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keferon · 4 months ago

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Chapter 2 of Blurr storyline >:D

“Actually” says Swerve ”I'm an alien.”

“Heh” giggles Blurr ”sorry, my head is all cloudy, I thought you said you were an alien.”

Part one

Holy shit I actually managed to finish it…..Oh. My god.

Under the cut⤵️

Is it stupid to miss someone who doesn't even exist?

Probably yes, but hey, Swerve already has several degrees, might as well get another one. A degree in Stupidity or something. Who cares?

For the first few days after waking up from his coma, he feels like he's going crazy. Everybody has realistic dreams, right? The ones where you can scrutinize every angle, memorize every face and smell and sound. The ones that make you lie still for a while after waking up, grasping at every thing you can. Trying to memorize everyone you meet, imprint them in your head.

Because apart from your mind, they don't exist anywhere else. So that's your only way to keep them.

It never works. Obviously. Details slip away. Impressions fade. Just a couple days, and you won't be able to recall anything but the main events from memory.

Wait, hell, not days. Cycles.

His life is a weird, pathetic, fantastical circus. Earth term. Heh. There are no circuses on Cybertron, haha!

But Swerve remembers. And the word circus, and the smell of asphalt, and rains that were made of water not acid. Remembers the English language. Can speak it fluently, even if you wake him up in the middle of the night.

Remembers his work schedule and remembers which company makes the best details. And Tailgate with his bright blue uniform and Wheeljack with his endless experiments and Swindle with his expensive coat and of course...yeah, no, don't think of Blurr, don't think of Blurr, don't. Don't.

He'd heard about it. Read about it, too. Mechs waking up from comas and doing wild things. Some forgot how to speak at all, some gained a new skill, some lived a whole life while they slept.

Articles tell Swerve, don't worry, what you've experienced isn't unique. The doctor tells Swerve that the same thing has happened to others before you, it will be okay, it will pass.

Swerve isn't sure he wants it to pass.

He's been in a coma for who knows how long. The medic said it was caused by an internal trauma that decided to suddenly get worse. One minute he's recharging , the next he's gone. Internal injuries are insidious.

So it turns out. One day he just disappeared from the world because he was busy slowly dying in his room and no one noticed until a thief tried to sneak in. The only one who came to him was a Mech who wanted to steal his stuff. Huh.

That feels revolting. Swerve liked to think he had enough friends. Or at least enough good connections. Enough those who should have noticed his absence, right?

Apparently not. His shifts at work were reassigned, his contacts never texted him first, his...

His small persona wasn't important enough for anyone to notice his disappearance.

Would his human coworkers notice? Would Tailgate have noticed? Or Jazz? Swindle?

Jazz would have noticed, he was always surprisingly attentive when it came to his friends. And he was friends with just about everybody.

Swindle would probably get upset about the money he'd lost.

It's amazing how much his brain-- wait, no, his processor. How much his processor could create to entertain him. It's a more elaborate world than the most complex series Swerve has ever known. And that scrap had forty-six seasons and fifteen encyclopedias!

People, Earth, a bunch of new languages and rules and all for the sake of the end being like, OOPS! ...it was all a dream. Hilarious. Worst plot twist ever. Swerve hates it when stories go in this direction even more than when they kill off their characters.

In his humble opinion, death is better than the revelation that none of the experiences made sense or had any value. In terms of writing scripts obviously. Haha.

He's busy roaming haphazardly through his own memory. He's looking, comparing, trying to find inconsistencies or things that don't make sense. All the stuff that usually gives away the fact that what happened was a dream.

Most of his memories are occupied by--No. Frag.

Don't think about Blurr, don't think about Blurr, don't think..

He's thinking about Blurr. A lot.

Blurr occupies a surprisingly important role in his comatose dreams.

In the time he spent just looking at him, you could hand-build an entire Mech. Maybe even three. Swerve remembers picking up every bit of merch he could reach with his paycheck. Watching hundreds of videos and buying every new themed drink even if it was a flavor he didn't like.

Then spent a surprising amount of time resenting Blurr for not living up to his fantasies.

Blurr's behavior hadn't helped either, of course, but now, looking back at the past himself Swerve thinks that.. Oh wow. You weren't just annoyed at him. You blamed him for ruining your beautiful fantasy. You were having so much fun entertaining yourself with thoughts of this marvelous image, and he came along and corrupted it. Poisoned the well you drank joy from.

But that's not quite true, Swerve thinks.

Blurr was more complicated than that. But exactly how, he'll never know. All he has are his memories, and those memories are cut short at the most interesting point.

Swerve knows this plot twist. The asshole character that no one loves at the last second turns out to not be what everyone thought, but it's too late.

Oh no, he's not an evil jerk, he's actually traumatized. Oh no, he wasn't bad, he was actually secretly helping everyone. You thought he was awful? Well now you're going to feel awful reading fanfics.

Serevus Spayne didn't actually betray the main character's dad, no no, he was in love with him! Bam. Drama.

Swerve isn't a big fan of this stuff. He likes his characters developed properly. But he can't deny the appeal of a character leaving behind a bunch of questions you thought you knew the answer to.

Uggh.

The doctor was wrong. These thoughts don't go away. These memories don't dull.

Swerve just boils in them, constantly getting stuck in his own head. Sometimes he puts English words into his speech and everyone looks at him strangely. Sometimes he reflexively says some inside joke and no one gets it and he's left standing there with an awkward smile. Because. Guys, you don't understand, if my coworkers were here they'd think it's hilarious. I promise, in my fantasy world, it's funny.

When he gets a job on one of the Autobot ships, he accepts it thinking it might be a good distraction from his thoughts.

When he happens to see Prowl with a tiny human on his shoulder in the corridor of that ship, he thinks he's lost his mind.

The whole thing. The whole load-bearing structure on which his picture of the world has been held suddenly gives a lurch. Living your life in a super realistic dream is wild, but meeting a character from your dream in real life??

Freaking cursed.

Jazz looks puzzled by his reaction, but all Swerve can think about are two things.

One, if Jazz is here, does that mean everything else was real, too???

Two - holy shit, Jazz is tiny.

It never occurred to him. But he didn't really know what size humans were. Well, sure, he could measure it in numbers. But he was among humans himself. And about the same size. He was generally even shorter than most of them.

If Jazz is so small, he can't imagine how tiny Tailgate would be. Or--

He can feel his spark freeze. In fact, he can almost hear the sound of a string breaking in his processor. Does that mean Blurr is real too? Real and just as tiny and currently dead? Because Swerve was there but was too convinced it was all just a dream to help?

He's going to get sick.

He needs to talk to Jazz right now.

____________

Swerve taps his fingers nervously on the countertop. Come on. You're good at talking. Talking is your greatest skill. All you have to do is tell someone else about your comatose hallucinations and hope they don't think you're crazy.

They're sitting at a table at the bar. More specifically Swerve and Prowl are sitting at the table, and Jazz is sitting right on the table. (God he's so small).

“So uh. I got injured a while back and...uh...well, it got worse, turned out important systems were affected and I kind of. I was in a coma. For a really long time.”

Jazz frowns

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

He speaks in a mildly wonky Common, Swerve notes to himself. He waves his servo a little too cheerfully in response.

“'Ay it's no big deal really. I saw a whole other world while I was asleep and like. See, I thought it was just my fantasies, but it seemed very real and...”

Swerve mentally crosses his fingers.

“And it was about this planet called Earth and about people who were building their own inanimate huge robots to fight huge aliens and their boss wanted to launch Mechs into space, so he picked the best of the pilots named Jazz and sent him on this test mission and...”

Jazz looks at him with huge eyes before switching to English in surprise.

“Mech, what the hell?”

“...And we lost him...” finishes Swerve with a sad smile.

Before thinking for a bit, and adding.

“I'm going to show you a trick I can do.”

And then projects his holoform onto the table in front of him.

This. It's weird. Not in a way that would tilt it in the direction of unnatural. More like walking around in his comfy indoor pajamas right in the middle of the street. Being human is familiar to him, but being human amongst huge Cybertronians? Strange. And a little creepy.

Prowl looks confused.

Jazz looks absolutely frantic.

“SWERVE????”

Swerve doesn't even manage to respond, only to smile in relief before Jazz rakes him into his arms. In his holoform, Jazz feels right again. He's taller than Swerve and oh boy, he's alive and unharmed. To think everyone thought he was dead, staying up nights trying to find what was left of him, and he was on the other side of the universe the whole time?

Swerve chuckles into Jazz's shoulder. Then picks him up and spins him around a couple times just because he needs something to get his energy out. Man, it's nice to hug people. Warm and soft, eight out of ten.

Jazz pulls away but still stays standing very close. Swerve can literally see the happy stars in his eyes.

“Dude, I'm not complaining but what...how???? You just kinda..."

Swerve laughs and twitches his eyebrows playfully.

“I still speak English, you don't have to torture yourself with Common.”

“Oh thank fuck.” Jazz throws his hands up dramatically “you're my favorite person right now.”

There is a polite click of the vocalizer resetting above their heads.

“I” Prowl says “very glad you two are happy but I'd like some explanation”

Swerve presses his head into his shoulders guiltily. Prowl has the unique ability to always sound like you've done something wrong in front of him.

Although Jazz doesn't seem to feel the same way?

“Short version - I sleepwalked my holoform to another planet.”

He pauses dramatically.

“The long version is...”

Jazz raises his hand

“What's a holoform?”

Swerve sighs.

“It's a holographic avatar that I can project using a holomatter generator. Sort of like a remote controlled game character.”

Jazz whistles impressed. And then immediately turns back to Prowl

“Have you been able to do that all this time too?“

Prowl hums

“I can create an avatar, but it takes a lot of practice to make it at least believable. And to fully perceive the world through it takes even more. It's a whole new technology. What Swerve does is essentially an art form. Sophisticated and impressively detailed may I add.”

Swerve shrugs shyly. He's still using the holoform to stand on the table next to Jazz. Looking up to speak to Prowl isn't exactly comfortable, but Jazz definitely looks like he's been missing the human presence. Swerve isn't human, but he might as well be.

“Thank you. Yes! Uh. Anyway, it seems while I was in a coma my processor projected my avatar onto Earth and I...let's just say I lived there for a while.”

Jazz laughs

“Dude. So you're telling me you were basically sleepwalking the whole time?”

“ I was.”

Prowl frowns.

“But the range limit of the holomatter generator is only four hundred miles...”

“.... I had a lot of practice...”

Jazz claps his hands.

“You learned a whole other language! Got an ID!. You had a job!!!”

“I got carried away,” Swerve admits.

Jazz scratches the back of his head, still looking very amused

“How many degrees did you get? Haha wait no, I have a better question, did you pass your driver's license?”

“Two. And I failed my driver's exam.”

“Dude you are literally a car without a driver's license!” collapses Jazz on the table with laughter.

Swerve blows the hair out of his face

“Says you who retook the physical several times. You couldn't pass the "being human" exam.”

Jazz just wheezes incoherently in response. Prowl looks alarmed.

“Don't worry, that's him getting excited. So...where have I been...”

Swerve nervously shoves his hands into his pockets

“...Do either of you two know where Earth is?”

Prowl twitches his door wings

“No. Since Jazz was teleported we don't have much clues.”

Swerve grimaces. Scrap. Of course nothing's going to be that easy. He's also been, like,....teleported.

He stands there for a couple minutes and just feels fifteen different emotions rise up in his head at once. A crooked, unsteady smile creeps across his face.

He's thinking.

Oh hell, yeah! I knew it wasn't a dream!

Then he remembers the mess he left behind.

Oh, no, it wasn't a dream.

Jazz puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Swer... Swerve? Dude, are you okay?”

“Ah frag..” Swerve says weakly ”it wasn't a dream.”

Jazz looks...puzzled.

“Is that bad?”

Swerve remembers his friends. Remembers the Mecha program. Remembers fire and smoke and screams and rumbling and crackling flames. Ashes flying through the air and the smell of burnt wires. He remembers blood and debris and...

“It's...complicated.”

This wasn't just a stupid plot twist he'd dreamed up because he'd watched too many shows. This wasn't a hallucination or a disembodied fantasy that just happened to linger in his head. This was real. His friends exist out there somewhere. His work and his collections and his little apartment...

And Blurr. Was real. Or still is? Swerve doesn't know. Blurr wasn't a product of his imagination. He was real and what he did was real and Swerve left him there alone, bleeding and trapped in rubble and tiny and...

Hahahahah oh fUCK.

He doesn't like this plot. It's too much. Too much to handle, too complicated, too ambiguous.

It's also probably too late.

But he can't leave it like this, right? Blurr went into the damn burning building just because of the possibility that there might be someone alive in there.

And Swerve doesn't even have to go through the flames. He has to look. He has to try at least.

Jazz glares at him with a worried look on his face

“ That expression you have...”

Swerve puts the smile back on his face.

“I need to get to Earth.”

___________________

Swerve is not an idiot.

Or maybe more accurately an idiot, but with several degrees.

He's well aware that finding Earth in space with only a description of it is impossible. Which leaves him with two options.

Ask the Quintessons. Or look for it himself.

The first sounds like death. The second like coma. Swerve has exquisite enough taste to know which is better.

He just needs to do some preliminary reserch.....

Jazz, now back inside his Mech looks doubtful.

“You're not going to die suddenly and for no reason, are you?”

Swerve laughs.

“Pfffff what, no of course not, would I kill myself hah. No no, look I'll just put myself in stasis for a bit. Send myself to Earth. And try to figure out where it is from there. Get the coordinates. If I'm lucky, I can see what Space Bridge the local Quintessons use. All you'll have to do is wake me up after a while.”

“It's not harmful?”

Swerve makes an uncertain gesture with his hand...servo.

“If I have enough fuel. And an additional connection to an external generator.”

Jazz tilts his head

“ Why are you so eager to get to Earth? Don't get me wrong, I miss it too and want to go back, but.”

Swerve bites his knuckles.

“ I have some unfinished business?”

“Pshhhh you sound like a ghost.”

Swerve only laughs in response.

_______________

Concentration is tricky.

Swerve tries to think about Earth. And not to think about the fact that he doesn't know where it is. If he's already been there once, he might as well go there again yes? In theory? Perhaps?

Except for the possibility that his sleepwalking just takes him to random planets. That would be very inconvenient. It would be a whole new level of lost

Shit. No. Earth. Think Earth.

What's he even gonna do when he gets there? How far away is it? Swerve is very talented with his holomatter generator, but if it's really far away... maybe he should reset some settings.

He mentally starts going through his options. Does he need tangibility? Probably not. Come to think of it, it would only make him more vulnerable and take a lot of energy. Yeah, the tangibility has to go. What else? Touch, too. Sight and hearing should stay, that's not even a question, but colors and textures are not really necessary.

The amount of detail and picture quality can be reduced as well. His holoform will become colorless and grainy and will probably ripple with static, but he'll survive it.

After he finishes making changes to his holoform he thinks about his old stuff left in his house. Then about the posters. Then reminds himself that he needs to focus on the goal or he'll never find Blurr and...oh FUCK his phone! Where was his phone when he disappeared? Was it found?? There were so many personal things on that phone, he's hoping the phone was burned under the rubble. Either that or the arriving investigators will find his browser history and he'll go into another coma from pure embarrassment.

He blinks dazedly when he realizes he has loads of rocks in front of his eyes. Oh..Did he screw up? Did he end up on the wrong planet? Is it a cave or--

Then he notices the odd shape of the “rocks” and. Oh, no. It's not a cave. It's charred concrete debris.

This is the place where he was last.

He hastily looks around. Anxiety creeps up the back of his neck, makes him feel like something slippery and cold is crawling over his skin. There is nothing but ruins all around.

Blurr is not here. The place where his Mech was lying is empty.

Which means he was at least found and dragged out. Dead or alive.

Swerve's bites his knuckles. Okay.

All right.

He's got things to do.

_______________

He's trying to stay out of sight. Which isn't hard, considering he's just a hologram. At first, he just sneaks around in the quiet areas. Then proceeds to do a facepalm and start teleporting. Think, Swerve. Did you read all those comic books for nothing? Superheroes who couldn't really use their superpowers creatively always annoyed him. And he does, in fact, have a superpower. Gotta get creative, right?

He stops and looks at himself again. His holoform is going static and is a dull white color. He thinks for a bit, and then shrinks himself. Thinks some more, and makes himself almost transparent. There's no way he could pass as a normal human right now, so he'd better just do his best to avoid being seen by anyone.

He looks around thoughtfully. Hmm. Even if he's going to be absolutely tiny, he needs to make sure no one sees him, otherwise the whole base will think the Quintessons are now spying on them through holograms or something.

Breaking the rules feels...it's exciting.

All his ..human life here he hadn't thought about it, but if he threw away the rules he was used to about what people could or couldn't do...

He looks up in a sudden rush of sly genius. All people look under their feet when they walk, but how many look up? And how many of them notice the barely visible tiny holoform hiding just behind the blinding lamps?

The answer is probably none.

Swerve projects himself onto the ceiling and mentally pats himself on the shoulder for his impressive intellectual accomplishments. A creativity degree should definitely be a thing.

A degree in spying on the Quintessons' ships wouldn't hurt him either.

Fortunately sneaking onto their ship turns out not to be that difficult. Swerve makes himself absurdly tiny and hides in the darkest corners that no one would ever think to look into. Why hasn't anyone thought of using holoforms for spying before? Could he be the first to think of it? He doesn't know, but he mentally decides to patent the idea.

Finding the Space Bridge is surprisingly easy. The local Quintesson fleet is clearly used to being the dominant force in space. And that's generally logical. Even if humanity collects a mountain of money from somewhere to throw a dozen Mechs into space - there will be thousands of monsters waiting for them. In such a situation, you don't have to hide, the guards are enough.

Well done, well done, don't hide, Swerve thinks, copying the coordinates and address of the space bridge to himself. You have absolutely nothing to fear here, he thinks, so stay where you are and don't move. Please and thank you.

Once the coordinates are obtained, he... has some freedom to explore. And he uses it for probably the most boring-sounding thing in the world. He returns to his usual workplace.

It’s simple. As damning as the Mecha program was, Swerve loved his job in it. He loved his position in the assembly shop. And he missed his friends.

He quickly teleports through several rooms, continuing to hide close to the lamps. Tailgate is here. Alive and unharmed. Wheeljack is too, though his face has some scars added to it. It's great to see them again, even if he can't talk to them right now. No one will probably react well to a grainy unexplainable hologram. He's just glad to know they're okay and honestly, the last thing he needs is paranoid Onslaught installing extra signal jammers.

It takes time to find Blurr. Partly because Swerve is terrified of what he might find if he started looking. So he goes to check the death lists first, and only after flipping through and re-reading them three times does he finally exhale in relief.

Blurr's name isn't there.

So his smug, shiny ass must be around here somewhere.

He checks the hangar. Flips through the Mech launch logs and feels an uncomfortable knot begin to form in his chest. Blurr's Mech has never been repaired or launched even once since the incident. Its plating has been replaced with new, well polished, and put in a prominent place where anyone who wants to can take a picture of it. But all the internal systems are destroyed. This machine hasn't been used for anything other than being a beautiful exhibit.

That's...something's wrong.

He checks offices and schedules as well as eavesdropping on a few conversations and ends up secretly following Swindle, who is arguing loudly with someone on the phone. He says something about deals and how he doesn't need anyone meddling in his business. Then he talks about how he's got everything under control and the person on the phone is “a dumbass who's making drama out of nothing” and that “he doesn't need anyone's handouts". Then he sighs and says, “you know how celebs are. Dumb and dramatic. You can't take their words literally.”

Then drops the call and for a couple seconds looks like he's just had a large bill taken right out of his hand. Curses again, but in a quieter voice. Leafs through his contacts and stops at the one signed 'free ice'.

“Blurr? Where are you? Wha...ah, no wait. No, the advertising agency called. No, liste...Can you shut up for one second?Where are you?

Uh-huh....... Uh-huh.Okay.

Give me half an hour...okay, yeah.”

This is it, Swerve thinks.

He shrinks himself further and teleports under the collar of Swindle's coat.

He wants to take a look. Just. Just a peek. Make sure everything's all right. Then he can go about his original mission in peace. He watches Swindle get in his car and drive off somewhere. Swerve doesn't recognize this part of town. The houses here are much nicer than where he lived. The streets are cleaner.

He tucks himself further under the coat collar. He's not going to be a stalker or anything, but he's worried and he doesn't have time to wait for Blurr himself to show up for work. Just one little look and that's it.

Swindle's car stops outside a beautiful, shiny hospital. Swerve nervously tries to bite his knuckles, but remembers he's disabled touch in his holoform. Shit? Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shi

Blurr looks like a mangled corpse.

Okay, not really. His left side that faces the door to the hospital room looks like a mangled corpse and that's the first thing that catches Swerve's eye when he's inside.

Blurr is pale and thin and his hands are covered in bandages. The left side of his face has been turned into an absolute ugly nightmare. A piece of his ear is missing. In the place of the left eye is a creepy empty hole.

Suddenly Swerve realizes why Blurr didn't show up for work. You can't even show him to his coworkers like that, not just to the public.

Blurr turns his head and the spell breaks. His lips stretch into a cocky smile.

“'Got bored without me Swindle?”

Swindle doesn't show the slightest emotion at the gruesome sight. He casually pulls a chair over to the hospital bed and sits down.

“Shockwave is trying to sneak a new project into the program. And he's slowly swaying investors to his side, using you as an excuse. Tells everyone you're a poor martyr he can save if only he's given the green light from above.”

Blurr wrinkles his nose.

“Not that he's wrong. The doctors say I need to pick a new career because with this...” he jerks his head to the left implying his damaged half, ” neither racing nor piloting is an option for me anymore. I'm out of your project.”

Then he stops talking for a few seconds and raises an eyebrow curiously.

“You wouldn't have come here in person just to say that. Why are you really here?”

Swindle adjusts his glasses

“Have I ever told you why I made the contract with you?”

“Because you like money” Blurr says without hesitation.

Swindle lets out a quiet chuckle.

“Fair point. But money wasn't my only priority.”

He pauses for a second. Gets up. Draws the curtains in the room. Checks to make sure no one is outside the door.

Goes back to his seat.

“You didn't see what the Mecha project was like before. Brutality and absolute disregard for human rights multiplied by a thousand. People were desperate and no one cared to maintain any decency.”

He raises his hand when Blurr rushes to say something.

“No no, listen to me. If you think things are bad now, you're right. But it used to be much. Much, much worse.”

Swindle sighs and adjusts his glasses again

“Vortex was taken as a boy. He wasn't even out of high school when they shoved him into the lab. Me and Onslaught were pulled right out of the college exams. The others were no better, although they were usually a little older. My point is that it was allowed. It's what the superiors could do and no one told them no.”

Blurr tilts his head and gets a little all turned around to see Swindle better with his right eye.

“But you... found a way to change that, didn't you?

Swindle rubs the bridge of his nose

“I have no power over my own superiors. But Onslaught and I have come up with a plan. Look. I'll put it in simple terms for you. Above me is my boss, and above him is another boss, and so on but at the very end of that chain are people from the government. The investors. So we figured out a way to cut through the chain of command and influence them directly. Make them worry about us. It's a kind of social shield. Onslaught is a genius.”

Blurr blinks.

“Why are you telling me all this.”

Swindle takes off his hat and just. Crumples it in his hands. The back of his head shows numerous scars and the glint of tiny metal implants barely visible behind his hair.

“You're that shield right now, Blurr. You can't leave.”

Blurr's eye widens

“Is that why you insisted on ‘befriending’ me with all those bullshitters?”

“I needed to make sure that in their minds we weren't just a military unit. To keep them thinking that we're as human as they are. So I gave Project Mecha a face.” He tugs on the hat again, “Your face.”

Blurr runs his fingers through his hair

“Shockwave can't do whatever he wants cause...because of me his efforts would risk going public and people wouldn't like it and it would ruin the reputation of our investors-and-they'd-cut-off-his-funding.”

Swindle puts his hat back on.

“Exactly.’ That's why he's being so persistent right now. He knows you're vulnerable and he wants to capitalize on the opportunity. Make you part of his new project and tell the world about it. Make publicity his weapon, too.”

The lamp above them flickers faintly. Blurr takes a breath. Long and tired and exhausted and. a bit doomed.

Swindle puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Please. Don't leave. At least not now. And don't let Shockwave get to you. That would open the way for him to get to the rest of the pilots you represent.”

They just. Sit in silence for a while. Blurr quickly taps a finger on his knee. A rapid tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

Swindle moves his hand away and gets up from his chair.

“There's a press conference coming up. I need you to be there. I've told everyone who needs to know that the problem is exaggerated and you're fine but they need to see you.”

Blurr smiles sourly.

“My lawyer is going to charge you such a handsome sum for that stunt.”

Swindle laughs, but his cardboard advertising smile doesn't reach his eyes.

“We’ll see about that. Seriously though. I need you there.”

Blurr bites his lip.

“I..don’t know...”

Swerve...doesn't know what to think of that.

Blurr shows up for the press conference. Late, but he makes it. Just as Shockwave is presenting his new project in his amazingly well-pitched voice. Blurr swings the door open and waltzes lazily inside, skillfully pretending not to notice the many cameras and eyes instantly directed at him.

Swerve, whose memory is still fresh thinks for a second that no, no this can't be the same person. Past Blurr looked like a wreck. Past Blurr was tense and tired and hunched over. Present Blurr couldn't look more alive. His shoulders are squared proudly, there's that cheerful springiness and grace in his stride. He moves with ease and confidence. Smoothly.

The left side of his face is neatly covered with fresh white bandages. Carefully, without leaving the even the slightest gap through which his injury could be seen. His hands are hidden under a fancy jacket. He smiles wide and bright and squints playfully toward the table.

The very embodiment of nonchalance. The few pilots sitting in the audience roll their eyes.

Swindle breathes out a barely perceptible sigh of relief. Swerve, once again using Swindle's collar as a tactical cover, can't help but let out a silent triumphant laugh. Maybe slightly more nervous than he is supposed to be.

Blurr sends Swindle a sly, sharp smile and even knowing it wasn't meant for him, Swerve feels his cheeks heat up.

Ah, damn it.

Swerve breaks the rules. He tells himself that peeking is fraught with consequences when it comes to military organizations, but he can't stop himself from being curious. And from worry, too.

And now that he knows where to look, he sees things he'd rather not see.

Blurr ... is crumbling.

Swerve doesn't know all the details and consequences, but that incident did leave a mark.

But every time Swindle calls him and says “I need you at some place in two hours” he gets up and assembles himself into a human being. Like a goddamn puzzle. Tapes and covers the burned half of his face. Covers up the bruises and hides the stitches. Fixes his hair and sets off on shaky legs to pretend he's fine.

He smiles so bright and carefree, laughs so sweet and beautiful that no one would ever think that even standing up sometimes hurts.

And continues to act like a jerk of course.

The only difference is that this time Swerve mentally gives him the presumption of innocence before he starts judging.

Blurr does a lot of things that seem rude. He also does a lot of things that are actually rude and figuring them out without resorting to alien superpowers would be nearly impossible.

When the pilots see Blurr sitting right on the table while negotiating with investors, they roll their eyes and make comments about his terrible manners. Or when he stops showing up for even the most basic, rudimentary training.

Or when he develops that stupid habit of leaning his elbows on people standing next to him.

It's the model behavior of a rich, spoiled brat.

It's also an inconspicuous way to stay upright.

Employees say “that dumbass has never heard of personal space.”

Investors say, “I think he likes me.”

Blurr leans on Swindle's shoulder and through a charming smile says “Don't move or I'm gonna fall.”

Swindle also keeping up the smile discreetly holds him back, pretending it's a friendly half hug.

Swerve feels like yelling at both of them, but he's not sure what for exactly. For one thing, Blurr in his condition is very VERY VERY contraindicated to even get out of bed, let alone participate in social activities.

On the other hand, without Blurr, everything is going down the pit.

Without Blurr, all the government sees are dry reports and spreadsheets. Without him, all the high command has is numbers and a sense of impunity. Swerve is sickened by how easily people tend to forget that numbers represent other people.

Most pilots are able to draw a parallel between deteriorating working conditions and Blurr's sudden fondness for staying home instead of working. But they think the rich jerk got scared and ran away. Considering the way Blurr has always behaved at work - Swerve can't even judge them too much for it. They assume Shockwave getting more freedom is the cause of Blurr's absence, not the result.

Blurr's influence only becomes noticeable when it slowly starts to fade away. It's like switching from expensive tea to a cheaper one. The awful flavor only becomes noticeable in contrast.

Blurr doesn't lead the development of new technologies or go out to fight in the field. He doesn't make plans and reports, he doesn't participate in drills, he doesn't cover anyone's back in battle.

But he's the one who puts his hand on the government's shoulders when they're about to sign the next piece of paper. He's the one they have to look in the eye before they have a pen in their hands and a document authorizing Shockwave to stick more needles in people's brains.

It makes a difference. Small one. But still.

It turns a disembodied imaginary “combat units” into a tangible person.

From “do you want to accelerate the combat training of new soldiers” to “are you willing to tell the living, breathing guy standing in front of you that shoving poison under his skin is an idea you approve of.”

More importantly (And Swerve actually admires Swindle for this) Will you be able to explain anything to your families later on, when this same guy is on TV all over the country saying that's what you did to him?

There have been two fronts here all this time, Swerve realizes.

While the pilots were protecting people from monsters wearing teeth and armor, Blurr was protecting the pilots themselves from monsters wearing ties and lab coats.

After another conference, Shockwave stops Blurr in the hallway.

“Good show.”

Blurr laughs. Soundly and proudly.

“Thanks darling~ Sorry I interrupted you. Your speech sounded like something important, but I don't really know much about nerd stuff.”

Swerve, hiding on the ceiling again, snorts.

Shockwave doesn't move. Doesn't give any indication at all if he's offended or upset or whatever.

“It must have been hard getting here with your injuries.”

Blurr shrugs and lazily turns his head around distracted.

“It's just a few bruises here and there. Not the end of the world.”

Shockwave nods slowly. His voice and posture and all, Swerve thinks, looking very uncomfortable.

“Of course it isn't. But hardly good for your career.”

Blurr freezes.

No, Swerve thinks. Shit. No, don't listen to him, don't listen to him, don't listen to him, don't

“Your brilliant achievements have always been a source of admiration to me” continues Shockwave “it would be a pity to lose them.”

Blurr makes an indifferent face and tucks his hands into his pockets.

“Like I said. Not the end of the world.”

Swerve imagines choking Shockwave. Dropping a lamp on his head. Maybe jumping on top of him himself. Shut up, he thinks. Shut up, shut up, stop fucking talking.

Shockwave with a nice, slow gesture pulls out a notebook from somewhere and flips a couple pages.

“Multiple burns, cracked ribs, poisoning from carbon monoxide and combustion products of toxic chemicals...”

Blurr visibly shivers and looks away.

“...loss of vision on one side...” Shockwave continues reading, ”and partial hearing loss. Finally, the impact of neural link malfunctions. And this, if I'm not mistaken, is on top of the already existing memory problems?”

Shockwave takes a step closer. Not fast enough to make it look threatening, but enough to hover.

“It may not be the end of the world, but it is the end of you.”

He writes a set of numbers on the same page, tears it off, and hands it to Blurr.

“You are broken. I can fix you.”

Blurr frowns, but takes the piece of paper.

“That fixing would involve giving you consent to mess around with my head, wouldn't it? It's brave of you to think I'd go for that.”

Shockwave tucks the notepad into his pocket.

“I can assure you, neither I nor anyone else is interested in your brain. I just want to give you back what you're truly valued for.”

Blurr flinches.

“I don't need your help.”

“ If you say so,” Shockwave agrees easily. Nods, slowly and smoothly. Then starts to walk away “But you do need your fame.”

...

“By the way, you might want to wipe the blood off.”

Blurr waits until Shockwave's back disappears around the corner, then quickly pulls a tissue from his pocket and brings it up to his nose.

____________________________

Swerve wakes up looking up at the ceiling of his room. The high, metal ceiling, of a metal room on a metal spaceship.

Holy shit...

Jazz pokes him gently on the forearm

“Are you alive? You've been gone for like quite a while...Did it work?”

“Hey Jazz” frowns Swerve “what do you know about Blurr?”

Jazz laughs

“What are you fanboying over him again? Still??? Dude's smug and arrogant. Good boss though. I was hired to perform at his parties before I became a pilot.”

Swerve sits up and rubs the back of his head.

“Ah...”

“So it worked?”

“Wha...ah! Yes! Yes, it worked! I managed to get the number and codes from the space bridge the Quints used on you. We just need to find another space bridge and we'll have a pretty much direct route to Earth...well. Or rather, to the Quint ship that's located near Earth. You get the idea.”

Jazz rubs his hands together happily.

“I'll take it.”

Swerve jumps to the floor and heads to grab an energon cube. Man, these holoform exercises are burning energy like crazy.

He stares at his metal hands like an idiot for a couple minutes. Just...Contemplates how non-human they are.

He has eight fingers again instead of the human ten. Huh.

Prowl downloads the information he's gotten and immediately runs off to plan a route to the nearest working space bridge and for a while Swerve is just.

Left to himself.

He tries not to think about Blurr. What would he even say to him? Hey, look, I'm sorry I accidentally set you up, see, I'm actually an alien who was sleepwalking and thought you were fictional, surely this won't affect our non-existent strictly professional working relationship? Nah, screw that. If he's going to sound crazy, he needs to at least come up with a good presentation for his insanity.

....

Is it weird to think humans are beautiful if you're not human? If you're kind of human, but only in your soul and only half human?

He looks at Jazz and Prowl.

“You two get along really well.”

Jazz chuckles, sitting on Prowl's shoulder.

“Right now, yes. But we got on each other's nerves quite a bit when we first met.”

Swerve looks up at Jazz's chattering legs from his height and thinks. This is working somehow.

On the other hand, Jazz is the exception rather than the rule. He's friendly with everyone, he's easy to get along with, he's the soul of any company and most importantly, he was a little too much into robots before he discovered they could be alive. If anyone could find common ground with the Cybertronians, it would definitely be Jazz.

_____________________

”Are you a ghost?”

Swerve shrieks in fear and gets covered in static. He hadn't planned on talking. He hadn't planned on being noticed at all. Blurr was supposed to be asleep! And Swerve just wanted to close the curtains and leave, because there's some noisy party going on outside and bright illuminations are very bad for a patient already suffering from neural connection withdrawal.

He freezes in place like that dude from Jurassic Park. Like if he's still enough, he won't be noticed. Oh, or was that from another movie?

“I'm just uh” he awkwardly reaches up and closes the curtains “Lights. Bad for...you...now.”

Blurr chuckles. It sounds suspiciously joyful. His whole posture and facial expression. He looks very relaxed for someone who had a ghost materialize into the room out of thin air.

Swerve traces the line of the IV with his gaze. Oops, that looks like painkillers.

“Yes I am. Uh. A ghost watching the curtains. And now the curtains are fine, so I guess I'd better go?”

Blurr squints amusedly.

“You can walk through walls?”

“Uh, I can teleport into the next room?”

He backs up his words by making himself disappear and reappear in another corner of the room.

“Cool!” says Blurr cheerfully.

Swerve is involuntarily infected by his mood and makes a couple dramatic bows as if he were some kind of magician.

“ Show me more?”

“Hehehe okay eh” Swerve spreads his arms like he's presenting something and then makes himself the size of a soda bottle and teleports to the edge of Blurr's bed “Ta daaaa~”

“Wooooo look at you, you're like an action figure~”

Blurr immediately makes an attempt to touch him, but fails to reach and drops his hand back on the blanket.

Swerve chuckles and steps closer. It's funny to see the usually incredibly agile Blurr struggling with something so simple and ridiculous.

“They really drugged you huh?”

“It's not the drugs” snorts Blurr ”...it's my eye.”

He raises his hand once more and hesitantly pulls it towards Swerve until it bumps into his hair

“... depths Per…percen.. ah, shit. I can't tell how far away things are.”

Swerve just. Lets Blurr fidget at himself, while starting to feel really bad at the same time.

"If you can't tell how far things are, how are you going to drive?

Race???”

He must have a plan right? Something? Let’s-prove-Shockwave-wrong tactic???

Blurr drops his hands back on the blanket

“I won't.”

He freezes when the all too close fireworks rumble outside the window. Then points to his head.

“With this. I can't drive, I can barely walk at all, and I look like horror movie material. Pathetic heeh.”

Swerve sits down quietly cross-legged on the blanket.

“Well...at least you're alive....”

Blurr shakes his head.

“If I had died, it would have been epic. You know? Dharm...dramatic! It would be big news and everyone would be talking about what a hero I was or...or something...”

“...”

“Swindle would be so angry, but he'd figure out a way to make money out of it. He'd make a commercial about how people should be heroes. I'd be remn..remembered for being cool and brave and stuff.”

Fireworks can be heard from the street again. Swerve notices that there is a thin slit between the closed curtains through which a slim, flickering strip of multicolored light streams into the room.

Blurr frowns and leans back against the pillow, looking up at the ceiling.

“I've turned into a boring wreck. My records will be beaten, my career forgotten , and all the guys from work will remember me as a brat. In a--in a--in a way, it's worse than death. Shockwave's right.”

Swerve isn't sure what exactly would be an acceptable gesture of comfort, so he kind of just. Places his hand on the blanket covering Blurr's lap.

“Hey, don't say that. I think what you're doing is great.”

“Liar” smiles Blurr crookedly ”You hated me. I saw your posters collection.”

Oh shit. The ones he ripped off the walls and destroyed in a fit of fan frustration? He didn't even hide them, just shoved them in the back corner. Aw, man...

Swerve folds his arms awkwardly across his chest.

“I can be mad at you and think you're cool at the same time. I'm a multitasker.”

“You're a very specific kind of ghost.” says Blurr. Then, apparently inspired by the painkillers, decides to drop the conversational equivalent of an atomic bomb on Swerve's head “You died because of me?”

Swerve stiffens.

“I...Wwhat?”

“You know.” he makes a gesture with his hand that's ..unclear what it's supposed to mean. “You were working there with everyone else, and then there was that fire and I was sure I saw you down there under the rubble.”

He's silent for a couple seconds before he hesitantly continues

“And then no one could find you so most assumed you either burned or ran away. And now you're here with all your weird ghost stuff, so you must be dead.”

Swerve has.No idea what to think about it. And what to say? He's been so busy blaming himself for Blurr getting hurt that it hasn't occurred to him to think about what it looks like from Blurr's own perspective.

“Actually” says Swerve ”I'm an alien.”

“Heh” giggles Blurr ”sorry, my head’s all cloudy, I thought you said you were an alien.”

Swerve wants to run around and bang his head against the wall.

Instead, he gets up from the hospital bed. Carefully.

“You're high. I'm not going to explain things to you while you're high, you won't understand or remember them. Go back to sleep. It's the middle of the night.”

“You'll tell me later?”

Swerve hums quietly and pulls the curtains all the way closed.

“If future, sober Blurr would want my company.”

---------------

Jazz looks at him. Very intensely.

“Are you going to tell me who this mystery person you keep coming back to Earth for?”

Swerve snorts.

“What makes you think it's anyone in particular?”

“You're right, you're right~” raises his hands in surrender Jazz “So are you going to tell your friend the whole thing?”

Swerve crosses his ..metal arms over his metal chest.

“Is it that big of a deal? He thinks I'm a ghost or something.”

Being a ghost...somehow better, he thinks. If you're a ghost, it kind of automatically implies you're human. Or was a human.

“Sooner or later, he'll put the facts together~” says Jazz in a chant.

Swerve laughs.

“That's unlikely. He's got a pretty bad memory.”

_______________

His plans to stay out of anyone's sight combust with a dramatic pop the next time he projects himself to Earth. He doesn't plan to interfere, he doesn't even plan to linger. He just wants to see what's going on.

He actually just quietly sneaks into the hospital to make sure nothing's happened to Blurr since last time, but when he finally finds him then...oh shit, is that Pharma in the same room with him??? This can't be good.

They don't speak, but Pharma has clearly locked his eyes on Blurr and starts making his way towards him with the relentlessness of a industrial metal press.

Swerve does some rough math in his head. If he briefly gives his holoform back its detail and voice, will that be enough to fry his processor? He's not sure.

Pharma gives a believable impression of a shark getting close. The staff, as if sensing something untoward is about to happen, leaves the room in a hurry.

Blurr looks indifferent, but Swerve's attention is drawn to the way he squints tensely. Man, the lamps are too bright in here.

Pharma smiles sweetly and reaches out for a handshake

“Mind some company?”

Swerve's mental processes fly out the window. Oh no no. Not Pharma. Not in his fucking fanfic. He quickly changes his work clothes into a slightly more business-like looking shirt. Thinks for just a moment and adds a cap to his head to blend in more strongly with the attendants and hide his face to an extent. And then projects himself around the nearest unoccupied corner and runs out of behind it looking as anxious as he feels.

“Blurr!!! Sir, there you are!!! I've been looking everywhere for you!”

Pharma wants to say something, but Swerve doesn't even let him start. He stands in front of Blurr separating him and Farma expressively waves his hands trying to keep his head down.

“The guys you were talking about didn't bring the new hydraulics! It's a disaster, we'll have to use the one on the old models!”

Blurr, to his surprise, backs up his act almost instantly

“Really? But I thought there was nothing to take from the old models?”

“That's exactly the point! I got the paperwork this morning and...oh those assholes are going to screw it up if you don't step in as soon as possible!”

Pharma tilts his head

“Can it wait? We were actually talking here!”

Oh no, thinks Swerve I'll show you who's talking.

“Sir, no offense but this is a matter of extreme urgency. Are you implying that the safety of your patients is not important?”

“What do you mea...”

“Old faulty hydraulics, that's what you want?” raises an eyebrow in horror Blurr.

“No I'm just...”

“I had a better opinion of you, to be honest.”

“I...” opens his mouth Pharma “...WHAT...?”

Swerve shakes his head.

“And I thought his profession was to help people, can you imagine?”

“Wh..”

Blurr rolls his eye.

“Any idiot can get an important position these days.”

“Wait..”

“Tell me about it. Especially doctors.”

Pharma looks like he's about to start pulling the hair out of his head.

“Can at least one of you shut up??”

Swerve adjusts his cap in a businesslike manner

“Sir, I understand you're a bit detached from reality spending so much time in your department, but you need to take better care of your reputation.”

He raises his eyebrows knowingly

“Wouldn't want the rumors about you to turn out to be true. You know what I mean?”

Pharma doesn't even answer anymore. Pharma just looks like a discarded fish.

“…..Wha....there's rumors?”

“Of course” shrugs Swerve ”Ask Norman, he usually knows everything about everyone. And about your interesting tricks with safety, too.”

He leans in conspiratorially, effectively pulling all of Farma's attention to himself

“So if I were you, I'd stay out of any more things you don't understand.”

Pharma wants to say something. Swerve can tell by the look in his eyes. Pharma tries to come up with a witty and context-appropriate response, but this whole conversation has no more context than a typical episode of Teletubbies.

“Where does this Norman guy work?” finally finds the ground beneath his feet Pharma

Swerve shrugs.

“Block C, if he hasn't been transferred yet. He's already been fined several times for spreading harmful information you know? The guy can't keep a secret.”

Pharma throws his hands up angrily and storms away. Probably looking for context. Or revenge.

A quiet cough sounds behind Swerve's back.

“So. Should I be worried about Norman's health?”

Swerve feels the hair on the back of his neck shiver and slowly turns to face Blurr while still looking somewhere on the floor.

“Uh...only if you're concerned about the fate of fictional characters. I made up Norman's wife, she'll be upset if he gets fired for gossiping.”

Blurr chuckles. Then goes silent. Then, after a couple seconds, starts laughing again. That's a good look for him, Swerve thinks. It's not like Blurr's usual velvet-smooth laugh that he uses at social events. It's more like a quick, jerky giggle, and in Swerve's subjective opinion, it's pretty damn cute. He can't help but grin.

Blurr snorts one last time, cutting off the laughter.

Then he reaches out his hand to him.

Swerve reaches back, expecting a handshake, but Blurr ignores his hand and instead goes for his cap and lifts it by the brim.

Swerve, not expecting this, freezes with his hand outstretched.

Blurr freezes as well, still holding the cap in his hand and looking...like he's rethinking his life. A little.

Ugh, and how to explain it all to him....

“Uh...you...uh...probably don't remember me. I...it's...”

Blurr shifts his gaze from Swerve to the cap in his hand. Then back to Swerve.

“You're real???”

Swerve awkwardly waves his hands in front of him

“Ah not.., not really. Do you know why Pharma was looking for you in the first place? He doesn't work with patients anymore, he's been reassigned to the research department, right?”

Blurr shrugs.

“Last time I saw him, he said I might have implant rejection in the third ..uh..what? stage? or something? I think he's trying to get me in for a checkup.”

Swerve twitches.

“Third??? How are you still standing???”

He then quickly reaches up with both hands to Blurr's head and tilts it so he can see his face better. Using one thumb, he pulls his lower eyelid slightly and mentally catalogs. Temperature normal, pupil normal, eyes are steady, no darkening or trace of blood on the eyelid. Implants? He puts both palms up and gently feels the places behind Blurr's ears. No signs of rejection or malfunction.

“No no no” sighs Swerve ”You're fine, it's only stage two. I mean, second sucks too, migraines and all, but you just need to rest and no bright lights and...” he finally notices his hands are still on Blurr's head and pulls them back as fast as if he's been burned ”I MEAN I'm uh...sorry, I didn't mean to, I...”

Blurr laughs quietly.

“I'm glad you're back.”

_____________________

He wakes up in his quarters and can feel his face burning.

When he goes out to get the energon, Jazz throws him a look.

“Is something wrong? You're all kinda...shaky.”

“Hhhhhhuuuuuuuuuuuu” imitates signs of life Swerve “Say, doesn't it bother you that Prowl isn't human?”

Jazz smiles

“ Oh, I went crazy when I found out. But we figured it out.”

“Like...on a scale from ‘bad grade in school’ to ‘an asteroid is coming to Earth’ how crazy was it?”

“Worried about what your human friends will think?”

Swerve swings back and forth on his heels

“Pfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff. Whatnooooo, no of course not. I'd be worried if I planned on telling them at all.”

Jazz frowns

“No offense, but keeping secrets isn't your strong suit.”

“Haha” Swerve waves his servo “ Watch me.”

#maccadam #tf mecha universe #blurr #Swerve #mecha writing #mecha kef writing #mecha bs writing #if you saw any mistakes - no you didn’t #it’s six am I need to go to bed but I wanted to post it before my brain shuts down completely #mecha pilot jazz au #jazzprowl #jazzprowl happens on the background lol #Swindle #two nano seconds of Vortex #Shockwave #Pharma

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safarigirlsp · 27 days ago

Text

From the Pages of the Penny Dreadfuls

Victorian Vampire Jacques Le Gris x OC Georgette

Word Count: 31.8k

Warnings: NSFW. Action. Graphic Violence. Gruesome Horror. Romance. Old Timey Sexism. Hot Toxic Masculinity. Conniving Bitches. Victorian Setting. Vampires. I play a little loose with time and events, but they are all within a couple years if not a couple weeks. But I also play a little loose with vampires and cowboys, so whatever.

AO3 Link

I'm finally catching up on some old requests. This is one from @napiersmirk that I probably bastardized totally, but hopefully there's some fun stuff in here. This is basically a 30k shitshow with Victorian Vampire Jacques and a Cowgirl.

Once upon an autumn dreary. Sir Jacques Le Gris modified the words to one of his favorite poems to suit his surroundings and mood, hearing it as an internal monologue as he strolled down Martin’s Lane toward Trafalgar Square. The nighttime air was cool and humid, the stars hidden behind a stormy veil. Mist crept low, slithering through the streets. It was the kind of weather Jacques loved most, when his breath fogged from his lips like ghosts wrought upon the darkness. In high spirits, he gave his ebony cane a twirl, letting the silver grip in the shape of a wolf’s head turn in palm. The streets were unusually vacant. Those damned Ripper murders were keeping people inside at night. Not only did the Ripper have the nerve to frighten the ladies of London, but he also had the gall and plain bad form to stain Jacques’s name. He went by Jack occasionally, usually when dealing with English and Americans, it seemed simpler for them. Jacques pondered solutions to this nuisance, as he had many evenings before. The best solution to the problem, both society’s and Jacques’s, was likely the simplest – for Jacques to hunt the hunter, victimize the villain. Bleed the butcher dry. He grinned at the thought, his tongue subconsciously tracing the peak of his canine.

But that was a game for another night.

Tonight, Jacques was on a simpler mission. Priding himself a champion of the arts, Jacques took pleasure in seeing the arts and the shows London had to offer. He was a man who enjoyed a spectacle, even if he was not partaking. Although he greatly preferred the latter. It was a wonderful time to be alive, Jacques knew better than most. From P.T. Barnum’s great circuses to group seances and magicians performing grand stage acts, spectacles were all the rage. Queen Victoria was celebrating her fiftieth year on the throne, drawing in crowds from across the empire and motivating every performer to put on his best.

Lithograph posters advertising performances of all varieties were plasters to the sides of buildings, ranging in size from a common portrait to as large as a bedsheet. Smaller letter-size fliers clung to every pole within reach of the urchins who earned a pittance by scattering them about the city. The posters called to Jacques as he strolled past. Thoroughbreds raced across a field of green on a poster for the Epsom Derby. A darkly handsome man stood in front of a gilded portrait advertising for the play The Picture of Dorian Gray. A snarling tiger faced a roaring lion on a poster for P.T. Barnum’s Circus. The infamous magician, Kylo the Malevolent, wore his signature black tailcoat and held a ball of flame in one hand while he conjured dark forces with the other in the poster for his show at the Royal Albert Hall. Even the wanted posters for Jack the Ripper were lost in the collage of lithographs. A Bohemian freakshow was passing through London this week on its way to Paris, the posters advertising its oddities littered across buildings and walls. Jacques saw a poster for the World’s Strongest Man displaying a burly man in a singlet with simian body hair flexing a monstrous arm. Next to him was a poster for a man labeled Ink Well who was tattooed over every inch of his skin.

Jacques stopped in front of a haberdashery he frequented. He had even purchased the tophat he wore at present there. Instead of the usual tophats, canes, and derbys that regularly filled the display window, there were now American style cowboy hats with different shaped crowns, and even two pairs of western chaps, one crafted from thick woolly sheepskin and another from splotchy grey sealskin. On either side of the display windows, the building was plastered with posters, unique from the others, that caught Jacques’s eye. Galloping horses, stampeding buffalo, cowboys with six-shooters, cowgirls with lever-actions, and a lively white-haired man with an impressive Van Dyke made the wall come alive with the spectacle of the American West.

In celebration of the Queen’s Golden Jubilee, Buffalo Bill was bringing his Wild West Show across the ocean to perform for her. Buffalo Bill was rumored to travel with well over one-hundred people, including gunslingers, Native Americans, sharpshooters, vaqueros, trick riders, and musicians. A menagerie of animals was also part of his troop: horses, mules, and longhorns, naturally, but also domesticated wildlife including buffalo and elk. Jacques wondered how much of that travelling zoo would accompany Buffalo Bill on his visit to England. Jacques hoped the store owner was getting a commission from Bill for all this free advertising. He decided he would purchase a new hat for the occasion and encourage his friend, Pierre to do the same. The comically large ten-gallon cowboy hat center stage in the display window would call to Pierre as seductively as a Parisian courtesan. Pierre would be an easy sell, always eager to parade new trappings that might impress the ladies. When Jacques had informed Pierre that he had secured the company of a pair of prima ballerinas from the Russian ballet to accompany him to the Wild West Show, Pierre had boasted that he would be attending with a trio of blondes from a theater troupe.

Smiling at his schemes, Jacques tapped his cane on the cobblestone and continued on into the square in the brisk, long strides he favored when he wasn’t ambling slowly in consideration of a female companion. Only a handful of people walked through the square, mostly couples and one raucous group of obviously drunk young men. There wasn’t enough traffic to keep the light fog from settling over the cobblestones, and it draped them in a spectral haze. With the Ripper at large, it was rare to see lone women and even lone men out at night unless it was unavoidable, or in the areas of town where the three-penny-uprights conducted their business. Jacques was surprised to see one lone woman in the square, standing at the base of Nelson’s Column. So surprised that he stopped short and simply stared at her for a long moment. She faced away with her neck craned to look up at the column, and a lovely neck it was. The grey coat she wore hung down past her knees and its black astrakhan collar rose nearly to her ears. The only bit of skin to be seen was a narrow satiny strip above the fur collar and below her hairline; her hair was piled on top of her head in an intricate bun, courteously enough to allow that tantalizing peekaboo of skin. She wore no hat nor fascinator, and was likewise free of a bustle in a rather risqué defiance of custom. Jacques’s eyes were well-seasoned at discerning ladies’ figures, and he could tell this one was shapely and alluring.

Jacques was striding toward her before he knew he had commanded his feet to do so. In the midst of the Ripper murders, he felt compelled to offer his company. That’s what he told himself. He might be every bit as violent and villainous as good ol’ Jack, but he was also a gentleman. Hearing his bootsteps on the cobblestone, the woman turned to face him, fixing him with a level gaze that speared straight into his eyes. There was nothing soft or demure about the way she looked at him, it was almost enough to freeze him in place like Medusa’s stare. Her eyes were luminous, seeming to catch all the scant light and reflect it back like starlight in the foggy night. She cocked an eyebrow at him when he came to stand beside her, silently but icily inquiring as to his purpose.

Most ladies would have looked away from him after so long a glance, or have broken the silence with a giggle or a pleasantry. This woman allowed the silence to spark in the air around them while her eyes appraised him mercilessly. She was terrifyingly beautiful, and her bold countenance beguiled him into smiling.

“I, too, find the sights more pleasing when admired in darkness,” Jacques said, feeling foolish for allowing himself to lose this small battle of brinksmanship.

“The solitude of darkness is what I find most pleasing. The solitude you’re intruding upon, I might add,” she answered. “I cannot abide crowds and mulling herds of humanity.”

“London seems a poor fit for you,” Jaques returned.

“I’m only visiting.” She smirked. “Admiring the sights, as you said.”

“As a visitor, you might not be aware of the dangers,” Jacques said more seriously than he preferred when speaking to an alluring woman. “Have you not heard of Jack the Ripper?”

She made to roll her eyes, but stopped herself and sighed instead, “I hope you’re not going to tell me that a lady shouldn’t be out alone at night. It’s very tiresome advice.”

“Of course not,” he lied. He was absolutely going to offer that exact advice. Instead, he added, “I am never tiresome.”

“Oh dear, you’re not waiting for me to agree?” She smirked again. Jacques liked that smirk, even if it was at his expense.

“No concern for the Ripper, and no concern for your reputation, being out at night without a chaperone. A lady should be more cautious.” Jacques grinned back at her. “Your wit may be rapier, but it won’t save you against such dangers.”

“Between my rapier wit and my derringer, I feel quite safe.” She patted her coat pocket. “My reputation in London doesn’t concern me.”

“Ah, yes, you’re only visiting.” Jacques took a step closer to her. Her scent curled into his nose, something sultry and sweet like roses and cinnamon. “How long is your visit?”

“Perhaps I should be flattered by your attention.” She sounded entirely un-flattered. “But I am intentionally alone. I am not desirous of company. Hence the hour and my relaxed state of dress.”

“If not this evening, perhaps you would grace me with the pleasure of your company another time.” Jacques flashed his handsomest smile. “Only this evening, I was thinking how grand a night at the Wild West Show will be.” He would cancel his rendezvous with the ballerinas in a heartbeat in favor of her. He inclined his head and said simply, “Join me.”

A smile bloomed on her lips, then she laughed lightly. “I already have an invitation, I’m afraid.”

“Decline whatever other invitation you have and accept mine,” he pressed. “You will not be disappointed. You have my word.”

“Mine is an invitation I cannot decline.” She smiled wider. “Besides, no seat is closer to the action than mine.”

“If the Wild West Show doesn’t strike your fancy, I can show you the sights,” Jacques offered. “Dr. Ren’s Cabinet of Curiosities is all the rage. Have you ever seen a satyr skeleton or a book bound in human skin?”

“A book bound in human skin? You know the way to a girl’s heart,” she laughed. “But my Saturday engagement must stand, I’m afraid.”

“Then permit me to walk you to your lodgings,” he countered. “Where are you staying during your visit?”

“I’ll permit you to say good evening right here.” Her demeanor was pleasant now, but she pointedly ignored his question on where he might find her again.

“May I at least know the name of the lady who is so immune to my charms?” Jacques asked as he took off his tophat and shook a persistence cowlick back from his face.

“Georgette,” she answered, offering her hand.

“Jacques Le Gris.” He introduced himself with a flourished bow, then kissed the back of her hand.

“Good evening, Jacques Le Gris.” She gave him one last smile, turned, and walked away.

Jacques followed her with his eyes as she departed. The sway of her hips was almost hypnotizing. He waited for her to look back, but she didn’t. Their small exchange replayed in his mind, her bold and beautiful face already imprinted on his memory. A rare and radiant maiden, indeed. He waited until she turned down a street and then he followed her anyway, gliding almost soundlessly over the cobblestones. He was as at ease in the darkness as any creature of the night, and he knew how to use the foggy gloom to cloak his movements. He would make sure she was safe during her foolishly imperious stroll. And he would know where to find her again.

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

Trailing the woman at a discreet distance, Jacques could savor her scent as strong and lovely on the air as the smell of a flower shop with fresh blooms. It required a heroic effort of will to restrain himself from chasing her down and snatching her up in his arms. He attempted to keep the thoughts and images of what he wanted to do next out of his mind, but that was a hopeless endeavor. He watched her until she safely entered the Grand Royale Hotel, and contemplated his next move. It was within his ability to compel her to come to her window and see him again in whatever light he wished, even to do after she undressed for the night.

But such parlor tricks would cheapen the hunt.

Big Ben had not yet tolled midnight. The night was young and Jacques was on fire, his senses alighted by the woman and desire burning through him in a rage. Frustrated and ravenous was no way to spend a perfectly dreary evening. He gave the cobblestones a decisive tap with his cane and walked toward a less upscale part of the city. His destination was far enough to warrant a carriage, but Jacques enjoyed a brisk stroll and it would be unwise to create any witnesses who knew of his haunt. A man as illustrious as Jacques had airs to maintain. Not that Pierre ever bothered with discretion. Jacques grinned and shook his head at the thought. How that philandering bastard hadn’t outed them both yet was a miracle.

Heading West, Jacques met few people and no other women. A few men returning late from their jobs passed him, their faces streaked with coal and grime. One rough-looking man in a bowler hat loitered in a doorway, holding the leash of a Bull Terrier. The man watched Jacques, appraising him, no doubt calculating his odds of successfully mugging the much larger man. Jacques hoped the man would try, it would be a fine bit of sport for the evening. The terrier knew better, whimpering and hiding its white face against the man’s leg. Animals always sensed Jacques’s nature more quickly than men. He again cursed the Ripper for bringing increased scrutiny to the streets and the bobbies out in force. This was the sort of hooligan who wouldn’t be missed, easy prey for Jacques to remove from the streets and perform a public service at the same time.

His destination was near Holborn Hill. Jacques paused to admire the shop’s sign, a fine piece of reverse glass depicting a green serpentine dragon with long whiskers and a fanned tail coiled intricately through gold letters that spelled Snap Dragon. The dragon’s clawed hands clutched the D and its head reared above the letter, snarling at incoming patrons. The Snap Dragon was an apothecary that stocked the rarest compounds and elixirs to be found in England. Rumor had it that Prince Albert purchased tonics there known to cure the pox and other maladies.

Now nearing midnight, the apothecary was closed when Jacques strode past its door. He turned down the narrow alley that separated the apothecary from the butcher next door, as black as a crevasse in the foggy darkness. He descended a set of stairs and stopped in front of a recessed iron door that appeared neglected and disused. Jacques rapped his knuckles on the iron in a peculiar rhythm and waited. The door swung in on well-oiled hinges without a squeak, admitting Jacques into the real business of the Snap Dragon. The apothecary, lucrative though it was, was a front for an opium den – a far better business than herbal remedies. Prince Albert also frequented this side of the business, and heartily enjoyed the expensive courtesans who could be enticed to entertain the delirious patrons for a fee.

Gossamer green haze wafted through the darkened parlor. It was a trick of the lighting, achieved with candles hidden inside green silk lanterns, sneakily engineered to give the ever-present smoke an ethereal quality. The effect was eerie, especially when paired with the dozens of barely conscious men reclining on futons and pillows, crooning, laughing, coughing, draped in smoky green gloaming. Most of the movements inside the den were languid and hazy, save for the sober attendants and one topless courtesan who bounced eagerly on the lap of a nearly unconscious man, determined to earn her fee whether or not the man was aware when he crossed the finish line. The first few breaths inside the den were always terrible for Jacques, as his heightened senses acclimated to the pungent scents of opium, unwashed men, and overused women.

A tall, sinewy woman wearing a brocade dress embroidered with dragons and flowers materialized out of the haze and fixed her black eyes on Jaques. Her smile was razor sharp when she greeted him. Jacques had known her a very long time, since she had been a dancer in Bohemia, long before her latest trade helping men chase the dragon. She had been beautiful then, long ago, in her former life. Pierre had been fond of her all those years ago, and she was eternally indebted to him for the gift he had bestowed upon her. Now, she was seen by most as exotic, with her abyssal black eyes, gaunt features, and straight jet hair that contrasted starkly with a completion that was almost translucent in its paleness. She looked to Jacques a bit like a dehydrated corpse. It was enough to unnerve a brave man when she smiled her shark’s smile at Jacques and told him to make himself at home.

Jacques threaded his way through the parlor to a private room hidden away in the back. Before entering, he could hear the familiar laughter of his oldest friend and the giggles of several women. The door was closed, but Jacques didn’t bother knocking. It had been many years since Pierre had managed to shock him.

Tonight was no different. Pierre D’Alencon bolted up from the large futon in the center of the room, ready to chastise the intruder. His blonde hair was disheveled, his pale chest flushed, but he smiled when he recognized Jacques. Wearing only an open kimono-style robe that did nothing to conceal his naked body, nor the tumescent evidence of his antics with the eight naked women flitting around him. He didn’t bother to cover himself when he gestured magnanimously and said, “Come in! Take your pants off!”

“Are any of them still fresh?” Jacques asked as he shrugged out of his overcoat and tossed it over the back of an obliging chair. His cane and tophat followed.

“Yes, you’re in luck. I’ve only just begun to defile them,” Pierre answered and the women laughed. “Where in the blazes have you been? I expected you hours ago. Now, we’ve only a few hours left before dawn approaches in all its intrusive goddamn glory.”

“I met a rather striking woman enroute.” Jacques smiled, picturing her.

“Oh, good. Is she here?” Pierre made to look around Jacques’s body toward the door.

“Certainly not!” Jacques laughed. “I barely got her name. She was most –"

“Did you hear what I said?” Pierre cut him off. “You’re burning darkness yammering on about some strange woman who wouldn’t give you the time of night. I won’t allow it! Get in the proper spirit of the evening or take your doldrums elsewhere.”

Two of the four women approached Jacques, sashaying their hips. They stroked his chest and began untying his ascot then unbuttoning his vest and shirt. Jacques continued talking to Pierre, unbothered by the women caressing his bare chest or Pierre maneuvering his selection of women back toward the futon. “You haven’t seen this one, my friend. Beautiful and strong. The kind of woman who could use some evil inside her.”

“Talking of only one woman while you’re in the company of several fine others is blasphemy,” Pierre said as he fell upon a pair of women on the futon, his kimono fluttering above his comically pasty ass.

Jacques persisted in telling Pierre about the mystery woman, paying the women in his present company little mind until the most ambitious of the two began shoving his trousers down his muscled thighs. When she traced her nails along his rapidly swelling cock, he decided he could continue this conversation later. He led the women toward a larger couch set against the far wall and fell back into the center of the push cushions. Another woman sat at the end of the couch, draped over the armrest, pale and delirious. Blood was smeared across her neck from her jaw to her collarbone, still oozing slowly from a pair of twin puncture wounds.

“You’ve been careless with that one,” Jacques said to Pierre as he gripped the hips of the nearest woman and assisted her in settling over his lap. He thrust up into the woman and added, “Best show some restraint with the others.”

“She’ll be as good as new after a good night’s rest and a good meal,” Peirre replied nonchalantly as several women crawled over him. “I’ll pay her extra. There are no surprises when they service us here.” He looked at one of the women and asked, “Are there, dearie?”

In response, she held her wrist up to Pierre’s lips, inviting him to drink from her.

Jacques found himself distracted from the task at hand. Despite being buried to the hilt in the woman writing in his lap and with another pawing at him from beside, his mind was still filled with thoughts of the woman he had met earlier, his nose still filled with her extraordinarily alluring bouquet. A most unnatural feeling came over him, one he hadn’t felt in ages. He felt a pang of guilt now, which was wholly unwarranted since he was beholden to no one. Certainly not to a woman who didn’t even want him to walk her home like a gentleman and who had given him a rather decisive brush off. In defiance, he thrust up harder into the woman straddling his lap. But if there was any doubt in his mind before that he wouldn’t seek out the beautiful stranger, he was now filled with resolve to find her again.

Trailing his hand up the woman’s back, he gripped the nape of her neck and drew her closer. His canines had descended in razor points, as eager to sink into warm flesh as the rest of his body. He didn’t bother to kiss the woman’s skin or entice her before he bit into her neck. He didn’t have to give, Pierre had paid her well for them to dispassionately take. It was always difficult to restrain himself when the first rush of blood coated his tongue. The primal part of him wanted to rip into her soft flesh like a wild beast; to feel muscle and sinew tear in his mouth; to feel hot blood coat his lips and drench him down to his chest. But he restrained himself, sipping the woman with gentlemanly care and only taking enough to sate himself for a while.

Restraint was the most important skill any vampire who wanted longevity must learn. Many vampires would say that either anonymity or community were of paramount importance. Vampires who prospered outside of cloistered covens or seclusion were the rarest of all their species. None had prospered better nor more infamously than Jacques and Pierre for nearly five-hundred-fifty years. Jacques attributed this to restraint more than anything else, not being glutinous or wanton when it came to prey and hunting. It was one of the few areas in life he exercised restraint at all, and it had taken him more than a century to master.

If one asked Pierre the key to survival, his answer was simple. Joie de vivre! If a man isn’t enjoying life, every moment can be agony. Immortality would be a terrible curse for the poor bastard who doesn’t live life to the fullest. Pierre had lived by this creed for centuries, flaunting his lifestyle to the more conversative of their species. He even made it a personal game of sorts to seduce the hunters who would find them on occasion. Most could be seduced by money or pleasure, and Pierre was generous with both. Jacques had a hotter temper and less patience. He enjoyed tearing apart anyone who threatened him or the small handful of people for whom he had genuine affection.

The grunts and whimpers coming from the futon creaking beneath Pierre and three women indicated that he was indeed living life to fullest at present. Jacques allowed himself to finish quickly, not bothering to hold himself back, and sipped from the woman as much as he dared. The woman’s body was limp and her head lolled sideways when Jacques lifted her off his lap and maneuvered her onto the couch beside him. She slumped against the semi-conscious woman Pierre had used earlier. Jacques watched her for a moment, satisfying himself that she would recover after a few hours. Turning to look at the unused woman on his other side, Jacques grinned and patted his thigh as an invitation. He was more eager to drink from her than fuck her, but those pleasures were best when paired together. Sinking back deeper into the couch, he gripped the base of his cock, positioning it for the woman as she smiled in delight at his impressive size then kicked her leg over his lap.

Vampires needed only seconds to recover between bouts. Jacques could do this all night, until all the women were spent or he became bored with them. The latter had been an increasing problem over the last century. His body was willing, but his interest was waning. Whereas Pierre never grew bored so long as he kept a variety of women parading through his sheets, Jacques had long ago grown weary of much of humanity. The fleeting, meaningless interactions he had with them bored him and left him deeply unsatisfied. Sometimes, he still found humor, even joy, in humanity. Other times, he felt as though they were a plague crawling over the earth like maggots on a carcass. Vampires were even worse, a macabre and morose lot whose tastes tended toward one perversion or another. That was a point on which Jacques and Pierre had always agreed, hedonism is far superior to perversion, and also just simpler.

After finishing with the second woman and using a third, Jacques reclined in a chair as he ruminated on these matters that were never far from his thoughts. He hadn’t troubled himself to redress fully and sat in his trousers and unbuttoned shirt. He swirled a glass of smoky green absinthe, his gaze fixed pensively at an unremarkable patch of floral wallpaper, unbothered by the raucous sounds of Pierre and the last pair of conscious women.

It wasn’t the Green Fairy that danced in his mind, but visions of the mysterious woman and her addictive scent. That she was beautiful didn’t hurt matters at all, but that fact alone would have held little appeal to him beyond wanting to possess her for a few evenings. When a man had centuries to hunt, even beauty grew common. Rarer than beauty was wit, and rarer still was nerve. Jacques had assessed her as having all three attributes. It may have been a hopeful guess, but he was rarely wrong in assessing women. He considered himself something between a connoisseur and a sommelier of fine ladies, and hers was a vintage like nothing he had tasted in ages.

First he had to find her again, and he would. He thought through what he would do to ensnare her, captivate her the way she had so easily captivated him. Jacques didn’t want to get her by crook or by hook. He had no qualms about employing less than savory techniques to lure a woman into his bed for an evening, but he had always maintained a personal ethic when it came to the few substantial women who had piqued his interest more deeply over the many long years of his life. He wanted her, craved her even, but he wanted to win her fairly and by his own merit.

Shortly before dawn, Pierre finally finished his escapades. He let his last woman flop onto the futon and donned his kimono, then joined Jacques in an adjoining chair. Jacques offered to pour him a drink from the decanter filled with green.

“Vile drink, absinthe,” Pierre declined and waved his hand toward one of the naked women strewn across the room like casualties on a battlefield. “How you can chase a perfectly fine vintage with that noxious green ooze is beyond me.” Instead, he lifted an opium pipe to his lips and inhaled deeply. He looked at Jacques fixedly and said, “Oh God, you’ve got that look. Don’t tell me you’re pining after that woman you saw tonight. It’s very tedious of you.”

“Pining?” Jacques frowned. Whatever he was doing, he certainly was not pining.

“Yes, yes. Pining.” Pierre glared and took another puff. “I’ve had to endure your pining over the occasional woman during the last few hundred years. It never ends well. Either the pining leads to sulking when you frighten them away or, far worse, it leads to that terrible sentiment I wish you’d purge from your emotional arsenal.”

“Which terrible sentiment is that?” Jacques smirked over the rim of his glass as he took a drink.

“I try not to sully my tongue with four-letter words,” Pierre said, acting offended.

“I’ve barely spoken to the lady,” Jacques replied dismissively. “I’m merely intrigued by her.”

“Ah, yes, I remember the last time you were intrigued by some strumpet.” Pierre grimaced at the horrible memory. “Dark times. You were the worst possible company during your infatuation. Then when she rejected you – as they all will when you want a taste of them – you had the morbes for years! You were utterly intolerable. If I were a lesser friend, I would have left you to wallow in your misery alone.”

“You hold a grudge as tenaciously as a scorned woman! That was over a century ago,” Jacques scoffed. “I should have known better with her anyway. All the ladies in Versailles laced their corsets so tight for King Louie, it deprived their brains of oxygen. Hardly her fault she was so fickle.”

“And the one before that?” Pierre raised his eyebrows. “She was wickeder than you and, tragically, far crazier to boot.”

“Ah, the Countess,” Jacques said fondly. “She was a marvel.”

“Marvelously batshit crazy. Batshit Bathory.” Pierre shook his head. “Imagine how deranged a mind must be to have a genuine vampire in the palm of her hand, yet believe the true path to immortality was bathing in the blood of servant girls. You’re better off without that raving harlot.”

“It’s been far too long since I’ve indulged in a nice blood bath.” Jacques smiled at the memory.

“Now that can be arranged!” Pierre said excitedly. “We’ll take in that Wild West Show, which cannot be anything but a wondrous spectacle. Then we’ll fuck some women, and soak in blood until your heart’s content. That should take your mind off this absurd infatuation with whatever wayward tart happened to wander in front of you.”

“You assume I want to take my mind off of her?” Jacques cocked an eyebrow and took another drink.

“Can you not think of me for once instead of pursuing this selfish course that invariably leads to misery?” Pierre sighed theatrically. “However it ends for you, it will be dark times for me, my friend.”

“You’re worse than a jealous damned wife,” Jacques laughed.

“Yes, insufferable, aren’t I?” Pierre agreed. “Best steer clear of the real thing.”

“The real thing would have assets that compensate for the times she’s insufferable.” Jacques smirked lewdly.

Pierre sighed exasperatedly. He looked at the window and visibly started when he saw the red drapes glowing pink around their edges with the coming dawn. “We’d best continue this debate in my carriage. Unless you’d prefer to stay here throughout the day. Actually, let’s do! I’ll buy us more women.”

“Put your goddamn pants on and get a move on,” Jacques laughed. “I’d brave a stroll at high noon before I find myself locked in an opium den with you all day.”

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

It had been Jacques’s nature as a man before he became a vampire that he slept little and found the darkness rousing instead of calming, so his vampiric nature paired well with that natural proclivity. Sleep wasn’t needed for its restorative benefits and Jacques couldn’t remember what actual sleep felt like. He spent the brightest hours of the day languishing like a cat, indulgently laying around as he pleased and lightly napping occasionally. Since his encounter with the captivating woman in the Square, he hadn’t been able to settle his mind or have a reprieve from his thoughts of her.

It was not unusual for Jacques to spend the nighttime hours restless and alert. It was, however, highly unusual for him to spend his nights alone. He was never in want of women to fill his bed, but now a woman of no consequence sounded as appealing as a mouthful of ash when he was salivating over filet mignon.

The halls of his manor were dark and cold, feeling almost unwelcoming as he roamed them restlessly in his dressing gown. He paused by a tall arched window in his library that overlooked a manicured garden. The moon was a perfect cat’s eye crescent, bright as firelight, beckoning him out under its glow. Without a plan or any intention beyond following his feet, Jacques dressed quickly in trousers, a loose white shirt with no vest or cravat, and an overcoat.

Minutes later, Jacques sat in the back of his carriage as the cadence of the trotting hooves of his team of black horses carried him away from his home. Jacques’s driver was always at his beck and call, no matter the hour – a creature who was once a man horribly disfigured by leprosy before Pierre benevolently turned him into a familiar for them both to share. Carroughes never had much of a brain in life and was much happier now in his eternal existence as chattel.

Something between nostalgia and hope directed Jacques back to Trafalgar Square. He didn’t realize he had leaned forward in his seat, nearly pressing his large nose to the window as he looked out to the place he had met her. The carriage hit a thick cobblestone, making Jacques bump his nose on the glass. Falling back in his seat, he rubbed the bridge of his nose, finding nothing there but the usual crooked bump, and cursed himself for being so foolish. Of course she wasn’t there again. It had to be nearly two in the morning. No one with any sense was out prowling the streets at this hour. She was almost certainly in bed asleep. He immediately shut his thoughts down when they began to careen into the terrible territory of imagining that she wasn’t alone in her bed.

Looking at the façade of her hotel would do nothing to satisfy his curiosity nor sate his desire, but he grumbled to his driver to take him there anyway.

Every window above the first floor in the stone face of the Grand Royale Hotel was black, looking down on Jacques like merciless eyes. On one of the higher floors, one lone window flickered dimly, no doubt some restless guest reading by the light of a single candle. Jacques eyed it curiously out of the window of his carriage but paid it no mind. His thoughts were occupied with an image of a beautiful woman with luminous eyes and a teasing smile. Picturing her in his mind, he barely noticed the light moving and growing slightly brighter as the person inside picked up the candlestick and moved toward the window.

Jacques felt a rush of hope that made him feel foolish. Like a fool, he stepped out of his carriage to get a better view of the high window. A cold breeze fluttered his hair around his shoulders and his coat around his knees as he stood alone on the street, craning his neck upward. He felt even more foolish holding his breath as he watched the light move closer to the window. But all his foolishness was burned away when the window opened and the beautiful woman from his thoughts leaned out over the railing. It had been a long time since Jacques had willingly watched a sunrise, but he couldn’t remember one ever warming him the way her smile did now when she looked down at him. Gilded by moonlight, her hair free and dancing on the breeze, she was the picture of an ethereal specter haunting him.

Although he didn’t know what had summoned her to the window at such an hour, her smile told Jacques she recognized him. Forgetting any sly reserve, he waved brashly at her and took several steps away from his carriage until he stood in the center of the empty street.

“’Tis the West, and Georgette is the moon!” Jacques called to her teasingly, uncaring if he woke the entire hotel. “Descend, fair moon, and let the stars envy you while you dance in my arms.”

“I never thought I’d see a wolf howling up at the moon in London,” she teased back. She didn’t need to raise her voice for Jacques to hear her clear as a bell, just as he could clearly see that she wore only a diaphanous gown under a velvet robe. His senses were as keen as the other creatures of the night.

Jacques could get to her easily and within minutes. Hell, he could scale the outer hotel wall if he wanted. But he wouldn’t risk frightening her. It was too soon to reveal the monster to the maiden. He could summon her down to him using his vampiric powers of persuasion, but he wanted her to come to him willingly.

“What will entice you down from your tower?” Jacques placed his hand over his heart in a gesture of sincerity. “I can tell you many wondrous reasons, but they are better shown.”

“Perhaps you’re more devil than wolf, trying to tempt me into risqué scenarios with your silver tongue.” She leaned her forearms on the rail, gazing down at him with moonlight glinting in her eyes.

“Rest assured, howling wolf and silver-tongued devil are both equally within my repertoire.” Jacques grinned devilishly. “Is it teeth or horns that you prefer, ma belle?”

She laughed heartily, a melodious sound to Jacques’s ears. She retrieved a handkerchief from the pocket of her robe. Holding it out over the railing, she let it catch in the breeze before releasing it. As the handkerchief danced lazily through the air on its slow ballet to the ground, she said, “Find me again on Sunday and perhaps I will listen to more of your howling. If you’re lucky, maybe I’ll even have a dance with the devil underneath the crescent moonlight.”

Before Jacques could respond, she flipped her hair and ducked back inside her room, closing her window and leaving her balcony as empty and bleak as all the others. Still, Jacques grinned like a dumbstruck fool as he watched the handkerchief float slowly down to him like an autumn leaf. Either her aim or fate directed the little cotton square true, because it drifted right down to Jacques where he stood in the street. He plucked it from the air above him before it settled neatly on his chest.

Bringing the delicate handkerchief to his nose, Jacques inhaled deeply. The woman’s alluring scent flooded his bloodstream faster than any dragon he had ever chased. From her scent alone, he could picture every nuance of her as clearly as if she stood in front of him, feel every luscious inch of her body as though she were pressed against him. He closed his eyes to better savor her perfume and groaned lewdly on the exhale. He grinned as he tucked the handkerchief away safely inside his pocket.

She was an affliction and Jacques was infected with her. Tonight, he knew he was powerless against succumbing.

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Saturday afternoon was blissfully overcast and foggy, shielding Jacques and Pierre from the sun as they strolled toward the exhibition hall at Earl’s Court to watch The Wild West Show. Each man had a pair of women draped on their arms. A pair of redheaded ballerinas laughed at nothing and smiled up at Jacques. He had always been fond of redheads. Pierre, who liked variety, was accompanied by a very pale brunette and a tan blonde. The women chattered as they walked past a colorful carousel playing cheerful music while its painted horses circled round and round. An army of other spectators crowded the streets as they too made their way toward the show. Tickets were sold out and Earl’s Court seated twenty thousand.

“Peasants. Commoners.” Pierre grimaced as he used his walking stick to shove a small man in pinstriped pants aside. “Commoners everywhere. I miss the good ole days when we didn’t have to mingle with the commoners just to go about our day.”

“Ah, but today we don’t have to worry that every third one of them might have the plague,” Jacques said with a laugh. “I don’t ever remember you complaining about common women.”

“The men are certainly more objectionable.” Pierre brandished his walking stick at a teenage boy who waved a newspaper for purchase too close. “Mustaches and damned bowler hats everywhere you look.” He made a sweeping gesture with his cane. “Look around. It’s a veritable, black, blunt sea of bowler hats.” He purposely knocked off the hat of the nearest man with his walking stick, then smiled falsely at the bald, offended man who had been wearing it. “Terribly sorry. My stick has a mind of its own.”

“Frequent problem for you,” Jacques muttered out of a sideways grin. He paused at a food cart and traded a few coins for a bag of roasted chestnuts.

Several women in nice but plain dresses approached them, waving pamphlets. Suffragettes. Three of them smiled invitingly at Jacques and the remaining two thrust their papers at Pierre’s chest.

“Women voting? What a bizarre idea!” Pierre laughed. Then, just to irk the women and help shoo them away, he added, “This is no way at all to go about getting a husband, dears.”

One of the feistier suffragettes handed Pierre’s brunette a pamphlet and told her scathingly, “Don’t let him seduce you. Marriage will make you nothing but his property.”

Pierre looked at Jacques and scoffed, “They think we want to marry them.”

“If you really want to keep the suffragettes away, just tell them about your brilliant investment ideas,” Jacques suggested wryly. “In only seconds, their eyes will glaze over and they will take flight like a covey of doves.”

“Look down that crooked nose of yours at my investments all you want.” Pierre gestured with his cane like a pointing finger. “But mark my words, the Zeppelin is going to make me a mint. I will accept your apology when you come begging me for money after you lose all yours on that ridiculous motorcar investment.”

As they neared the entrance to the exhibit hall, they passed a gallery of lithograph posters for the Wild West Show, each advertising a different act. Pierre paused to study a poster of Chief Sitting Bull, the legendary Sioux warrior, while the women debated whether the tall King of the Cowboys, Buck Taylor, was more handsome or the bright-eyed trick rider, Fearless George. Jacques was most excited to see Annie Oakley, the pint-size lady sharpshooter heralded as one of the finest shots in the world. Jacques stopped counting performers at twenty. The show was enormous. Even some of the animals in the show were famous enough to have their own posters, from Buffalo Bill’s famous horse, Old Charlie, to wild bison and elk who had been shipped across the sea, and a proclaimed flying black horse called Faust.

Pierre accosted at least another dozen people with his walking stick on the way to their seats. A private balcony booth awaited them, offering both privacy and an excellent view of the center of the ring below. One end of the ring was covered by a tent, like a big top, but its canvas was nondescript and sand-colored, covering about ten square yards of the area. Jacques thought it was odd, but he assumed it was for an act and his attention was quickly diverted elsewhere. They were close to the action, close enough to count the buttons on a man’s coat and clearly see his expression when he stood in the center of the arena. Jacques was very interested in watching the show. Unlike an opera he knew by heart or a play he had seen too many times to count, everything in the Wild West Show was new to him. It had been on his mind the last few decades to visit America – to see for himself all the cowboys and mountain men and wild horses that were ripe fodder for the Penny Dreadfuls – but he had yet to make the journey. He figured that tonight would serve to either turn him off the idea of gunslingers and rough riders, or whet his palette and leave him wanting more.

Because Pierre knew this, he refrained from sampling his women as he usually did for his own private preshow. Instead, they discussed the snippets of American West news that made it to them across the sea while Jacques largely ignored the ballerinas pawing at him on either side.

A young, pimply-faced usher came to their booth to see if they wanted any food or drink before the show. Jacques slipped the kid a whole pound, making the youth’s eyes wide and his smile dopey. With an air of secrecy and importance, Jacques told him, “These fine ladies’ husbands might not look kindly on our taking in an innocent show. I can trust you to tell us if you see any suspicious men nosing around near our booth or inquiring about us?”

“Of course, sir,” the usher promised eagerly and bowed awkwardly. “I’ll keep a sharp watch out.”

Jacques thanked him and Pierre spoke when the usher was gone, “Can’t be too careful these days. Is it just me, or are there more and more hunters after us every year?”

“They multiply like rats in a sewer,” Jacques agreed. “I blame all the free time this younger generation has. They don’t have to toil in the fields like they used to, so how do they occupy their time? Hunting vampires down like trophy stags.”

“Between bowler hats, women campaigning to have the vote, and vampire hunters, society is really going to Hell in a handbasket.” Pierre shook his head.

“Well, we do our part to keep the hunters’ numbers down.” Jacques grinned wickedly and tipped his glass toward Pierre.

“And we have such great fun doing so!” Pierre cheered him back just as an announcer’s voice boomed over a loudspeaker that the show was about to begin.

The crowd cheered when Buffalo Bill himself rode into the ring to greet the many Londoners who had come to see his show. The man was dressed as flamboyantly as an American wildman could be, wearing buckskins with draping fringe and thigh-high boots, and his horse wore a bridle and breast collar set with shining silver conchos. His brown horse, Old Charlie, was as famous a character as any of the other performers and rumored to have the intelligence of a man. Buffalo Bill rode into the center of the ring, jumped off Old Charlie, greeted the crowd and gave them a knightly bow. Remounting, he raced Old Charlie around the ring at a dead run, save for the closed off corner, to give the opening signal for the show to begin. As the horse circled round the ring, they were joined by other performers, all following Old Charlie until they were tantamount to a stampede. The Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapahoe came out first after Buffalo Bill, a kaleidoscope of color in their feathered headdresses riding painted war horses and shouting whoops and war cries. Vaqueros from Mexico wearing sombreros and huge-roweled spurs followed, then the cowboys, all firing their six-shooters into the air. The cowboy band played the “Star Spangled Banner” as loudly as possible, trying to outdo the shouts and gunshots.

The opening was a wild scene to the Londoners, riling spectators to stand up in their seats and shout encouragement to the performers. The English had their own style of performance horsemanship, focused on control and refined power. Many had never seen this brand of American horsemanship that seemed to focus on wild abandon and unpredictability as they raced and bucked and kicked around the ring.

Jacques watched raptly, enjoying the wild spectacle. He cheered along with the rest of the crowd when Annie Oakley made her entrance and blew apart several dozen glass balls and clay pigeons thrown through the air by cowboys who rode around the ring at a gallop. She then shot playing cards flung in the air and even hit the bullseye while holding a rifle backwards over her shoulder, using a handheld mirror to aim and fire behind her. For her finale, she called her husband into the ring and shot a cigarette from between his lips.

“See the sort of things a husband must endure at the cruel hands of his wife?” Pierre said to Jacques. “Think better of it, my friend.”

“Yet the poor bastard keeps coming back for more,” Jacques said as he clapped for Annie. “Tells you the reward is greater than the punishment, doesn’t it?”

“My methods ensure a man is only on the rewarding end of women and never the punishing,” Pierre argued, stroking the thigh of his blonde. “I’m certain I can find you plenty of amiable distractions until you’re over this infatuation with your mystery woman.”

At Pierre’s suggestion, one ballerina began caressing Jacques’s thigh and the other trailed her nails down inside his collar. Jacques plucked their hands off him, frowning as he tried to watch the next act. “Good things come to those who wait, ladies.”

“Good God,” Pierre said mostly to himself. “It’s worse than I feared.” He elbowed Jacques in the ribs as a covered wagon was pulled into the ring by a team of eight horses, a dozen cowboys with lever action rifles covered it like spines on a hedgehog. “Where do we find this mystery woman of yours? If you must, I’ll help you fuck the taste of her out of your mouth and then we can fuck other women to get over her. Deal?”

“No.” Jacques grinned and added. “And if I knew where to find her, she’d be here with me now.”

Hot on the trail of the covered wagon was a troop of twenty bandits, all firing live rounds into the canvas wagon cover and near the horses’ hooves. The wagon driver whipped the team of horses into a run, making figure eights inside the ring as the bandits choused them. Both sides fired their rifles and pistols until the air was a haze of dust and gunpowder that stung the eyes and smelled of sulfur and horse sweat.

“Spectacular!” Pierre exclaimed, looking at Jacques.

“Makes me miss the days when I was the one riding out on the tournament field, lance in hand,” Jacques reminisced.

“I always envied the way you handled your lance,” Pierre remarked and pinched the brunette’s thigh to make her squeal.

When the covered wagon had triumphed over the bandits and the dust had settled, the announcer introduced the next performer. “Now that your blood is pumpin,’ raise the roof for our trick rider and one of the Wild West Show’s top all ‘round hands when it comes to ridin’ anything with four legs! Fearless George and Faust!”

An enormous jet-black horse shot into the ring at a dead run, mane and tail blowing out behind him like pennants. The horse was so large as to make the rider look tiny. Jacques wondered how the rider kept the cowboy hat on his head while riding at such a pace. The rider waved to the crowd and with apparent ease, hopped up to stand on the animal’s back as the horse continued to run. The rider was dressed in buckskin pants and a blue shirt, wearing a hat and gunbelt. Fearless George waved to those in front then turned and waved behind him, all while standing on Faust’s back as the horse ran. Still facing the horse’s tail, George dropped back into the saddle, riding backwards for another half turn around the ring. As easily as adjusting his seat on a bench, George twisted his body so he sat sideways in the saddle with his legs crossed demurely to wave to another side of the crowd. He flipped his legs over Faust’s rump again to face the opposite, cross his other leg and wave to the other side of the ring.

Faust still ran at a full gallop when Fearless George dropped from the saddle casually but kept hold of the metal pole that was fixed in the pommel in place of a saddle horn. George took a few bounding strides beside the horse, his feet barely touching the ground as he was carried along by Faust. Using the pole and Faust’s momentum, he bounded back up into the saddle with ease. Faust had now made several passes around the large ring, his black coat glossy with sweat. George pulled him into a sliding stop that threw clumps of dirt from the ring twenty feet out in front of his hooves and dug trenches behind as he skidded to a stop. Faust reared high, almost vertically, and pawed the air with his hooves. George waved to the crowd, but unlike Buffalo Bill and Annie Oakley, he did not remove his hat in a more formal greeting.

While this was happening, a few crewmen pulled a large wooden object into the center of the ring. It looked vaguely like a trebuchet, but Jacques recognized it as a quintain that was used in training for jousting. The large contraption was fitted with a shield painted with a bullseye on one end of a long swinging arm, the other side held a large heavy bag like a punching bag. To practice timing in the joust, a knight would have to strike the center of the shield, causing the arms to spin and the heavy bag to swing around towards the knight’s head from behind. If the knight didn’t have correct timing, the heavy bag would knock them off their horse. The crewman positioned other smaller shields around the ring, propped up on tall wooden posts like road signs.

The announcer told the crowd, “We have a new trick for you as a nod to the culture of our country and to yours.”

A very tall black-haired cowboy in a red shirt entered the ring holding a lance high. Fearless George spun Faust to face the cowboy and kicked him into a gallop. The cowboy threw the lance to George when he was close and George plucked it out of the air easily. Jacques suspected the lance was made of a light metal and was probably hollow. It would have been quite a feat for him to catch a solid wood lance midair with one hand and make it look simple. Fearless George did not have the build of a strong man and sat lightly on Faust while spinning the horse around again and positioning the lance.

The crowd cheered when George charged at the quintain, lance aimed across Faust’s neck. Even Jacques watched avidly, leaning forward in his seat with excitement. It had been ages since he’d seen anyone wield a lance properly. Faust arched his neck and picked his hooves high as he charged the target, looking every bit the destrier. George held the lance with a steady aim with the correct balance of firmness in the shoulder and give in the torso. He struck the target dead center, exploding the wooden shield and causing the quintain to swing around fast with the heavy bag. George dropped the lance and in the same fluid movement, flipped around in the saddle like he had done previously as he drew a pistol from its holster. Before the heavy bag could reach him, he fired a shot into it, bursting the bag also in a geyser of sand. The crowd hollered and Jacques laughed at the mix of weaponry, as George flipped back around in the saddle to face forward.

George put Faust’s reins in his teeth and filled his left hand with his other pistol. With a gun in each hand, he charged around the ring firing at the other shield targets that had been set out by the crewmen. George weaved Faust between the targets, firing left and right and filling the air with gunpowder and wooden splinters. It was a relatively simple feat of marksmanship for a competent shot, but the horsemanship was exceptional for Faust to comply with such a ruckus.

Pierre squinted his eyes to focus better when George passed near them during a turn around the ring and prodded Jacques again with his elbow, “Would you look at the ass on George? It’s enough to make a man forget he has an eager woman on each arm.”

Jacques laughed, but couldn’t help but stare. He didn’t share Pierre’s tastes in this regard, but he had to admit he had never seen an ass that enticing on a man before.

When George’s guns were empty and the targets obliterated, he guided Faust prancing back toward the center of the ring. Faust bowed deeply, going down on one knee and touching his nose to the ground. Fearless George gestured graciously, but again didn’t remove his hat. Faust stood back up from his bow and nodded his head at the crowd, seeming to approve of the deafening applause and shouts that filled the stadium. With a final high rear, George sent Faust prancing away out of the ring, swishing his tail haughtily.

“Now, we have a real treat for all you Brits!” the announcer boomed through the loudspeaker. “Following our fearless knight is our own king. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. Make some noise for Buck Taylor, King of the Cowboys!”

The crowd cheered and hollered, boisterously enough to make Jacques’s ears ring. Pierre, too, winced from the sound. He leaned toward Jacques and screamed into his ear to make his joke heard, “What do you wager the American cowboy king has an even bigger gun than the rest of them?”

But instead of a gun, the King of the Cowboys burst into the ring on a grulla paint horse fuming in a full-blown, violent, buck. The horse stormed ahead, kicking and bucking and rearing, snorting steam like a dragon, black mane and tail whipping through the air. The man riding him was very tall with a thick mustache and long black hair that matched his horse’s mane. Both horse and rider had piercing blue eyes. His red shirt and red and white spotted chaps made from Axis deer hide clashed with the black, grey, and white of the horse and the dull dust in the ring. The man sat the horse easily, riding each buck and twist as though his horse was taking him for a leisurely trot in the pasture. He kept his right hand held high, not touching the saddle horn as he waved to the crowd. The horse squealed and bucked, twisting high into the air and flashing his white belly up to the sky. The cowboy hooted cheerily and spurred the horse when he landed, sending him into another angry fit of bucking and carousing. Horse and rider were fused together as wholly as a centaur, and nothing the horse tried no matter how frantic or vicious could unseat the man.

Pierre elbowed Jacques and smirked, “Look at this dandy! Long hair, garish attire, taking up entirely too much space and making himself the center of attention. Hardly the way a gentleman should present himself.”

“Good thing I’m never garish,” Jacques quipped as he watched the man. It was a rare man who was Jacques’s equal in stature and build, but this King of the Cowboys looked very close. He was handsome too. Jacques hated him instantly.

Eight seconds didn’t enter into this act. Buck Taylor rode the horse until the animal was too tired to buck anymore, and only had the energy to crowhop around the ring. The bucking had lasted the length of a full act as long as the others. When the horse slowed to a walk, sides heaving and foam dripping from his belly and mouth, the tall cowboy kicked one leg out of his stirrup and over the horse’s neck to easily step off his mount and land on the ground. Without missing a step, he walked toward the center of the ring, taking off his enormous cowboy hat to take a bow.

“I’ve never seen a horse buck so hard,” Pierre remarked. “The Yanks are going full-bore for us.”

“Clearly you don’t remember the time when my horse’s crupper whipped him in the flank,” Jacques scoffed and rubbed the hump in the bridge of his nose. “He bucked so hard, his crinet came lose and broke my nose.”

“Well then, I haven’t seen a horse buck so hard since the Battle of Poitiers,” Pierre laughed.

As the man straightened from his bow, Faust, the black horse from the previous act burst through the entry gate. This time he was riderless and bridleless, seemingly in command of himself as he galloped toward the cowboy. Buck turned to bow again to the other side of the ring and Faust slowed to a prancing trot. Neck arched and legs stepping high, the horse trotted up to Buck from behind. When Buck straightened from his second bow and raised his hat back toward his head, Faust bit the brim of the hat and yanked it out of the cowboy’s hand. The black horse jumped sideways when the man cursed and made a grab for the hat, and sped away in a long, elegant trot around the ring. Buck gave chase for a few steps before waving off the horse in frustrated resignation.

Faust looked back at the man and appeared to feel guilty for stealing his hat. He slowed to a walk, dropped his head in contrition, and ambled back to the man. Buck walked to meet the horse with his long arm outstretched, the large rowels on his spurs jingling. When the horse was almost within Buck’s reach, Faust yanked his head back, holding the hat up in the air like a prize, out of reach of even the tall man. The horse taunted the man, dipping the hat lower then jerking it back when the man made a grab for it.

A whistle sounded from the opposite side of the arena where a new gate had been opened. Faust wheeled around and galloped toward the whistler, hat still clenched in his teeth. The hat-stealing act had been a distraction, no one had paid attention to the woman entering the ring. A woman stood near the newly opened gate, dressed rather lewdly in only a gold bathing suit and leather booties. Her thighs and arms were bare, her lovely figure on display, and her hair loose, earning various gasps of shock and catcalls from the crowd.

At the other end of the ring, several crewmen pulled the canvas tent away from what it had covered during the show. A huge pool of water was revealed, an extra-deep diving pool. Jacques frowned in confusion, wondering at its purpose.

“Well, Folks, it looks like our trick rider has one more trick up her sleeve,” the announcer said. “George…” he let his voice trail away, then boomed louder, “George…ette. Georgette, the High-Flyer! Best ya’ll sittin’ close make sure you don’t get splashed.”

“By God!” Pierre laughed. “It’s a woman!”

“It’s her,” Jacques said quietly, almost to himself.

Pierre looked at him sideways. “Her her? What wretched luck. Well, there’s a legitimate chance she breaks her pretty neck in the next few moments.”

Only then did Jacques notice that the gate opened to a ramp near the pool. The ramp too had been covered with canvas and Jacques had taken it for nothing more than covered stairs to reach the higher seats. Now the canvas covering had been pulled away to reveal a long metal ramp, like a long livestock loading chute. It ran at a steep angle up for sixty-feet and opened to nothing but thin air high above the pool. Jacques had heard about the wildly dangerous American stunt of horse diving, but he never thought he would see it firsthand. Let alone, watch a woman carry his heart over a sixty-foot precipice with her on the back of a flying black horse.

Faust galloped toward Georgette, who looked very small and fragile compared to the enormous thundering animal. The hat dropped from Faust’s mouth and flew over his back to flutter in the dust behind him. Faust looked as if he would run right over Georgette, passing by her with only inches between their bodies and not slowing a stride. Georgette grabbed the long silver horn of the saddle and swung herself up onto the horse’s back with ease. Faust didn’t slow as he barreled into the shoot. It looked barely wide enough to accommodate the horse and woman’s bare legs on either side of him. Hooves drummed like a gatling gun up the metal ramp as Faust lunged up the steep incline. He charged as he reached the end, vaulting out into space like it was nothing more than clearing a low fence.

Jacques shot forward in his seat, all but leaning out over the rail as he watched the horse and woman dive through the air toward the cold, navy water far below. Faust’s mane and Georgett’s hair blew out behind them as they fell, Faust’s tail flowing behind him like a sail. The horse’s form was as fine as any professional diver, his body stretched long like an arrow with his front hooves tucked under his chest and his ears flattened against his neck. Georgette kept her seat on his back, clutching his mane tight. She tucked her head against his neck before they hit, burying her face in his mane.

They hit the water with a great splash, submerging entirely, and Jacques thought that both horse and woman must have broken their necks. While horses were usually fine during such stunts, it wasn’t uncommon for riders to break bones, including their necks, or blind themselves. To Jacques, it seemed like they took an eternity to surface. He sighed with relief when Faust erupted from the water, blowing water from his nose, and swam to the head of the pool where the bottom was ramped to allow the horse to trot out with Georgette still seated on his back. She whipped her head back, dramatically slinging the hair out of her face like a mermaid breaching the waves. She arched her back and waved to the crowd to a great chorus of cheers, shouts, and applause. Jacques was up on his feet, clapping harder than anyone and watching her every movement in that revealing gold swimsuit.

“All of us cowboys and cowgirls hope you have enjoyed our little Wild West Show!” the announcer called. “If you liked it, tell your friends! If you didn’t like it, tell your friends all the same!”

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After her dive, Georgette only took the time to ensure her horse received a good petting and a treat from her hand before she handed him off to a groom and hurried to her dressing room. In those few minutes, she was shivering and her teeth chattering. The cold was biting in London this late in the year, made worse by the humidity, and she felt chilled to her bones. She wouldn’t have performed a dive this late in the season for any regular show, but this was a special occasion.

Thankfully, a tub filled with steaming water awaited her. While the rest of the crew hobnobbed with the Lords and Ladies who wanted to meet the genuine American roughnecks in person, Georgette lounged in the tub. She considered this a score on two fronts. She had a rare moment to relax while also avoiding the obligatory socializing the rest of the crew underwent. Her dressing room was tiny, barely large enough to accommodate the tub and a mirrored vanity. Several bouquets of flowers crowded the vanity with a few overflow bouquets propped in one corner. The steam from the water filled the little room with an opaque haze that smelled of roses and Parisian bath salts. It was Georgette’s most relaxed moment of the day.

The near-scalding water and rosy bubbles were usually enough to relax her muscles and quell her thoughts in a few minutes, but as she lounged in the bath, she felt the odd but unmistakable sensation of being watched. It was absurd inside the little room. There was certainly no place for anyone to hide. She closed her eyes, forcing her mind to more rational pursuits, and breathed deep. Sinking deeper into the water, she glimpsed a figure through her half-lidded eyes. She shot bolt upright in the tub, sloshing water over the side, ready to fight the towering shadow she saw in the corner. But of course, there was nothing there. She saw that now, with her eyes fully open. It was a trick of the haze through her half-closed eyes, perhaps combined with the general strangeness of being so far away from home. Shaking her head at her own foolishness, she relaxed back into the water.

She was interrupted again by a knock on her door, and a voice as smooth and warm as bourbon spoke to her from the other side.

“Begging your pardon, miss,” Jacques crooned, a grin audible on his words. “I wished to congratulate the star of the show, but a rather imperious groom told me that I had to have permission from his owner to give Faust an apple.”

“I’ll relay your adulation.” She smiled.

“I would also very much like to congratulate his rider,” Jacques said through the door.

“Is this how a gentleman approaches a lady?” she replied, glaring at the door. “I was told British men had more decorum.”

“I would be remiss to represent myself as a gentleman,” Jacques said in a huskier tone. “Furthermore, I have seen enough of you to know that you would not be frightened away by a little thing like a lack of decorum.”

“I could forgive your trespass of accosting me in the bath, but I do not look kindly on you attending my show flaunting a woman on each arm.” She settled back in the tub, refusing to look at the door even if he couldn’t see her small act of rejection. “Women I gather you’ve now abandoned to come here and stand insolently outside my door.”

He was silent for a moment and she added, “My spies are everywhere.”

“They are nothing more than aperitifs.” Jacques waved his hand dismissively. “Fleeting company for an evening. Certainly not the sort of women I would pursue across the city, and plead with through a locked door.”

“You’re very open about your actions with them,” she huffed with unveiled disgust.

“I do not wish to embark on a journey with a lie when it holds the promise of something lasting and genuine.” He leaned against the door. Even through the wood, her enticing scent carried to him, heavy on the steam.

“Your words are as fancy as your tailored suit,” she quipped. “I have no doubt you can slip into the role of a Cassanova as easily as you can don a topcoat. One is just as superficial as the other.”

“How would you have me prove otherwise?” Jacques spoke to the door, his prominent nose nearly grazing the wood. “Give me any task, milady. Anything you wish.”

“Were I to give you such a task, it would certainly not be something in which I thought you would excel.” She thought for a moment. “No, it would have to be something at which you are terrible. Something utterly demeaning and embarrassing.”

“Demeaning and embarrassing?” Jacques laughed. “Well, I’ll admit that’s a first. You can’t know what a rarity it is for me to experience something for the first time with anyone.”

“A first for a man like you?” she scoffed. “Oh, I’m sure you’re quite the blushing bride behind closed doors.”

“I could sing for you,” Jacques offered with a grin. “That would demean and embarrass me.”

“It’s obvious you’re very impressed with yourself, and no doubt used to impressing women with ease. I have no interest in any of your tactics you’ve employed on other ladies like so much unsuspecting prey.” She ran a soapy sponge down the side of her neck. “You must do for me something you have never done for any other women.”

“What privilege will that earn me?” he asked in a lower tone.

“The privilege of making me smile.” She smiled to herself. “What else would you possibly expect a lady to promise in return? I wonder at the species of harlot you must be accustomed to.”

“If you’re concerned about setting yourself apart, you already have,” Jacques crooned.

“I’m flattered, but that was not my concern,” she said flatly. “You’ve yet to set yourself apart to me. Aside from your pretty face and your brass, I’m waiting to be impressed.”

“I have a pretty face, do I?” He smirked. “I’ll try my best not to keep you wanting. Give me a proper chance, and I cannot fail to impress you.”

“Admittedly, I’m somewhat impressed you haven’t barged in here,” she laughed. “You seem to go and do as you please with little regard for decorum.”

“Says the woman who rides wild horses wearing nearly nothing. I do indeed go and do as I please. But while I put little stock in decorum, I am not so much a boor as to intrude upon the intimate ablutions of a lady without her permission.” He dropped his voice to his sultriest tone. “Do I have your permission to enter, mon cherie?”

A gruff voice interrupted from behind Jacques, “This man botherin’ you, Georgie?” The tall King of the Cowboys projected his voice loud enough to be easily heard through the door. He was possessive over Georgette in a way that made Jacques think he had a reason to be. It was almost enough to incite him to murder right then and there. Sadly, that would probably not be the best approach to win the woman’s affection.

“You seem rather comfortable entering a lady’s dressing room,” Jacques said instead, keeping his words relatively innocuous while flashing a rude sneer at the man to silently provoke him. It would be beautiful if the ruffian took a swing at Jacques and gave him the opening to respond in kind. Jacques noticed the cowboy wore a gold earring in one ear, giving him a piratical look. It took great restraint for Jacques to refrain from yanking it out.

Buck didn’t bite on the provocation. He grinned and put a hand-rolled cigarette between his lips. “Who says I ain’t got a good reason to be nice ‘n comfortable here?”

“Neither of you are entitled to feel comfortable in my dressing room,” Georgette reprimanded them both through the door. “Or haranguing me from outside my door, for that matter.”

“Where, then, shall I harangue you?” Jacques persisted, casting a side eye at the other man.

“You’re quite good at finding me,” she teased. “I’m sure you’ll connive yet another inconvenient opportunity to bother me.”

“I will, that’s a promise,” Jacques agreed and grinned wickedly at the cowboy. “Until then, darling.”

Jacques straightened and Buck bristled. Jacques was satisfied to see that he stood a fraction taller than the other man when his back was straight. Holding the cowboy’s blue stare, Jacques walked past him so close they almost brushed shoulders. He made his challenge clear and belligerent. What great sport it would be if the beastly American took the bait.

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The sights of London were almost overwhelming for someone from Colorado where a paved street was a novelty. Colorado Springs was one of the few towns with a modern brick street down the center of town. Georgette had ample experience with mountain lions and wild horses, miners and mountain men, and gunfights with two men walking out into the street and only one returning. But the sights of London were unlike anything she had experienced, they were fantastical to her. To see gas lamps illuminating shiny cobblestone streets well into the night, and even the occasional building lit with electric light. She was determined to see as much of the spectacular city as she could while she was there.

Georgette preferred to take in the city in the afternoons and into the evenings. The crowds were diminished during those hours and, more importantly, she wanted to minimize the risk of her being recognized. The best part of her act was her change from Fearless George the trick rider to Georgette the horse diver. It never failed to earn a riotous applause from the audience. Likewise, she didn’t ride out in town on Faust, although she would have preferred to, so he could not be recognized as the trick horse from the show who flies off the high dive platform.

The sun was sinking toward the Western horizon as she strolled down a lively street on her first day off after the remarkably successful weekend shows. Steely clouds crept across the sky, making the waning sunlight look like a bloody wound seeping through grey gauze, and the evening air was cool on her skin. She was not in the habit of wearing a bustle – in the American West, high fashion was still something of a novelty outside of the biggest cities. She had come prepared with fine dresses and accoutrements should the occasion call for it, but for her sightseeing outings, it was convenient to dress simply and it eased her movements. She kept a brisk pace with no bustle to hamper her and only a modest front-lacing corset that didn’t constrict her breathing.

Gas lamps lining the street had been freshly lit casting glimmering light on the city slick with foggy dew. Carriages trotted up and down the street filling the air with the cadence of hooves on stone and the vague smell of horse sweat and leather mingled with the damp smell of the city. Clothing stores displayed the most stylish fashion in their windows, but what caught Georgette’s eye was a striking lithograph poster advertising a magician show. She paused in front of the poster of Kylo the Malevolent, looking into the magician’s eyes that were penetrating even on poster stock. She was reminded of a short story she had read ages ago called Vampyre. She thought it would be nice to take in a magic show, or visit one of the famous cabinets of curiosities in the city.

The familiar sounds of the dwindling chatter of the evening carried on behind her, mixed with the clatter of horse’s hooves. One pair of clattering hooves grew louder, the horse coming close to her. The hooves stopped suddenly as she whipped around, startled. Georgette came face to face with the soft muzzle of a large dapple-grey horse, standing so close she could feel the heat of its breath. Seated on the animal was a large handsome man, grinning down at her devilishly with mischief gleaming in his vibrant eyes.

Jacques Le Gris tipped his head back to look up at the gloomy evening sky and held his gloved hand out as if to test for any rain. He returned his eyes to hers, grinned again, and told her, “A perfectly fine evening to harangue a lovely lady, is it not?”

“I already have my evening planned, I’m afraid,” she said coyly and continued walking down the sidewalk on her way.

Jacques kept his horse facing her as she walked, making the horse side-pass perfectly down the street with his front hooves inches from the sidewalk. He sat straight and poised in the saddle in the English style, his commands to the horse almost invisible. “You’re not the only one with tricks, mademoiselle.”

“Men and their tricks are almost always tiresome. If I wanted to see parlor tricks, I would take in the devious looking magician’s show,” she said dismissively as she walked ahead without sparing him a glance. “I believe I told you I would enjoy seeing you perform some embarrassing act for me? I would have been much more impressed if you had appeared riding a donkey with your laughably large feet dragging the ground.”

“You’ve not yet given me the chance to properly embarrass myself,” Jacques countered, still commanding his horse to prance sideways and keep him facing her as at ease as if he sat in his favorite chair. “I thought you might enjoy your conquest more if you were to embarrass me yourself.”

This piqued her interest, and she turned to cock a curious eyebrow at him.

“I took you for a lady who would want to seize victory herself,” Jacques said. “Anything less would be a pyrrhic victory, would it not?” He gestured down at his horse and gave his voice a teasingly haughty air. “You’re quite an impressive rider. For a woman. I wonder how you’d fare in a race against me.”

“Since I am afoot at present, you have me at a disadvantage,” she huffed.

“And if you were astride that black beast of yours?” he asked as his horse danced sideways, snorting impatiently.

“I’d wipe that smug grin off your face in less than a furlong,” she said without batting an eye.

Jacques had timed it perfectly because as Georgette finished her statement, she reached a cross street. Standing at the curb where the cab carriages usually waited for customers was Faust. Georgette stopped short, shocked to see her horse saddled in her western gear, his ears pricked forward to greet her. The foulest looking man she had ever seen held Faust’s reins – if such a deformed monstrosity could be called a man. The wretched creature looked like he had been plagued with leprosy, but that the disease might have improved his features.

“What the hell is this?” she asked angrily as she rushed to her horse and yanked the reins away from the loathsome man who looked at her with hazy black eyes. “Did you steal him? I hope you did, because if not, I’m going to skin that horrible little stable hand alive!”

“I had to bribe him so well, I am the man who is the victim of theft,” Jacques laughed. “Don’t be too hard on the stable hand. I can be more persuasive than most.”

“Persistent does not equate to persuasive,” she quipped, satisfied that her horse appeared fine.

“If you want to reprimand me,” Jacques smirked. “You’ll have to catch me.”

“What are you thinking?” she asked exasperatedly. “That I will just happily climb onto my horse after you stole him, and engage you in an impromptu race? While wearing a dress, I might add.”

“When you put it like that, I can see how it could be too much for you.” He grinned wider.

“Nothing you can throw my way is too much for me,” she scoffed at him and at herself for succumbing so easily to his provocation. Backing down from a challenge was not a form of restraint she had ever mastered, nor ever cared to. She glanced quickly down at her dress. It was not a split skirt designed for riding and she wore heeled boots instead of riding boots, an outfit entirely ill-suited for riding.

“I promise to keep my composure even if you’re risqué enough to hike your skirt up and expose your ankles,” he teased, looking pointedly at the hem of her dress.

“I don’t need to ride astride to best a braggart,” she said as she walked to the left side of her horse, preparing to mount.

“Do you need a hand?” he asked, edging his horse closer.

“Certainly not,” she huffed and swung herself up into the saddle. She kept her left foot in the stirrup and hooked her right over the saddle horn to sit in a makeshift sidesaddle. To ride astride, she would have had to pull her skirts up around her thighs, which was probably exactly what Jacques was hoping for and she would never give him the satisfaction. Glaring at Jaques, she smoothed her skirts primly, ensuring they draped down past her ankles and exposed no skin.

“I wasn’t expecting so much modesty from a woman who bares her legs in front of thousands of spectators to ride bareback and plunge into water,” Jacques teased, bringing his horse close to hers.

“We both know I’m safer exposed in front of a crowd of thousands than one dangerous man,” she returned, holding her horse in place as he pawed his front hoof in anticipation.

“Any danger within me is no threat to you,” Jacques told her seriously. “I would never harm you.”

“Neither my person nor my reputation?” she asked with raised eyebrows.

Jacques grinned and shrugged without answering.

“Just what I thought.” She smiled back. “I’m sure you have more tricks up your sleeve than that Magician on all the posters.”

“I do. He’s an amateur,” Jacques dropped his voice. “But if you wish to be awed, I’m sure I can think of something to accommodate you.” When she only replied with a bored expression, he cleared his throat and told her, “Hyde Park isn’t far. It has a nice dirt track running along its south side called Rotten Row. We can race around as many times as it takes you to win.”

“How boring,” she said dismissively. “I’ll race you to Rotten Row from here instead.” With that, she poked her horse in the shoulder and clicked her tongue in some practiced cue. Faust pinned his ears and struck out at Jacques’s horse like an angry cat, landing a painful bite to the other horse’s rump.

Jacques’s horse squealed indignantly and jumped forward like he had been rudely whipped. Georgette laughed and kicked Faust, sending him into a gallop in two powerful lunges. Jacques cursed his startled horse as he reined him back under control, then laughed deeply as he watched Georgette gallop away from him. Jacques kicked his horse, making him rear then jump into a run after his opponent. The horse slid when his front hooves struck the cobblestone with a riot of sparks, giving Georgette another few strides lead. Georgette cast a look back over her shoulder to see how far ahead she was and laughed heartily at her early lead. Jacques caught her eye and winked. His horse was powerful and used to races and steeplechase, and he gained ground fast.

The horses flew the length of a block in seconds, sending the ghostly evening mist swirling around their legs. In the second block, Jacques’s horse came even with Faust’s haunch as the beasts galloped against each other. Jacques was close enough that could have reached out and grabbed the hem of Georgette’s dress as it billowed behind her leg as she rode sidesaddle. An alley branched off the street on their left. Georgette could see little inside it but shadows in the lateness of the evening. When Faust came to the alley, Georgette reined him, forcing his back hooves to slide on the cobblestone as he sat back his haunches to make the tight turn.

“Do try to keep up!” Georgette shouted over her shoulder.

The alley was narrow, barely wide enough to accommodate a horse and rider. Jacques had to sit back on his reins and bring his horse into a skid to slow enough to make the turn, grinning as he did at having such fine sport. He did not have the masculine weakness of being unable to admit when he met a woman who was his equal or even his superior, albeit this was a rare occurrence. He was pleased and enthused to have met one now, at least when seated on the back of a horse. Georgette tucked her toes against Faust’s side, wary of them striking some protrusion she couldn’t see in the dark. Fortunately, horses have better night vision than humans and Faust avoided any obstacles in his path. Georgette barely saw the pile of crates that had been carelessly discarded in the alley until they were nearly upon them, but Faust gathered himself for the jump and soared over them with ease, landing without breaking the stride of his gallop.

Of course, vampires could see even better in the dark than horses. Jacques’s sight was equal to a wolf or panther or any other nocturnal beast. The pile of crates was as visible to him as white bones in the desert. He saw every detail of the black horse ahead of him and his beautiful rider. Even as his horse took the jump, Jacques’s eyes were fixed on the way Georgette kept a perfect seat and the lovely view he had of that seat devoid of a bustle.

“Bear right if you wish to keep your lead to Hyde Park!” Jacques boomed over the cadence of hoofbeats when Georgette reached the end of the alley.

The alley emptied onto a street through a business district lined with closed shops and nearly devoid of traffic as nightfall approached. One shop owner who was late in closing up glared at them through his window when the pair of horses thundered down the cobblestone in front of his door. Jacques’s horse was shod and the iron shoes sparked on the cobblestone making him look like a silver beast fueled by hellfire, snorting with every stride. A lone cab drawn by a single horse trotted down the street toward them. The horse startled when Jacques and Georgette each flew past him on opposite sides, and the driver cursed them and threw in their mothers for good measure.

Neck and neck, they barreled into Hyde Park. The pair of horses tore down the dirt track called Rotten Row, kicking up clods of dirt under their thundering hooves. Rotten Row was a popular lane for riders, but in the gloaming Jacques and Georgette were alone. Trees grew close on either side of the lane, their branches hanging close enough to grasp at them like witches’ claws. Both horses were large and powerful, not running fleetly like thoroughbreds, but charging ahead like destriers ridden by knights of old. As they neared a bend in the track, Jacques kicked his horse to get a small burst of additional speed. He swept his right hand through Georgette’s skirt and laughed as he passed her, surging into the turn just ahead of her.

Darkness had settled over them while they had raced through town and the stars winked down through the veil of clouds leaving them in shadows and the light spectral mist as they charged down the row.

A violent crack tore the soft belly out of the night, as sharp as the bite of a bullwhip, and the trees at their side thrashed into the lane like an army of living branches. Jacques’s horse buckled when he hit the rope strung across the lane, catapulting forward over his head and neck in a macabre somersault. And rolling over Jacques as he did. A rope attached to a mostly sawn-through tree was run across the lane, acting as a boobytrap to bring a tree down on top of a rider unlucky enough to hit it – if the rope didn’t behead him first.

A ton of tree trunk and barren branches as sharp as spears came crashing down on the crumpled mass of Jacques and his horse as they both thrashed and kicked painfully over the ground. The last sight Georgette had of Jacques was of his magnificent chest being crushed between his horse’s neck and the unforgiving ground as his horse rolled over him, and his flesh being lanced by branches before the tree crushed down upon both horse and rider.

Faust stopped on his own, not needing a command from his rider to dig his hooves into the dirt and slide to a stop before colliding with the fallen tree. It was fortunate Faust took care of himself and Georgette because she was paralyzed with horror, a scream trapped in her throat tight enough to strangle her. She vaguely registered noises in the trees on either side of her, but her mind was at once both reeling and numb. Faust stomped his hooves and shifted nervously as Georgette slid off his back and stumbled awkwardly on wavering legs. She clutched Faust’s reins in a shaking fist and her chest felt tighter than the most unforgiving corset. The tree that had crushed Jacques and his horse thrashed on the ground in front of her, no doubt from the wounded animal pinned beneath it. She didn’t want to get any closer to it or see what horror it had caused. But she had to help Jacques. Even if she knew he could not possibly walk away from such an accident, and likely not survive it.

Suddenly, the trees on either side of the lane erupted with dark snarling bodies bursting from them and charging at Georgette. A pack of large hounds leapt at her from the foliage, their teeth bared, snarling their intent. She recognized the roman noses and bristled fur that belonged to Irish Wolfhounds as they charged her and Faust. She heard the shouts of their master’s still inside the trees. The nearest dog leapt at her, teeth bared, and she whipped the reins she held across its eyes as she ducked sideways. The hound yelped and stumbled, missing his aim for her throat. A second dog caught her sleeve, growling as it tried to yank her to the ground. Faust struck out with his front hoof and hit the dog in the head, knocking its jaw slack. He reared and pawed down onto the hound’s neck, driving it into the ground and killing it instantly.

A pack of several dogs were digging at the fallen tree, braying and snarling like they were hot on the scent of their prey. Two dogs attacked Faust from behind, biting his heels and hocks in an attempt to cripple him. The horse kicked and bucked, inadvertently yanking Georgette off balance from her hold on the reins. One dog he kicked loose switched its attention to Georgette and jumped at her with open, bloody jaws. On instinct, she raised her arm in front of her face and felt the sharp crunching pain of the dog sinking its teeth into her forearm as the weight of the large hound knocked her backward onto the ground. The dog weighed as much as an average man and muscled her to her back on the ground with its weight. Despite the pain in her forearm, she wedged it deeper into the dog’s mouth, using it as a barrier between the ravening beast and her face.

It must only have been seconds since Jacques’s horse fell and the tree crushed them both, but time had dragged on as agonizingly as the pain spearing Georgette’s arm. Something broke out of the fallen tree with explosive force, like a lion breaking free of a wooden cage. Branches and splinters flew through the air like shrapnel and several dogs howled with fear and yelped with pain. Georgette could see nothing but the mottled fur and beady eyes of the dog above her, and then with sudden brute force, the dog was ripped away from her with a pained squeal and thrown across the lane as though it were a stuffed toy.

Jacques stood above her, his shoulders hunched in a fighting stance, wearing a snarl more ferocious than the hounds. His fists weren’t balled, his hands open instead, as if he was hoping to rip living bodies apart with them. There were tears in his jacket, across his back and shoulders, and his undershirt was scarlet with his own blood. Blood streaked his face and ran from his lips, but she didn’t see any obvious injuries. His eyes raced over her body, assessing her injuries quickly without diverting his attention from his attackers. One of the braver hounds lunged at Jacques’s face, but met with his hand as Jacques caught it in the air by its throat with his crushing fist. Another dog took the opening to jump onto his back, snapping down at the back of his neck and trying to paralyze him like a wounded animal. Growling with rage, Jacques shook the hound off his back and threw the hound he held by the throat into the other, sending them both careening over the ground and running away with terrified yelps.

Jacques stepped over Georgette, placing himself between her and whatever other danger still lurked in the trees. Though his movements were not frantic, he moved with unnatural quickness. He appeared to not even be hurried, yet the lines of him were blurred with his swiftness, like a striking viper. His eyes were narrowed and vicious, focused on something in the trees that Georgette couldn’t see. Slowly, he knelt beside her and took her arm. He didn’t spare the time to examine the dog bite as he pulled her up to her feet. Though she was perfectly capable of standing, walking, or anything else that was needed of her, Jacques lifted her into his arms and swung her up onto her horse. He placed her foot in her stirrup and let his hand linger on her calf.

“Run, darling,” he told her as he squeezed her leg. “Run out of the park. I’ll deal with them. They won’t catch you.”

“Who’s they?” she asked as she gathered her reins to control Faust as he danced nervously in place.

“I’ll come to you after I’ve handled this.” He didn’t answer her question.

Jacques turned to face the trees, shoulders bunched and teeth bared wolfishly. A growl rumbled in his thick chest, an inhuman sound that raised the hairs on Georgette’s neck. Faust reared in fright and tried to bolt away from Jacques, but she reined him back. The black horse kept his composure amid gunfire and battle, but he reared and spun in place now, rattled with such fear that his body quivered, his nostrils flared, and his eyes rolled until they showed white as he side-eyed Jacques. It unnerved Georgette to see that it was not the hounds nor the attack that had terrified her horse, but Jacques. Georgette saw it too, the way Jacques looked ravenous and bestial with his wild hair and predatory stance. His eyes were no longer amber, but glinted a lupine yellow, his lateral incisors had grown to points and his canines were long, sharpened fangs. Images flashed through Georgette’s mind, conjured from the tales and legends she had heard growing up in the Wild West – tales of skinwalkers and werewolves.

She didn’t have long to ponder it.

Something shot out of the trees faster than the eye could follow. With great swiftness, Jacques twisted sideways and caught the thing out of the air as it flew past his head. A steel arrow with brutally hooked barbs was trapped in his fist. Attached to the fletching was a steel chain that was drawn taught, leading back to a crossbow designed to hook its prey and drag it back to the hunter like a whaling harpoon. Jacques yanked the arrow and attached chain toward him, snarling with delight.

A shout came from the trees followed by the thrashing of foliage as Jacques dragged a man out of the brush like a salmon on a fishing line. The man still held his crossbow, trying futility to gain the upper hand with Jacques. Two other men charged out of the trees holding weapons unlike any Georgette had ever seen, something like snub-barreled shotguns with multiple, large-bore barrels. She didn’t hesitate. Georgette pulled her tiny pepperbox derringer from the garter on her thigh and fired two of its six barrels into the closest man, blowing his head apart like a ripe pumpkin. As the first man collapsed, blood spurting from the blown-open side of his face and empty, gaping eye socket, Georgette fired another round into the second man. The bullet flew straight into his open mouth and blew out the back of his head in chunky pink mist.

Both men were on the ground twitching in the second it took Jacques to reel in his attacker. Jacques whipped his hand across the man’s face, hooking his thumb under the man’s jawbone like hooking a fish, and violently ripped the poor bastard’s jaw completely off with one swipe. The man’s eyes bulged almost comically and his tongue twitched from side to side in a gaping bloody hole, free and confused without its seat in the jaw.

Still clutching the man’s detached jaw, Jacques held it at eye level and addressed it like Hamlet’s skull, “What else should I rip off your owner for attacking a lady and casting a pall over a rather promising evening?”

The man’s eyes widened impossibly further and a wet gargling screech hissed from the hole in his face when he guessed Jacques’s intent. Jacques flipped the jaw in his hand so the lower teeth faced outward and rammed it with all his brute strength into what remained of the man’s face. The man’s own lower teeth cut into the bridge of his nose and ruptured one of his eyes. As the man staggered backward, Jacques grabbed his lapels and yanked the man toward him. Jacques bent forward and attacked the man’s neck, tearing into it like a rabid beast and ripping the flesh of his throat apart.

Georgette had never seen such gruesome violence. She was unable to look away, her eyes still locked on Jacques when he turned to face her, his beard and chest coated in viscous, dripping blood. Faust trembled beneath her and the remaining wolfhounds brayed mournfully over their dead owners. The gun in her hand moved with a mind of its own as it drifted toward Jacques’s chest.

Jacques raised his bloody hands and grinned, flashing sharp canines shining scarlet. He approached her slowly, the way he would a frightened animal, and held out his right hand. “May I?” He gestured for her derringer.

Wordlessly, she handed him the little pistol. Whatever he was, Jacques had protected her, so she rationalized that she needn’t fear him. Jacques took the gun and walked back to the opposite side of the fallen tree. He knelt and stroked the dapple-grey neck of his horse, still trapped beneath the tree and breathing with difficulty. “Au revoir, mon ami,” he said with hoarse regret as he soothingly petted the horse’s neck with his left hand and fired a shot into its head to end its misery. He straightened and looked down at his horse for a long moment until he was sure no tears would breach his eyes before he walked back to Georgette.

Four wolfhounds still circled them, heads lowered, watching them warily. Jacques rolled his shoulders and growled at them more vicious and rumbling than any canine, so guttural his hair seemed to rise like the hair on the hounds’ backs. The hounds whimpered and dropped their heads in submission before backing away slowly and deferentially.

“I told you to run,” Jacques said with gravel in his voice when he again stood beside Faust.

“I don’t run scared. And I damn sure don’t follow orders,” she said firmly. “I’m sorry about your horse.”

“So am I.” He handed her the derringer and rested his hand on her thigh to comfort himself.

“Are you a werewolf?” she couldn’t help but ask.

“Christ, no!” Jacques spat, almost hissing as his hackled rose like a cat sprayed with water. “I will tell you on the ride home.”

“Home?” She frowned.

“I keep a home in town,” Jacques gestured at his blood-soaked clothing. “Imagine how the rumors will run rampant if I am seen looking like Jack the Ripper.”

Without waiting for an invitation, Jacques swung up onto Faust behind Georgette and looped his arms lightly around her waist. His breath was hot on her ear and smelled of coppery blood. Wet heat seeped through her clothing on her back from Jacques’s blood-soaked chest pressed against her.

“Is the blood yours or theirs?” she asked as she turned Faust away from the chaos.

“Mine, mostly. Felling a tree was a nice touch. New to me.” Jacques grinned mirthlessly. “It’s nothing to trouble yourself over.”

“I’ll find a doctor,” she said with concern.

“That won’t be necessary.” He tightened his hold around her waist. “My home is on Park Lane.”

“Tell me what exactly I just lived through tonight,” she said and kicked Faust into a canter.

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

The home Jacques kept on Park Lane, dubbed Brook House, was grand and elegant, standing five stories above the carriages that trotted by on the cobblestone street. A footman in a sharp uniform rushed out to meet them as Georgette brought Faust to a stop at the front door. The footman looked up at Jacques with the same black haze in his eyes that the obscene valet possessed, and took Faust’s reins. Jacques dismounted with the flair Georgette had come to expect from him, his movement devoid of pain or injury. He offered her his hand to step down from her horse, then moved his hand to her waist possessively when she stood beside him. Jacques stopped her when Georgette made for the door to his home.

“If you come inside, I may never let you leave,” he said and tightened his hold on her waist. “I’ll have my carriage drive you home.”

“Don’t be absurd! You’re badly injured,” she protested. She was still digesting what Jacques had revealed to her about his nature during their ride to Brook House.

“Am I?” He grinned devilishly. “I would love nothing more than to feel your healing touch, but I will not have it under false pretenses.”

“Have you lost so much blood you’re delirious?” she scoffed, eyeing how his shirt was plastered to his chest with drying blood.

“See for yourself,” he purred as he leaned in closer and pulled the lapel of his jacket aside.

Tentatively, she reached to the top button of his white shirt and began unbuttoning it. The way he smirked at her uncertainty eliminated it, and she looked brazenly into his eyes as she deftly unbuttoned his shirt down to where it was tucked into his trousers. His pale skin shone red with blood, but she saw no injuries. She ran a hand over his chest to convince herself by touch what her eyes told her, feeling the thick ridges of warm muscle. It was as though he had just emerged unharmed from a bath of blood.

“I’ve done that too, in another life,” he teased. He brought his fingertips to her cheek and caressed her skin. “Your thoughts are loud when you worry. I hope this has put your mind at ease.”

“At ease is the wrong term,” she couldn’t help but laugh.

“It occurs to me I should have suggested a kiss from you would heal me a few moments ago,” he said huskily, leaning in slightly closer until only inches separated them.

Georgette tilted her chin up and smirked at him, challenging him to not only kiss her but to impress her. Jacques trailed his hand from her cheek down to her throat, letting it rest there and using his thumb to angle her chin as he wanted when he brought his lips to hers.

His plush lips were so much softer than she had imagined. He kissed her gently, his lips caressing hers with indulgent passion, making her body melt against his. It was she who parted her lips first, an invitation to deepen his kiss that Jacques hungrily took. The heat of his tongue seared through her entire body, and the heady masculine taste of him made her shudder pleasantly. His chest rumbled with his approval as his lips moved against hers. It was clear that he was a very skilled lover, so easily raising a rash of goosebumps down Georgette’s spine. When she finally pulled back from his kiss for breath, her eyelids were slow to flutter open and return her to reality.

“Your lips could raise a man from the dead.” He smiled down at her, swaying softly as he held her in his arms.

“Be more cautious in the future so they never have to.” She pulled him back down by his lapels to kiss him again.

“Ah, but you already have, ma belle dangereuse,” Jacques crooned, his voice rumbling thickly in his chest. “You’ve made my deadened heart beat so frantically I could dance to the rhythm.”

“And yet you want to send me away tonight?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Unless you wish to stay forever,” he told her without a hint of teasing.

“I’ll think on it.” She did tease because he was too serious not to.

“While you do, join me for an intimate soiree at my dear friend’s home.” His nose was still so close to hers that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin.

“Will I have to fight a harem of women for a place on your arm?” She pulled back to watch his expression when he answered.

“Never,” Jacques assured her. “No one compares to you.”

“Surely, you must have as many lusting women hunting you as you do vampire hunters,” she said. “No doubt plenty of them would have my head on a spit as readily as a vampire hunter would yours.”

‘The number of those hunting me doesn’t matter.” He trailed a finger down her cheek. “There is only one I will let catch me.”

“What if I dispatched with any trespassing women with the same finality you did the hunters?” She smiled, looking up at him through thick eyelashes. “What if that’s how I expect you to deal with them so long as I keep your company?”

“If it piques your fancy.” Jacques grinned wickedly, flashing his pointed canines. “I do love a bloodthirsty woman.”

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Logistics regarding the soiree Georgette had agreed to attend with Jacques had not been discussed. It was a bit disheartening when she didn’t hear from the persistent man for days. She felt she should be worried, given the injuries she saw him sustain, but she also saw them heal. When a man had all the time in the world – and seemingly all the women – perhaps, he felt less urgency. She was not prone to pining and she felt her thoughts were unnaturally occupied with Jacques. Moreso, it was almost as though she could feel his presence in her mind when it was quiet; when she was in her bath or lying in bed. It felt like he was peering into the window of her mind like a voyeur trying to catch a glimpse of her skin.

She would have to ask him about that.

She had expected Jacques to initiate another run-in with her or an ostensible chance meeting that was obviously premeditated. Instead of surprising her in person, Jacques arranged for a package to be delivered to her room, surprising her by its presence on her bed when she returned one evening. A large box with a crimson ribbon beckoned her, quashing all the irritation she felt at someone breaking into her room. She tried to purge the image from her mind of that horrible creature, Carroughes, tromping around her things.

Sitting on the bed, Georgette ran her hand over the box, untied the ribbon, and lifted the lid. Gasping excitedly at the sight of its contents, she sprang back up from the bed and pulled her gift from the box. The finest scarlet fabric she had ever felt cascaded down from her fingertips, as she held aloft the most elegantly decadent gown she had ever seen. She couldn’t resist hugging the gown to her body and twirling. A small white card fell to the floor from its hiding place within the folds of the gown. Folding the dress carefully and returning it to the box, she bent to retrieve the card. Written upon it in graceful black calligraphy was a simple message.

My Belle Dangereuse,

Have this dress on by 7:00 tomorrow evening. Or have no dress on at all. The curtains in my carriage are impenetrable.

Your servant, Jacques.

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

From her window Georgette saw a carriage drawn by a pair of prancing black horses arrive outside the hotel at 6:45pm. The carriage must belong to Jacques, with a coach in funerary black and black harnesses on the black team of horses. Silver accents on the carriage door, harnesses, and bridles glinted in the gas lamps that lined the street, and the curtains were black and silver brocade. Although she was fully dressed and coiffed, and had been for fifteen minutes, she wouldn’t let Jacques know that.

At five ‘til seven, Jacques stepped out of his carriage. The evening breeze ruffled his hair and made his tailcoat flutter around his long legs as he leaned his back against the coach, tapping his walking stick on the cobblestone. Georgette watched him through a slit in her curtains. He was dressed all in black, save for an ascot the same color as her dress, and looked particularly towering with his slim pants, long coat, and top hat. She decided to make him wait longer.

She walked outside at five after wearing the dress Jacques had gifted her, but barely any of the scarlet silk was visible beneath the long astrakhan-trimmed coat she wore. Jacques smiled broadly at the sight of her as he took off his hat and gave her a regal bow with a flourish of his coat. He opened the coach door and tossed his hat and walking stick inside while Georgette walked to him.

“Have you ever been to Switzerland?” Jacques asked, taking her hand and raising it to his lips.

“Is that where your coach is taking us?” she teased.

“I’ll take you there, or anywhere else, on your whim.” Jacques kissed her hand. “The air there is so clear that at night the starlight shimmers on the glaciers like diamonds and the moonlight makes everything glow. You’re beautiful in the same way, shimmering and glowing. A dancing light in the darkness.”

“Says the man who has never seen me dance.” She smirked. “Thank you for the dress.”

“It is thanks enough seeing you in it.” He kept hold of her hand, stroking his thumb over her skin.

“It fits suspiciously well,” she mused. “How did you get my measurements?”

“Would you rather hear that I have an eye for certain qualities, or that my spies are everywhere?” He grinned and guided her into the carriage.

The plush leather seats were rich oxblood and the interior was dark red velvet. The coach dipped when Jacques climbed inside and took his seat across from her. Sitting so close to her, Jacques could feel the heat from her body radiating inside the coach, hear every beat of her heart, savor the sweet scent of her. It was an exquisite form of torture, a sensory overload influencing his body to respond against his will. He crossed his legs, his movements slightly awkward inside the cabin that was made for a smaller man.

Grinning wolfishly, he flashed his vampiric canines at Georgette. The cadence of her heartbeat quickened at the sight and her pupils widened – signs imperceptible to a human, as was the way her scent changed subtly, tinged with a hint more invitation. Jacques’s grin bloomed into a full broad smile when he saw this confirmation that he had read her correctly. She liked the danger about him. Rather than being frightened, she was aroused by that part of him.

“Refreshments?” Jacques asked, reaching below the middle of the seat to pull out a concealed drawer filled with decanters, chocolates, and fruits. “I have scotch, wine, coffee, and tea, and a range of delicacies that pair well with each.”

“I’d best start with coffee and keep my wits about me as long as possible,” she teased. “It surprises me you have it here in the land of tea-drinkers.”

“I have not just any coffee.” He retrieved a pair of teacups and a decanter with contents as black and thick as molasses. “Turkish coffee.” He handed her a cup and poured the strong-smelling sludge into it. “My favorite.”

“It’s a bit presumptive for you to be scheming to keep me up all night so early in the evening.” She raised the cup to her nose. She had never smelled coffee so strong.

“My sinister schemes have no bounds.” Jacques grinned as he filled his own cup and returned the decanter to the drawer.

“Tell me about these plans,” she succeeded at sounding coy until she took a drink of the Turkish coffee and coughed as though she had downed a shot of whiskey. “My god!” she said as she wiped a tear from her eye. “This might keep me awake for the entire weekend.”

“Even better.” Jacques’s eyes crinkled at the edges with delight as he sipped from his cup. “At the risk of shocking you, I’ll warn you my schemes involve conversation and camaraderie. I’d like to learn more about you and reveal anything of me you wish to know.” He took another drink and winked at her. “No matter how sundry and salacious your request may be.”

“Spoken like a man who has all the time in the world.” Georgette’s next drink was invigorating now that she expected the strong bite of caffeine on her tongue.

“That I do, and I don’t want to waste a second of it.” Jacques fixed his unnerving eyes on hers, and Georgette thought their gleam was more citrine tonight, more firelight in them than amber. It was likely a trick of the gas lamps the carriage trotted past. His eyes danced when he added, “I aim to capture your heart before the sun rises.”

“Is that all?” she laughed and sipped her coffee, finding she now enjoyed it very much. “I admire a bold man.”

“I, too, admire boldness, which makes me defenseless against you.” His eyes shimmered, almost hypnotically, making her wonder if this was another vampiric talent. He pointedly looked away out of the carriage window before he began to lose hold on the bestial part of himself. When he returned his eyes to hers, they had mellowed to the color of whiskey. “Tell me what makes a beautiful woman want to live so dangerously? What compels you to travel the world in the company of rough men for these shows?”

“Your question presumes I don’t need to do any of those things to live a perfectly satisfying life.” She held out her cup for him to refill it. “I disagree. Most women I know want nothing more than to marry and start amassing a litter of children, which frankly, sounds like a prison sentence to me. I would like to marry one day, because I feel life is better when shared with someone, but there are limits to how tethered I will ever allow myself to be. There is much I want to do first, like this,” she gestured at the carriage window and the buildings passing by outside. “I want to see the world, and I can do that this way, by travelling for shows, and with relative safety and only a little scandal. Otherwise, to travel so, I would be at the mercy of a husband.”

“Fair enough,” Jacques agreed. “But what in all infernal hell compels you to ride that horse off a diving platform?”

“I enjoy it. There is no more to it than that, and there doesn’t have to be. One day, I’ll be too old to have adventures and danger, and all I’ll have is my story. I’m trying to live a good one.” She smiled sincerely and added, “One of my favorite writers said it best, ‘Ride, boldly ride.”

“’The Shade replied,’” Jacques added the next line for her, playing the role of the Shade. “I too am always searching for cities of gold, in a manner.”

“I’ve all but told you that what I fear most is a cage and infirmity,” she said somberly. “What thoughts trouble a man who never need fear such things?”

“Loneliness,” Jacques answered quickly and sincerely. “Facing the ages alone is a daunting prospect.”

“That doesn’t strike me as an insurmountable problem for you,” she laughed.

“More so than you think, cherie.” Jacques again opened the drawer and returned their empty cups inside. He uncovered a dish of fruits and chocolates, and plucked a pitted black cherry by its stem. “You’ll love the taste after coffee,” he crooned and held it to Georgette’s lips.

Although he sat across from her, Jacques was so large there was little space remaining between them when he offered her the cherry. Leaning tentatively forward, she took the cherry between her teeth, allowing her lips to brush his fingertip when she closed them around it. She closed her eyes in satisfaction at the burst of flavor that complimented the lingering taste of coffee. Jacques watched hungrily at the way her lovely throat moved when she swallowed and the way the cherry had left its stain on her lips. He couldn’t resist tasting them and captured her lips in a soft, savoring kiss. Georgette brought her hand to the back of his neck, her nails sending sparks down his spine. He almost lost control of himself when she wove her fingers into the hair at his collar and pulled him closer.

The world outside could have burned around them, the ground quaked beneath them, and Jacques couldn’t have been bothered to care. There was no world to him now but the intoxicating woman in his arms. Her scent and taste surrounded him, flowed over him and into him until he felt like he could drown in her. Moving his lips to the silken skin of her neck, Jacques moaned headily as he lavished her with kisses.

A rude jolt of the carriage sent Jacques lurching against Georgette, shoving her back against the seat with unintentional roughness. Fortunately, she laughed as the carriage rocked again and Jacques pushed himself off of her and back into his seat.

“Stupid bastard,” he snarled about his disfigured driver. Jacques reached for the window to shout at the man when he realized they had arrived and were parked near a portico framed by fat columns. He hadn’t noticed when the carriage had passed the imposing wrought iron gates and turned onto the long oak-lined driveway leading to the Georgian monstrosity that was Pierre’s London home.

Sitting back in his seat Jacques grinned a little sheepishly at Georgette. “I must tell my driver to slow the horses to a walk on our return. The drive passed too quickly.”

“Do you have enough cherries for a longer drive?” she teased as she smoothed her dress and hair.

“Plenty. I can spend hours eating a cherry,” he thrummed huskily and grinned.

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

Thousands of flickering lights inside the mansion made its myriad of windows shine like a burst of sunlight in the dark grounds. From its columns and ornate cornices to the statutes watching from stone corners and among lush hedges, manicured to precision, the estate was awash in opulence. The celebration inside gave its masonry glowing life.

Georgette looked out of the carriage window in awe. She had never been to such a grand estate, nor what promised to be an elegant ball. Excitement mingled with nervousness and an unusual shyness. This was not an experience many American westerners were prepared for. Her nerves would be calm and her hands steady if she were rousting a bear out of her grandfather’s cabin in Montana or inside a saloon with men drawing guns on each other or riding a horse at breakneck speed under a full moon. But dresses and dancing and dining under the strict code of English etiquette? It was enough to make a strong man quail in his boots.

“You’ll find no one here stands on formality. No one who matters anyway,” Jacques said soothingly, watching her with the lupine yellow again glinting in his eyes.

“We’re going to have to come to terms over you prodding my thoughts like this,” she said with mild embarrassment.

Jacques grinned and opened the carriage door. Georgette hadn’t noticed the footman patiently waiting outside. The man was apparently trained to wait for the carriage door to be opened from the inside so he did not disturb whatever might be happening in private. Jacques stepped down and whipped his long coat to the side as he donned his top hat, giving him the appearance of a magician on stage performing his act with flourish. He offered Georgette his hand as she exited the carriage then placed her hand in the crook of his arm as he led her to the grand entrance.

“There’s no need to be nervous.” Jacques leaned toward her and she felt his arm flex beneath her hand. “A lady on my arm is the guest of honor. Nothing else matters, nor does any other opinion.”

His comment had the effect of settling her nerves, but not for the reasons he hoped. Georgette felt a flush of anger and a tinge of jealousy at the thought of how many other young women must have made this walk before, treading on the swirled marble floor of the entrance hall on the arm of a handsome man – perhaps even this very same, centuries-old man – full of excitement and hope at what the evening may bring. Where were those women now? They had been as fleeting as a firefly lighting the night with its beauty for one instant only to be forgotten in the next.

“None of them were you,” Jacques said in his most alluring timbre, again holding a conversation with her inner thoughts.

“How many of them have you told that same thing?” she asked cynically.

“I cannot tell you none, but I assure you there have been very few.” He placed his free hand over hers, comforting and warm. “I do not believe there has been more than one woman a century who has truly captivated me as you have done.”

“What became of them?” She looked up at his angular profile, gauging his response. She was surprised to see a passing hint of pain.

“They made a choice, and it was not the one I’d hoped,” he answered cryptically.

“What choice is that?” she pressed.

“One that may soon be presented to you.” Jacques met her eyes and smiled warmly as he led her into the ballroom.

The ballroom glimmered in white and gold. The high ceiling was beautifully decorated with Georgian plasterwork, like sugary icing on a decadent cake, gilt accents glinting across it like stars in a frosted sky. Two pendulous crystal chandeliers sparkled with the light of hundreds of candles. Notes from a string orchestra carried through the room giving elegant couples a rhythm as they danced, men in mostly black paired with women dressed in a kaleidoscope of color.

Georgette took Jacques’s offered hand and smiled when she saw in his eyes a shared anticipation. His hand at her waist felt like a hot iron burning through her dress, making her skin tingle. When Jacques began twirling her to the Danse Macabre her corset felt too tight and her breath came short. She could feel the restrained power of him in every movement. His body seemed particularly large as he deftly led her in a dance across the ballroom, his skill and power making up for her lack of both. Their dance was not just a series of steps but a conversation between their bodies, an intimate exchange and a promise of what could pass between them. Each twirl and dip brought them closer, their bodies pressed together and their faces inches apart, their breaths mingling in the charged air.

At a quick appraisal, the ball was lavish, filled with beauty and romance. The longer Georgette watched the dancers, the more details she noticed. Details that made her skin prickle with something between excitement and a primal sort of fright. Pointed canines nipped at jawlines and dragged along the throats of dance partners. A few couples were actively engaged in biting each other in lewd displays that morbidly mirrored heated kissing. Claws traced lines over exposed skin, and some innocuous movements were too fast for Georgette’s eye to see. Most unsettling were the eyes. There were eyes colored blood red, bone white, and coal black. Retinas colored in tones usually only found in cadavers, eyed their partners hungrily. Some, like Jacques, had eyes that nearly glowed with vibrant color. Those were both the most striking and the most unnerving. A redheaded man watched her with eyes as orange as a sunset and a startlingly beautiful woman with rich violet eyes looked at Jacques from across the room. Georgette saw no other eyes with the enticing, predatory gold that glinted in Jacques’s.

Vampires. They mingled with the crowd, their numbers few compared to the humans, like a pack of wolves weaving through a herd of cattle.

Vignettes came to Georgette in a flash as bodies moved across the dance floor, hiding one couple engaged in an act of depravity as another was revealed.

A vampire, his glacial eyes as piercing as they were cold, held a young woman close, his lips trailing kisses along her neck before his fangs sank into her flesh. The woman’s gasp was one of bliss, her body arching into his as if seeking more of the exquisite pain. Nearby, another vampire, a striking figure with sterling silver hair, pressed his lips fervently to his partner's wrist, the crimson trickle of blood staining his mouth as he drank deeply. The vampiress with violet eyes dragged a pointed fingernail across her clavicle, releasing a drop of ruby blood. Keeping her eyes fixed seductively on Jacques, she collected the blood on her fingertip and licked it away. Jacques held Georgette tighter and bowed his head to trail his lips affectionately and possessively along her cheek.

“You’re safe here,” Jacques told her to put any distress at ease. “Pierre’s parties are friendly to all. Even if they were not, a vampire would squander the long years of his life by crossing me.”

“That’s a bold statement,” she laughed, but relaxed a little inside his arms.

“You happened to mention you fancy a bold man.” He winked at her.

“Only if his boldness is not misplaced.” She laughed.

“How do you judge me?” Jacques raised his eyebrows.

“I’m reserving judgment.” She ran his hand from his shoulder down over his chest.

Vampires and humans swirled together in a seductive waltz, their movements fluid, with an intoxicating, ethereal quality. Their partners, the humans, seemed entranced, their faces a mix of ecstasy and drunkenness as they succumbed to the allure of their immortal companions. The air seemed to shimmer with the quality often confined to dreams, and it was only because of her exposure to Jacques and the mental effects he could induce that Georgette realized it was a product of the combined hypnosis of the vampires there, creating a dreamlike state among the humans. She wondered then if Jacques was keeping her lucid, or if she had a tolerance simply by being aware of the phenomenon’s existence.

A boisterous laugh sounded through the throng of dancers. Georgette saw a flash of red among the crowd and Jacques scoffed with irritation. She recognized Buck Taylor easily, the second tallest man in the room wearing a bold red shirt. He danced with a diminutive woman, all but slinging her around the floor in his arms. Now that she watched the other dancers more closely Georgette recognized other men from the Wild West Show, most of them part of Buck’s Rough Riders.

“Pierre finds great amusement in your American cowboys,” Jacques explained with distaste.

“They can always be trusted to liven up an event.” Georgette saw that several men wore their gunbelts and revolvers peeking out from beneath their rented tailcoats. One of the bumbling cowboys bumped into an elegant vampiress. The pale vampire hissed at the tan cowboy, but he was too focused on his dance partner to notice. Georgette remarked, “I’ll bet your friends can liven things up too.”

“Pierre enjoys spectacle.” Jacques kept his attention on Georgette, unconcerned with the sights around them.

“Did you bring me here because I fit in with the spectacle?” she was only partially teasing.

Jacques shook his head subtly, rustling his long hair. “If this is a circus, you are the ringmaster and I am merely your dancing bear.” He grinned and twirled her unexpectedly, holding her tighter when he brought her back into his arms. As they moved across the floor, their bodies communicated in a language all their own. A subtle shift of Jacques's hand on her waist, the gentle pressure of Georgette's palm against his shoulder, the synchronized glide of their feet. Jacques brushed his lips against Georgette's skin, his breath warm and tantalizing as he savored her exquisite scent. The sound of blood coursing excitedly through her veins was as clear in Jacques’s ears as the orchestra, beating a rhythm to which he would never tire of dancing.

The haunting melody curled around Jacques and Georgette like mist rolling in with the evening breeze. The world seemed to fall away as Jacques's grip on Georgette tightened, pulling her closer. He lowered his head to capture her lips in a kiss that was both tender and consuming. Georgette felt the world around them blur into insignificance, her senses overwhelmed by the softness of his lips and the heady taste of him. Her fingers curled into his hair, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened, their movements growing more synchronized and passionate. Jacques's hands roamed her back, sending shivers down her spine, while her own hands explored the breadth of his strong shoulders.

Jacques’s chest swelled with pride when he pulled back from their kiss with a smile on his lips. He gave her another ebullient twirl. Georgette should have been equally buoyed, the emotion was certainly there. But there was something in the way so many unnatural eyes watched her; the way their fangs glinted when they grinned. The small hairs on the back of her neck prickled with unease. She had never felt herself weak or any semblance of a victim, but now she felt like a doe who had wandered into a den of wolves. Where there had been excitement minutes before, it was now tinged with trepidation. Jacques seemed wholly unaware and entirely absorbed in her alone. She wondered for a dark moment if it was an elaborate ruse to bring her here so he could have her at a disadvantage, but she couldn’t think that of him when he had been nothing but kind to her. He also had no need of placing her at a disadvantage to do anything he wanted to her, if he wanted to act brutish. She couldn’t pinpoint precisely what was amiss, unable to consciously articulate what piqued the primal part of her mind.

“Is it too much trouble to ask for some fresh air and a drink?” she asked instead, using thirst to explain why her mouth had gone dry.

“As you wish,” Jacques assured her.

Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips, keeping his gleaming eyes on hers as he placed a kiss on her skin. Many eyes watched them as they weaved through the crowded ballroom, giving Georgette another prickle of concern like panicky ants crawling up her spine. Buck Taylor watched too, watched her, his eyes narrowed. Buck could be jealous of her, although never enough for him to lay any official claims on her, but he had never been aggressive or mean spirited before. The sight of him unsettled her further so that she clutched Jacques’s hand.

Jacques led her to a grand staircase at the far end of the ballroom and up to the third story. A short walk down a hallway lined with oil paintings found them at a pair of doors opened to a large balcony. They walked to the stone balustrade, taking in the view of the gardens dappled with moonlight. Jacques rested his hand on the small of her back.

“I’m not accustomed to crowds so large.” Georgette inhaled the fresh night air then turned into Jacques, placing her hand on his chest. “Perhaps the drink would taste better someplace else. Take me away from this ruckus and let us enjoy a more private evening.”

A sound rumbled in Jacques’s chest, as if he had forced a groan back down into his gut before it escaped his throat, and his fingers dug into the fabric of her dress. “I didn’t bring you here tonight with that intention, but my god, darling, there’s nothing I want more.” He did groan now, remembering the obligation to his friend. “But first, I’d very much like for you to meet my friend and our host, Pierre. He must be, ah, occupied for a short time. Let me fetch you that drink and then we’ll reassess. One should never attempt anything amorous on a dry throat.”

He stole a lingering kiss then walked from the balcony in a brisk, long stride. Georgette leaned over the balustrade, breathing deep to try to steady her nerves. Cheery sounds of the ball carried to her and the night was beautifully serene. It didn’t help. Men she had known and traveled with for years were acting strangely and this mansion with its elegant veneer and sinister undertone had to be playing on her nerves. It would be irrational for such a set of circumstances not to. She realized too that the man she felt safest with and trusted most was the man she barely knew. She smiled when she heard footsteps approaching her across the balcony.

Her smile faded when she turned and faced a stranger.

An extraordinarily handsome man walked toward her, tall and muscular with dark hair and viper green eyes that gleamed like radium. Four sharp fangs flashed inside his dashing smile. He had the look of a lion stalking his prey when he approached her, gracile but powerful, the chilling, malicious smile only a façade to keep her from taking flight. There was nowhere for her to flee even if she wished it, unless she wanted to charge past him to the only door or fling herself over the balcony. And she didn’t run from fright.

“I had to see for myself what all the fuss was about,” the man said in a rich seductive voice. Meeting her at the railing, he leaned his hip against it and drummed short but pointed nails upon it, as he let his eyes openly travel her figure. “You’ve caused quite a stir in our little cloister.”

“It’s the dress, isn’t it?” she asked to make light, but she didn’t return his false smile.

“Le Gris hasn’t flaunted a human in a very long time,” the man said, a hint of menace dripping from his words. “He has his dalliances, as do we all, but such things are to be kept discreet. It’s frowned upon, you know. Humans are our hounds and cattle. You can see how taboo that makes it for us to entangle ourselves with a human. Let alone to openly cavort with one.”

“Does my standing alone on a balcony constitute cavorting?” she asked brusquely.

“I can smell him on you.” The man leaned too close, bringing his nose near her throat and inhaled lewdly. “As well as the perfume you’re wearing. Tuberose and jasmine. It pairs well with the scent of arousal you cannot hide from us, but clashes with the vanilla fragrance sprayed upon your dress by its maker. The scent left on the fabric by her aged fingers taints the ripeness of your skin.”

“You make my skin crawl.” She looked at him defiantly, a hair’s breadth away from pulling her derringer and firing a bullet into one of his venom green eyes.

“That is not all I could do to your skin.” He snatched her arm, yanking her to him as he brought her arm to his mouth. Georgette couldn’t twist her arm free from his iron grip, forced to watch with revulsion as the man licked the inside of her wrist.

“I, for one, have never had to capture a struggling woman to taste her,” Jacques’s voice boomed across the balcony from where he stood in the doorway. He held a glass of champagne in each hand and walked nonchalantly toward them. Only his aurous eyes, glinting murderously, betrayed the ferocity boiling inside him. “Do you not have a lady of your own to charm this evening, Slyvester?”

Slyvester kept his eyes on Jacques but spoke to Georgette, “Do you know that whomever of us bites you first will have claim to you forever? No matter where you go or how many years pass, or how many other lovers you take, you will carry our mark forever. Much like branding a horse is to you cowboys.”

“Just like branding a horse, it’s a good way for you to get kicked in the teeth,” Georgette spat.

Still holding Georgette’s arm brutally tight, Slyvester dragged it out until her arm was stretched out over the balustrade in a clear threat as he looked at Jacques. “You haven’t bestowed your curse upon her yet. Humans are so fragile, their lives so fleeting.”

Jacques’s lips curled in a snarl matching the menace in his voice, “Whereas it takes a great deal of violence to kill us.” His exposed fangs looked longer to Georgette than before, or perhaps it was the viciousness about him that enhanced his frightening appearance. “If you want to find out firsthand, I’ll accommodate you.”

“You’re past your prime, old man,” Slyvester said venomously. “You peaked during the Enlightenment.” His eyes drifted up toward a window another story above them. “Just like Pierre, you’ve grown content and weak.”

Without warning, Jacques lunged at Slyvester. His movement was almost too fast for Georgette to see – a blur of bared teeth, wicked eyes, and wild hair, shoulders bunched and black coat flapping around his huge body. Growling bestially, Jacques tackled the other vampire with jarring force, sending both men plunging over the balcony to the garden three stories below. Georgette gasped, helplessly watching them plummet. Horror slowed the moment for her, and it appeared to her that they fell in slow motion, clawing at each other and twisting in the air like angry cats.

The men hit the ground far below with bone-shattering force. Georgette leaned far over the balustrade, as if the few extra inches she gained would help her see better. On the ground, the men rolled over one another, a mass of frenzied punching and biting. Their growls and hisses and curses carried to Georgette, along with the sounds of flesh tearing under sharp nails and fists pummeling into meat.

Tearing herself from the rail, Georgette ran as fast as she could to the nearest staircase that would take her down to the garden where the men fought viciously.

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

Jacques fisted Sylvester’s lapels as he tackled him over the balustrade, holding the bastard beneath him as they fell. He ensured that Slyvester hit the ground on his back with Jacques landing on top of him, driving his fists down into the vampire’s flesh with all the force of his heavy body and gravity. Jacques felt Sylvester’s collarbones shatter and his shoulder blades beneath splinter – a minor injury for a rapidly-healing vampire. Sylvester squealed with rage and pain, thrashing beneath Jacques to unseat him.

Sharpened fingernails slashed across Jacques’s face, temporarily blinding him, and giving the other man a moment’s advantage. Bucking his hips and twisting his body, Slyvester knocked Jacques off and rolled up to his feet. Jacques immediately sprang up into a fighting stance, perfectly balanced, with his fists clenched tight. The ragged claw marks across Jacques’s face healed in seconds, leaving blood streaking down his cheek.

“Can you blame me?” Slyvester asked flippantly as he spat blood from his mouth. “She is enticing. For an appetizer.” He swiped a clawed hand at Jacques the way a boxer used a jab, to gauge distance and create space. “What does Pierre think of her? How is Pierre this evening?”

For the first time that evening, it concerned Jacques that he hadn’t yet seen Pierre. That Sylvester was remarking on it now meant something sinister was afoot. Slyvester shot out a low kick at Jacques’s knee. Jacques jerked his leg up enough for the kick to miss, then stomped his boot down on the front of Slyvester’s knee, digging the tread of his boot into flesh and peeling skin away from the vampire’s skin. Slyvester shrieked with pain as the bone crunched, but even this was little more than a nuisance to a vampire. Slyvester shook his injured leg once and when he returned it to the ground it was healed.

Jacques circled his opponent in another semblance to boxing. Slyvester held his hands high to guard his face. Jacques kept his fists lower but ready, inviting a strike at his face. He even leaned in, making his invitation sweeter. Slyvester took the bait, swiping viciously at Jacques’s face with all his force, putting his body into the blow. Jacques bobbed his head and shoulders to dodge the strike, his timing perfect, and caught the arm Slyvester was foolish enough to give him. Anchoring Slyvester’s wrist in his fist, Jacques slammed his opposite forearm into his enemy’s elbow, shattering the bone. In the same savage motion and with the same arm, Jacques whipped his hand to Slyvester’s face. His thumb caught under his enemy’s nose and his fingers dug into his far eye socket. With a cruel wrench of his hand, Jacques broke the man’s nose, ripped the flesh from his cheek, and popped his eye from its socket. Slyvester howled and fought against Jacques’s hold on his arm like a pheasant flapping in the jaws of a hound. The crippling blow had been executed in less than a second.

Slyvester’s eye dangled from its stringy optic nerve, looking like a bloody yellow string of snot connecting the bobbing eye to the empty bloody socket. Grinning evilly, Jacques snatched the eyeball, yanked it off its string with a pop and crushed it in his fist like a grape. “That won’t grow back.”

Mercilessly, Jacques planted his bloody hand on Slyvester’s shoulder as the crippled man howled in pain and outrage, scratching ineffectively at Jacques with his free hand. Using the arm he held as leverage, Jacques spun his opponent until he faced away and Jacques was able to bring his arm up behind his back, bent unnaturally like a chicken wing. With a brutal yank, Jacques forced the man’s arm far past the range of motion for the joint, wrenching the shoulder out of its socket with a sickeningly wet gurgle of tissue and bone scraping against bone. It was hardly more difficult for Jacques than pulling a drumstick from a roast turkey. Slyvester’s arm dangled limp and useless inside its sack of skin. It would heal quickly once the joint was realigned, but this was not easily and quickly done by a man inexperienced in such matters of field medics, and it would dangle like a tassel until then.

Now, one-eyed and effectively one-armed, Slyvester swayed on his feet and whimpered feebly. Blood, snot, and drool mingling in a dripping mess from his face. Jacques shoved him away, sending Sylvester stumbling. Jacques straightened and smoothed his lapels. He cast a glance at the huge bay windows that looked into the candlelit interior of the mansion. The sounds of the ball had grown louder and more raucous.

“You forget, mon ami,” Jacques snarled ruthlessly as he ran a hand through his wild hair. “I spent centuries at war. Hundred Year’s War, Byzantine Wars, Muscovite Wars, Hessian Wars, Napoleon’s War. I returned from the Transvaal less than a decade ago. War and women are all that have held my interest throughout the centuries.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Slyvester sputtered. “It made you arrogant.” He grinned, showing a broken-off canine.

Jacques narrowed his eyes at this misplaced reaction.

A crash inside the mansion drew his attention. He jerked his head to the sound, but saw nothing inside the shimmering ball other than a flash of the expected horde of moving bodies. Something rustled on Jacques’s opposite side in the garden. A white streak shot out of the dark with great speed from among the hedges and flowers, aiming for his head. Jacques ducked and snatched the thing out of the air, realizing it was a rope when he clenched his fist around it. The rigid sort of latigo rope used by cowboys. Jacques’s hand instantly burned as if he had grabbed a red hot poker out of a fire, and his skin began to sizzle, filling the night air with the scent of burning skin and something metallic.

“Silver?” Jacques frowned as he sniffed the smoke rising from his palm to confirm his suspicion. Silver wouldn’t kill Jacques as it would a weaker vampire, but it burned like hell and it rendered many of his vampiric abilities impotent. Silver interwoven into a rope could render him as useless as a mortal. He didn’t release the rope despite the pain in his hand, and instead wrapped his fist around it multiple times to get a better grip and yanked the rope toward him, reeling in the man holding it. The flesh on Jacques’s hand burned and sizzled like steak on a grill, but the pain didn’t stop him. Another rope flew at him from his other side. He saw it just in time to catch it with his left hand, instantly scalding that palm too.

Just as Jacques realized Sylvester had been a ruse to lure him out into the garden alone, the bay windows exploded. Glass and iron framing shot out into the garden, stinging Jacques’s skin like angry wasps. A dozen vampires and humans burst out of the broken window in a frightened stampede, the humans screaming and vampires hissing. Hot on their heels was one of the cowboys, a man with a handlebar mustache and drawn pistol in hand. The cowboy aimed and fired at a male vampire Jacques recognized as one of Pierre’s acquaintances. The vampire seized when he was struck in the back, his mouth open in a rictus of pain. Other party goers ran around the injured vampire, too scared to care about him. The bullet didn’t exit the front of his chest and must have settled inside his ribcage, because his chest began to burn from the inside out. Charred flesh crept up from his collar up his throat to his jaw and over his face, until his features resembled a sizzling mummy.

Jacques watched, confused. Bullets didn’t have that effect on vampires. He’d been shot dozens of times to little more effect than a bee sting. In the few seconds he watched the bewildering scene unfold, he felt his great strength seeping away. The ropes in his hands felt like they were attached to Clydesdales instead of the men holding them, and he felt his arms being slowly drawn apart as his muscles quivered with fatigue. One of the men who had stepped out from his hiding place, approached Jacques with his gun drawn as he tried to get his rope back and take another shot at catching him in a more effective hold.

Handlebar Mustache stood just inside the broken window, one boot planted on the window frame. He trained his pistol on Jacques.

Jacques summoned a burst of strength from his faltering muscles and yanked the rope held by the closest cowboy. The cowboy stumbled toward Jacques, who dropped both ropes and grabbed the cowboy by the throat with lightning speed. Jacques spun the cowboy in front of him as a shield just as Handlebar Mustache fired at his chest. His strength was already returning as the bullet struck the cowboy in the chin, level with Jacques’s heart, and tore off his face. Jacques grabbed the man’s pistol and shoved his body away.

A woman staggered away from the melee inside the mansion, clutching a wound on her thigh that spurted blood in time with her pulse. She weaved in between Jacques and Handlebar Mustache, blocking his shot. In that same second another lasso shot at Jacques from behind, catching him around the neck and instantly cinching tight. Jacques choked as he was yanked backward off his feet and dragged across the ground, the gun in his hand bouncing wildly with no target in sight. He forced the fingers of his free hand in between his flesh and the rope that was choking him, burning through his throat, and leaching his strength all at once, as his back scraped over the ground. Twisting his head, he saw another cowboy mounted on a horse with the rope dallied around the saddle horn. The cowboy was trying to aim his pistol at Jacques’s head while his horse backed quickly away to keep tension on the rope as he was trained.

With a shaking hand, Jacques tried to aim his pistol at the man before his opponent could get a shot off. Jacques flinched when a shot crashed in his ears. But it was the mounted man’s head that burst open, sending a spray of pink chunks out from the side of his temple. The man slumped in the saddle and another shot rang across the garden, catching Handlebar Mustache in his open mouth as he shouted something that would never be heard.

Jacques’s eyes were blurry when he tried to aim his gun toward the gunfire. He could only see the hazy blood red outline of a woman walking swiftly toward him out of the shadows of the mansion. Georgette aimed over Jacques’s prostrate body and fired again, killing the other man who had roped him. His vision was clear enough to see the deadly focus in her eyes when she trained her tiny derringer dangerously close to his head. Her fourth shot burst in Jacques’s ears and the rope around his neck went slack with a twang.

Coughing violently, Jacques rolled over and pushed up to his hands and knees. He shoved the rope off over his head and breathed deep, feeling his strength return quickly. He got to his feet unsteadily and tucked the pistol into his waistband as Georgette ran to him. Grinning painfully at her he said hoarsely, “A woman of many talents.”

“That’s nothing,” she replied breathily. “I’m just glad I didn’t have to shoot another admirer down from the gallows before his neck snapped. That’s pressure, I tell you.”

She didn’t run to Jacques but to the horse who now stood nearby, riderless and panicky. Grabbing the reins, she paused to pet the animal, letting him know she meant him no harm. She called to Jacques over her shoulder, “You might hurry! I only had four shots, and you’re lucky I didn’t miss any of them.”

Georgette swung up into the saddle, keeping a tight hand on the reins so Jacques could clamber onto the horse as it shied from the mayhem surrounding them. Jacques had barely locked his arms around her waist when she kicked the horse into a gallop. He had to shout in her ear to be heard above the rattling gunfire and screams inside the mansion, and the horse’s drumming hoofbeats, “Here you were worried the vampires would cause trouble.”

“I recognized some of those cowboys,” she said as she brought the horse in a tight whirl around a circular fountain, using it for cover before charging down a lane between hedges. “They’re hired guns. Gunslingers.”

“Not amateurs either,” Jacques agreed. “Their weapons are rigged to target our weaknesses.”

“So then, it was a vampire causing problems. One of yours gave the gunslingers some inside information.” She cocked her head to the side to look at him. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to spend much time around me to learn I’m always right.”

“Sylvester must have made a deal with them,” Jacques gritted, his arm tightening around her waist. “Pigeon-livered bastard.”

“Lucky for you, the man isn’t alive who can catch me when I’m riding a horse.” She kicked the horse into a run down the hedgerow. For Georgette, the hedges were very dark, aside from the faint light that reached out from the mansion, casting strange angular shadows among the hedges. The fighting was centralized in the mansion, quickly fading behind them. With the start they had and a fast horse, they could easily ride to safety.

Jacques squeezed her and put his hand over hers on the reins. “I can’t ride away from a battle. And I have to find that damned harlot, Pierre, and keep him alive.” He pulled back on the reins from behind, slowing the horse. “I’ll get off here and go back. Keep riding until you’re safe. I promise I’ll find you before the sun rises.”

“Says the man who was just hogtied and bleeding into the grass,” she snapped angrily. “Just hold on.”

Sitting back in the stirrups and leaning back against Jacques’s chest, she pulled the horse into a sliding stop in the dewy grass. At the press of her heels, the horse wheeled around with catlike agility. Instead of dashing back down the hedgerow, Georgette aimed the horse straight at the hedge that separated them from the mansion. The horse sailed over the hedge with ease. Jacques grunted when the horse landed. Having no stirrups to support his weight, the seat of the saddle hammered him rudely in the crotch.

“If we vampires didn’t heal quickly, you might have just ruined one of my finer talents,” Jacques grumbled in her ear, trying to adjust his painful seat on the horse’s running hindquarters.

The lights of the mansion blasted her eyes like an explosion in the darkness, matching the chaos inside. Many windows were shot out or broken, and straggling guests, human and vampire alike, ran terrified from the broken windows and torn-off doors. Gunshots and screams had both dwindled, but as with any battle, the silence following was more grim.

“Tell me where to find your friend.” Georgette set her jaw, aiming the horse at the large, shattered bay window.

Jacques fumbled with the pistol in his waistband, clumsily checking the number of rounds in the cylinder. “Five shots.”

“Do you know how to use that Colt?” she asked as she tried to spy the part of the windows least covered with toothy shards of glass.

“I’ve never had much use for a revolver,” Jacques answered as he closed the cylinder and returned the gun to his belt.

“Wonderful.” Georgette kicked the horse when it balked at the window.

The animal had more sense than its rider – entering a broken window into a room that echoed with gunfire and smelled of blood, gunpowder, and fear seemed like a bad idea to any rational horse. Georgette yanked the reins when the horse tried to turn away from the window and kicked it again. Squealing in frustration, the horse reared in protest at the window then launched himself inside with enough gusto to clear a five-rail fence. Polished hardwood floors were slick as ice under a horse’s hooves, and the horse landed in a barely controlled skid. An unlucky cowboy running toward the window with his gun drawn was caught between the horse and the wall. The horse careened sideways into the man, crushing him against the wall and shattering his ribcage. Jacques gave him the coup de grace by kicking his heel harshly into the man’s temple. His body slid down the wall leaving a bloody smear. Jacques had to duck low to avoid the doorframe when they charged through the double doors of the ballroom.

The ballroom that shimmered with elegance and anticipation earlier was now mayhem, filled with the dead, the injured, and those who were still fighting, while bullets shot across the room. Gunsmoke hung in the air, mixing with the smell of blood and viscera. Broken shards of crystal littered the floor, twinkling especially bright where they sat in the scattered pools of blood. Bodies of vampires lay partially charred, still smoldering, contorted in agony, and humans lay broken and bleeding. A toppled candelabra had caught the dress of a dead woman on fire, leaving her body ablaze on the ballroom floor.

A cowboy trained his pistol on a vampire dashing toward the nearest doorway and fired. The vampire seized when the bullet caught him between the shoulder blades before his flesh began to sizzle then burst into flames across his back. A lady vampire with blazing blue eyes hissed like an angry cat at the cowboy as he fired a round that just missed her head. He fired again, the hammer falling on an empty chamber with a snap. Terror flashed across the cowboy’s face when he realized he was out of bullets, and he fumbled to quickly reload. The vampire launched herself at the cowboy, sinking her claws into his chest. He screamed until it was cut off abruptly as she tore his throat out with her teeth in a geyser of blood.

“What the hell is in those bullets?” Georgette asked, kicking the horse into a gallop across the ballroom. The horse vaulted over a pair of dead dancers, splintering the wood floor with his hooves when he landed.

“I’ll be damned if I know,” Jacques said in her ear. “More than silver. Silver was woven into that rope, and you saw what that will do. This is something else.”

“You better not get shot,” she told him. “If it doesn’t kill you, I’ll do it myself.”

“Indeed.” Jacques grinned and raised his hand in front of her, pointing at the large staircase. “If Pierre is anywhere inside, he’ll be in his favorite bedroom on the second floor.”

A cowboy standing near a wall fired a shot at them, just missing Georgette’s face. It passed so close she felt the air sizzle as it flew by her ear. Jacques aimed his pistol over Georgette’s shoulder and fired. The wood next to the cowboy’s head exploded, sending splinters stabbing into the side of the man’s face. Jacques had missed the man’s head by a foot, but his shot was lucky. Howling with pain, the cowboy clasped his ruined face. Georgette aimed her horse at the man and kicked hard, making the horse charge into the cowboy at a run. The horse plowed over the man, crushing him beneath pounding hooves.

“Save your bullets if you can’t shoot straight,” Georgette snapped at him.

Georgette made for the staircase, passing near the toppled candelabra where it lay across a woman’s burning corpse. As they ran past, Jacques shoved the pistol back in his belt and leaned far to the side, holding Georgette’s waist for balance as he reached toward the floor. Jacques grabbed the candelabra, twirling the long metal pole in his huge right hand as he righted himself behind Georgette.

“This suits me better,” he said with a laugh as he held the three-pronged end upright like a lance at the ready.

The horse took the stairs gamely, lunging up them like a hillside, taking four and five at a time as splinters flew up from the battered wood beneath his hooves. A cowboy rushed toward them at the top of the stairs. It took him an extra few seconds to decide where to aim at the strange spectacle of man and woman riding double on a horse bounding up the stairs. Jacques drew back his right arm and threw the candelabra like a javelin, flinging it ahead of the running horse and straight into the cowboy’s chest. The iron rod impaled the cowboy with its trident head with such force that it sent him stumbling backward, dead on his feet. As Jacques and Georgette rode past the man’s twitching body, Jacques plucked the candelabra from the man’s body where it stood upright like a pin in an entomology specimen.

The horse galloped toward the closed pair of doors at the far end of the hallway. Georgette wanted to charge straight through them, but the horse balked, sliding to a stop at the last second and whirling to the side. Cursing the animal, Georgette brought him alongside the door. Jacques kicked the door but it held fast, locked from the inside or even barricaded. Raucous voices could be heard inside the room beyond. Georgette spun the horse around until his rear faced the door. Jacques understood and smacked the horse hard on the rump. With an indignant squeal, the horse kicked back in response to the rude smack, kicking through the wooden doors as effectively as a battering ram.

Georgette kicked the horse to burst through the broken doors, scattering the people inside in every direction like a covey of quail bursting haphazardly from cover beneath the nose of a hunting hound. Women’s screams and men’s shouts filled the room along with the clamor of glasses dropped to the floor. Jacques aimed his candelabra lance as the horse ran inside, choosing a cluster of three men who loomed over a pair of frightened women. It angered him more to see all parties were mostly naked, thinking of what violent acts against the women he had interrupted. The trident tip hit the nearest man high in the chest and simultaneously the man beside him in the shoulder, finally thrusting through to the man behind, catching him in the guts. The charging horse forced the three skewered men backward, as they futilely screamed and flailed, until their backs collided with the latticed windows. With a final heave on the lance, Jacques shoved the three men out of the window to meet their death two stories below, impaled together. They made for a garden decoration that would have been the envy of Vlad Tepes.

Pierre was shouting something from a far corner of the room where he huddled with three women, naked and waving his arms wildly. Jacques paid him no mind beyond reassuring himself that his friend was still alive, albeit in some state of nude disarray. But that was not an uncommon state for Pierre.

Georgette brought the horse around to face the room, leaning low against his neck to shield her from any gunfire. Jacques jumped down from the horse, landing fully in balance and descending into a crouch in a fluid movement with feline agility. He assessed the room faster than a heartbeat. Two men stood in the corner near Pierre and his women, also mostly nude. One mostly dressed, very tall man stood alone by a large fireplace, fumbling to draw his gun from his gunbelt that was undone along with his trousers and flapping around his hips beneath the hem of his red shirt. Jacques sprang at the pair of men by Pierre, covering the room like a panther, his fangs likewise bared in a bestial snarl, eyes gleaming aurous and merciless. He caught the men before their sluggish human reflexes could avail them. Jacques’s right fist slammed into the nearest man’s teeth with inhuman strength and all the forgiveness of iron, nearly bursting through the back of the man’s skull and killing him as quickly as a bullet to the brain. With his left hand, Jacques caught the other man’s throat, digging his nails into the feeble flesh and ripping his throat out, severing arteries and tendons and windpipe all in one vicious motion.

Using his body to block Pierre and the shrieking women near him, Jacques straightened to face the one remaining cowboy. The tall man in the red shirt. Buck Taylor, the King of the Cowboys and, Jacques suspected, a rival for Georgette’s affection. The snarl on Jacques’s lips turned upward into a malicious sideways smirk. With Jacques’s heightened senses and hyper-fast reflexes, events inside the room seemed to move in slow motion. Georgette had aimed the horse at Buck, trying to run him down. Pierre was shouting something undoubtedly not worth listening to. Buck had retrieved his pistol from his gunbelt, drawing it on Jacques with the famous lightning-quick speed of an American gunfighter. Jacques drew his own pistol, fanning the hammer with his left hand to circulate a fresh round into the chamber as he simultaneously raised the gun with his right hand. Jacques fired when the front sight moved across Buck’s heart, a fraction of a second faster than Buck could finalize his aim.

The bullet caught Buck under his collarbone on his left side, an inch too high for a killing shot, but enough to send him reeling backward. He stumbled toward the broken window as Jacques fanned another round into his revolver and fired again, faster this time and more errant. The second bullet embedded itself in Buck’s hipbone, knocking him nearer the window. Following his momentum, Buck dove out of the broken window, taking his chances with the drop to the ground below instead of Jacques and his gun.

Jacques’s narrowed eyes followed Buck out of the window, the grin still on his lips at the prospect of the hunt. He stumbled when Pierre struck him hard in the back from behind and shouted angrily, “What in the hell are you doing, you raving madman!?”

“Huh?” Jacques sputtered dumbly, taken completely off guard. Confusion knotted his brows when he turned his head toward Pierre.

“Can you not be invited to any decent occasion without wreaking utter fucking mayhem?” Pierre seethed, spittle flying from his mouth, his chest blotchy red with waning arousal and mounting anger, his vampiric eyes gleaming deep mahogany. “This was the most promising evening I have arranged in years, and here you burst in like a goddamn lunatic? What are you thinking? And shooting? Why in the Nine Circles of Hell are you shooting inside my mansion!?”

Still holding the pistol, Jacques gestured from the broken window to Georgette to Pierre, his mouth gaping – a very rare event in which he was lost for words. Blinking through the confusion, he asked, “What exactly were you doing in here with those cowboys?”

“What was I doing?” Pierre laughed bitterly. “What does your towering intellect tell you?” He gestured at his nudity and his now unimpressive flaccidity. When Jacques still looked dumbfounded, Pierre continued with the same inflection he would use to speak to a very stupid child, “I had four cowboys in here – the biggest of the bunch of them, I might add – and not enough women to go around. The big one, Buck, is a fairly tolerable stand in for you. Since you have never agreed to have a properly fun and debauched evening with me, I have been forced to finagle it in other ways.” He stomped his foot petulantly, making his limp dick flop humorously against his thigh. “This is the nearest I’ve been to enjoying just such an evening, and this – this – is the pallor you cast over it!”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Jacques shook his head, his brow furrowed. Then he started to laugh. “You had the cowboys in here for a goddamn orgy?”

“It sounds so cheap and vulgar when you say it like that,” Pierre huffed. “Just because they’re beastly Americans, that’s no reason for you to be rude. It was going to be a marvelous evening. One for the books, I tell you!”

Georgette’s expression was a mixture of aghast and amused when she looked at Pierre, as if her features were unsure of which emotion to settle on. She kicked her leg over the horse’s neck and dropped to the floor. She looked at Jacques for guidance, but he was of no use at present, still dumbfounded himself.

“Did those men accompany you here to your bedroom?” Jacques wiped the back of his hand over his sweaty brow. “Have they been here all evening?”

“They came here in a raucous sort of hurry a short while ago.” Pierre was still so irritated, he hadn’t yet bothered finding his pants, as if he was still hopeful for the brand of action he wanted. “But then I convinced them – without much difficulty, I might add – that I could give them an evening far superior to any other they had planned.” He tapped his temple in a knowing gesture.

Jacques couldn’t stop the laughter that bellowed from his throat. “You seduced the fucking cowboys? Men come to kill you, and you seduce them. I bow to your superior skills of self-preservation.” Jacques did bow, low and mockingly, with a flippant flourish of his tailcoat.

“You’re stark raving mad.” Pierre planted his hands on his hips and looked accusatorily at Georgette. “Have you poisoned him?”

Jacques looked at Georgette too, his eyes luminous with laughing tears. “All vampires have unique gifts. Whereas I can be persuasive and intuitive, as you have seen, Pierre can seduce anything that walks, crawls, or brays.” Looking around the destroyed room he laughed again. “Or shoots six-guns and throws lariat ropes.”

“Hear the jealousy in his voice?” Pierre asked Georgette sardonically.

“Have you any notion of the destruction wrought upon your guests and your mansion?” Jacques asked, wiping a tear from his eye. “It’s utter havoc downstairs. Did you not hear the screams and the gunfire?”

“Still raving, I see.” Pierre threw his hands up, finally capitulating. He located a pair of pants and awkwardly pulled them on while still berating Jacques, “Since when have you become such a namby pamby about a little havoc? It was only two centuries ago that my castle was under siege, and you couldn’t be bothered to stop fucking that infernal redhead while the entire West wing and tower were blown to smithereens!”

“The cowboys you invited here tonight were hired guns, sent to dispose of us.” Jacques tried to purge the laughter from his voice. “Hired by that jealous little bastard, Slyvester, and no doubt led by another jealous bastard, Buck Taylor.”

“Ludicrous,” Pierre said adamantly as he searched for a shirt. He retrieved a white frilly one and pulled it halfway over his head before realizing it belonged to one of the women and was much too small.

Jacques flipped open the cylinder of the pistol he had used. There were still two rounds remaining and he pulled one out. Using his thumbnail, he dug into the soft lead tip of the bullet. A silky silver substance oozed out, glimmering in the candlelight. It was like piercing a cherry cordial housing sticky liquid inside a chocolate shell. Jacques wrinkled his nose at the scent of it and the tip of his thumb sizzled until he wiped it off on his trousers.

“Mercury,” he said with extreme distaste. “That does a number on us, let me tell you. You can see for yourself when you venture downstairs. Do you think your average American cowboy has mercury filled bullets?”

Pierre studied the silvery oozing bullet, frowning. “Well, if they were indeed mercenaries, they weren’t very good ones.”

“They were pretty damn good, actually,” Jacques said, laughing again. “But the murderous bastards weren’t prepared for being bamboozled by the biggest harlot on the continent.”

“It will take more than flattery to redeem you from this travesty,” Pierre crossed his arms over his chest. “Even if what you say is true, you could have had the decency to allow me to have my fun first before causing such destruction.” He looked at Georgette with something that might have been jealousy. “Especially since you get to have your fun with your American.”

“Are you not going to appraise the destruction downstairs?” Jacques asked incredulously.

“I have maids and butlers who are paid to deal with such nonsense.” Pierre waved his hand dismissively. He looked at Georgette and grinned. “For a cowgirl, she’s hardly bovine at all. Perhaps we can still salvage the evening.”

“I intend to salvage our evening.” Jacques winked at Georgette. “Preferably someplace less overflowing with mercury and orgies.”

“What a boring way to live.” Pierre shook his head.

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

The second time Jacques took Georgette to Brook House, his home on Park Lane, he didn’t waste a breath inviting her in. When his carriage rocked to a stop, Jacques swept her out of the coach, down his foyer, up a marvelous staircase and along hallways lined with artifacts gathered from the far reaches of the world. It was an impressive feat that she could spare a portion of her awareness for the magnificent artifacts filling Jacques’s home, even while anticipation and arousal coursed through her body and the hot weight of his hand pressed insistently on the small of her back, guiding her toward a night of excitement, perhaps filled with even more intensity than the vampire ball was fraught with death. She resolved to study these in detail and hear the story behind each tomorrow, or whenever it may be that she desired to leave Jacques’s bed. Upon further consideration, that might not be for days.

She smiled at the thought. Jacques must have intercepted her mental process because he laughed heartily, his voice booming down the long hallway. His hand at Georgette’s back snaked around her waist and he hoisted her off the ground with ease and slung her over his shoulder like a barbarian claiming his spoils of war. When he reached the doors at the end of the hallway, he shouldered into them then kicked them shut behind him, twirling with Georgette as he crossed the room toward the inviting canopy bed. Instead of dropping her onto it, Jacques returned her to the floor in front of a grand fireplace set into the wall adjacent to the bed. Dancing flames gave the room a sultry glow and made Jacques’s eyes gleam like honey.

Taking her hand, Jacques raised it to his lips in a softer overture than Georgette had expected. He fixed his eyes on hers as he slowly drew his lips higher, pressing them next against her inner wrist. She had never been kissed in that sensitive place nor with such delicacy. It was a simple action but it sent a flutter through her. The tip of Jacques’s nose rested on her skin and he inhaled her scent. The sheen in his eyes deepened until they shimmered with the same otherworldly aurous quality Georgette had only seen in them when he was looking at her desirously or ripping into living flesh.

“You want to bite me.” It was a statement because she could see the answer plainly.

“More than I’ve ever wanted any worldly pleasure,” Jacques purred. “But I won’t until you ask me.”

“Not tonight. Not yet,” she said but her voice wavered. “Worldly pleasures first, if you please.”

Jacques trailed his plush lips and coarse beard from her wrist up her inner arm, holding her eyes while his mouth caressed her skin. His next kiss was to the inside of her elbow as he raised her arm to rest her wrist on his shoulder. Georgette twined her fingers in the thick hair hanging down the back of his neck, pulling him closer. His lips relished their way up the length of her arm, pausing next on her shoulder with lips slightly parted so she felt the hot tease of his tongue. A shiver passed through her when his mouth reached her collarbone, and she laughed at her own sensitivity to his touch. Jacques grinned against her skin and lingered there for several kisses.

When he reached the base of her neck, his tongue met her skin before his lips and his hands dug harshly into her flesh. A guttural rumble rolled through his chest, a dark ravening brand of arousal. He felt impossibly large with his body pressed against her, looming over her to kiss her. The laces of her corset felt as if they had been tightened by an invisible hand and the luxurious silk of her dress felt as itchy as burlap on her skin. The thought of ripping the fine scarlet dress apart just to be free of it flashed through her mind.

Jacques ran his hands up from her hips, over her nipped waist, to the top of her bodice. He pulled back enough to give her a devilish grin. “I could rip this off as easily as tissue paper.” His forefinger teased her bosom above the bodice. “But you’ll think me a villain when your head clears. Women and clothes, you know.”

Instead, he turned her so her back faced him and ran his long fingers over her bare shoulders down the laced back of her dress. Jacques grabbed the top of the dress on either side of the laces and ripped it open as if it were nothing more than frail gauze, but causing no damage aside from the torn laces and a few warped hooks and eyes, several of which skittered away across the polished wood floor.

The small act of aggression loosened the tether on the wilder part of his nature that Jacques wanted to restrain during their first encounter. His hands turned more demanding, his mouth hungrier. He locked a strong arm around her waist from behind and kissed her nape as he hoisted her fully off the floor to extricate her from the thick pile of dress she stood inside. In the same fluid motion, he crossed to the bed and laid her on the thick duvet.

He was less considerate of her undergarments. Leaning over her, he ripped her corset open to the tune of tearing silk and snapping whalebone, making her laugh excitedly. He was gentler with her chemise in an effort to savor the moment, unwrapping a gift he’d earned with his blood. There was a simple bow at the top of her chemise, securing a decorative stitch along the neckline. Jacques bowed his head until the tip of his prominent nose pressed her skin and hooked his canine in a loop of the bow to pull it undone. Georgette smiled and arched into him, encouraging him. Jacques took the dip in the neckline between his teeth and, paired with his left hand, ripped the chemise open down the center. He nuzzled into her exposed breasts, kissing and licking the flesh that pillowed around his lips and nose.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” Georgette purred, pushing back lightly on Jacques shoulders. When he raised his head and looked at her with lusting but uncomprehending golden eyes, she tugged his scarlet cravat loose and pulled the silk out of his collar. “You’re overdressed for the occasion. It seems unfair that your clothing should meet with a more civilized fate than my poor corset.”

Jacques pulled back from her and stood from the bed. He shrugged out of his tailcoat and appraised his torn and very bloody shirt. Flashing his teeth in a grin, Jacques gave her the show she wanted and ripped his own shirt open with exaggerated flair, puffing out his enormous chest and shaking back his wild hair. His pants were brusquely discarded as his eyes roamed her body, devouring the sight of her before his hands and mouth would devour the feel and taste of her. He crawled over her slowly, kissing his way up her body starting on her thigh. He met her eyes when he reached her sex. Pushing her thighs apart, he licked a fat stripe up her center and kissed her pussy as indulgently as he had kissed her lips. Bringing a hand to her breast, Jacques rubbed his calloused palm over her nipple as he squeezed her supple flesh. The sensation made her back arch, offering him more. Jacques lavished her with his tongue until her thighs were quivering and she was writhing beneath him, dripping into the sheets. He continued up her body, kissing over her navel and breasts on his way to her throat.

Jacques allowed some of his heavy weight to settle on her, pinning her beneath him. He caressed her thigh as he lifted her leg back to hook over his hip. His thick cock teased her entrance when Jacques brought his lips to hers. He kissed her ravenously, swallowing her moan, as he thrust inside in one swift motion. With her arms wrapped around him, she could feel the powerful muscles in his back and shoulders flex and tense in time with the rhythm he set. She dragged a hand through his hair and fisted it at the back of his neck, using her grip to direct his head down to her neck. The feeling of his lips and tongue on her skin and pulse point combined with the dangerous knowledge of what he could do to her there was exhilarating.

Georgette held him tighter as she trembled with pleasure and his breath became hoarse, puffing on her neck like a locomotive. The orgasm that wracked through her left her almost delirious with pleasure. Jacques dutifully pounded her through it, thrusting hard, wringing all the pleasure he could out of her body. He came with a rumbling groan, his massive body shuddering. Breathing heavily, he relaxed over her, pleasantly crushing her into the duvet while he spent several minutes kissing her indulgently.

Rolling onto his back, Jacques pulled her to drape over him. That massive chest of his made for a wonderful pillow. His voice was rich and husky, “I warned you once that if you came inside my home, I would never let you leave.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?” she purred.

“What do you want it to be?” he teased, running his large hand over her hip and the dip in her waist.

“An invitation.” She pressed closer to him, relishing the feeling of the length of his hard body.

“Stay with me,” he dropped his voice to a smoky octave just above a whisper. “Stay forever.”

“Forever would require me to be a vampire.” She looked at him with a cocked eyebrow.

He lifted head to kiss her cheek and rumble in her ear, “Shall I make you one tonight? Say yes, ma belle.”

“What other vampiric weaknesses do I need to be aware of?” she asked, lazily trailing her fingers over the faint lines on his shoulders and chest left by the silver-woven rope. They were mostly healed now and look like they were weeks old instead of only hours. “Do you burst into flames at the sight of the cross?”

“Why would a cross have any effect on us?” he scoffed. “I’ve no doubt vampires existed long before crosses were considered holy.”

“Prior to meeting you, all I knew about vampires I learned from Penny Dreadfuls.” She shrugged.

“What else did you learn from those ridiculous tabloids?” HIs hand continued soothing and caressing her.

“That vampires have no reflection in a mirror,” she answered.

“Do I look like a man who cannot see himself in a mirror?” Jacques grinned.

“I’m bored with talk of vampires, and it feeds into your preening too much.” She propped herself up with her arms on his chest. “Far more interesting than vampires are werewolves.”

“Werewolves?” Jacques raised his eyebrows.

“The Penny Dreadfuls have a story about a pack of werewolves far up north in the Yukon.” She toyed with a tendril of his hair. “They like the cold.”

“Naturally.” He smirked. “It would be prudent for me to make you a vampire before you go werewolf hunting.”

“Perhaps if we were going werewolf hunting, I’d let you,” she returned then added wistfully, “I’ve always wanted to travel there.”

“For the werewolves?” he teased.

“The northern lights are said to be beautiful.” She ignored his flippant remarks. “My father believes there is gold there too, up in the Klondike. A few miners have struck gold in the Yukon.”

“Werewolves, northern lights, and gold?” Jacques raised his eyebrows. “You’ve sold me, mon amor. When shall we leave?”

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Tagging some buddies! @babbushka @in-silks-and-flesh-and-leather @mrszimmerman24 @mrs-gucci @iamburdened @gabesprincess @rynwritesstuff @candycanes19 @caillea @cas-backwards-tie @queeniebee @mythrielofsolitude @ghoulian13 @icarusinthesea @reyloaddict55 @heartlight-starlight @thepalaceofmelanie @reveluving @vedavan @reylokisses @queen-of-elves @kyloremus @vixenofcourse @napiersmirk @lumberjack00fantasies

#best #fic #my stuff!#my wiritng #victorian!kylo #vampire #halloween #cowboy

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