Steed parked the Bentley in the street in front of Emma's building, grateful that, as so often was the case, he could find such convenient parking for the old girl. He went round to the passenger side and opened the door.
"You will come in for a nightcap, won't you?" Emma asked as she alighted from the car.
"I wouldn't say no to a brandy," Steed replied glibly as he followed her inside.
"What would you say to it then?" she asked equally lightly as she fished her keys from her bag.
Steed contemplated his response while she opened her door and led him inside.
"Come, intoxicating elixir. Sweeten my lips and warm my tongue."
Emma stopped and turned to him, her face clouded with puzzlement.
"That's what I'd say to a brandy," he explained with a grin. She smiled back, rolling her eyes indulgently, and turned to the tray of decanters and glasses always ready on a side table.
They settled in on the settee with delicate brandy snifters in hand. They had reached the moment in a day spent together that Steed looked forward to the most: the easy transition from working partners and close friends to profound intimacy. They sipped their drinks and watched one another, frivolous conversation unnecessary, discussion of the case exhausted. Emma spoke volumes through her liquid eyes. Steed soon set aside his glass and took hers too, then pulled her into his arms. She came eagerly, quickly unbuttoning his suit coat to snake one lithe arm around him on the inside.
When she had first invited him into her bed, and even before that when they'd shared less-than-chaste kisses in the less intimate rooms of their apartments, he had grown accustomed to the sensation of falling into her deep, inviting eyes. He had learned to desire the moment of anxiety as he fell, Emma's violation of his carefully constructed emotional barriers welcome, even needed. He had never allowed himself surrender in this way to any other woman, but Emma demanded it. Or perhaps it was just that he demanded it of himself in order to please her.
But then, in the last few weeks, he had learned that their emotional intimacy could be still more complete. As she stroked aside an errant curl from his forehead he plunged headlong into her inviting gaze. He did not hesitate, he felt no anxiety. He opened himself to her eagerly and, as if she knew that the last of his barriers was finally razed, she seemed to reveal herself wholly to him as well. It was an intangible change between them at an entirely emotional level. He knew there was no outward change in the way they went about making love. But he also knew it was there, enormous and powerful.
And then they were in her bed, the mechanics of undressing and moving accomplished without thought. Exploration led to a careful nurturing of mutual need and the gradual building of overpowering passion. Far too soon it passed to a level beyond consciousness and their souls blazed together as one.
And then they lay fulfilled in one another's arms and Steed faced once more the second intimate revelation of his life with Emma. For in the past, with other women, in those moments when the overwhelming need was gone, the desire quenched, he had always felt embarrassment. How silly it all seemed in the aftermath to have been so desperate for the crass, messy physical joining of flesh to flesh. He would disengage quickly, offering up the necessary cuddles with fraternal good will, and escape as quickly as was politely possible. His carefully chosen lovers had always intuited his message and departed, or gracefully accepted his departure. He had thought his love life perfected.
Until Emma had taken him to her bed. The first time there had been no awkward moment, for the need had not faded after each miraculous climax. If anything it had deepened, and he'd been unaware of falling asleep with her, unembarrassed by the damp spots in the bed that exposed the mundane physical aspect of their lovemaking. And even in the harsh morning light he had still felt desire. He had reached for her to take her again and she'd come with him eagerly. She simply would not allow him to be uncomfortable with the physical residue of their intimacy.
Tonight, as every other night when they were sated, she caressed his face and kissed the tip of his nose. Yes, in its aftermath the overpowering physical need seemed silly, the act itself sometimes comical. But that did not make it embarrassing. It was a part of their intimacy and she valued it. Her amazing smile of knowing ingenuousness did not allow him to belittle it. He lay with her in a state of grace.
Shortly after they had become lovers she had confronted him – told him that if he did not want her to stay all night she would not enter his bed. He doubted she'd understood why he did not sleep over with his lovers, but she'd known it to be the case. That had shaken him – he'd had no idea that she'd been observing his casual love life. But casual had been the operative word. His relationship with Emma was anything but casual. Holding her, sated, knowing that he had satisfied her, he came to understand euphoria. And his need for it became almost as overwhelming as the earlier physical need. His rule about sleepovers had crumbled.
It helped that Emma was not a clingy sleeper. As she transitioned from post-coital daze to sleep she rolled away from him to find her own space. In addition to the difficulty of mornings after, he found sleeping tangled with a woman singularly un-restful. A man needed room to stretch out, and he did not need her head, arms, and legs pressed against him cutting off his circulation.
So while some men might characterize Emma as cold or unromantic, he found her sleeping habits completely in accord with his own. And she was not unreceptive to contact – if he rolled close to spoon with her she snuggled against him with a contented, nearly feline sigh. And when he eventually rolled away to lay on his stomach and clutch possessively at a pillow beneath his chin she stretched out contentedly on her own side of the bed. She was a woman with a man's understanding of the difference between sex and sleep.
ooooo
Steed awakened with a start and rolled over to face Emma. She had kicked him. He watched her shudder again and realized she was asleep. Her mouth opened in a silent scream as her legs flailed again.
"Emma," he said, placing his hands on her shoulders to shake her gently. "Emma, darling, wake up."
She cried out again, the fear in her voice palpable. He gathered her into his arms to try to still her spasmodic movements.
"Emma," he repeated, his mouth near her ear.
She shuddered, then sucked in a long breath.
"What?" she said, pressing her hands against him. He loosened his embrace and looked into her open eyes.
"You were having a nightmare," he explained. She frowned and shut her eyes for a moment.
"Yes. I was terrified. Of something."
"You don't remember?"
"No," she shook her head slowly, looking annoyed at her faulty memory. He smiled fondly.
"Your mind is already suppressing it," he said. He was certain that the grisly photographs combined with an afternoon and evening thinking about the murders had brought forth the nightmare. But if Emma did not realize it he was not about to suggest it to her.
"It's gone now," he added soothingly. "You're safe in your bed and I'm here."
"You'll protect me from my own subconscious," she said with a wry smile.
"I'll protect you from whatever threatens you, darling," he agreed, smiling back. "Go back to sleep."
And she did. Steed might have felt flattered that his reassurance was enough to ease her mind so quickly -- if he hadn't fallen back to sleep as soon as she did.
ooooo
Emma let her eyes flutter open to admit the golden morning light. She turned her head to look at Steed. He lay on his left side facing her, but his eyes were shut tight and his face looked angelic. He was definitely asleep.
She slipped out of the bed and went to perform her morning ablutions. When she returned Steed had rolled onto his back and flung his arm across her side of the bed, but he was still sound asleep.
Emma made a pot of coffee and sliced bread for toast. Steed wouldn't eat anything more and she was not hungry after their hearty dinner last night. She had just poured her first cup and spread butter on her toast when Steed appeared dressed in last night's trousers and a fresh shirt from the supply she had made room for in her dresser.
He leaned down to give her a kiss, smacking his lips as he straightened. "Toast?" he asked.
She smiled winsomely and took another bite.
Steed poured his coffee and put his own bread in the toaster, then sat down at the table across from her.
"No more nightmares?" he asked.
"Sorry?"
"You got back to sleep easily enough. So I guess you slept through."
"What are you talking about Steed?"
"Last night I woke you up from a nightmare. Remember?" He watched her for a moment, head inclined. Then his toast popped and he rose to get it.
Emma pursed her lips, staring into the space where he'd been. And then she remembered.
Returning with his toast Steed saw her shudder. She covered her face with her hands and took a deep breath.
"Mrs. Peel?" Steed reached across the table to touch her wrist. She lowered her hands and took his. "Perhaps if you describe it."
"I was running. Something was chasing me. It was dark and the trees were rustling. It was windy, and very cold.
"I was terrified of something. I know it doesn't sound terribly frightening, but I was. Whatever was chasing me was panting, and it had claws that I could hear scratching on the ground."
"A wolf?"
"Yes. No," she frowned and released his hand, then stood up. "Not a wolf. A werewolf."
"A what?" he half turned in his chair to watch her. She had gone into the sitting room, and she returned a moment later carrying a magazine. "Are you suggesting that there's a werewolf roaming St. James's Park?"
"Of course not," she smirked at him as she sat back down and leafed through the magazine. "I think that part of my dream probably came from this article. I read it last week."
She handed him the magazine. It was a psychology journal, one of many academic publications to which she subscribed.
"Lycanthropy. A psychological condition that some claim explains the werewolf myth. Most serious academics and practitioners say there's no such thing."
"Including this one, apparently," Steed said, reading the skeptical title of the article and pointing to the author's byline. Then he looked more closely at the article. "And according to his biographical note, Dr. Crispin Neff lives outside of London."
Emma eyed him warily. She knew all too well what was coming next.
"Mrs. Peel, perhaps you should make the acquaintance of the good doctor this morning," he said.
"Uh huh," she smiled. "And what will you be doing?"
"Calling on some of the relatives and friends of our victims, and checking on Sir Lionel – the tracker."