Disclaimer: I own nothing. Incredibly thankful beyond words for the world that Toby Whithouse has created and for the character of Hal that Damien Molony has brought to life. All mistakes are my own.

Real Life has gotten quite full but I'm still trying to publish about every two weeks.

Reviews, faves, and follows make me happy. So do comments on the Twitter.

Many thanks to Saemay, TJ4ev, and walkbythesea for beta. Your input was extra helpful on this one.

Enjoy :)

Ch. 8: Strange and Beautiful

Hal watches the light filtering through the curtains glowing upon Sylvie's face, highlighting the outline of her nose, the curve of her cheek, emphasizing the long dark eyelashes. A ray is caught in her long dishevelled locks, the warm auburn hints firing in her deep brown hair. She is breathtaking.

As a predator he would have used the clues written on her face to tailor his seduction. Her lips, naturally upturned, even in sleep, indicate a pleasant disposition. Her frequently arched eyebrow reflects her incessant curiosity. The shape of her nose & chin suggest aristocratic French ancestry. The smoothness of her skin, the brightness of her eyes, even her teeth... these all give clues to the sort of approach that would lure her in.

Instead he finds himself just... looking. He notes the sprinkling of freckles on the bridge of her nose trailing off onto her cheeks. He smiles at the full curve of her lips - even when closed their plumpness leaves a seductive little gap. Her eyebrows arch up pleasantly - not quite symmetric - but that only adds to rather than detracts from her overall beauty. There's a little line etched at the edge of her lip due to her frequent lopsided grin. He's been subjected to that particular mischievous grin more times than he'd like.

It feels refreshing to wake up next to a warm body, not having his first thought be about disposing of it. To be able to relax while taking in her features unobserved: not thinking about his next drink; not clouded from the effects of a binge; not feeling the jitters signaling the need for more. He still feels the hunger, still feels the pull of her strong heartbeat, but it's easier to manage, to store the sensation away into a place where he can manage it. Like tuning out the incessant whine of flies - something he's had much experience with considering how many bloody bodies he's been around.

Hal takes one finger and touches a curl of her hair, waking her up.

When Sylvie awakens the first thing she sees is Hal gazing down at her. Heaven. She gives him a timid smile and is rewarded by a boyish grin. That look coupled with his tousled hair are like an invitation to kiss him. Instead she bursts out, "Hal, you really know how to grow hair!"

His crooked grin gets bigger as he chuckles at her absurd comment.

"I'm curious, how do you shave?"

"You're always curious." Hal answers, raising his eyebrows. But he continues matter of factly, "It's not difficult when it's all you've ever known. Even as a human I did not have access to a mirror and those were not as clear as they are now. The only sort of reflective surfaces were bowls of water, water collected in ruts after rainfall, ponds or lakes. If I was lucky a scrap of metal would do."

"I could give you a shave, if you like. I used to shave my father and he found it very soothing. And your hair. I'm fair with the shears"

Hal gives her a worried frown. What was it the werewolf had said? "No! I mean, it's quite alright. I've managed this long. And there is an excellent barber in town that I have employed to come here for cutting my hair. On a schedule." Seeing her disappointed face he adds, "But thank you."

"Well, if you are not quite ready for a shave this morning, I can think of something else we could do." She smiles suggestively.

Hal frowns, "What? Now?"

Raking her eyes from his bare chest, down the trail of hair from his navel to his hips swathed in the bed sheet she bites her lip, looks back up and says, "It appears that you're up to the challenge."

All humour gone Hal hunches in, draping his arm across himself modestly.

"I don't think that's such a good idea. Last night, I almost... perhaps it's best to wait until I feel more in control."

"Not too much control I hope."

"Sylvie, this isn't a jesting matter! I could have killed you. I almost did."

"But you didn't. Hal, won't it be easier, now that you know what to expect?"

"I honestly don't know." He whispers before continuing firmly, "However, the day has only begun and -"

She interrupts, "Are there rules prohibiting relations during the day?"

"No, not exactly. It's just... my list -"

"Is this something we have to schedule on your list?" Her voice rises.

"No, certainly not."

"Is it me then? Is there something wrong with me?"

"No!" His voice cracks as he panics at how far this conversation has gone. "It's only that I think it best if you... ahhh... have some time to... recover." He looks supremely uncomfortable.

"What if I don't need any time to recover? What happened to 'with my Body I thee worship?'"

Hal raises his voice, "What happened to 'Wilt thou obey him'?"

Sylvie relents. "Very well Hal, I won't ravish you right now. However, I cannot promise you that won't change after breakfast."

He raises his eyebrows. "You know for a girl of your chaste upbringing, you are quite... coy."

Sylvie retorts, "For a man who chained up girls, having his way with and feeding off them for months, you are quite the prude."

She knows she went too far when she sees his haunted look. He whispers, "You truly have no understanding of the horrors I'm capable of. You are playing with fire."

"Fire can be a useful tool."

Hal makes an irritated sound. He moves to get up, then glances down flustered; attempting to keep himself covered with the sheet would mean removing it from her. With a nervous sigh he gives her a tight uncomfortable look. She gives him a wide grin. Finally he stands, letting the sheet drop, turns away and quickly goes over to where his dressing gown is hanging. Once he's covered he turns back. "I think perhaps you would be pleased to go to your rooms now. I took the liberty of selecting the ones across the hall and having all your belongings located there."

Sylvie had been quite enjoying the sight of his backside, but now stops grinning, puzzled. "Excuse me? What is wrong with this room? It's a fair size to be shared by the both of us."

"Surely your parents have their own rooms? This is de rigeur for couples of our social standing. And also I have a system. Everything has a place..." He stares down at the puddle of her garments on the floor disdainfully. "... there is order."

Sylvie is piqued, "Of course I expect to have my own room. It's just that, I had hoped we could share a room, for the most part, staying together, spending our days together. And I wanted to watch you shave."

"I need to keep my routines and that includes having my room and personal items unchanged. I have a list that I follow, a schedule to keep me busy, to keep my mind occupied. This is how I resist the urges to kill. If there are too many disruptions I can't be held accountable for my actions."

"I'm your wife and I live here too now. I am supposed to be part of the solution, not excluded from it. How do I fit in your list? How do I fit in your life?"

Mistaking her inquiries for enthusiasm Hal starts, "Well, there are meal times of course, we can certainly spend those in company. Reading, calligraphy, paper folding, press-ups, those are solitary events. I go for a daily ride, that really is the only time I have away from people altogether, so that's out of the question. Then there's..."

Sylvie tunes him out as she narrows her eyes. Her first day of marriage is not turning out as she had envisioned. Here he is blathering on about his list and all she wants right at this moment is for him to decide to stay with her all day, doing as they please. Of course he needs order and it will be good to have some scheduled activities, but she's never been one for structure and she doesn't want them to be apart all day. She had hoped they would compromise and follow some of her interests as well. Finally she decides to interrupt him; she can tell he really has no clue that nothing he's saying is pleasing her at all.

"Aren't you just a ray of sunshine." She gets up, not attempting to conceal herself at all as she crosses the room to get her robe. Hal looks away. "Well Hal, you've certainly accomplished one thing already this morning. I'm quite cheesed off. Is that on your list? I'll go to my room now!" And with that she leaves.

At breakfast they sit in silence until finally she asks curiously if she can have a copy of his schedule. He doesn't see the harm in it, in fact thinks it is a good idea for her to familiarize herself with his routines, so he delightedly writes her a copy. He doesn't seem to notice the speculation on her face.

The first couple days are uneventful, pleasant. Sylvie is civil, if less enthusiastic than normal. This suits him, so he doesn't think much of it and goes on with his routines. The first night there is an awkward moment when they go upstairs and pause at Sylvie's door. He is unsure of what to do as she looks at him expectantly. Finally she simply turns around with a soft, "good night Hal", and leaves him standing in the corridor. It's for the best, Hal thinks as he goes to his room and prepares for sleep as he normally would. One night with her wasn't enough to change the ingrained habits of half a dozen years, not enough to trouble him. And yet when he wakes in the morning he turns his head towards the side she'd been just a day ago, feeling a pang, envisioning her there with the sun highlighting her sleeping face.

The second day goes on much as the first. While he's doing most of his morning routines he hears her playing at the pianoforte, her lovely soubrette voice echoing up a surprisingly welcome addition to the calming tasks he engages in. Their midday meal together is pleasant; she seems to have gotten on with the servants and has her own pursuits. When he's reading he hears her singing again, this time out in the garden, and goes down to give her a gentle reminder that it's reading time. She amiably stops, asking if he'd like to go for a walk, and he's tempted, but decides to stick to his list. His customary ride is uneventful. That night she excuses herself early.

The third day begins the torture.

When she comes down to breakfast she's wearing a flighty embroidered white gown he's never seen before. It looks innocent enough but has a way of emphasizing her graceful curves as she moves. He'd always had a weakness for women in white. Was she somehow prescient?

He starts his routines and shortly after he hears her playing and singing once more. He sighs contentedly until he realizes she's playing something different.

Oh there was a young lady from Grosvenor Square
Who said that her clock was in need of repair
In walks the bold German and to her delight
In less than five minutes he'd set her clock right.

The tune sounds like a folk song. He thought he'd made sure none of that type of music had come with her. He frowns as he makes out the words - he's fairly certain the song is not about clocks in the literal sense.

Now as they were seated down on the floor
There came a very loud knock on the door
In walked her husband and great was his shock
For to see the old German wind up his wife's clock...

He winces, putting his head in his hands. Dear God, she is singing a bawdy tavern song. He can only hope the servants do not comprehend the double entendre.

When her singing comes to an end he sighs in relief, but it doesn't last. He hears her clear sweet voice once again, his little lark, but what comes out of her mouth is anything but sweet.

A lusty young smith at his vise stood a filing,
His hammer laid by but his forge still aglow,
When to him a buxom young damsel came smiling
and asked if to work at her forge he would go.

He stands up abruptly. He knows this one. "The Lusty Young Smith" he whispers to himself with a look of horror. He hurries down the hall, practically running, and comes in just as she's finishing another verse.

Her Husband, she said, no good work could afford her;
His strength and his tools were worn out long ago.
The smith said, "Well mine are in very good order,
And now I am ready my skill for to show

"Sylvie!"

She ignores him and raises her voice even further.

Six times did his iron, by vigorous heating
Grow soft in the forge in a minute or so,
And often was hardened, still beating and beating,
But each time it softened it hardened more slow.

"Sylvie, Stop!"

She quiets, smiling at him sweetly, innocently. "What's wrong Hal?"

"What's wrong? He huffs incredulously. "That song. It's... " he takes a breath, "I hardly think the subject matter is appropriate. Where did you even learn that song?"

She just keeps smiling at him and shrugs.

"I would appreciate if you kept the music to something more suitable. That tune is common, unsophisticated. I prefer the baroque style of music. Bach, Handel... these are proper composers. However, if you prefer some of that wild modern music, what about that young man that is rising to popularity, what is his name? Beethoven? I do try to keep up."

"Yes Hal. Whatever you wish Hal."

He narrows his eyes at her compliance. She's normally opinionated to the extreme. "But stay away from that Mozart. His music is barbaric!" She nods. "Good!" He leaves to continue his routines.

He soon finds out she wasn't compliant after all.

Throughout the morning she finds excuses to barge in wherever he is, asking him questions she knows very well the servants are more than capable of answering. He points this out, repeatedly, and she apologizes, but shortly after repeats her behaviour. When he's reading she comes in ostensibly to "borrow" a book. He tries to concentrate on his reading but winces as she rummages through the shelves, removing books at random, replacing them out of order. When they converse at mealtime, she manages to insert suggestive words into any subject he initiates. He refuses to rise to her taunts. Each time they cross paths she manages to flaunt herself in a very unladylike manner; bending to grab a book on a lower shelf, her back to him; bending to pick up a dropped spoon, her low bodice within view; arching her neck up as the wind ruffles the tendrils of hair while they have tea in the patio. Lifting her skirt higher than strictly necessary as she steps across puddles when he agrees to accompany her on a short walk. He keeps averting his eyes. Once he hears her mutter under her breath, "I married a eunuch."

With relief he finally leaves for his ride, a time he can truly relax his guard without any interruptions or temptations around him. He breathes in the fresh air and tries to forget the taxing morning. He returns in a better mood until he gets to the stable and there is no groom to greet him. No stable boy either. As he dismounts he hears clapping and cheering coming from the back gardens and goes to investigate.

He raises his eyebrows in disbelief at the sight that greets him.

Lined up along one side is most of the house staff, still cheering. And along the wide path between flower beds is Sylvie doing some sort of flipping exercise, throwing her heels up over her head. She has her skirts tied up high, exposing her shapely ankles, calves, knees, even part of her thighs. Worse yet, she has no stockings on.

As he approaches the servants see him and disband immediately. They do not wish to incur his wrath. Sylvie is in mid-flip and does not notice until he blocks her path. She comes to a breathless stop in front of him, wild-haired and ruddy.

Hal scowls in deep disapproval. "Sylvie, what in God's name are you doing? This is madness!"

Taking a few deep breaths she replies, "Oh hello Hal. Nice of you to join us." She smiles at him sweetly.

He continues to frown.

"My family took me to the Circus in London a few years ago. It was marvelous and they had acrobatic performers who did these flips. I believe they are called cartwheels. I practiced for months until I was able to do it."

Hal looks blankly. "Circus?"

"Yes Hal, haven't you heard of the circus? They have riders on horses doing tricks, acrobats, clowns. It's been around since before I was born."

Hal shakes his head. "I have never heard of it. However, I have seen jesters perform cartwheels before. What I want to know is why you are doing it. And here. And in this state of undress? For Chrissakes, there were men watching you. This is scandalous! You're a married woman now."

"Oh yes, that's right. I am married. Sorry I'd forgotten, considering my husband seems to have no interest in me whatsoever." She picks up her shoes and stockings and stalks off leaving him to watch her swaying hips and bare legs. She calls over her shoulder, "And don't you dare do anything to the servants."

She doesn't come out of her room the rest of the evening. When he passes her door he hears crying. He thinks perhaps he should knock, but can think of nothing to say, so goes to bed.

The following day is a complete turnaround.

Sylvie is dressed in the most modest fashion he's ever seen on her. She even wears a shawl and gloves and, he's happy to see, proper stockings and shoes. Her hair is up in a simple and sensible chignon. She's very quiet, answering in monosyllables when addressed but otherwise not talking. All morning and afternoon the only sound to be heard is silence, the only sight to be seen is empty rooms. Blessedly, no singing or humming or laughing, no interruptions, no evocative gestures or insinuating banter. Why does it suddenly seem too quiet? His solitary ride does not bring the relief it normally does and he finds himself looking forward to returning.

Such a simple thing; she isn't even trying to provoke him. They sit stiffly at late afternoon tea, not making any conversation. He'd been watching her surreptitiously while she ignored him altogether. He is finishing his tea, black with a splash of water, when in a childish gesture she takes the honey dipper, tilts her head back, and drizzles honey directly into her mouth. He is about to chastise her but becomes entranced by her neck as he she swallows. Then with a chortle and an unintentional carefree glance at him she catches some errant honey from the side of her mouth with her finger and innocently puts it into her mouth. Her rosy lips form a perfect 'O' as she licks the stubborn honey off.

It isn't so much that he loses control, overcome by his urges. No, it is more like entering a trance. One second he sits stone still, his eyes following her actions; the next second he very calmly and deliberately stands up, places his napkin on the table and saunters over to her. As she looks up at him surprised he takes the honey dipper out of her hand and places it the jar. In one fluid move, he slides her chair out 90 degrees and scoops her up.

"Hal, what are you doing?"

He doesn't bother answering. He takes her upstairs, barely pausing to close the door of his bedroom with his foot, and promptly deposits her on the bed, where she sits wide-eyed at his sudden change. Never unlocking his eyes from hers, his fingers fly as he all but tears off his waistcoat -wincing slightly as he peripherally sees two buttons pop to the floor - and uncharacteristically tosses it aside. He pulls his linen undershirt over his head and tosses it as well. Then he removes his boots and socks, pads over in just his trousers and kneels on the bed.

He tosses off her scarf and rips the gloves off her hands. He moves behind her, quickly undoing the buttons down her back, caressing her shoulders as he pulls off her sleeves. He unlaces her stays, his fingers brushing against her spine, stroking goosebumps, as he removes her undergarment. Moving around in front he partially lifts her up to shimmy her dress and chemise off. He unhooks her garters, and noting the vial peeking up from the edge of her stocking, he tosses her stays. Leaving her in only her stockings, he turns his back to her, urging in a gravelly voice, "Hide it!"

She slides it under the mattress quickly, then touches his back.

He turns, and she sees him swallow thickly before he takes her hands and guides them to the waist of his trousers. She stares at the ridges of his stomach, at the contours of his hips protruding from the waistline, as she unbuttons the trousers. She leans in and kisses the hollow of his left hipbone. He tenses his stomach, lets out a startled gasp, and her lips twitch in a smile. She kisses the hollow on the other side for good measure. She moves to lower his trousers but he stops her with a husky, "Not yet. My turn to torment."

He pushes her back and begins to slowly slide her stockings off, kissing her skin along the path the material exposes. She sighs happily at feeling his soft full lips on her. Once both stockings are removed, he trails kisses back up her legs, across her hips, up towards her breasts, causing goosebumps and a blush of sweat to break out over her entire body. She arches up with a moan as his lips brush against her breast and his fingers trail down to tease her below. Once her sighs turn to pants and she starts tilting up against him, he pauses to tug off his trousers and pants as she looks on.

Then she reaches out to touch him, to grab him and he moans. She starts to sit back up, but he doesn't let her. With a sudden surge of lust, Hal places his hands on her hips and flips her forcibly, exposing the sensuous curve of her spine. Her hair is still up, her delicate neck is exposed. He caresses his hands slowly down the sides of her ribcage down to her waist, over the curve of her buttocks then trails the tips of his fingers in an upward motion along her spine, sending delicious tingles through her. He braces his forearms on either side of her as he brings his weight down and brings his lips to the nape of her neck. His lips linger, brushing, softly as a whisper, from side to side as he inhales deeply - fresh, sweet lavender laced with a minerally undercurrent. He lifts his head trying to break away from the intoxicating scent but brings it down immediately to nuzzle her neck again, this time the tip of his tongue tentatively brushing across her skin. Oh God, her skin tastes of salt.

Without losing sight of her neck he takes one hand and lifts her arms above her head and shifts his weight to nudge his knee between her thighs. Settling himself against her, he thrusts in as his lips, unbidden, come to her neck a third time, his tongue languishing across the curvature. One lick. One thrust. Another lick and thrust. And then he suckles at the tender skin, reveling in the briny taste. He feels his vision shift and his fangs unsheath and he pulls back quickly. One breath. Two breaths. Staring at the spot where the jugular vein lies just out of his direct sight. So easy to pierce, so easy to taste... his mouth waters in anticipation of the taste. "NO!" he exclaims, wrenching his eyes away. He closes them, trying to fight the visceral need that threatens to swallow him. With a couple more shaky breaths he concentrates on other sensations. The heat emanating off her body, her hands gripping his hand as he holds her down, the remembered sighs and moans, his arousal hard against her softness.

In a sudden movement he shifts off her and flips her over, locking his eyes with her startled ones, their depths still holding traces of her desire. As he stares into them he finds some calm and his vision returns to normal, his fangs regress. He can hear her heart pumping madly, but whether from desire or horror he is unsure. Out of his peripheral vision he sees her hand, the vial clutched in it, move over the side of the bed. It comes back empty. Exhaling shakily the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, he slowly brings his head down, his lips hovering over hers, his eyes silently questioning. In answer she brings her hand to twine in his disheveled hair, pulling him to her parted lips.

The sweet honey lingering on her lips helps overcome the salty temptation, helps quench that hunger. The way she writhes her hips against his, thighs parting in invitation, inflames his lust. Clenching the sheets with his fists on either side he enters her, the enveloping warmth almost undoing him. Needing to lose himself in her, he grabs her hip, tilting her up, and drives deep, hard, fast, the soft thud of their skin meeting punctuated by her moans and cries, driving him to oblivion.

Sylvie is still in a state of bliss, barely able to catch her breath. She can't believe what just happened, neither the euphoria she's experienced, nor the fear she felt at seeing him transformed. Their coupling had been more powerful than the first time and the danger far more tangible. Will she ever get used to either? His teeth are the threat and yet it is the soulless look in the ink black eyes that scared her unlike anything else. The thought of losing him to that grips her with fear. But she shoves those thoughts out of her head. They are for another time. She wants to enjoy the moment, enjoy him.

Peering over at him, he is laying on his side looking at her, his face unreadable. She can't help teasing him, "Well Hal, is this added to your list now?"

He frowns, "Sylvie, this isn't a game." He moves to turn away but she follows, pinning him on his back by draping her leg over his, her arm across his chest.

To encourage him she says seriously, "No, you are right. This isn't a game. This is the world of you and I, our strange and beautiful reality."

"I very nearly killed you. That's twice now, and both times I could feel the hunger rear up. The first time, if you hadn't cried out in pain I'm not sure I would have stopped."

"And this time?"

"This time you should have used the wolf's blood! You promised me -"

She silences him with her finger over his lips, "Don't. Please don't ruin this moment for me."

He's quiet long enough that she is surprised when he continues the conversation, "This time, I stopped."

She smiles at him, "You stopped."

His face brightens, his eyes soften, "Somehow, in that moment, when I felt the bloodlust, I thought of you yesterday, all the interruptions, all the distractions. Rather than feel relief I felt... empty. It wasn't a feeling I was ready to live with."

"Aww, you love me, don't you Hal?" She says it nonchalantly, but her throat constricts.

He gives a little laugh. His fingers tease a lock of hair behind her ear, then trail down her neck, pausing to caress the contour of her clavicle before he drops his hand. Then haltingly, testing, he lifts his head up and kisses the hollow notch at the base of her throat. He lingers, his soft lips brushing along the ridge as his fingers had, before dropping back to the pillow. His eyes are intense, hooded - but clear. "You've certainly put some sort of spell on me."

Her heart, barely having recovered, speeds up instantly. Shivering, Sylvie traces his lips, licking hers. "I think we're both spellbound."

Hal is thoughtful. "Curiously, when I kissed you I tasted the sweetness left on your lips. It helped calm the hunger, in a fashion."

"Well, you've hit upon the perfect solution! I will cover myself in honey so that you won't be tempted."

He looks at her with a mixture of disapproval and panic. "Wouldn't that be... ahh... sticky...?"

Sylvie laughs at his outrage as she slides herself further over him and tilts her head down for a kiss. She feels him respond, becoming hard, and she rubs herself against him. "Very well, we'll skip that part - this time."

Chapter title and inspiration is Strange & Beautiful by Aqualung. It's an intoxicating song, especially when you listen on continuous loop for 2 weeks!

I may have gotten a bit carried away with the filth once again, but please - it's HAL! I promise it wont all be this... um... detailed. But her body IS one of the main ways she keeps him clean so my hands are tied. darn ;)

A soubrette voice is light with a bright, sweet timbre. It is not a weak voice but has a lighter vocal weight than other soprano voices. Many young singers start out as soubrettes before their voice matures.

Sylvie's first bawdy song, "The German Clockwinder", is an Irish drinking song with origins that have been lost in time.

Sylvie's second bawdy song is a few verses from The Lusty Young Smith by Thomas d'Urfey (1653 – 1723) He wrote witty satirical plays, songs and poetry, and his country songs tended to be more than a little bawdy.