"Farewell, fair cruelty." William Shakespeare
Part One
Holmes looked down again at the woman in the coffin, and tried to suppress the painful pang in his chest. In death, she looked as lovely as she had in life, and the light from the candle stands at the foot and head of her satin bower cast an ethereal glow to her delicate, still features.
Bending low, Holmes looked down onto her still face. Part of him longed to believe it was a ruse, but the mirror had not fogged before her nose, though he'd held it there for ten minutes when he'd first come to pay his respects.
He bowed his head, voice a hoarse, broken whisper. "This should never have happened, and I bear the blame fully and completely, Irene. I will not rest until I avenge your death."
Mournfully Holmes brushed his warm lips across her cold ones . . .
Irene opened her eyes.
"Hello, Sherlock," came her voice, a hint of amusement in it. He backed up, walking stick raised, his expression wary.
For a long, unreal moment, neither of them moved, and the only sound was the faint crackle of the candles. Holmes held still, studying Irene carefully as she sat up in her coffin.
Complexion: waxen.
No visible carotid pulse.
No discernible respiration.
Faint scent of roses.
"However you conjured this display, I commend you, Irene," he spoke, stalling to see if his words had any effect. "It is singularly effective. I would surmise you have been studying with Hindu fakirs in the discipline of breath control, however, I cannot account for your lack of body heat; pray tell me how you managed that?"
Irene chuckled, and the sound was both sweet and faintly disconcerting, like sound of distant glass, breaking. "Oh dear; once again you persist in seeking the reasonable explanation in the face of the inconceivable. Really, darling, you need to apply Occam's razor here and accept what you see. I'm quite, quite dead, you know."
"Dead the way Lord Blackwood was dead?" Sherlock countered, taking yet another step back as Irene raised one hand to lightly primp her auburn curls.
"Now that depends on which occasion. I'm dead the way he was that final time in chains, dangling over the Thames, but without quite the degree of drama."
"I find that difficult to accept," Holmes countered, circling the coffin on its bier, "since I am not generally in the habit of conversing with deceased persons."
"As you wish," Irene smiled patiently. The sudden gleam of candlelight off the glittering tips of her canines peeping out from her smirk made him tense.
"The Undead," Holmes began, "Are nothing more than a myth that can be found across world cultures; a universal legend perpetuated by premature burial, porphyria and superstitious ignorance."
"Legends," Irene countered, "generally have a basis in some truth, however minor. We all know King Arthur existed, but nobody has any proof of him."
"Arthur has been researched by scholars and archeologists," Holmes testily pointed out as Irene held out a hand to be helped from her coffin. He moved closer, holding the point of the walking stick to the hollow of her throat with one had even as he took her cold fingers with the other.
Irene looked down at the stick. "For a skeptic, you're certainly being cautious."
"Once bitten," he murmured, his words full of intimate ruefulness.
Irene laughed, and this time the sound echoed in the viewing room, like the tinkle of little silver bells. "I'm so delighted my reputation lives on after me."
She gracefully shifted to her knees and climbed out of the coffin, brushing her shroud skirt down and generally straightening herself in the time-honored fashion of women everywhere. Holmes kept his gaze on her, his expression stern.
When Irene looked up, he narrowed his gaze. "In the interest of investigating this folly; how, precisely, did you die, Irene?"
Her dimple, familiar and sweet deepened. "I . . . met someone for a late bite, after the last show at the Lyceum."
"A gentleman admirer," Holmes filled in, his expression tainted with faint jealousy, "clearly not one of your usual . . . retinue."
"Let us move on, shall we? That assignation was the death of me, but before I passed through the vale of tears, my . . . mentor . . . did let me know what would happen and what to expect."
"Considerate of him," Holmes spat out. "Given that he'd murdered you."
"An unforeseeable consequence," Irene admitted, "but one that has been overcome, as you now see. My goodness you're nervous for a man who doesn't believe in the Undead, Sherlock. Your pulse is galloping."
He watched her give a slow blink, her eyes glowing a deep carmine for a moment, and wondered if he could find another weapon, or barring that, at least another length to form a cross with the walking stick. "I may not believe you are risen from the grave, but clearly you do, and therefore are likely to be a bit . . . peckish."
"I am that," Irene admitted, "and you did offer to avenge my death. That was a lovely little tribute, but really, we could dispense with the noble quest and settle the matter with a nip and a cuddle."
"I'd sooner bring a viper to my chest," Holmes snapped.
"You didn't always feel that way," Irene murmured softly, her tone knowing. "In fact, I seem to recall that you weren't at all adverse to a bit of tooth here and . . . there." She let her gaze slide down the length of him, and Holmes tightened his jaws, willing himself not to respond to her taunt.
It was difficult not to.
"Be that as it may, necrophilia goes beyond my sensibilities, however . . . exotic those may be at times." He bluffed, "And in any case, I am now required to dispatch you myself, for the greater good of the empire."
Irene cocked an eyebrow at him, and brought her hands to her hips. This gesture made the thin linen shroud tighten invitingly across her bust, and he bit back a moan.
"I'm not threat to the empire," she told him dryly. "Besides, you're not exactly armed for the job. Don't you want to be my . . . first?"
"That—" he caught himself short as her question registered, "What?"
Irene smiled intimately this time, her expression tender. "Sherlock, this is all new to me, and without the right sort of . . . sustenance, I won't survive. It's not a request I make lightly, but given our long and . . . private history, I trust you."
It was precisely the most dangerous thing she could have said, Sherlock realized, since there was no response he could give to that.
"I'm going to use a word I rarely use," Irene whispered, gliding closer, "and I think you know what it is—"
"Irene—" he warned, his voice slow and uncertain. Part of his thoughts raced through what little he knew of vampires and the legends associated with them while the other part dared to imagine precisely what Irene was asking. And if she used the word—
"—darling . . . please," she sighed, and he swallowed hard. The decision was bittersweet, and Holmes slowly brought the walking stick down.
"Damn you," he murmured, and Irene gave a tremulous smile of gratitude. She moved closer still, into that intimate space where their breath would mingle, if she still breathed.
"A taste," she told him quietly, "A small taste of your vital essence—one of them anyway."
"Turn me, and I'll hunt you down," he warned, reaching to undo his cuff and pull his coat and shirtsleeve up. "I will take us both out of this second existence as surely as I would snuff a candle flame, Irene."
She bowed her head in acknowledgement, her eyes glowing ruby once more as she focused on his wrist. Sherlock turned it upwards; the tracery of blue against the pale skin was visible in the candlelight. Irene gave an involuntary whimper.
Holmes reached his other arm out, wrapping it around her small shoulders, turning her ninety degrees so that her left shoulder braced against his chest. The grip of his fingers against her right shoulder tightened, steel against the thin shroud.
"Whenever you're—" he didn't get to finish; Irene cupped her two small hands under his forearm and bent swiftly, sinking her delicate fangs into the thin flesh.
Holmes grunted.
A rush of sensation swept through him: a pinch of pain, and then the wild sweep of unexpectedly erotic pleasure magnified by the sensual flick of Irene's tongue, and the soft suction of her mouth. He swayed minutely, watching in fascination as she drank, swallowing daintily, and after the sixth gulp, a small warning at the back of his thoughts made him yank on her shoulders.
She pulled away with reluctance, curls swaying, eyes languid and barely focused. Holmes noted that the little pinpricks along his arm had white edges on them from the suction.
"Enough," he warned, his voice unsteady. "I have a limited supply of blood and patience, Irene."
She licked her lips with a slow sweep, catching errant drops and savoring them before speaking. "In a word: delectable. You are a man of good taste."
Holmes sighed and staunched his wrist with a handkerchief. "Flattery is not going to get you a second course."
"True-the rest of it's gone elsewhere," She murmured, and one little hand slipped down to his groin for a quick caress, stroking the turgid length with familiarity.
Holmes bit the inside of his cheek. "Not on the menu."
"Are you sure?" Irene bantered back. There was color in her face now, and a contented mien to her demeanor; Holmes noted faint warmth along her skin. He chose to change the subject.
"What now?" Holmes asked, looking from Irene to the coffin and then over to the door of the side chapel. "You've fed, and now what? Certainly you cannot walk the streets in a winding sheet, and according to legend the daylight will turn you to dust."
Irene gave a little yawn, politely blocked by one hand. "Now, I sleep. The authorities are supposed to ship my remains back to New Jersey, but I think somewhere along the way my coffin will disappear and that will be that. You know how superstitious the working classes are—I'll manage." She looked up at Holmes and her gaze held his. "I'll be fine darling, honestly. This is the start of a whole new adventure."
"Your idea of 'adventure' generally involves the wrong side of authority, propriety and ethics," Holmes commented quietly, "although this one seems far more involved."
"I've been making my own rules for years," Irene pointed out, "and I've managed to survive just fine, thank you. Now if you please?" she held out a hand, and reluctantly Holmes helped her back into the coffin. Irene settled down against the white satin lining and looked up playfully at him. "Goodnight kiss?"
"Kiss of death," he sneered, but bent over her and pressed his mouth to hers. Holmes meant it as a quick buss, but found himself lingering, overwhelmed for a moment by the truth of her changed condition. Irene—his Irene, the woman of flesh and life—was no more.
She reached up a hand to caress his cheek, and her fingers were cool. "Goodbye, darling . . . for now."
He straightened up and Irene closed her eyes, her hands resting at her waist. For a few minutes more, Holmes studied her carefully, and then with reluctance turned away, leaving the side chapel in measured steps. He made his way out of the funeral parlor and out to the street, his melancholy thoughts turning to the question of whether or not the Undead of London were ready for Irene Adler.