London, 1903
Helen Magnus slid quietly out of bed, smiling at the sleeping form lying there, lit by the muted lamps they'd forgotten to extinguish. He was still out cold and likely would be for hours. James needed his sleep, unlike Helen, who'd barely needed four hours per night since she'd been injected with the Source Blood. She stared at the carnage strewn over the floor. Beginning near the bed, trousers and braces, a tie, an evening jacket. She strolled closer to the door where her evening gown lay, a puddle of green silk. Her corset lay twisted beside it; she'd need to purchase new laces. Twenty or thirty little, silk-covered green buttons were scattered about. She shivered at the memory. James was not normally such an eager lover, but last night had been different. Very different.
They'd returned from the opera late. Helen had wanted to leave at intermission to hunt down a lead when an anonymous note had been handed to her by an usher between acts one and two. The young man had slipped into their box and palmed the note off to Helen. She'd unfolded it quietly while James sipped at his champagne during the scene change, and had felt all of the blood drain away from her face.
—
"Helen?" James asked softly. "What is it?"
She simply thrust the note at him and waited while he read it.
His hands shook, almost imperceptibly, when he handed the note back. "Extraordinary."
"Do you think so?" she asked.
"Indeed. But we cannot be sure, and now is certainly not the time to go looking."
Helen turned and looked at him sharply. "How can we not?"
"There is simply too much at stake, my dear. Now is not the time."
"James," Helen sighed, exasperated. "If not now, when?"
He sighed as well. "I don't know. I am not sure the time will ever be right."
"I want to try."
"Absolutely not. And certainly not tonight."
"What do you mean, 'absolutely not'? This is not your decision."
"No. Not entirely. But certainly in part, and I have not seen Rigoletto in twenty years or more. I wish to enjoy rest of the opera."
Helen bristled, but tucked the note into her evening bag. She sat with her back straighter than a pin, a challenge in the S-shaped corset, but her displeasure was terribly difficult to hide. More than anything, she wanted to follow the lead the note had provided; it would have been far more satisfying than watching the innocent young girl be accidentally murdered in the opera.
On the way home in the carriage, Helen felt stifled. She was the one in charge and James knew it, but his force of will was as strong as hers and in this particular battle, he had clearly won. Helen was not a good loser, a failing of which she was only vaguely aware. She positively chafed at James' assertion of dominance, and remained as far from him as the enclosed space of the carriage would allow for the entire trip home.
She could barely breathe during the ride, her mind railing against his audacity. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, trying to maintain her distance. She was feeling a distinct lack of oxygen and wondered if it was only the anxiety the note and James' reaction to it had provoked, or if that had been heightened by the the fact that her long time lady's maid, Mary, had given an extra yank on the laces of her stays earlier this evening after a pointed glance at the half-decimated box of chocolates that lay open on her dresser. That certainly wasn't helping things, nor did it diminish her annoyance at her friend's arrogance.
She preceded him through the front door, handing her cloak to the butler and making a bee-line for the library before James stopped her.
"Helen," he called.
She stilled.
"Helen." He spoke again, more softly.
She turned to face him.
He held out his hand. "Let's not do this, my dear."
"Don't call me 'my dear.' I can't."
He simply stood there, hand extended towards her, letting her make the next move.
"I wanted to go."
"I know."
"I could have gone."
"Yes."
"You couldn't have stopped me."
"No."
"You are not my husband." She took off a glove, holding it tightly in her fist.
James walked towards her, hand still outstretched, as one would approach a wary canine. When he was close enough, he reached for her free hand and held it softly.
She tensed, but stood rooted to the spot, inexplicably unable to pull her hand from his. More than anything, she wanted to break the connection and run into the night with a pistol and a knife and the lust for John Druitt's blood, but at that moment James' touch was the only thing preventing her from flying into a frenzied rage.
"No. I'm not." He raised her hand and brushed a kiss over her knuckles. "I do love you, and you are as dear to me, no, dearer, than if we were wed. But you need to let go." He pulled her closer, still holding her hand, brushing the other along her cheek.
"It's John," she spoke in a strangled whisper.
"I know," he brushed a kiss along her cheek. "I loved him too."
Helen turned her face to his, capturing his lips in a fierce kiss. Glove still in hand, her fist came up against his back, pulling him closer. Their kisses were usually sweet and gentle, building a slow burn, but these were ferocious, born of anger and love and hate. Teeth and lips and tongues warred, blocking out all reason. It was the only constructive way she could conceive of to quench her fire for blood. Lust for blood and lust for sex were not so very far apart.
When they broke for air, both were breathing hard. "The servants…" James murmured, pressing his nose to hers.
"Upstairs?"
"I should think so." He grabbed her hand and fairly pulled her up the grand staircase to the bedroom they shared more often than not these days. James shoved the door shut, pulling her back into another rough kiss his beard scratching her chin and neck as he made his way from her lips to her throat. The gentle rasp heightening her anticipation even more. It was a familiar sensation, but mixed with the turmoil in her mind, she didn't know whether to laugh or moan. But when she felt his hands come around to her back and then stop abruptly, Helen found it inexplicably funny that James, the brilliant detective, was stymied.
"What the devil?" He muttered, as she laughed.
"On the side."
"Ah." He grinned. "And I'm the perceptive one." He turned her to the side, and stared for a moment at the line of a hundred tiny buttons hugging the curve of her waist. Pulling her obliquely towards him, he gently kissed her neck as he began the task of unbuttoning her.
The kiss they'd shared in the foyer had Helen buzzing, and she was hardly going to let him be the aggressor in this encounter, especially given the overall dynamic of the evening. She turned, looped an arm around his neck, angling her face to his, and bit down on his lower lip, which stopped him in his tracks.
"Helen," he warned, "if you want to preserve these pretty buttons of yours, I would advise you not to do that again."
So she bit down again, the slight tang of blood touching her tongue, and heard the rending of fabric and the plink-plink-plink of many tiny buttons scattering. "Like that?" she purred.
James actually growled, shoving the gown down her arms and off of her body. He sighed as his hands went to the ties of her petticoat. "I don't understand why you need a gown at all if your underskirts are going to look like that," he complained.
As the rather over-exuberant garment fell to the floor, he raked his gaze over what was left, taking a moment to stare at her breasts through the ultra-sheer cotton of her fine chemise, held up by the shelf of her corset. "Damned torturous contraptions," he mumbled grabbing her by the shoulders and turning her to face away from him, yanking at the laces of her corset until it fell away.
Helen sobbed with the first free intake of air she'd had in hours, as his hands encircled her waist from behind and his lips came down on the back of her head. She was actually taller than him in her heels, so she slipped them off and he brought his hands up to her hair to let it loose from its pins. One by one, they fell to the ground, and he raked his fingers through the burnished copper strands, letting them fall past her shoulders. His hands stroked down her arms, while his knees pushed her forward towards the bed, one step at a time. Helen acquiesced, grabbing her chemise just below her hips and pulling it up and over her head as they moved.
She felt the cool space behind her as she continued to walk, indicating that he was no longer following her. She glanced over her shoulder. "James?"
"Helen. Where are your drawers?"
"They ruined the line of the dress," she shrugged.
"Line? Under that?"He indicated her petticoat with the tip of his head.
Helen smirked and leaned over to untie her garters and remove her stockings. She took her time, fully aware of the show she was giving him. "I almost didn't wear these, either," she remarked as she removed the delicate silk from her legs.
"Old-fashioned garters?"
"Line," she threw over her shoulder.
She felt the heat behind her as he resumed his place, hands coming to her hips, turning her to face him.
They stared at each other momentarily. Helen could have sworn that James was about to declare… something. But what, she would never know, because before she could query him further, he simply groaned and took her mouth in an almost animalistic kiss.
Never one to be idle, Helen pushed the evening jacket off his shoulders and pulled the tails of his shirt out of his trousers. "James," she complained in between kisses, "take these off."
He nodded, quickly stripping out of his clothing. They stood by the corner of the bed and stared at each other, taking in the smooth expanses of naked flesh. While they made love with a fair amount of regularity, James— in spite of his own kinks and quirks— was still a proper gentleman, and preferred that nakedness be under the cover of, well, covers. The gaslight in the room was kinder than daylight, but there they were, naked in every sense of the word, laid open emotionally to one another.
Their eyes locked and they simply knew. The pain of loss that they both tried so hard to bury in their work and in each other was just as raw as it had been fourteen years ago. Helen walked into James' arms, allowing him to push her backwards and onto the bed. He crawled over her and resumed their mad kisses.
Kisses mixed with bites and scratches as they grappled for the control that had been stripped away from their destinies. The fight for dominance turned the bedding into a massive tangle. Helen would mount James only to find herself flat on her back, the breath whooshing from her lungs as James reasserted control. And on it went, lovemaking more akin to two lions seeking place of pride.
Their bodies slid over each other as a sheen of sweat appeared on their skin. His hand on her breast, the points of her fingers scraping down his spine. Just as one would begin to be overtaken by pleasure, they would remember and turn the tables. A tongue on a nipple elicited moans from both, while an ankle behind a knee and a hand tracing the curve of a bottom brought about a whimper and a sigh. It only ended when he was inside her and they were both swept away by the furious wave of impending orgasm. Afterwards, they lay tangled together, clutching hands, having both, in their exhaustion, temporarily ceded control.
James' head was cradled on her breasts, and she stroked his hair gently with her fingertips. "It's better if we don't find him, isn't it?" she queried gently.
"Yes." He spoke softly. "If he is truly not dead, he is not the man we knew— loved. Our John couldn't do such monstrous things. Yes. It's better."
Helen murmured non-committally, continuing to run her fingers through his hair until he fell asleep.
—
Stepping over the mess, but thinking that she really shouldn't leave it for the staff to find in the morning, she moved to her dressing room, donning a robe of heavy silk before letting herself out. Quietly, she slipped down to the library, the note shoved into her pocket. It might be John, but it also might not. Whatever it was, it was dangerous, and she was craving danger.