"Irrrrrene," a man's voice rolled out, the French accent making it almost a caress. "We sensed a . . . prrrrroblem?"
"Joan is . . . no longer among us," Irene announced quietly as the three shapes took form; Two men and a girl, all fashionably dressed, but pale and proud. They stood a little ways off, looking suspiciously at Holmes and Watson. Irene spoke again, her hand gripping the walking stick firmly. "Regrettable, but she refused to acknowledge these two as under my protection."
"Joan was old. And arrogant," the man who had spoken replied heavily. "Too used to following her own 'unger and putting us in danger."
"And she didn't like you takin' charge," the girl added pointedly. "More the fool her. Aren't you going to introduce us like?" she asked, sauntering closer and eyeing Holmes with a bold smile.
"Back up, Anna; I've just killed for this one and I'd do it again, dear," Irene murmured with poisoned sweetness.
"He looks . . . tasty," Anna observed, but obediently stopped.
Irene looked up towards the sky. "It's early yet, and I need to put these two in a carriage heading back to the other side of London. I suggest you study them well—Doctor John Watson and Mr. Sherlock Holmes. They're not to be touched by any fang from Bow Cemetery save mine; is that clear?"
The three vampires nodded agreeably; the Frenchman spoke up again, amused. "We are pledged to it, but remembair, Irene—there are ozer graveyards in London. What we promise here doesn't bind the rest."
She smiled then, white teeth and little snowy fangs glinting in the dim light. "Oh I'm working on that Luc, believe me. Given the population of London, there is no reason we Undead cannot come to some sort of accord."
"Accord?" Watson murmured, and Holmes heard the horror in his voice. "You mean a . . . a gentleman's agreement about hunting, don't you?"
"More or less," Irene nodded. "But in a far more civilized manner. It's complicated, Doctor, but consider this—too many vampires isn't good for anyone, and there are benefits to a peaceful co-existence. You, for example, are under my protection. In turn, I may call on favors from you as I need them."
"You'll get no favors from me!" Watson growled, but Holmes cleared his throat warningly.
"Now, now—keep in mind we are outnumbered twice over by our . . . benefactors, Watson. Perhaps it would be best to be a bit more open-minded."
"Instead of open-veined," Anna laughed with a touch of hunger. "You're lucky Miss Irene found you first, you know, elsewise you'd be dead husks with all your warm lifeblood inside old Joan."
Watson looked stunned, and Irene gave a slow shake of her head. "Anna's right you know."
"Yes, on the matter of knowing," Holmes spoke up firmly. "Precisely how would other vampires know we are . . . protected? I understand you four are in concord, but should you reach the same agreement with other vampires how will they know your protected ones? Or you theirs?"
"Tokens," this came from the man who had not spoken up until now. "A charm, mayhap or tag that bespeaks protection. Like letters of passage."
"Possible," Holmes agreed, but Irene cleared her throat and looked upward for a moment, cutting the conversation short.
"For another time, please. We who need to dine are losing hours. Luc, Anna, off with you. Joseph, I will need a coach heading to the center of the city—can you procure it?"
"Yes," the man nodded, and glided away. Irene turned, eyeing Holmes and Watson, her smile slightly sad.
"The world is full of hard, hard truths, gentlemen, and here's the one closest to you tonight. I need sustenance; by the time a coach has come and I have seen you off, I will have almost no chance to feed this evening. Therefore . . ."
"Therefore, the price of our fare is for me to be your fare," Holmes finished smoothly. Watson shot a outraged glance at him.
"Holmes, no! You don't know if she can keep her word!"
"Actually," he replied coolly, "I do. Watson, when the coach comes, you are to get into it and go to Baker Street with all speed. I will follow shortly."
"Holmes!" Watson protested again, "You cannot expect me to just . . . just leave you here with a . . ."
"Vampire," Irene filled in helpfully.
"Yes! A vampire!"
"Watson, this is not the first time," Holmes confessed, his expression firm. "We need to get you home, and the price is more than reasonable. I am willing to pay it."
The look Watson gave him was horrified, but Holmes held his friend's gaze steadily until Watson finally growled in resignation.
The groundskeeper was another of the Protected; a sensible arrangement that even Holmes understood. The man ran a hot bath for Holmes and prudently left for the local pub to allow them privacy. Irene watched Holmes strip down; it wasn't the first time for that either, but he felt a twinge of mortification at the way she licked her lips.
"I am not a slab of beef, Irene; kindly refrain from your leering," he muttered, unbuttoning his filthy shirt and setting aside his cufflinks.
"You look like a rather prime cut to me," she replied, unfazed by his curtness. "On the lean side, but tender underneath."
"I'm sure you say that to every victim you've seduced." It was a cruel shot, but Holmes felt a stab of bitterness at the thought of it. Irene wouldn't have trouble finding willing men anywhere.
She never had.
"You're jealous," Irene murmured, her tone sad, "and it's a waste of time, darling, because dead or alive, I've never found anyone half as vexing and amusing and clever and stubborn and fascinating as you."
The declaration startled Holmes and he looked over his shoulder at Irene, who looked back at him, a small, sweet smile on her lips.
"How very . . ." he hesitated, torn between cynicism and a private yearning for her words to be true this time. Irene rose, sliding her cool fingers up to snag his shirt and pull it from his shoulders. She kissed his bare spine, just under his hairline, murmuring, "True. I don't have a lot to lie about these days, Sherlock. I will be young and beautiful forever, you understand; that has changed my outlook on life. Or, afterlife, as it were."
"I suppose it would," he replied absently, trying to fight the surge of arousal her kiss brought. "Vanity vanquished."
"Maybe not vanquished, merely . . . placated," Irene purred. "Into the tub with you, darling."
Holmes stepped in, aware of his own stench and privately grateful for the chance to wash. Generally his own hygiene was a hit or miss affair when on a case, but the lure of hot water and soap had its own charm. He settled down and reached for the bar, lathering it up between his big hands as he watched Irene watch him, perched on the edge of the tub.
"You needn't stay, Nanny," he sourly told her. "I will remember to scrub behind my ears."
"You're very handsome when wet." Irene countered sweetly. "All glistening."
Holmes blushed. He couldn't help himself; Irene in her candid American way always managed to keep him off-balance. He supposed it was one of the aspects about her that enthralled him against his wiser nature. Without replying, he ducked his head under and began to bathe in earnest.
By the time Holmes had finished, Irene was holding out a towel, and her usual smirk had shifted into a gaze of lustful adoration. He took it and turned away from her, wrapping it around his hips and fighting to regain a sense of decorum. It was a fight he was losing—as usual—but Holmes felt it necessary to make the effort.
"And now?" he muttered. "Clothing?"
"Paxton's nearly the same size you are," Irene pointed out. "He won't begrudge you his second shirt and pants, I'm sure."
"I can pay for them," Holmes began, running a hand over his bristly chin. "Where are they?"
"Ah-ah. Not so fast," Irene chided. "First there's another price to be paid, isn't there?"
Holmes worked his jaw a bit. "Naked?" he finally asked, turning to face her.
"Oh I prefer you that way," came her low comment. Irene glided over, her gaze ruby and oddly sweet as she smiled up at him. "Come; it's much more comfortable this way—"
Holmes felt his resistance draining under the spell of her beguiling gaze. Placidly he followed Irene through the hallway until they reached a back bedroom where a single candle glowed on the nightstand. Irene motioned to the bed and Holmes slowly stretched out on it, the towel still around him.
"Irene," he began, slightly nervous. She swiftly slid out of her trousers and coat, shucking off her shirt with precision and speed. Holmes blinked, caught up in the marble perfection of her nude body as she dropped one knee on the bed and leaned over, her hands bracing her weight as she looked down at him. Long curls of her auburn hair tumbled forward, brushing his skin, and Irene's perfume drifted with it.
"Shhhhhhh," was all she said.
Holmes closed his eyes, and the press of her lips against his brought a rush of emotions and responses; all the desire and sorrow rising up in him. Irene kissed him, and kept kissing him until the sweet haze of lust made him slightly mad. Holmes gasped when she pulled open the towel and stretched herself out on top of him, a cool soft weight, like fine sand.
"Love me," Irene whispered against the side of his neck, "Oh please, darling . . ."
He did.
Fingers had memory to guide them, as did mouths and hips; after a while Holmes felt his breathing go ragged, and when Irene shifted, slowly driving herself down on his turgid shaft he grunted, the strain and thrill in equal measure. Her coolness added a strange erotic note to it all, and Holmes rocked up into her, growling, watching her fangs nip against her own lower lip as pleasure wracked her curvy little body.
The sight pushed his own rising crisis, and as Holmes felt the surge of unstoppable heat begin to surge forth, Irene dropped her head. The quick pinpicks along the side of his neck put sweet, dark pain into his orgasm. He thrust, each pulse of his cock connected to the sting at his neck, the pain and pleasure fusing together, leaving him breathless, hoarsely calling out her name.
They lay together afterwards. Irene was faintly warm in his arms now, her cheek against his chest. The towel had been pressed into service against his wounds, and Holmes felt a lassitude not unlike morphine, without the dullness the drug usually brought. Indeed, he felt more alive, and all of his senses seemed sharper in the afterglow.
"That was . . . extraordinary. And given our history of fairly intense moments-" Holmes sighed in bliss.
Irene laughed softly. "Mmmmm, It was magnificent. I know you do not want to Turn, Holmes, but as long as you Feed me, you'll benefit from it my love. Better sight at night, heightened senses, longevity—all yours, strengthened with every encounter."
"That is . . . generous," he murmured, fighting the urge to sleep.
"And you are Protected," she assured him. "Sleep, Sherlock. There will be a cab for you in the morning. Don't come back to Bow; I won't be here in the coming months. I have work to do if I want to make this accord happen. Just sleep, my darling . . ."
When he woke alone, hours later, the candle had burned out, and the first beams of dawn were turning the horizon pink. Holmes dressed swiftly, and as he passed a mirror in the hall of the house, he paused, looking at his neck. The small punctures were nearly healed; two small red spots of no remarkable size, half-hidden by his collar.
More disturbing though, was smallest tint of burgundy to his brown eyes now.
The end