warning stare. Price nudges Gaz’s shoulder, eyes narrowed. Soap looks back at you, but your head is turned looking at Gaz. Gaz shrinks slightly under the scrutiny. 

“Sorry… I didn’t mean to-”

“Mate, ye don’ haveta answer-” Say both Soap and Gaz at the same time. But you cut them off.

“I got shot in the leg once, and in the back twice.” You say bluntly, turning back to your drink. You take a deep swig, and set your glass back down. All four of them are staring at you, but you don’t feel judgment in their eyes. “The limp isn’t actually from getting shot in the leg. One of the bullets hit the base of my spine, practically shattering it.” You chuckle dryly. “Honestly, I’m goddamn lucky I’m not paralyzed from the waist down. If it had been even a centimeter over in any direction, I’d be talking to you guys from a wheelchair.” You take another sip. “Unfortunately though, no amount of physical therapy will get my leg back to how it used to be. Doesn’t help that the bullet caused nerve damage too, so my leg will hurt like hell out of nowhere. But, that’s just how the job goes sometimes. I’m lucky to be alive.” You swallow. 

This was the first time you talked about your injury. You sit there, taking in the silence. You shrink slightly. Maybe you overshared-

“...You know, when I first joined the force, during my first mission I fell on my elbow weird. Haven’t been able to straighten my arm completely since.” Says Gaz, breaking the silence. All four of you look at him.

“...Really?” You say.

“Ah, yer jus’ pullin’ our leg, Gaz.”

“No! ‘M not! It’s true! Look!” He says. He rolls up his sleeve to his upper arm and straightens his arm. The four of you see that it in fact, won’t straighten all the way.

“See? Told you!” He says, grinning. He rolls his sleeve back down. You smile slightly at him. He didn’t have to tell you that, but he did. Was it to make me feel better? You think. The team chuckles slightly.

Soap is quiet for a moment. “...When I was jus’ a wee lad, I was runnin’ ben the woods, and I tripped and fell on a rock. My knee hit the rock hard, and ever since, I get these spasms in it.” He sips his drink, eyeing you. You look at him and give him a soft smile. He can see the unspoken ‘Thank you’ in your eyes. Ghost shakes his head at Soap.

“Fuckin’ idiot… Surprised you lived this long…” He mumbles. That causes everyone to burst out laughing. 

“Well, since we’re in a sharing mood, I’ll let you all in on a secret of mine.” Price says. You all lean in forward a bit. “‘Round the time I first joined, I was on a mission, and it was raining like hell. I was running through the mud, and I slipped. I fell right on my arse, hard. Ever since, my tailbone will ache occasionally.” The four of you burst out laughing, Ghost looking on, slightly amused. 

The team continues chatting, talking about stupid ways they’ve hurt themselves. You sit there, listening in on the conversation, a soft smile on your face. It feels as though a small weight has been lifted from your shoulders. You sip your drink. You’re glad you decided to come tonight after all. Caught up in everyone’s chatter, you don’t notice Ghost’s eyes never leaving you.

___________________________________

It’s close to midnight when your leg starts to twinge with pain. Unwilling to let the team know of the ache, you go to step outside, claiming you need some fresh air. They let you go, consumed in their conversations. You hobble outside as quickly as you can. You don’t realize that you’ve left your cane in the bar, or that a certain someone watches you go.

You lean against the brick wall of the exterior, taking in deep, slow breaths. You wince as your leg muscles contract and loosen painfully. You breathe in the night air, hoping its coolness will soothe the fiery pain in your leg.

“...Fucking hell…” You whisper. You massage your thigh, and coax your muscles to relax. After a couple of minutes, your leg finally calms down, leaving a dull ache in its tracks. You let out a sigh, and don’t notice the back door open, or the steps approaching you.

“You alright?” You hear a gruff voice ask. You whip your head around and look at the source. Ghost is standing next to you, leaning against the wall. Your breath catches slightly in your throat.

“Um, yeah. I’m fine. Why do you ask?” You tilt your head slightly, looking up at him.

Ghost notices the way you gently rub your right leg. Must be actin’ up… He thinks. 

“Just checking… You left without this.” He sticks your cane out to you. Your eyes widen slightly. Shit, I’ve gotta stop forgetting that…

“Thanks…” You say, grabbing your cane and leaning on it, grateful for its support. The two of you stand there for a moment, listening to the night insects, breathing in the cool air.

“You know… You didn’t have to answer Gaz…” Ghost says, breaking the silence. You look up at him.

“I know.” You say. The two of you fall back into silence.

Ghost scratches his neck, feeling a bit awkward. Maybe I should've stayed inside… He thinks. He starts to turn to leave.

“You know… You guys are the nicest team I’ve worked with.” You say suddenly. Ghost pauses, and turns back to you. He sees you looking up at the night sky.

“...You’ve given us no reason to be rude.” He says, eyeing you. You turn and look back at him, a sad smile on your lips. 

“...Not everyone needs a reason…” You say, looking back up at the sky. Ghost stares at you for a moment, before looking at the sky as well. The moon is large and bright, stars sprayed across the inky black sky. You let out a sigh.

“Welp, I’m going back in.” You start to stagger past him. You stop right as you begin to open the door. You look him in the eyes and give him a genuine smile.

“It was nice talking to you, Ghost.” He just nods in response. You give him a small wave and enter the bar. The sounds of laughter and chatter echo outwards, before being muffled once more as the door closes.

Ghost stands there for a while longer, leaning against the brick wall. He’s impressed by you. You had the balls to talk about something he’s assuming was very hard for you. You just keep dishing out surprise after surprise. He glances to where you stood. He thinks about the sad smile you gave him. What did you mean by that? What happened to you? He shakes his head. It wasn’t any of his business.

He lets out a sigh, and looks back up at the moon. Soap suddenly bursts through the back door, half drunk.

“Oi! Simon! Get yer arse back in here! Gaz and Price are ‘bout to start singing us a song!” He yells, a stupid grin on his face.

Ghost huffs, a small smile tugging on his lips underneath the mask. He looks once more to where you stood.

“Coming.” He says. He walks back inside, the sounds of Gaz and Price’s drunken singing echoing out into the night air.

______________________________________________________________

Hello !!! This fic has been rotting my brain !!! Hope you're enjoying it!! Taglist is still open!! Ciao !!!

XOXOXOXOXO <3

taglist:

@sucka2me @deltottoro 

[dollyyun]

𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍𝒔 | chap 03

SYPNOSIS: wherein Hwang Stella's life is tangled in a predicament involving her clandestine identity as a racer, her seemingly daily life as the official heir to the Hwang Empire, and seven guys with whom she has a complex history with.

PAIRING: enhypen members x fem oc

GENRE: 18+ (mdni), reverse harem, chaebols, semi-college & racing, eventual adulthood, non-idol au. this fic is written in first pov.

WARNINGS: violence, drama, expletives, suggestive themes.

WORD COUNT: 8k+

TAGLIST: @aishigrey @kgneptun

🍒 MASTERLIST 🍒

Fuck me and my big mouth. I shouldn't be too boastful about wanting to prove Sunghoon wrong. As though he is able to read my mind, the devil himself is seated across from me with a smirk on his face that tempts me to punch. What is even more awful is the fact that Jay and Jake are involved as well.

I thought that the seven of them were having some friendship issues, but I guess they are all required to participate in this as if it's mandatory. Heeseung is seated next to me, and I'm able to feel a little bit at ease. Sunoo, Riki, and Jungwon are seated in between other party guests whom I recognise from our senior batch.

I watch as the activity unfolds. It's a typical truth or dare game, but I know enough that I have put myself at risk because this game either makes you cool or humiliates you. At one point in time, Heeseung discreetly held my hand and probably noticed the nervousness that was apparent on my face.

It feels like forever, but I'm thankful that the bottle has never pointed at me. Sunghoon reaches out for the bottle and spins it. As soon as it stops, my heart does as well. It's pointing at me.

"Well!" Sunghoon claps his hands while the smirk on his face widens. I just know he has a diabolical plan for me. "Hwang, truth, or dare?"

"Dare." Shit! I meant to say truth! "Wait!"

"Too late. I dare you to spend seven minutes in heaven with anyone in this room."

Fuck you, Park.

Is he mental? I'm not even comfortable doing anything with anyone here. Plus, how do I even choose? My eyes dart at each of the seven faces.

I don't want to make things awkward with Heeseung, as we've just recently formed a friendship. I don't see myself doing anything beyond skinship with Riki. Jungwon, well, it's a no-answer. Jay? I'm still avoiding him, and with the way he is looking at me with a dark, dangerous gaze, I know that he's more than pissed that I haven't returned any of his calls or texts. Jaeyun is my ex.

So that leaves Kim Sunoo. Though I don't have a good feeling about him, I know that he's a better option. Plus, I have a feeling that he doesn't like me.

Mustering the courage, I look directly into Sunoo's eyes while he seems to be taken aback by me. "I choose Sunoo."

I hear a chorus of 'oh' and a 'that was unexpected'. Even the other six guys look genuinely astounded by my pick.

Sunoo, however, recovers swiftly as he masks his surprise with a smirk. "I'm honoured to be chosen by the famous Hwang Stella."

"Hey! You can't choose him!" Sunghoon protests, but Sunoo is already walking towards me.

"Rules are rules, Hoon." Heeseung speaks up beside me, though I detect some dissatisfaction in his tone.

Sunoo towers over me before extending his hand towards me. "Shall we?"

I have no choice but to accept his hand. He feels cold, but it's his aura that's sending chills down my spine. He guided me towards one of the closets before allowing me to enter first.

As I do so, I let out a sigh of relief. The closet is spacious, so I don't have to stand anywhere near Sunoo. The light is dim, and there is a table in the centre of the closet, while the rest are filled with items on the shelves. I hear the door closing behind me before his footsteps begin to approach me.

"We don't have to do anything." I say without turning around. "I'm fine with us idling our time in this closet doing nothing."

"But rules are rules, darling." His whisper tickles my ear, causing me to jolt in surprise.

My heart begins to pound hard against my chest before I force myself to face him. My eyes widen at the sight of him. Compared to how I usually see him, he looks different, staring at me with eyes that are similar to a predator's.

"Sunoo." I murmur his name, the nervousness is evident in my voice as he slowly backs me up until my lower back hits the edge of the table.

"Just a kiss." Sunoo tilts my chin up with his finger, forcing me to look directly into his eyes. "Relax and close your eyes. I'll lead you."

I don't know why, but I feel compelled to listen to him, and so I do. My heart continues to pound hard as I feel him closing the gap between our faces. My breath hitch in my throat at the moment his lips brush faintly on mine, as though he's teasing me. I await the kiss.

Waiting....Waiting.....but nothing happened.

Instead, I hear Sunoo chuckle breathily, but it's the wicked kind. "I know who you really are. You might've fooled the other guys, but I already knew who you were at first glance."

I snap my eyes open, not liking his sudden change of attitude. "I have no idea what you're going on about."

Sunoo leans away from me and takes a step back. "Are you really going to continue putting up this act?" He asks, feigning disappointment.

I glare at him. "I don't see how it's in any of your businesses. We're not even friends, and I don't like you."

Sunoo simply smirks, one hand inside his pocket. "I didn't want to dislike you, but after I overheard your conversation with Jungwon, I've come to dislike you."

"You don't even know the whole story."

"But I know enough that you've hurt my best friend." His smirk drops, and he is now looking at me with disdain. "Jungwon's already having a tough time. He doesn't need you to add to his difficulty."

"You know nothing!" I am seething with anger. "You weren't in my shoes, so you have no right to tell me off!"

"Lower your voice." Sunoo hisses. "We don't want them to hear that we're arguing instead of making out."

"You know what? Screw this and screw you." I attempt to make my way around him, but he grips my wrist, preventing me from going towards the door. "Let go of me, jerk─"

I accidentally trip over something, causing me to sit down on the table. I glance up just to see Sunoo's face closer than ever while he has me caged in between his arms.

"You're a racer, a skilled one at that, but you're clumsy." Sunoo murmurs.

My breaths become heavy, hating the proximity between us. "You should go away."

"I should." He says, unmoving. He leans closer, appearing to be smelling near my neck. "You smell so good."

"Uh, thanks?" I grow bewildered. "Sunoo─"

I gasp softly at the moment his lips come into contact with the skin of my neck. "S-Sunoo, I thought you didn't like me."

"True, but we're still playing the game." He murmurs, trailing his kisses down tantalisingly slowly, until his lips touch my collarbone. I haven't realised that my denim jacket is loose, displaying my bare shoulder. "And rules are still rules."

I should resist him. I should fight against his kisses, but I find myself growing weaker by the second. My hand finds its way to grip his arm, feeling the muscle beneath the material of his jacket flexing as he moves his hand to slide around my waist.

"Fuck," Sunoo cusses lowly, briefly pulling away from my neck. I flutter my eyes at him, noticing how he seems to be breathing heavily while the intensity of his gaze ignites something in me. "We should stop."

"We really should." I say breathlessly, but his arm still remains around my waist while our bodies are touching.

His gaze drops to my lips, and we find ourselves leaning forward, but before our lips can meet, the door swings open. Sunoo is swift enough to move away from me and pretend as if nothing happened, while I am left flustered by what the fuck just happened.

"So? How was it?" Sunghoon asks, being annoyingly nosy.

"Nothing happened." Sunoo answers him bristly, adjusting his jacket before he exits the closet.

I quickly compose myself and walk out, but not before bumping into Sunghoon's shoulder purposefully. I feel some of their gazes on me, but my eyes only fall to Heeseung's. I need to tell him about Sunoo.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Thankfully, the game ended right after my dare. As soon as the people in the room begin to disperse, I spot Jay approaching me from my peripheral vision, but I quickly grab Heeseung's hand and drag him with me as we exit the room.

"I know you're eager to head to the dance floor with me, but slow down, sweetheart." Heeseung's whimsical remark doesn't even sway me, as all I can think about is the fact that Sunoo knows my identity as a racer.

"I need to speak with you. It's important─" But his previous remark is starting to register in my head, causing my eyes to widen as I stare at him dumbfounded. "Dance floor?"

In return, Heeseung grins before he's the one who is pulling me, dragging me towards the dance floor on the first level. Even as I try to protest, it's in vain, all thanks to the chattering around us and the rhythmic music that has most people dancing away.

"Heeseung─" I let out a yelp as soon as he twirls me before he pulls me towards him, causing my head to nearly hit him in the neck. I look up at him in bafflement. "I can't dance!"

"Don't worry! You're lucky to have a good partner like me!" He says, giving me a boyish grin that flutters my heart unknowingly. "Just loosen yourself up and dance away to the song!"

"I'll look silly!" I scowl. "You look silly!"

"It's a party, sweetheart!" He dances as though he's an expert. "I promise no one is going to judge you. Just look at the rest of them! They look even more silly than us!"

He's right. I find myself chuckling and decide to heed his instructions. Soon, the issue that I had been wanting to talk to Heeseung about is forgotten, and all that matters is that I finally find enjoyment in dancing silly.

I laugh as Heeseung dances even funnier on purpose. He takes a hold of my hand and twirls me around again before pulling me towards him. This is the first time since forever that I have laughed like that.

"Tired already?" Heeseung asks as my laughter slowly dies. Just then, the music changes from a vibrant one to a slow, romantic one.

I bite my lower lip in awkwardness. "Should we leave??" I ask, noticing the number of people dancing with their partners closely. This feels intimate.

Instead of responding to my question, Heeseung places both hands on my waist, and the palpitations return to my heart. "Put your hands on my shoulders."

I hesitate, but Heeseung's eyes give me assurance, and so I place my hands on his broad shoulders. I don't know how I do it, but I follow Heeseung. Oddly, I feel secured and at ease just by being in his arms. It almost feels like I finally trust him.

I flutter my eyes to look at him, ignoring how intimate his gaze alone feels. "Heeseung, there's something I need to tell you."

"What is it?" He frowns as soon as he notices the distress on my face.

"Earlier, something happened in the closet." I pause, feeling the way his hands tighten on my waist, but I brush it off. "Sunoo knows who I am. I don't know how, but he knows I'm a racer." I drop my voice to a whisper.

"Shit." Heeseung's frown deepens. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"What can I even do?" I sigh deeply, and without realising it, my hands make their way around his neck. "Though he didn't exactly threaten me, I feel unnerved. I don't trust him."

Heeseung looks troubled. "I understand, but Sunoo's my friend, and I trust him. I'm positive he won't do anything to put your reputation at risk."

However, my gut doesn't agree. "But─"

"Jay." Heeseung greets him bristly as he looks behind me. The mention of his name alone is enough to cause panic within me, but I know it's too late as I feel his presence behind me.

"You two look rather cosy with each other." Jay remarks snidely. "Hwang Stella, I believe it's long overdue that you owe me an explanation."

I refuse to look at him and instead move closer to Heeseung. "I don't owe you anything."

"You practically ghosted me." Jay's voice struggles to remain calm, but I do detect how hurtful he sounds. "You're coming with me."

Heeseung tightens his arms around me in a protective stance. "You heard the lady. She doesn't owe you anything. Leave, Jay."

"Stay away from this, Heeseung." Jay warns, and I'm afraid of the possibility of a fight breaking out. "You ought to be wary of her. Who knows, she'd ghost you after sleeping around with you."

I don't even have a say in anything, and before I can blink, Heeseung changes our position with him standing in front of me, shielding me from Jay's view.

"What did you say?" The sound of Heeseung's icy tone brings goosebumps to my skin.

"Isn't it obvious? We've been fucking around, Heeseung." Jay's voice is laced with malicious intent. "Whatever relationship you have with her, you better end it. She belongs to me."

It all happens too fast, because the next thing I know, Heeseung lands a punch on his cheek. The people in our vicinity stop whatever they're doing while the music slowly dies out. Now, all attention is on the two men.

"Watch how you speak of her, Park Jongseong." Heeseung speaks venomously. "She's not a fucking object."

In retaliation, Jay shoves Heeseung, but the latter is quick to stabilise himself. "You don't know anything about us! What's it to you even?!"

Heeseung grabs the collar of Jay's shirt. "She's my friend, you asshole."

"Guys, enough." My attempt to stop them is feeble, but most importantly, I am conscious of how some of the people are glancing my way.

A sarcastic chuckle leaves Jay's lips. "Friends who fuck as well? Welcome to the club, Heeseung!"

Alas, the brawl breaks out between them, with both men unrelentingly delivering punches and shoves. The crowd begins to disperse, being seen leaving the villa in a rush.

"Guys!" Ni-Ki, Jungwon, and Aera come running into the unpleasant scene. There's blood from both men, but it's as if all they're seeing is red as neither of them relent.

"What the fuck is going on?" Sunghoon, looking pissed off as ever, comes through the entrance with Jake behind him. Sunoo is the last one to arrive at the scene.

Upon witnessing such a bloody sight, my body is trembling while my heart beats fast, and I hear my pulse drumming loudly in my ears. Flashbacks come back to me as though I'm reliving all the horrible memories. A whimper leaves my lips as I stagger back.

"Stop it!" Aera attempts to pull Heeseung, who is hovering on top of Jay. Her attempt is futile as Heeseung is stronger than he looks, and so Ni-Ki and Sunoo pull Heeseung away after some difficulty. Jay gets back on his feet, wiping the blood that is dripping on his chin with the back of his hand. He attempts to attack Heeseung again, but Jungwon and Jake hold him back.

Amidst the insults and yells, Sunghoon steps in between them and lets out the loudest sigh as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "What the fuck is wrong with the two of you?! Seriously? Brawling in my home?!"

Jay spits out the blood to the side, and his lips form into a sneer. "Ask him!"

Heeseung shakes away Ni-Ki and Sunoo's grips roughly, but Aera comes forward to touch his arm. "Ask me?" Heeseung let out a laugh of disbelief. "You're the one who's wrong! You're fucked up in the head! I'm not like you! I don't fuck around with someone whom I regard as a friend!"

"Hold up." Jake steps in, sighing deeply before looking between the two men. "Can you guys provide a clearer explanation?"

"Oh? You didn't know, Jake?" Heeseung asks mockingly. "According to Jay, he's been fucking around with your ex. Some best friend he is, huh?"

All the shouting, the insults, the brawl—it's too much. The sight of violence triggers me more than I expected. I crouch down and cover my ears like I used to when I was young while hiding from my abusers. I'm overwhelmed by these emotions.

I still hear shouting, but soon, footsteps rush towards me. "Stella? Hey, what's wrong?"

"Make it stop, please. No more fights." I plead with a whimper, looking up at Aera with tears collecting in my eyes. I flinch visibly as I hear another shouting again.

"Brother! Stop it!" Aera calls out while holding me close to her before helping me to rise. "You too, Jay! Stop this nonsense!"

My eyes go blurry with each blink as tears continue to fill the rims. Finally, I'm able to make out their faces, and the first thing I notice is Heeseung approaching me with concern apparent on his face. "Stella,"

I flinch and cower from him, recalling how violent he was—a side of him I didn't expect. His knuckles are bruised and wounded, with some blood staining on the skin. He looks rumpled. The same goes for Jay.

"What happened?" Ni-Ki jogs towards us, worry is evident in his voice.

"Alright, time's out!" Sunghoon announces as he claps his hands together. "No partying at Sunghoon's until further notice!"

"Stella, you look pale." Ni-Ki frowns, holding my shoulders as he examines me.

"She's trembling." Aera points out worriedly before bringing me with her. "Sunghoon! We'll borrow one of your rooms!"

Without hearing any response, Aera and Ni-Ki assist me to the second floor while I'm still reeling over the same nightmare in my mind.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

I sit on the bed in complete silence while Aera is washing her hands in the bathroom. Riki left to help Sunghoon clean up the mess after assisting me with Aera. I look down; my hands are holding the glass of water.

I hate what happened. Not only because of the brawl, but because I couldn't stay strong. Instead, I've embarrassed myself and allowed my vulnerability to be displayed, all because I've been triggered by those nightmares I thought I had under bay.

I hear footsteps, but I don't bother to look up as I place the glass on the nightstand. Aera sighs, taking a seat next to him and treading carefully with her words. "Feeling better now?"

"Yeah," I whisper.

Aera grabs my hand and gently holds it. "What happened back there?"

I shake my head. "It's nothing. I was just overreacting."

A scoff leaves her lips. "I hate to break it to you, but I recognise a panic attack when I see one."

I remain silent as I bite my lower lip. When Aera lifts my chin with her fingers and locks eyes with me, the waterworks return. Aera looks genuinely concerned and saddened.

"Oh, my sweet girl." She pulls me into her embrace—her warm embrace that reminds me of Heeseung. "What happened to you?" She murmurs sadly as I weep into her.

It's funny how I promised myself that I would never open up to anyone again. But here I am, showing my vulnerability to her and ugly crying.

"Horrible things." I sob, hugging her tighter, desperate to find any comfort. "The bloody sight of them triggered me. I'm sorry. I couldn't help it."

"Don't ever apologise." Aera tells me firmly. "You don't have to be strong with me all the time. It's okay to have some weak moments. You're a human too, Stella."

I don't reply, and instead, I allow my tears to flow freely until they run out. Aera waits patiently for me to calm down before I slowly pull away from her embrace. I sniffle, wiping the tears from my cheeks.

Aera brushes away the hair that sticks to my damp cheeks. "I'm always here for you whenever you need me."

"Thank you, Aera." I whisper brokenly, feeling extremely touched by having a genuine friend like her.

Aera seems to be glancing at the door. "I think a certain someone would like to see you."

As I turn my head, I see Heeseung, now looking less rumpled compared to earlier. He looks guilty, apologetic. He enters the room, but with caution. Aera squeezes my shoulder before she decides to give us some privacy.

Heeseung carefully sits next to me, and he goes silent for a moment before speaking up. "I'm sorry, Stella."

"You don't have to apologise." I tell him. "It wasn't your fault."

"But it was." Heeseung insists as I finally look at him. His eyes soften as they scan my face. "I feel terrible that I triggered you with the violence you saw. I'm truly sorry."

"It's really fine." My turn to insist. I grab his hand without hesitation, looking at him firmly in the eyes. "I'm grateful to you. You didn't have to defend me, because," I pause, looking down as I feel shameful. "Whatever Jay said earlier was true. He and I were friends with benefits until I decided to ghost him."

"Hey, you don't have to feel shameful." Heeseung gently tilts my chin. "I'm not going to judge you, and I wasn't going to. I'm sure you had your reasons. We're humans, Stella. We all do things that we either regret or are grateful for."

My lips quiver. "I feel grateful to you, Hee."

"As do I, sweetheart. Thank you for being my friend." Heeseung adorns a soft smile, grabbing my hand and raising it to his lips before he plants a gentle kiss on my knuckles. "I meant what I said. I'll always protect you and defend you in your honour."

Once again, my heart flutters, but this time, butterflies awaken in my tummy as well.

For as long as I've known Stella, I have never seen her as utterly vulnerable until last week at Sunghoon's party. Most of all, I was extremely worried and still am. The way she broke down, how her body was visibly trembling and going flinching, did something to me. Now I'm beginning to believe that there is indeed something off about the Hwangs.

When I was seven, my parents started to bring me over to the Hwang residency, hence my first encounter with Stella. Even though she's a year older than me, she was taller than I expected, making me feel intimidated by her. Being a silly, petty kid, I refused to talk to her, and even my parents tried convincing me to make friends with her.

Honestly, I didn't hate her, though I was always evidently cold and reticent towards her. Not only was I intimidated by her height, but I was also mousy because I couldn't stare at her face any longer or I'd break out a blush. I didn't want her to find out that I did find her pretty. Eventually, with much persuasion and her annoying teasing, she got me to open up to her.

Then there was her older brother, whom I was closer to. I can vividly recall a certain memory in which I caught ugly bruises on her older brother, though he attempted to hide them from me as well as from Stella. When I inquired, he only provided an excuse that my naive self believed in.

As soon as I reached thirteen, my parents stopped coming over to their place. I was saddened and pleaded with them because I wanted to confess to Stella my true feelings, but my parents only told me that getting involved with the Hwangs would be unwise as they're not a good bunch.

I mean, I did agree with my parents, because there was something off about Stella's parents. Though they did show hospitality towards me, I felt uncomfortable. But the more I came over, the more I've seen the facade they put me in front of me and my parents crumble. It turned out that they were cold and harsh towards Stella, and sometimes her older brother too, whenever they spoke. I wasn't meant to witness the truth, but I accidentally stumbled upon it. From that point, I knew that I didn't like Hwang Minhyuk and Hwang Jihyun.

I heave a deep sigh, rubbing my face. If my assumption is correct, which I firmly believe it is, then Stella must've been miserable and unsafe in her own home throughout these years. Then the news of her older brother spread like wildfire. I was crushed when I found out the older brother figure I wish I had was officially disowned, and no longer he's in Seoul.

I feel like an absolute shit. If I had approached her at the moment I saw her on campus after a long time, would she feel less alone? Would she even accept my confession, even though I'm not oblivious to the fact that she saw me as a little brother?

"Ni-Ki." Jungwon's voice pulls me back to reality. He extends his hand towards me, offering me an energy drink, which I accept with thanks. He sits next to me, and I feel his gaze settle on my probably troubled face. "What got you thinking so deeply?"

"It's nothing important." I assure him, giving him a small smile. "I was just reminded of the other night at Sunghoon's. He was more enraged that his party had been ruined and that he had to drag me to clean up the mess."

"Ah, that." Jungwon appears to be nonchalant, but after knowing him for three years, I can discern how bothered he is as well. "Jay and Jake haven't been talking."

Not surprised. "Heeseung didn't reply to any of our texts." My fingers run through my hair. "He's also been avoiding us."

The good thing about Jungwon, Sunoo, and I being on the best terms is that we can exchange information or anything regarding the other guys with each other.

I glance at him again, noticing he seems to be spacing out. I bite my lip as I've been trying to hold back from something, but I eventually cave in. "About Jay and Stella, did you know?"

Jungwon goes silent for a moment before shaking his head. "No. I don't think anyone knew about them."

"Right. They kept it lowkey." I chuckle dryly. "How are you feeling?"

This time, Jungwon turns his head to meet my eyes. He raises his eyebrow at me. "Why are you asking me about how I'm feeling?"

"Isn't it obvious?" I scoff lightly. "She's your first love. To find out that your first love and your best friend, whom you regarded as a brother, were sneaking around together in secrecy, I'm sure your heart must've hurt."

Jungwon merely smirks, but there is a hint of dejection reflecting in his eye. "What about you? She's your first love, too. Aren't you upset?"

You might be wondering why we're being so casual about discussing a girl who happens to be our first love and why there is no animosity between us. It wasn't until months ago that I caught Jungwon staring at Stella with such longing, a longing I was too familiar with. So I confronted him, and it turned out he was her childhood best friend. He only provided me with answers that were enough for me to understand that someone had sabotaged their friendship. From there, I too unravelled the truth about my history with Stella.

Jungwon and I decided to come to a mutual agreement that if there was any involvement with Stella, we would never fight each other. It isn't worth risking our friendship and fighting over the same girl we love.

I stretch my limbs. "They're both grown adults. They have needs just like any other humans. Besides, I don't have the right to be upset."

Jungwon groans annoyedly. "Now you're making me look like a bad guy."

I give him a smirk. "So you did get upset."

"I can't help it. I still love her." Jungwon admits, but I'm not too surprised by that. "But Jay's my best brother, so I feel conflicted about all of this."

"Hey, it's fine. Your feelings are valid." I pat his shoulder firmly. "You know, it's great that you still care about her and that you still harbour feelings for her."

Jungwon looks at me expectantly. "I sense there's a but."

The smirk returns to my lips. "But may the best man win." I grab my bottle, as well as my bag pack, and hoist it on my shoulder before leaving the table.

"Hey! What do you mean by that?!" Jungwon calls out to me before I hear his footsteps rushing behind me.

I look back with a shit-eating grin. "Oh, you know, winning over her heart. The last one to finish five laps forfeits!" 

It wasn't meant to be serious. I love to challenge Jungwon because he never fails to keep up with the momentum. But Jungwon gasps in disbelief, falling for my bluff, before chasing after me. "Ni-Ki! Come back here!"

I laugh out loud as I run away from him. "See you at the arena!"

However, the thought never leaves me─even if Stella reciprocated either of our feelings, would Jungwon and I still be really on the best terms?

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

"It looks like it's just us." I announce, strapping my boot before getting up from the bench. My eyes dart between Jungwon and Sunoo, who are wearing their suits, which are in shades of black and red.

Earlier, Jungwon and I sent texts to the others, but only Sunoo managed to come. From what Jungwon informed me, Jay's relatives are visiting, and Jake has been stolen by Rena to go for dinner. Sunghoon is dealing with some business affairs with his mother, while Heeseung is not in the mood.

Well, the lesser the quantity, the less drama we have to deal with.

This time, instead of our motorsport cars, we'll be racing each other with our motorbikes. Jungwon and Sunoo have the same model that they bought together, which is the Ducati Panigale V2, but Jungwon's is red and Sunoo's is white. On the other hand, I have my sleek green Kawasaki Ninja ZX-10R. It has served me exceptionally well for three years.

"So five laps?" Sunoo asks, smirking lightly as he puts on his gloves. "What's the forfeit for the last one to finish?"

"We haven't thought about it." Jungwon tells him. When we reached here, I finally told Jungwon that I wasn't serious about what I said earlier. The relief that was on his face caused me such amusement.

"Hold on." Jungwon murmurs, his eyes seeming to be watching ahead. "It looks like we have company."

I turn to look, and I raise my eyebrow as I watch the biker approach the station that is two stations away from ours. The biker is obviously a lady, jading by her physique. Her bike is a white BMW S 1000 RR model. Wait a minute, I recognise that station. Uncle Junho did inform us about that station, belonging to the recent newbie. The mysterious girl. Though she is not a permanent crew member like us, Junho seems to care a great deal about her.

"Why is she here out of all the days?" Sunoo, however, appears a tad annoyed for some reason. I mean, I get that since it's only the three of us tonight, we could have the tracks all to ourselves. But Sunoo looks like he has some grudges against the girl. Probably because she won against him the first time she came here.

"Be nice, Sunoo." I give him a knowing look. "Just because she beat your ass the first time doesn't mean you have to be petty towards her. Remember that we're known for our good sportsmanship."

Sunoo let out a snort, rolling his eyes. "It's not only because of that, but I know who she is."

Intrigued, I give Sunoo my full attention. "How the heck did you find out so fast? I know that stalking is your expertise, but it's only been a week! Geez, she really did get on your nerves, huh?"

"You know her too, Ni-Ki." Sunoo scoffs. "She's─"

"That's enough." Jungwon's voice cuts through the air like a knife. I glance at him, noticing the tension in his countenance. "Junho said she wanted her identity confidential for a reason. We should respect that decision."

"Thankfully, I don't really care." Sunoo grabs his helmet before making his way towards his bike. "I'm about to prove you two her identity."

Uneasiness gnaws at my tummy. "Sunoo, don't do anything reckless." He's older than I am, yet I feel like it's the opposite.

Sunoo ignores my warning as he starts to call out for the girl, who appears to be checking for her bike with her helmet on. "Hey! Newbie!" She lifts her head up and looks at where Sunoo is. "Let's race!"

"I don't have a good feeling about this." Jungwon murmurs to me worriedly as we watch Sunoo mount his bike.

I cross my arms over my chest, and a frown tugs at the corner of my lips. "Tell me about it."

"No, Ni-KI, you don't get it." The emotion in Jungwon's eyes is enough to alarm me. "You know Sunoo, and he'd do anything to prove his point, even though he might hurt them in the process. He's a sly fox who plays dirty."

Despite my guts twisting in knots, I give him an assurance pat on the shoulder. "You don't have to worry too much─"

"Sunoo's right." A muscle ticks in Jungwon's jaw. "We know her."

At this, I eye him suspiciously. "You mean you know her as well as Sunoo does?"

Jungwon sighs deeply and ruffles his hair in frustration. "I would explain to you if it weren't for the fact that it would jeopardise her position."

"Just tell me, Jungwon." I grit my teeth, annoyed. "What are you hiding?"

Instead of hearing him answer my question, we hear blaring sounds coming from two vehicles, compelling our heads to turn to watch as the race has already unfolds.

"Sunoo's my best friend, and I trust him, but I don't trust him not to do anything stupid that involves hurting her." Jungwon says tersely.

"Why do you seem to care a great deal about her?" I finally ask as frustration laces my tone.

In return, Jungwon smiles weakly at me. "You know me better than anyone that I don't care about any other girls except for one."

His answer is beginning to register in my head, and I feel my jaw go unhinging, genuinely astounded by the revelation.

Earlier, I had hoped that I wouldn't be seeing any of their faces. The only reason I've decided to come here with my BMW baby is to clear the clouds in my head. Most importantly, I needed to get the hell out of the mansion. I couldn't stand breathing the same air as Minhyuk, especially after what happened last night. Apparently, I wasn't myself and presented my work with such incompetence, according to him. I had to face the consequences.

Now, my mood has been dampened, especially as we're currently tied. I'm not dumb enough to realise that Sunoo had a hidden motive when he initiated the race. With the way he gazed at me dangerously, I knew that I had to be prepared for whatever he intended to execute.

If my body didn't ache that much, I could've given my best to win against Sunoo. Still, I refuse to lose to him after his clear disdain for me.

Approaching a left bend, I begin to lower my body, despite my body ache still evident and screaming at me as I drift. I return to the original position before taking a glance at the rearview mirror. My eyebrows furrow as confusion clouds my head. Where the hell is Sunoo?

As if on cue, Sunoo zooms past me in a blur, almost clashing his bike against mine, as though he does it on purpose. My heart palpitates while I feel my chest tighten, and my breaths start to heave heavily. I grip tightly on the clutches, forcing myself not to lose focus.

But when you're racing with your bike, you can never be swayed or distracted, not even for a second. So when I start to lose the correct position to drive a bike, my BMW starts to sway as the wheel abruptly changes direction.

"Fuck!" I attempt to gain control of my bike, but my body is weaker than expected, so I lose control of the momentum.

But I'm swift enough to avoid crashing into the wall as I forcefully throw my body away from my bike. Pain spikes throughout my whole body as I fall and roll on the ground due to how fast I throw myself. I feel paralysed for a moment as I lie on the track.

Fortunately, I don't feel any broken bones, thanks to the safety pads that are thick enough to withstand the pressure. But still, my whole body is spiking with pain. Needing to inhale fresh air, I slide up the visor of my helmet, and my chest heaves up and down heavily.

If I hadn't thrown myself, I would've crashed into the wall. I wanted to blame Sunoo, but I know that it's on my part as well since I allowed myself to lose focus and momentum. I close my eyes. What the hell is wrong with me?

"I didn't intend for her to get hurt!" I hear footsteps rushing for me while Ni-Ki and Sunoo are arguing in the background.

"Stella?!" Jungwon's frantic voice speaks above me before I feel him grab both my shoulders in an attempt to raise my upper body.

"Ouch!" I wince at the abrupt movement as I snap my eyes open. I am taken aback by how he looks genuinely terrified and on the verge of tears. It is as if he fears losing me. I can't help but to soften my eyes.

"Sorry." Jungwon apologises, but he gently assists me in raising my upper body. He looks at me, his eyes shine with tears, but he blinks them away. "I thought you weren't going to wake up."

I flinch, being taken aback once more when his voice cracks with emotion. "I'm fine. But," I pause as my eyes shift to Ni-Ki and Sunoo approaching me. I return my gaze to Jungwon, my hand holding his without hesitation. "Jungwon─"

"They know." As if he can read my mind, his answer causes my eyes to widen. "At least Sunoo does. Ni-Ki wants to see you for himself."

Just when I thought that this couldn't get any more complicated. A grunt leaves my lips as Jungwon assists me to rise from the ground, with my arms slinging around his neck while his arm is around my waist.

Jungwon shifts his gaze to Sunoo as we stand in front of them. His cat-like eyes look fiercer than usual. "You and I will have a talk about this." Jungwon says icily.

Sunoo, on the other hand, doesn't deter from his iciness. "Look, I didn't mean to cause an accident."

"Well, you did. Fortunately, I don't have any broken bones." This time, I speak with such firmness while my eyes are trained on his face. Deciding to remove my helmet, I hold it in my grasp. I can feel Ni-Ki's gaze on my face, but I don't dare to look at him.

I grit my teeth. "I don't know what your problem is with me, but that wasn't cool. You're lucky I won't need to sue your ass."

Much to my surprise, Sunoo apologises, but his glare never falters. "I'm sorry, okay? I didn't intend for you to be caught off guard like that."

As much as I would like to stay mad, I can't. It's partially my fault as well. I heave a sigh but wince lightly when I feel the bruise near my rib that is still fresh from last night.

"Enough arguing." Ni-Ki orders in his deep voice, which suddenly feels intimidating, as does the way he gazes at me as he steps forward. "Bring Stella to the medical bay. Have her checked by a nurse."

"I'm fine, Riki." I protest, but earn a stern look from him.

"That's an order." He proceeds to walk away from me, while Sunoo seems to be contemplating before opting to follow Ni-Ki. 

As Jungwon guides me all the way to the medical area, my thoughts are consumed by the realisation that four of the three of them have discovered my identity.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

I sit on the edge of the bed in silence. The nurse did a thorough check on me, and she was appalled to see the bruises on some parts of my body, but thankfully she didn't ask any questions about it. As the door is ajar, my ears perk up upon hearing the conversation they are having.

"Thankfully, there are no serious injuries, but there are bruises on her body that aren't from the prior incident─"

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose as I look up. Just great. With the exception of Sunoo, Jungwon and Riki are most likely going to ask questions about my bruises.

As soon as I hear their footsteps, I quickly compose myself and attempt to make myself look busy as I fiddle with the hem of my jacket.

"Stella." Riki calls for me, prompting me to look at them. The three guys are positioned in a semicircle in front of me. "About your bike, it has some scratches and needs some reparation, but don't worry because we'll compensate for it."

I chew the inside of my cheek. My precious bike.

I catch the way they exchange glances between themselves, and so I speak up with my eyebrow arched. "What is it?"

"The nurse informed us about the bruises on your body." Jungwon's voice sounds grave. "She also pointed out that they don't seem as fresh."

"You didn't get them from the prior incident, right?" Sunoo takes me by surprise since I assumed he wouldn't speak to me.

I refuse to look at them as my eyes stay fixed on my shoes. "Can I go now?" My voice sounds quiet.

"Stella, you have to tell us." Riki sighs, and I can detect the frustration in his tone.

"Who gave you those bruises?" Sunoo asks, his tone sounds as serious as the other two.

"No one." I reply curtly. "I have low iron. That's why I get bruises easily." That's a total lie.

"You don't have low iron." Jungwon notes, causing me to roll my eyes, though I'm a tad surprised that he knows.

I finally look up, but my face remains blank. "I can assure you that the bruises I've gotten are not in any of your businesses. So please drop this. I'm tired, and I would like to leave this place." I say vehemently.

Riki sighs. "But Stella─"

"It's nothing, Riki." I struggle to maintain my composure, but I force myself to give him a smile. "I don't know how I got these bruises, but I promise that no one hurt me. Now can I please leave?"

"How are you going to get home?" Sunoo asks, raising an eyebrow at me.

It's bad enough that they already know who I am, so I can't let them know about my secret hideout.

"Actually, I plan to head to Aera's apartment." As I carefully stand, my knees instantly fail me. Before I can fall forward, Jungwon steps forward and holds me steady with his hands gripping my arms. The close proximity between us causes my heart to pound hard.

"You okay?" Jungwon murmurs lowly, his gaze drops to my widening eyes.

I visibly gulp before I nod my head. When he releases me, my heart rate returns to normal.

Upon hearing Aera's name, Sunoo's poker face morphs into a beaming smile that reminds me of sunshine, and I find myself staring at him in awe. But I quickly mask it with a blank look.

"I'll give you a ride." Sunoo offers while I look at him in surprise. "You can consider this as part of my compensation."

"We'll go as well." Both Jungwon and Riki say simultaneously.

I hold back a sigh. I guess our girls' time will have to wait another day.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Since the incident at Sunghoon's party last week, Aera and I have gotten closer. We often text and facetime at night as we have different schedules, so we couldn't meet each other on campus. Though she would be the one to blabber and yap some stuff, even random ones, I listened and gave my opinion whenever she asked.

Though I am already comfortable with her, I have yet to tell her about the racer. Which is why I'm currently being reprimanded by her as I sit on top of the stool, savouring the sweet taste of strawberries coated with chocolate. Just before this, she had berated Sunoo after Jungwon and Riki informed her of what happened.

Aera resides in a studio apartment that looks cosy. There are some ornaments that complement the aesthetic of her apartment. Even though she has minimal furniture, that doesn't take away the homey vibes it has. I like it here.

"I don't want to sound like I'm being a controlling, judgy bitch, but why would you even choose racing as your hobby?" Aera asks exasperatedly while the guys enter the dining area. As I'm seated on the stool on the kitchen island, Riki stands in front of me, stealing a strawberry that I was about to take. In return, I give him a scowl, but he simply winks at me.

"Hey!" Aera snaps her fingers near my face. "I'm still here! Hello?"

"I agree with Aera." Sunoo speaks up, standing near a frowning Aera. "What made you decide to pursue racing as your hobby?"

With all of their eyes on me, I feel pressured and reluctantly give them an answer that is not exactly the truth but not a lie either. "It's because of my uncle. He used to watch racing content with me, and he was a huge fan of motorsports. Hence, I became interested as well."

They seem to buy my answer, but Jungwon has this look in his eyes, as if he can see straight through me.

"As we are on this topic, I need you all to keep this a secret." I sigh. "There's a reason why I didn't want anyone to find out. I'm the official heir, and to my family, racing is preposterous and unacceptable."

"So quit." Sunoo states bluntly, bringing a frown to my face. "Isn't it easier to quit than to risk what you've worked for by becoming the official heir?"

He has a point, but I shake my head. "I can't quit. I've invested too much in racing. Besides," Nostalgia burns the back of my eyes. "Racing is not just a hobby. It's something I hold close to my heart."

"I understand you." Riki places his hand on top of mine, bringing me to look at him. "Your passion for racing is no different than ours."

"He's right." Jungwon nods his head firmly with his arms folded over his chest. "We assure you, Stella, that your secret is safe with us."

Aera heaves a sigh. "As much as I hate that you're into a dangerous sport, I promise to keep your secret safe."

"Sunoo?" Riki asks, looking at him expectantly.

I can't seem to read Sunoo. He's unpredictable, so I must prepare. "What's in it for me?"

"Pardon?" I blink my eyes, taken aback by him while he merely smirks at me.

"I mean, we aren't even friends, so why should I help you by keeping your secret?"

"Sunoo, for fuck's sake," Riki pinches the bridge of his nose.

"If that's how you want to play, then fine." I say calmly before looking at him dead in the eyes. "I'm willing to do whatever you ask me to, as long as you keep my secret."

Interest sparks in his eyes while his smirk widens. "Anything?"

I feel a turmoil of mixed emotions, uncertain if this is right. "I can give you money, if that's what you want."

"Money is never an issue for me, darling." He states in an obvious note. "It's settled, then. Whatever I need you to do, I'll call for you."

"Sunoo." Jungwon seems dissatisfied, but Sunoo waves him in a dismissal.

"I'm not going to ask her to do something deplorable. I'm not that kind of person."

"So," Aera returns to her bubbly self, sitting next to me and looking at me eagerly. "When are you going to give me a ride in one of your motorsport vehicles?"

I look at her in bewilderment. "But you reprimanded and disapproved of racing."

"I know." Aera grins. "But hey, we only live once, right?"

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[episodeoftv]

Round 1 of 8, Group 1 of 8

propaganda and summaries are under the cut (May include spoilers)

Doctor Who (2005): 5.10 Vincent and the Doctor

Tw: is about Vincent Van Gough so does deal with self harm, depression, and suicide (but not graphically, just this is what happened in his life and they acknowledge it)

The Doctor and Amy travel back in time to meet Vincent Van Gogh and face an invisible monster that only the painter can see.

Not the showiest or even the best episode of Dr Who, but the one that I can’t watch without tearing up at the end. Really well written and performed and generally gorgeous to watch as well. I first saw it when I was ten and the speech at the end has imprinted on my brain and given me a language to help understand the ups and downs that life brings. It’s just a lovely one.

Futurama: 5.16 The Devil’s Hands Are Idle Playthings

Fry makes a deal with the Robot Devil so he can get robot hands to play the holophoner and impress Leela. In a twist of fate, Fry trades hands with the Robot Devil and writes a masterpiece opera about Leela. However, the Robot Devil has evil plans of his own.

[astarionsilverbough]

The Unfamiliarity of Longing

And the absolutely infuriating inability to escape it. No matter what he does, the taste of it lingers in the back of his throat like bile.

This was not part of the plan. This was never supposed to be part of any plan!

After living for so long going entirely unmoved by each and every bloody, blasted, damnable soul he came across, he was certain that something like this was never going to be a problem he would be forced to deal with.

He’s heard all about the symptoms of longing, of yearning - always secondhand, and always from the mouths of mortal fools who live and die in the blink of an eye. Oh, but the mortals write sonnets upon sonnets about them; the ache in your chest when you’re apart, the restlessness, the constant writhing in your belly whenever you know they’re about to be near…

Awful. It always sounded more like an illness than anything else.

He can now confirm it does indeed feel like it, too.

It is a sickness, a curse. There is no cure but abandonment - and he’s come too far to turn back now.

But it isn’t the same.

It will never be the same again, because he has been changed by this - this lovesickness.

So changed that he finds himself haunting the places where Gale Dekarios lives every now and then. So changed, so diseased he is, he finds himself picking his way through the wizard’s tent whilst he bathes in the river nearby. He wishes he could blame it on the idle curiosity of a patron for his vassal - but Dekarios is not his vassal, and he is no patron.

No deal has been struck. Only an agreement.

There is no excuse. There is no burning brand in the shape of his horns on Gale Dekarios’ soul.

So there is no reason for him to be picking through the wizard’s impressive, magicked tent. But here he is, eyeing the books spread out on the modest table in the center of the room and the rumpled bedsheets on the not-so-modest king sized bed.

It feels like Dekarios in here. His presence is… a balm.

(He could write tomes describing it, but he fears he has a distinct lack of vocabulary to do the job properly. In any language.)

His things are strewn about. Raphael spies an old locket on the nightstand - one of his offerings to appease the orb. Halting at the end of the bed, the cambion finds himself faced with a discarded tunic. It’s the wizard’s customary shade of royal purple and looks well-worn, the cuffs and hem a little threadbare.

Idle fingertips light on the intricate embroidery at the collar. The Devil traces the knots, following threads of gold from shoulder to shoulder.

And - see, it must be a disease that afflicts him because he’s quite certain only sickness could force his heart out of place. It thunders at the base of his throat and he can’t swallow it down. A snake unfurls in his belly and he finds himself fisting a hand in the tunic.

He wasn’t prepared for this.

For a moment, he pretends to be someone that was. He lifts the tunic from the foot of the bed and presses it to his nose, eyes fluttering shut to narrow his senses. He breathes deep, knuckles bleaching out with how tight he holds the soft fabric.

Mulling spices and vanilla, warm skin and savory musk; something in his chest is going concave. An ache ripples through his lower belly and something seems to be gnawing on his spine.

Oh, but how beautifully it burns.

Laughter shatters the moment. The tent flap is thrown open just as the cambion disappears, hand still gripping the tunic. Dekarios comes sauntering in wearing just his breeches. His hair is damp and wild and his skin gleams, not yet entirely dry. He whistles as he tosses his sachet of soap on the table, trading it for a worn leather tome.

The wizard halts at the end of his bed and squints. He tilts his head and gives the vicinity a cursory look before turning on his heel and shouting “Astarion! Did you steal another tunic? Give it back, it’s the only one I have left!”

“I did no such thing!” comes the faint, utterly affronted reply.

Only one he has left, is it?

Shame.

He won’t be getting it back - at least, not anytime soon.

[amatalefay]

It’s not my fault / Who lays all if in God’s plan / the best-laid plans?

He made the Devil / Who makes work so much stronger than a man / for idle hands?

(more audio edits)

[fanby-fckry]

WIP Wednesday!

Here, have a UH3 WIP snippet I wrote earlier today before my brain started leaking out of my ears!

Specifically, my take on Alastor’s smile stitches, and their place in Unholyverse canon, which will eventually be part of a 5+1 Things fic.

Content Warning: either aftermath of self-harm or aftermath of self-made body modification, depending on how you look at it.

Trying to read Alastor’s expressions was sometimes like trying to read a book that’d been translated through several different languages, and then held underwater long enough to make the ink run.

That being said, something was definitely up. The corners of his smile were stiffer, and he wasn’t moving his mouth as much as he normally did when he talked – seemingly relying more on the airwaves to carry his voice rather than projecting it entirely from his mouth the way he usually did.

“Alastor,” Lucifer said hesitantly. “What happened to your mouth?”

“Oh! You noticed!” Alastor said brightly, and then, in a complete clash of tones, activated some of his magic to reveal…

“What the fuck?” Lucifer cursed, staring at the four green stitches on either side of Alastor’s smile. “Is your smile fucking stitched on?”

“Yes!” Alastor answered, with typical Alastor-level enthusiasm.

“Who did this to you?” Lucifer asked.

He had the urge to reach out and run his fingers along the stitches, dissolving the magic that held them there with his own. To press kisses into the corners of Alastor’s mouth and heal his wounds before wreaking havoc and Hellfire upon whoever thought that they could do this and get away with it.

But Alastor was still a bit touchy about touch, especially when he was feeling vulnerable, so Lucifer refrained.

Lucifer was still making mental plans to enact revenge on Alastor’s behalf, though. That is, until…

“Why, I did, of course!” Alastor said cheerfully, and Lucifer felt his jaw just about drop to the floor. “Who else can get this close to my mouth with a sharp object and keep their hands afterwards?”

The urge to comfort Alastor morphed into the urge to strangle him, then comfort him. Because honestly…

“What the fuck, Al?” If Fallen angels could have aneurysms, Lucifer was pretty sure he’d be having one right now. “Why would you stitch your smile into your own face?”

“Ah, well,” Alastor began. “There was an unfortunate incident recently, in which I almost allowed my smile to slip.”

Alastor’s voice darkened, filling with static as the stitches glowed a gastly green. “And we can’t have that, can we?”

“I mean, we can, actually,” Lucifer said dryly, ignoring the way Alastor snapped his own neck in an attempt to appear threatening. “It’s not the end of the world if you drop your smile.”

Alastor responded with a low rumble of radio static, almost akin to a growl.

Lucifer scrubbed his hands over his face. “I know that your smile is important to you, I just…”

Lucifer once again had to resist the urge to touch Alastor’s stitches. He started talking with his hands instead, in an attempt to keep them busy. Ironically, Lucifer, himself, sometimes managed to get in trouble where ‘idle hands’ were involved.

“This seems a little, uh…” Lucifer wracked his brain for the right word and eventually landed on, “Extreme.”

“Thank you!” Alastor said, voice and form returning to normal.

“That’s not…” Lucifer sighed. Maybe it was time to change tactics. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes!” Alastor answered with a chipper tone that either meant he was enjoying the pain, or he was very much not enjoying it and didn’t want Lucifer to catch on.

“If I heal you, will it mess with the spell?”

Alastor’s smile softened, even as the corners remained stiff. “Afraid so, Devil dearest,” he said, taking Lucifer’s hands in his own.

[sachermorte]

sometimes I have to just sit with the realization that I'm viewed from the outside as a deeply eccentric sower of bullshit artistry even though my intentions are always understandable and my thought process is always beyond reproach

for instance

I'm an ADHD-ridden motherfucker so I lose shit all the time. the most recent victim of my grand folly was my nice metal water bottle. it was a nice water bottle. a good size, good heft. I've used it as a hammer on more than one occasion to assemble small pieces of furniture. I love it! have no earthly idea where the fuck it went. which is an issue because I have to go to class, my first class after easter break. because of the aforementioned ADHD I need coffee to even have a prayer of getting through this in one piece. I have nothing to hold coffee in, and I've got about 60 cents in my bank account right now so no money to buy it on the way, either

the devil takes my idle hands and suddenly I know EXACTLY how to fix this problem. because I'm of noble and upright character I'm a fruity little european alcoholic as one might expect. and because (again) of the ADHD and also because I'm a lazy pos I still have a bunch of empty wine bottles kicking around from when I had a house party last month.

a voice of reason, possibly angelic in origin, tries to inform me that all this is a bit silly, isn't it, and maybe I should come up with another plan, but at that moment I'm too busy jamming sugar cubes down the neck of a wine bottle with the handle of a fork to really listen all that closely

which brings us to this very instance in time. this dream within a dream. the U6 is happily putting around the gürtel and there I sit, on my way to campus, drinking from a bottle of italian prosecco that just so happens to have coffee in it

people are looking

zum wohl, I fucking guess