Samson woke up in a dim room splattered with stains that by the smell of them had been produced by multiple bodies, at differing times. Smith was unconscious next to him, battered beyond belief, his face swollen, his right leg missing. A wound that would have killed a human. No vampire hunters would have struck as hard as the foes they had faced. So they had wandered into Moriarty's territory; or, more likely, right into his trap.
"It's always interesting, watching the brain reform," Moran said casually from where he was leaning against the far wall of the cell, a sharpened spike in hand. "The skull denting back out... You should thank me that we fed you. Otherwise you would have been months healing."
His gaze snapped over, fangs extending of their own accord. "You're him, aren't you? His right hand man?"
He smiled, his own fangs bared, but for an entirely different reason. "Oh, excellent. I was worried I would have to explain the gravity of your situation to you, but it seems you have come to the correct answers all on your own." He reached into his coat, drawing the silver dagger and starting to flip it idly between his fingers. "Tell me, Mister... Samson, was it? What are you doing on our territory?"
"Looking for Mr. Armetti's wayward wife," he said, bitterly, sitting up further with the sound of skin brushing a crusty floor. "She brought us to you. I reckon she's taken advantage of your hospitality, am I right? I hope the bitch felt sickly, at the least."
"And what do you mean by that?" Moran asked casually, still flicking the knife through his fingers, stance relaxed.
Samson gave a demented smile, compounded by the blood on his face and the darkness shrouding him. "Smith and I slipped her a little somethin' to help loosen her up, you see? I'm surprised no one noticed. The substance is liable to make moral women forget God himself."
Well, that certainly cleared up a few nagging questions. "Interesting. Thank you very much for that information, Mister Samson. For your cooperation, you will be rewarded with a delay in my shoving this knife under your fingernails." He slid the dagger back into its sheath, removing his gloves and tucking them into his pocket. "When Mister Smith awakes, please pass on the following offer. The two of you will tell me everything you know about Mister Armetti's operations, or I will cut out a section of your intestine once a week for the remainder of your eternal life, and you will never feel fresh air again."
Had he been able to pale, he would have, and instead he just nodded, the amusement sliding off his face like a bad paper mask. "I'll pass it on, sir."
"I'm glad to hear it," he said with a smile, turning for the cell door. He returned his gloves- the door was coated in silver leaf- and opened it, turning to close and lock it behind him. Then he went to find Ms. Harrison.
Lorna was reading a Dickens serial in the paper, trying not to think. She was consumed with regrets from the previous day, a pressing question repeating itself constantly in her head. Why did I DO that? Moran was an attractive man, and her type exactly, but she barely knew the man, had nothing to gain from reading his mind. She hadn't decided to fuck him - she'd been driven to by forces outside her control. She just couldn't fathom what. She'd never heard of a vampire being able to hypnotize others of their kind, or anything similar, but what else could have happened?
Moran knocked on the door, and waited for a response, straightening his jacket as he does so.
"You may enter," she called, lifting her eyes from the newspaper and towards the door. A welcome distraction.
Moran opened the door, stepping inside and bowing just slightly. "Miss Harrison, I think perhaps you should accompany me to the infirmary."
She stiffened slightly at the sight of him, an intensely awkward feeling rising up in her at the sight of him. "Ah... The infirmary? I feel quite fine, Mr. Moran, thank you."
"I'm glad to hear it," he said with a small smile. "But Misters Samson and Smith just admitted to putting something in your drink last evening, which I believe may have been responsible for certain aspects of your behavior. You're my charge. It's my responsibility to ensure that Mr. Moriarty loses none of his assets."
She took a deep breath, eyes shutting, and ran a hand down her face. "And there it is. Good lord. The fact that they would risk such a thing is confounding, but the implications are less than savory," she sighed, opening her eyes and standing, adjusting her skirts. "Alright, lead the way, then. I'll see this embarrassment over with as quickly as possible."
He nodded, offering her his arm and waiting for her to take it before heading for the door and the stairway.
She walked with him in silence, unsure what to say. What they had done had been a strange experience for her; not wholly pleasant or unpleasant, and out of her control. While she was horrified that Smith and Samson had attempted such a thing, she was glad that at least Moran had been the one to benefit. He, at least, had been kind to her. She couldn't say if the same could be said about her would-be assaulters.
He remained taciturn as he guided her to the infirmary, eyes for the most part ahead, acting relaxed, as though nothing had ever passed between them. He relinquished her arm when they arrived, approaching to speak quietly to the staff nurse, who nodded and rose. "This way, Miss Harrison."
She took a tight breath and nodded, following them with something approaching apprehension. The smell of the place, sharp and brittle in her nose, was bringing her back to places she would rather not return to. Bad memories of the war.
They sat her in a private room on her own, and it was a few minutes before a nurse returned, holding a syringe. "We'll need to draw blood for testing, madame," she said politely.
"Test? How?" She asked, borderline suspiciously, her hands clasped together tightly in her lap, just so she would avoid breaking the arms of her chair. She hated being in this place; she could swear she could hear that infernal sawing sound.
"For any remnants of the chemical they gave to you, madame," the nurse explained politely, quite calm. "We wish to ensure it will not do you any further harm."
"Not why, how," she repeated, unmoving, eyes sharp. "I'm not in the habit of letting my blood travel away from me in vials. Working here, you must have an idea why."
The nurse looked slightly taken aback, but then straightened, eyes narrowing. "Madame, everyone here is screened by Colonel Moran himself. We have the highest security requirements imaginable. Colonel Moran has ordered your blood tested. If you wish to lodge a complaint, I can request his presence."
She let out an irritated breath, the tension in her chest building tighter. "I'm asking how you are going to test my blood. How can you read anything from it?"
The woman's expression flattened. "I am afraid that that is not for me to say, madame," she said calmly. "As I said, our security is quite exacting."
She grit her teeth, looking away for a second as she considered the risks to allowing this woman to draw her blood. But something told her that if she resisted Moran would become involved, and she was still trying to avoid looking too closely at him. After a moment she stuck her arm out, pushing her sleeve up her arm. At least she'd learned something about him - he was a Colonel. She tucked that information away for later.
She stepped forward then, drawing the blood with quick, professional movements, and bandaging the mark. "There. That was simple." She capped the syringe and headed for the door. "We'll bring your results back shortly."
She nodded sharply, drawing her arm back into her lap, her posture as rigid as a tree. Any second, she was expecting screams. The smell only grew worse, stronger, the longer she was here.
The nurse looked her over as she was turning to leave, and frowned. "Are you alright, madame?" She was used to patients having an adverse reaction to having their blood drawn.
She didn't react for a moment, staring off into nothing, her face tight, but impassive. "I was in America, during The Late Unpleasantness. The War of the Rebellion. That's the last time I was in a hospital."
The woman's eyes tightened sympathetically, and she nodded a little. "I'm sorry. We'll make this quick." She left at a smart pace for the back rooms.
She stayed put, her breathing calm and measured. Vampires didn't need to breathe, not like every other being on the planet, but many of them found it comforting. A way to calm themselves, a familiar crutch that had the added benefit of making them appear more lifelike to the inspecting eye. It was something to do, to keep her mind off the worst images that her brain kept trying to stir up out of the depths.
It was about half an hour later that the nurse returned. "We have tested your blood in every way that we can, and it seems clean," she said calmly. "Our methods are quite extensive, there is no reason for concern. You may go."
She nodded, rising quickly and making for the door. She didn't want to remain in this place a second longer than necessary. Didn't want to have to relive the piles of bloody limbs, the stench of black flesh, the surgeon with the milky white eyes and the bonesaw, his voice in her ear...
Moran was nowhere to be seen, but a burly young man was there to escort her back to her rooms. He was polite, but taciturn, until he dropped her off. "Colonel Moran asked me to inform you that you should be ready for a meeting at four this morning, ma'am. He will have clothing sent."
She nodded. "Thank you. I appreciate it." She said softly, then shut the door behind her, closing her eyes as she leaned against the door. Finally, the smell was beginning to leave her nose.
Moran arrived at ten of four that morning, rapping lightly on the door. He had had someone from costuming come up over an hour ago, so he expected that she was ready by now. If she wasn't, she didn't have much choice in the matter. One didn't keep James waiting.
She was waiting, in a crimson red dress, her hair pulled back in the signature round bun, her hands gloved in black velvet. She opened the door with an expressionless face. "Mr. Moran. I didn't expect you to be the one to accompany me to this meeting after earlier."
He raised an eyebrow, offering her his arm. "After earlier?" he inquired, guiding her down the hall.
"You disappeared in the infirmary and left a very quiet man behind you to take care of me. Luckily he was very polite, otherwise I'd be quite upset with you," she said, giving him an arch look, though it came with a smirk. She was getting over her embarrassment. She took his arm. "Not to mention our rendezvous."
"Perhaps it has failed to catch your notice, Ms. Harrison," he said dryly, "But I do have a great many other tasks which require my attention. Your escort to your rooms does not fall at the top of the list, shocking as that may seem." He ignored the comment about the night prior.
She chuckled. "Yes, I know. I was making a jest. I found out from the nurse you're a Colonel. Colonels never have a lot of leisure time."
He just nodded in agreement at that, leading her down a flight of stairs. "It is rare." He walked in silence for a few minutes, turning unerringly through a labyrinth of identical stone tunnels. "You will be meeting with Mr. Moriarty. I advise respect."
She nodded slightly. "I sensed that when we first met, yes. Is there anything else I should be aware of?'
He chuckled. "No. He will make everything else clear as he wishes it."
She sighed, but chuckled a little. "Yes, I know the type. I'm sure I'll regret saying that, too."
"Believe me, you do not know the type," he shot back, amused. He led her down one more flight of steps, through familiar rooms, and into the spider-laced hallways of before. Finally he paused, knocking on a dark door adorned only with one tiny jeweled black widow at eye height.
The door was opened a moment later by a man dressed in a simple suit, easily recognizable as the help, and he dipped his head deferentially at the sight of them, stepping back to reveal the office beyond. "Come in," came James' voice, though he could not be readily seen, his desk empty.
They stepped inside and the attendant stepped out, shutting the door behind him. Moran caught sight of James and bowed slightly. "Miss Harrison, as we discussed, sir."
James looked up from the book in his hands, standing in front of a grand old book shelf, filled with tomes of seemingly random languages. Lorna didn't doubt that he could read them all. She didn't know how old he was, but she knew it was not an insignificant number, and considering the number of languages she'd learned in her short time as an immortal, he was probably leaps and bounds ahead of her. His expression didn't change as he saw them a but he did drop the book onto the table by his side and turn to face them, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. "Indeed. I have an assignment for Ms. Harrison, as well as... News."
"What sort of news, sir?" Moran asked, interested. James was a man with a flair for the dramatic, but the sort who sought out the dramatic rather than fake it. This was bound to be good.
He gave a sly smile, walking over to his desk and crouching to pull open the largest drawer, and rising again with his hands full of... fur. Across his arms lay a supple pelt that had once belonged to a wolf. His eyes were locked onto Lorna, who was staring at the fur in his arms, her lips parted in shock. "I assume you recognize this? Ms. Harrison, you've been holding out on us," he hummed. A second passed, and then Lorna flew at him.
Moran had started moving before she did, piecing the situation together quickly. He got between her and Jim, silver knife flashing in the light, the wooden hilt cool in his hand.
She stopped short, her breath short, a sense of urgency building in her chest. "Give it back," she said tightly, hands curled into fists at her sides, half hidden by her skirts. "Give it back. It's not yours. This is a violation."
James laughed, clearly pleased by her reaction. "Now now... be polite, darling. I could always gift it to Master Armetti instead, see what he makes of such a gift..."
Her hands were fisted shut so tightly that she was in danger of breaking her just-tougher-than-human skin, and she stared with desperate eyes for a few more seconds before wrenching her gaze away from the fur to look at his face. "What do you want? Not money, obviously, not with this place around us, so what is it? I can't grant you power, not unless Vincent was dead and I inherited his holdings - so what is it? Blood? Sex? What is it?"
Jim put the pelt casually back into the drawer, and there was the catch of a lock as he closed it. "I want you, my dear. Very simply. Your abilities interest me. I want to see what you can do."
She shut her eyes, taking in a deep breath, trying to calm herself. It had almost no effect. "You already have me, good sir. I can't leave the sphere of your protection, remember? My husband might find me."
He is still smiling, the consistency of the expression on his face unnerving. "I think you and I both know that you would bolt at a moment's chance, if it arose, my dear," he croons. "This way I have a little more of a guarantee that you will do precisely what I require."
She wanted to disagree, that no, she wouldn't run, but honestly, given a chance at freedom, real freedom for the first time in her short life, who knew what she would choose. "When will I get it back?"
His eyes sparked. "Oh, I think that will depend very much on how you prove yourself," he sighed, almost wistfully. Then his expression sharpened. "Which brings me to my next point. I am having a gathering. An open house, if you will, to introduce a few more patrons to the fold. In recent months it has become clear to me that someone is shuttling some of our new guests away from all we have to offer and off to a little side business, treating with demons. Find out who."
She unclenched her hands, though she very much wanted to keep them clenched. "Are they human or are they like us? Your patrons. I can read humans far more reliably."
"A mix," he explained, sitting back into his chair and raking his gaze over her. "You will do fine, I'm certain. Disappointing me is ill-advised. Now go." He waved her out, and Moran nodded a little, motioning for her to head for the door.
She only managed to leave the room through sheer force of will, inexplicably drawn to the locked drawer under the bookshelf. This was what all shifters were afraid of. The unending desire to become something else, to remain in that form until forced out of it by need or circumstance. More than one person had been lost to the skins. Now that she was one of the souls bound to eventually lose human form entirely, some time in her immortal life, she couldn't imagine what she had been so afraid of. Nothing felt better than the pelt. But getting her dietary needs in that form was near impossible, not in the quantity that vampires needed, so she chose the option that would extend her life.
She walked out of Moriarty's office in a cold state, every fiber of her buzzing with furious energy. She'd escaped the clutches of an overprotective controller to a indifferent one. She didn't know which was worse.
Moran followed on her heels. He hadn't known what Jim had planned, but he hadn't been disappointed. "I'll escort you to your rooms," he said calmly.
"I can find it on my own, thank you," she said coldly, not deigning to look back at him. "You know I won't go anywhere I'm not supposed to after that threat."
He smirked just a little. "I apologize, Ms. Harrison. It appears I made that sound like an option." He offered her his arm.
She halted abruptly, baring her fangs, eyes dark and furious. "Touch me and temporarily lose the arm, sir. Now is not the time to test my patience."
He remained unphased. "Nor now, mine, madame," he said, voice smooth. His eyes were dark and cold.
"You may escort me to my rooms, but I could not bear your touch, please believe me," she hissed, fingers clenched tightly in her skirts. She was in danger of ripping the fabric. "Something more dear to me than my life has just been held hostage in front of me, and while I can't expect you to ever comprehend it, read my face and understand how very close I am to complete savagery. Do not push me."
"I understand," was all he said, but he dropped his arm, and motioned for her to proceed him down the hall.
She turned without another word and continued onward, still mentally bristling. They could never understand what they were keeping from her: the truest form of freedom, the only thing in the world that could release her from obligations and tight dresses and the way men thought she needed a firm hand of guidance. Nobody restrained a she-wolf.
He followed a step behind. Despite her assurances, he could see that she was just on the verge of desperation. He had seen desperation, in the battles he had fought. It made people do stupid things. Last stands involving bullets and teeth and little by the way of strategy. He didn't want Jim threatened by a half-brained, unpredictable scheme that was the last act of a desperate individual.
The way back felt longer than usual, but it wasn't exactly a surprise. The back of her neck prickled where he was behind her. They reached her quarters without further incident however, and she opened her (unlockable) door and walked in to slam it behind her, in a very unladylike fashion.
He let her go, nodding to his men guarding the door, and left. Let her sulk.
A/N
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