A/N: Hello dear readers! I am back with Chapter 11 and am very excited to introduce the new character. Let me know what your thoughts are on him;)

Also, I want to send a big thank you to the wonderful reviews I've had from the last chapter. I get inspired just by reading them. You all are simply the best!

Happy Readings!

Disclaimer: I only own Aseema and Mr. Gibson, the rest belong to John Logan. I do not own Penny Dreadful.

Vanessa's PoV

The days leading up to Mr. Lyle's arrival, pass slowly and without incidence, for which we are all grateful. I don't mention my paranoia from the other night to anyone. It will only cause unnecessary fretting. Especially from Ethan. Though, from the worried glances from Aseema, as subtle as she tries to be, do not go unnoticed. If she suspects anything amiss, she does not voice it aloud. I suspect she's waiting for me to say something.

I am putting the last touches on a letter for Dr. Seward when Ethan enters the room. He eyes the piece of paper curiously, but does not comment on it, and instead says, "Victor is here. He says the boat just arrived at the port."

That means our guests will be here soon. I quietly tuck the letter in the drawer for later and dust off my skirts. "Well, shall we go get some answers, Mr. Chandler?"

The corners of his mouth turn up, and he loops my arm to rest against his own. "Indeed, Miss Ives."

oooOOOooo

"Miss Ives! How good it is to see you again."

"Mr. Lyle." I smile at the shorter gentlemen as he warmly grasps my hand.

"You are looking well. Still too thin, but much better than when we said our farewells." Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Ethan frown. I don't have time to give him a reassuring smile, as I am approached by our second guest.

"You must be Mr. Gibson." I say, holding out my hand. He is a tall man, maybe a few years older than I.

He takes my hand and kisses the back of it, his red beard tickling my skin. "And you must be Miss Ives, I have heard a lot about you."

His green eyes gleam with mischief, and I can't help but grin at his forwardness.

I stand aside as everyone gets acquainted. Sir Malcolm is speaking to Mr. Lyle, Ethan and Victor are talking amongst themselves, and I can't help but roll my eyes at the glances they are giving Mr. Gibson.

I follow their gazes toward our new arrival. He is engaging in conversation with Aseema, who seems most amused at whatever story he is telling.

I wonder if she is able to reach into his mind without his knowledge. And as if hearing my musings, she catches my eye and gives me a subtle shake of her head no.

Well, this should be an interesting turn of events.

OooOOOooo

Our company, along with its newest member, sit around the dinner table. I am beside Victor and Ethan. Looking across the table to where our new member is seated, I lightly dab my napkin to my lips before saying, "So, tell us, Mr. Gibson how you became acquainted with our dear friend, Mr. Lyle?"

All eyes turn to him, and he smiles, not in the least bit bothered about the attention fully on him. He sets down his spoon and begins his tale. "I was on a job in Egypt, uncovering a mass of bones found by one of my crew men. I am an archeologist, you see, I unearth and study bones for research. I went to visit the historical museum there as reference for the bones we had found, and Mr. Lyle was the one to aid me in my search. He became a mentor of sorts."

"And you followed him here to…what, research Miss Ives?"

All heads turn to Victor, stunned at the disapproval in his voice, but his eyes are only on Mr. Gibson, who, to his credit, doesn't blink an eye.

"No, not research," He says, "Though I have my reasons."

Everyone is tense as Gibson shrugs his shoulders and takes another swallow of his soup. I dart my gaze to Ethan, who has his eyes narrowed at Mr. Lyles's friend. I know that look.

He does not trust our new visitor.

"Well, let us not talk of such heavy matters this evening," Sir Malcolm declares, breaking the silence, "Let's leave it till the morrow."

OooOOOooo

"So, what is your observation of Mr. Gibson?"

I turn my gaze from the night sky over to look at Ethan. I watch him pull out a cigarette and light it, from my spot by the window. Patting the space next to me, I feel a teasing smile tug at my lips.

"You don't like him, do you?"

He blows out a breath and hands me the cigarette, the smoke swirling between our fingers as I reach for it.

"I don't trust him," He says. And then adds, "Neither does Victor."

I chuckle at the quick defense he gives.

"Yes, I think our good doctor made it quite clear what he thought of Mr. Gibson." Victor's comment at dinner had left everyone a bit shocked. Quite different from his usual reserved self.

"Doesn't it seem strange that this guy just shows up out of the blue, offering his assistance? He barely even knows Mr. Lyle, let alone the fine details of your situation."

I take a long drag from the cigarette as I contemplate Ethan's words. He is not wrong. Mr. Gibson's interest in me does seem a bit odd for an archeologist. Then again, everything about my situation is strange.

Wrapping my arms around my skirt clad knees, I look back up to the crisp night sky. It is an unusually clear night for London. I feel Ethan's gaze on me, silently awaiting my response. But I do not have an answer to ease his concerns. I only know that I am tired, tired of the constant worrying and everything that comes with it. So perhaps a fresh pair of eyes and a new mind, no matter how strange, could be the thing that puts us on the right track.

oooOOOooo

The morning brings a new bustle of energy as everyone sets out on tasks for the day. It seems Mr. Lyle has deemed himself in charge of our little endeavors. As I make my way down the stairs, I see him pulling on his gloves in his usual air of excitement, his coifed hair a tad bit out of place.

"Mr. Chandler, you and Victor will be accompanying me to the museum. And do bring your gun belt Mr. Chandler, you never know what might be lurking down in that basement." He adds the last bit with a wink.

Victor gives Ethan an exasperated look and then follows Mr. Lyle outside. Chuckling, Ethan dons his hat and gives me a teasing wink before shutting the door behind him.

Smiling, I make my way to the kitchens to see if Mr. Lyle, bless him, has spared anyone else from his activities.

I spot Aseema and Mr. Gibson having tea at the table.

"Ah, Miss Ives! I see Mr. Lyle has let you be."

I pour myself a steaming cup of Aseema's spiced tea and join them at the table.

"Yes, I do believe his exact words were to… 'stay put.'"

Mr. Gibson chuckles.

"Just as well, I was hoping to get a chance to speak with you today," and then he adds "alone."

My eyes dart to Aseema, who smiles reassuringly at my anxious expression.

"I too, have been assigned with a task," Aseema says as she gracefully stands up. I notice she is dressed for going out. "Mr. Lyle wants me to gather some things up for protection of the house. I am to meet Sir Malcolm there."

And then she is gone, leaving me alone with our guest, who is definitely more than meets the eye.

We sit in silence for what seems like an eternity until Mr. Gibson clears his throat.

"If you could take it away, the memories, the pain, all of it. Would you?"

I narrow my eyes at his forwardness, but he does not seem the least bit uncomfortable with the subject he has brought up. It seems he has decided to skip the pleasantries.

"I was offered that before—that false life."

"It doesn't have to be false." I see a challenge in his green eyes, and I sit a little straighter in my chair.

Is he testing me?

"It does," I say frankly, "It is not meant for someone like me." It hurts to say the words out loud again, but not speaking them still doesn't change that fact that it is true.

He leans back into his chair, running a hand down his beard.

"Someone like you?"

"Yes," I feel something build up inside me. Like smoke clouding a window, suffocating the outside view. I take a deep breath, willing the feeling aside as I continue, "Cursed—with a devil on my back."

Mr. Gibson stands then and begins pacing the length of the kitchen. I can practically see the questions brimming behind those eyes of his. It is evident now that Mr. Lyle has not shared everything with him.

"And Ethan?"

"What of Ethan?" I ask quietly. Whatever questions I thought he had, this was not one I expected him to ask me.

I wring my hands together, tightening and loosening them until my knuckles are white. The action does not go unnoticed by the man standing before me.

"Are you to curse him with this life as well?" He asks bluntly.

His question is valid, but still, it makes me bristle. With shaky hands, I push myself off the seat, the room suddenly too small.

Who does he think he is, coming here and asking these kinds of questions?

As if sensing my unease, Mr. Gibson ceases his pacing and quietly walks over to me. I see though that he is still expecting an answer.

"He made his choice long ago, he knows the risks," I lift my chin and meet his stare, "Not that it is any concern to you."

He gives me a grin that does not match the hardness in his eyes. I can see behind that hardness though, and it is something I am very akin to. He is unsure, maybe even a little frightened. And again, I wonder what his motives are.

"So, everyone in this so-called company is so easily willing to risk their lives for you. It is interesting." He reaches out a pale hand and brushes the back of it to my cheek, almost like you would do if you were soothing a child. I will myself not to take a step back. "You must be very special."

Now it is my turn to give a grim grin. "What about you, Mr. Gibson, why are you here?"

"There is the question I've been waiting for from you." He offers his arm and plasters on a dashing smile. "Come, I will tell you all about it."

oooOOOooo

We sit in the main room, and I lean against one of the cushions, watching while the strange man before me, nervously meets my eyes. All the bravado it seems was left behind in the kitchen.

Sitting a little taller, I give him a nod of encouragement. He sits beside me, our knees almost touching, and he drags a hand down his beard. A nervous habit I presume.

"I had a sister. She was much like you. Not in looks, but in spirit you see." He gives me a quick glance before continuing. "She had the reddest hair, always getting teased by her classmates, much to her displeasure. It was no wonder that she had the temper to match her hair." He chuckles wistfully as if remembering a fond memory. "She was full of life, much like yourself. Long story short, she married a wealthy gentleman whose business extended to America. I kept correspondence with her through letters. She seemed happy, content."

His expression darkens. "Then, last year I got a letter from her husband saying that she had fallen ill. I was on the next ship out."

I place a comforting hand on his sleeve. "You need not continue, Mr. Gibson, I understand." But he shakes his head and puts his other hand on the one I have against his forearm.

"No. I must continue. It is of utmost importance that you hear this." And so, he continues.

We were wrong to judge him so quickly.

He tells me of the sickness, that was not a typical illness. He tells me of his sister's feverish ramblings and how even a priest was unable to help.

"It was not until I heard about your own experiences, that her last words made sense to me. On her final day, she was quiet. An eerie calmness had settled over her." I watch, unable to help, as the painful memories grasp him. "Her once beautiful face turned to sharp angles against transparent skin. I sat by her side all the while, but I knew…I knew she would not survive the night."

Mr. Gibson pauses to scrub a stubborn tear from his cheek. I hold my breath then, meeting his intense gaze as he utters the words that chill my very bones.

"She passed just before dawn. Her last words to me were, 'He has gone to the raven, for that is where it ends.' I did not know what she meant at the time, I brushed it off to feverish delirium, but now I know—"

"I am the raven." I say. My voice is barely a whisper.

All Mr. Gibson offers me is a grim nod. I feel oddly detached as those final words of his departed sister sink in.

Is this to be what becomes of my life? Monsters and grief and fear. And for what? To have it all end in death? Is this to be my legacy when I leave this world?

I feel Mr. Gibson's concerned gaze, and I swallow thickly, willing my voice steady.

"Have you told anyone of this?"

He shakes his head.

"Only Mr. Lyle."

I nod and rise from the seat cushions, brushing my hands down my skirts to keep them from shaking.

"Very well, we shall inform the others together."

But first, there is somewhere I need to go.

It was time to see Dr. Seward.

A/N: The plot thickens. Are you all figuring out who the 'He' is that Mr. Gibson's poor sister was talking about? Though my lips are sealed on the matter, I would love to hear your guesses! Reviews or just thoughts, in general, are appreciated, in fact, they are encouraged ;)

Thank you for your readings and continued support with this story.

Until next time,

-S