Author's Note: SUPER long chapter for my lovelies, because you've all been so wonderfully patient. I'd like to extend a truly heartfelt "Thank you!" to my Beta, ColeAndPhoebeForever, who helped me a great deal with this chapter. You are awesome, Kim.

As always, reviews are welcome and encouraged.

SAMSON

Samson stared down at his hands, illuminated by dusty golden light. They were large hands, unnaturally so. Calloused by hard labor, and cut through with silver-white scars. Perfectly proportioned to the rest of his body, yes, but he towered over other men, and his hands were nearly twice the size of Helena's. And they were terribly strong. Strong enough to destroy life with only minimal effort.

Strong enough to kill a child.

He shuddered, and his hands curled into fists. That was a sin that would never stop haunting him. He would never forgive himself for the boy's death. Just as he would never forgive himself for the murder of Victor's wife. That night, when he had first seen her up close, he had thought she was the most beautiful creature in the world. The first night he had seen Helena, he had thought the same thing.

When Elizabeth had noticed his presence, she had screamed so loudly the sound had pierced his head with pain. She had turned away from him and tried to flee. She had looked upon him with the utmost revulsion.

When Helena had first realized that he was in the room with her, she had spoken to him as if he was human, not monster.

Did that mean that Elizabeth had deserved her fate?

No. Of course not. She had no more deserved to die than William Frankenstein or Henry Clerval. He had been mad with grief and pain, spurned by humans, driven to insanity by the false hope Victor had inspired within him when he agreed to create Samson's mate. And then driven into a rage the likes of which no human was capable of suffering, when his only hope for finding kindness and love in the world was destroyed by his own father.

William. Henry. Elizabeth. They were all dead at his hands, and he would carry their deaths with him for the rest of his life.

And another had almost joined them this morning.

He laughed bitterly. Samson had murdered three innocent people, and he balked at the death of a bastard like Jacob Stanford.

He hadn't even enjoyed the look of blatant terror that had twisted Stanford's features when he saw Samson standing in the shadows of the front parlor. He had not relished the gasp of voiceless fright as he had prowled across the room and grabbed the Englishman by his throat and lifted him into the air.

But he had enjoyed relaying his threat. Oh, he had so enjoyed that part. He had put his face close to Stanford's, so close he could smell the sickly sweet stench of fear rolling off him. His bright, golden eyes had glittered with primitive, animal ferocity. He had smiled, and his voice had come out as a predatory snarl.

"I do not know what you did to her, and God help you should I ever find out. But you will apologize to her for everything you have done to cause her sadness. You will beg for her forgiveness or I shall rip your heart out of your chest while it still beats. And after you have groveled at her feet, you will disappear; you will leave this country, and hope to God that I never decide to come after you. Helena is mine."

He had dropped the Viscount back onto unsteady legs and turned to leave the room. And then he had paused at the doorway, and turned back to Stanford with another cruel little smile.

"And if you breathe a word of this to anyone, it's your tongue I'll be ripping out instead of your heart."

The look on Stanford's face had brought a true grin to Samson's lips as he'd left the front parlor and disappeared back up to the attic, where he now sat contemplating the nature of death and sin. It was not until he had returned here that he realized just how close he had been to killing the man. It was frightening, how little control he had over the hellish, unthinking rage that lived within him. The possibility of losing his temper was a constant threat now, because he did not have Lena's presence to sooth his temper.

It should not be so easy to kill. He should not be so strong. Maybe if he hadn't been born with such size and strength he wouldn't have been able to kill anyone. He wouldn't have to deal with the painful knowledge that, no matter how much Helena thought she might love him, she would never look at him the same if she knew what he had done. He did not deserve her.

He did not deserve life.

Tiny footsteps clicked against the attic stairs. Samson lifted his head and fixed his gaze on the stairwell. His body tensed, ready to flee at the slightest hint of a threat, and as he forced himself to relax, he mused at the strength of his flight instinct.

Margot appeared in the doorway, and the look on her face wiped all thoughts of Samson's own misery out of his head. He stood swiftly, and went to kneel before her. He took her hands in his; they were shaking and cold.

"What's wrong, child?" he demanded. She looked on the verge of tears. "Are you alright?"

She looked up at him with an unreadable expression on her face, and then she hung her head.

"Lena yelled at me," she whispered.

Samson frowned. "She what?"

"She yelled at me. Just like my stupid governess does when I do something wrong. But I didn't do anything, Samson! I didn't even say anything!" Margot sniffled, and Samson sat back to stare at her. "And then Abby sent me away, and I didn't know where to go, so I came to look for you."

"Me?" He was momentarily baffled. "Why?"

She sent him the look that Lena always gave him when he exasperated her. He almost smiled at the similarity, but thought better of it at the last minute.

"Because you're my friend."

Oh.

Samson opened his mouth to speak, and found that he had no words. He could only nod.

"Anyway, she yelled at me." Margot dropped down onto a dusty trunk and sat silently, staring out one of the dirty windows with a forlorn expression on her pale face.

Samson stared at her for a long moment. He had suffered untold horrors in his lifetime, immeasurable suffering and pain, hatred, madness, and despair beyond measure. He had traveled to the farthest reaches of the Earth. He had survived wounds that would have been fatal to any normal man.

And he had absolutely no idea how to handle a sulking eleven-year-old girl.

"I… I'm sorry that she yelled at you," he said, sitting down across from her.

"She's never done that before."

She had never raised her voice to him, either. He wasn't sure how he might react if she did. He couldn't even visualize it. They sat there in a silence that only Samson found awkward; Margot was far too miserable to notice.

Finally, he cleared his throat and looked over at the girl.

"What happened?"

It was like he had broken a dam, and a river of words instantly came pouring out of her.

"I ran up and told her Stanford had just gotten here, and so had Abby, and she looked at me like she was mad and told me to go get Abby and bring her to her room, and to tell Gerald to get the brandy, and to get Eleanor to help her dress, and then you told me to lock Stanford in the front parlor and tell Lena that he was in the Red Parlor – why did you do that, by the way? – and then I told Lena that Eleanor wasn't coming to help her dress because Gerald wanted her to help with the brandy for Greg and Papa and Lena's face went all white and she sat down and started brushing her hair and then she threw the brush down and said 'What!' really loud and even Abby looked scared, and I've never seen Abby scared, cause she's not afraid of anything." She stopped, more out of the need for oxygen than due to a lack of words, and took a deep, heaving breath.

Samson stared at her.

"Ah. Well." And he looked down at his hands again, and then back up at Margot. "I do not think that Lena's anger was directed at you." Margot shot him her "Don't be stupid" look again, and Samson smiled. "Truly, I do not. Lena was angry because she felt helpless." Though she had never displayed her temper in front of her family before. He was the only one who had seen it. This worried him, though he did not let it show.

"Why would she feel helpless? She was ordering me around like she was the Queen."

Samson laughed softly. "Yes, you were the only one who would listen to her, and the only one who was truly trying to help her."

She frowned thoughtfully. "I suppose."

"You were. Your father was in his office loading his dueling pistol, your mother was in the Red Parlor contemplating the efficiency of a teapot as a weapon, your brother was pacing the library like a caged lion, and the servants were running around like chickens with their heads… well, let's just say they were frantic. And the new girl – Abby, was it? – she was upstairs arguing with Lena to distract her from the situation. So you see, while everyone else was trying to handle the problem themselves, which they had no right to do, you were the only one actually helping your sister." Margot's eyes were as wide as tea saucers by the time he was finished speaking.

"How did you know all that?"

Samson grinned. "I know everything that goes on in this house."

Margot smiled. Her eyes lit up and her back straightened with pride. Samson heaved a mental sigh. One potential crisis handled; another to attend to in a few minutes. Today was turning out to be quite exhausting, even for him.

Then she spoke again.

"Why did you tell me to lock Stanford in the front parlor, Samson?"

He groaned. What was it with the Dubois women? They would not give him a moment's respite.

"Because I wanted to speak with him alone, Margot."

She gasped with delight. "Did you challenge him to a duel in Hyde Park?"

"Of course not," Samson said with a disapproving frown. He had seen the duels of which she spoke, and they were tame and civil compared to what he wanted to do to Stanford. But, of course, he would never tell that to a child. "I asked him very nicely not to bother your sister anymore." Margot shot him a dubious glance, but before she could speak, he lifted a hand for silence and cocked his head to the side. He heard her voice, very distantly, calling to him like a siren's song. He smiled. "Lena has gone downstairs." He stood, and took Margot's hand to lead her back to the stairwell. "She'll be meeting with Stanford soon. Be my eyes, and yell if you need me, alright?"

Margot looked up at him, and flashed him a brilliant, but shy smile. "Thank you, Samson. You're a good friend." And she turned and disappeared in a whirl of brown curls and blue ribbons. And Samson was left standing in the attic, alone.

Except that he wasn't alone anymore. The realization came suddenly, surprising him and enveloping him in a strange, light-headed sensation. For the first time in his life, he was not alone. He had Helena's love and Margot's friendship. And no matter how fleeting this sensation may be, it filled him with a sense of warmth and peace. It was the first time he had ever felt any measure of peace outside of Helena's presence.

Perhaps, then, if his sanity and temper did not truly depend upon her, he might one day be able to approach her as nothing more than a man, and not a desperately lonely, utterly damned monster clinging to one last hope for salvation.

Perhaps there was hope for him, yet.

He smiled.

HELENA

She felt like she could fly. Her entire body was light and nimble. She reached out, and Abigail helped her to her feet in frightened silence, but Lena could not stop smiling. She turned to her cousin and pulled her into a hug. Emotions were running wildly through her body, liquid colors in her mind, pure delight and amusement and mischief.

"I'm fine, Abby. Really." She laughed at the look on Abby's face. "Do you know the feeling you get when the sun comes out after weeks of rain and dreariness? I feel like that. I feel alive."

"Lena, have you lost your mind?" Abby demanded. "You just fainted. You never faint. What is going on?"

Lena went to her wardrobe and grabbed her shoes. "Hand me my dress, will you?"

Abigail did as she was asked, all the while muttering under her breath about Lena having nothing but air in her head.

Lena hummed to herself, incapable of standing still as Abby helped her into her dress and helped her pile her hair up onto her head. She had fought her demons, and it would appear that she had won. She could feel. She could laugh and truly know what it felt like to laugh. She could smile and that smile reached all the way down to her toes. She had never felt so much energy, she was practically buzzing with it. It was almost like…

Like the way she felt when he was around.

She stopped in her tracks, halfway to the door.

He had made her feel alive. Was that why she craved his presence so badly? Was that why she craved him so badly? His touch, his kiss, the sound of his voice. Everything about him made her feel… brilliant and full of energy.

But he was not around. And a dream could not possibly be enough to give her this energy. She had found it herself.

Did that mean that she didn't need him anymore?

"Abby?"

"Yes, crazy lady?"

"Have you ever been in love?"

Abby laughed, throwing herself back onto Lena's bed and heaving a dramatic sigh. "Of course not. If I had, I would be married by now, and not the sole cause of despair in my mother's life."

Lena grinned from the doorway. "You're incorrigible."

"And you are insane. Now let me take a nap while you go chat with the idiot viscount."

Lena laughed and shut the door to her room, leaving Abby to her rest. But she sobered as she walked down the hallway towards the stairs. Was it possible that she wasn't in love with him? How would she feel around him, now that she had her emotions back, and her life?

It was something she would have to contemplate later. Right now, she had a viscount to destroy.

When Lena walked into the library, she found her father and brother sitting by the fireplace, each with a glass of brandy in his hand. Gerald stood at attention behind them, next to the decanter. All three froze like rabbits caught in crosshairs when they saw her.

"You should both be ashamed of yourselves, drinking this early in the day," Lena stated.

Greg opened his mouth to speak, and then hesitated.

"Helena, you look… lovely," her father said in a strained voice. Lena smiled. She looked breathtaking, and she knew it. She was wearing her finest day dress, pale blue muslin with white silk roses embroidered along the hem and sleeves. Her golden hair was pulled back beneath a jaunty little hat, and delicate ringlets fell around her face and neck.

No doubt, they believed she was trying to impress Stanford.

Lena suppressed a shudder at the thought. Anger swelled up within her, threatening to explode. She tamped it down; she could control these new emotions of hers. She could handle them.

Her family, on the other hand, might not be able to. They had only ever known her as their quiet, biddable daughter. Their paragon. The one who never caused trouble.

That was not who Helena Dubois really was. That was what the night terrors and made her, and she refused to bow beneath that terror anymore.

"Thank you, papa." She forced a pleasant smile on her face. "Why was I not told that Stanford is here?"

This time, it was her father whose mouth dropped open like a fish out of water, and Gregoire jumped in to save him.

"We didn't want you to get upset, Lena, that's all."

Lena put her hands on her hips like an angry fishwife. Like Margot did when she was about to yell at someone. "I don't see how Stanford's visit would upset me."

The two men exchanged baffled glances at each other. Lena's father took a long sip from his glass.

"He seemed to upset you last night," Greg noted. Lena dismissed him with a wave of her hand.

"Oh, no, he wasn't the problem at all," she replied offhandedly. What had upset her last night had been the constant hallucinations, the shadows she kept seeing out of the corner of her eye, and the desperate desire to hear her companion's voice.

She felt an instant stab of longing as she thought of the night before, of the muted sadness she had felt, and it very nearly brought tears to her eyes. At the same time, she felt the absurd urge to laugh. If she had truly had her emotions last night, she would not only have set upon Stanford like an infuriated harpy, but she would quite possibly have gone chasing after the shadows that reminded her of her companion.

She wanted to hear his voice, to feel his presence, so badly she could barely breathe. Even now, standing in the library, she felt it like a hole in her heart, an ache for him that could not be sated by anyone else in the world.

And with that thought she dismissed all possibility that she was not in love with him. Even now, with emotions running through her like liquid fire, with energy bubbling in her veins, it just made the desire to be close to him a hundred times stronger.

She smiled.

"Bollocks, Lena," Greg said suddenly. Their father coughed, and raised his handkerchief to his mouth. Lena eyed him dubiously. She rather suspected that he was laughing.

"You shouldn't curse in front of a lady," Lena said. She turned to leave, and Greg sat up straight in his chair, sloshing a few drops of brandy onto the thick Persian carpet beneath their feet.

"Now, just wait une minute, Helena," her brother said in an indignant voice. He must have downed his first glass very quickly; he only mixed his languages when he was sloshed. "Où vas-tu?"

Where are you going?

"Where I'm going is none of your concern," she said over her shoulder as she passed through the door and into the hallway. From behind her, she heard Gregoire complaining in a deliberately loud voice.

"She's like an older version of Margot."

And then her father, in voice full of quiet laughter. "No, son. It's the other way around."

She smiled to herself, and directed her steps towards the stairs. Towards Stanford.

The Red Parlor was a rich, lavish, almost painfully formal sitting room that faced the rose gardens in the rear of the house. The Dubois family rarely made use of it, as it had cost a king's ransom to create, and they did not often have visitors who required that level of formality, or that level of intimidation.

Today, however, intimidation was quite called for.

Helena swept into the room, and took a moment to bask in the richness of red Chinese silk and shining, gilded furniture. She had loved this room as a girl, before she had lost herself. Now, she felt that familiar, long-forgotten swell of joy as she entered into an exotic, magical place. Before her, her mother sat on the embroidered silk chaise, pouring herself a cup of tea, and looking for all the world as if she was entertaining an old friend.

Opposite her, Stanford sat on one of the padded benches the Chinese seemed to prefer. His back was razor-straight, and he looked slightly baffled. His eyes darted around the room, shifting constantly. As if he expected something – or someone, perhaps – to come leaping out at him from the shadows.

Lena smiled. She had the advantage of being perfectly comfortable, in her own home, in one of her favorite rooms, where her mother sat opposite the enemy, waiting to engage.

She had every advantage.

So she smiled. It was a bright smile, one that she felt through her entire body. It felt like all of her was smiling. She had smiled before, but it had never reached past her eyes.

Two faces turned towards her, and for one brief instant, both wore identical looks of utter shock.

Of course. Her mother had not seen her smile since she was a child. And Stanford had never been privilege to such an expression.

"Bonjour, Maman," Lena greeted her mother first, a deliberate insult to Stanford's social rank. Her mother inclined her head for Lena to kiss her cheek, and only then did Lena straighten and dip a very slight curtsey to Stanford. "My lord."

He stood. Proper manners would have brought him to his feet the instant she entered the room, but she could forgive him the slight, considering her sudden change in demeanor.

"I wish to speak with you, Lena," he said in a quiet voice. Lena narrowed her eyes at him, but she could detect no hint of sarcasm or disdain. Was he actually being sincere?

Lena's mother stood up and took a step forward, ready to insert herself between her daughter and her enemy. Lena held up one hand to her mother.

"Non, Maman. Je suis apte la faire."

I can handle this.

Of course she could handle this. If she could overcome that terror, that frozen, debilitating fear, then she could do anything.

She turned to Stanford. He watched her through eyes so brown they seemed black, and she saw a flicker of… something… in them.

"It is such a beautiful morning. Shall we take a walk in the gardens?"

He nodded, and preceded her to the terrace doors, opening them for her and escorting her out into the chill morning air.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, my lord?" Lena asked in an absent voice, extracting her hand from his grip to inspect a red rose that grew defiantly in her path.

Stanford was silent for a moment.

"I came to apologize. For everything." His tone was soft, and Lena was struck by the note of fear in it. She turned and looked up at him, and saw a haunted – or was it a hunted? – look in his eyes. "I am sorry, Helena."

Lena shook her head, baffled. Where had this change of heart come from? Last night, she had seen murder in his eyes. Last night, he would have killed her in a heartbeat if she had tried to tell the world the truth.

And now he was apologizing?

It made no sense. Stanford did not apologize. He did not make mistakes. His pride was exceeded only by his arrogance.

She stared at him, amazed. Apparently, she wasn't the only one capable of massive changes in disposition.

She didn't feel the rage, not at first. But it was there, hiding beneath the surface of her mind, waiting like a vicious, hungry predator, waiting for the right moment to pounce.

Her eyesight went red.

"Stanford," she said, speaking slowly and deliberately, "two years ago, you abandoned me – you abandoned my entire family in our greatest time of need." Without realizing it, she had begun to advance on him, and he involuntarily took a step back. He winced at her accusation, and a grim smile lit upon her face. "You have stolen from me. You have insulted me. You have threatened my life. You took my virginity and ran like the pathetic, miserable coward that you are. Answer me honestly: do you really think that I would forgive you for anything?"

He had gone pale, as if someone had leached the blood from his body and left a ghostly shell behind. He came towards her, and grasped her hands in his. His palms were cold. His entire body was shaking.

He was terrified.

"I wish you had not said that," he said quietly, his words pouring out in a hasty jumble. "Whoever he is, I hope he can protect you from –" he choked off whatever he was about to say, and closed his eyes. "Goodbye, Helena."

And he turned and disappeared around the side of the house, towards the stables. Lena watched him go with a furtive frown curling her lips. It was not like him to give up so easily. She had expected him to put up a bigger fight. Something was not right about him. She had, at first, been very attracted to his stubborn, arrogant, lordly demeanor. Now, he seemed far too human. Far too… fragile.

Lena shook her head. Not right. She didn't like thinking of her mortal enemy as anything other than a monster.

A voice sounded from behind her, interrupting her musing and causing a stab of surprise to race through her. "What is virginity, Lena?"

Oh, dear God. Lena turned around and met Margot's eyes. They were wide, terribly innocent, curious, and perhaps a little bit afraid.

Had she ever been so innocent? She had most certainly been sheltered, and treated with all the delicacy and care of a precious piece of china. But innocent?

No.

"That is something you will need to talk to Maman about, Gogo." She hesitated, and then sighed. "Don't tell her you heard it from me, d'accord?"

Margot pouted a bit, but she accepted Lena's avoidance with a shrug. "Why did you yell at me?"

Lena blinked. "I didn't yell at you."

"You did, when you were in your room and Gerald and Eleanor were getting the brandy for Greg."

"The brandy? Oh! I wasn't yelling at you, Gogo. I was just angry at… well, everyone, really. Everyone but you. You were a big help." She reached out and ruffled her sister's dark curls affectionately, though her thoughts were distant and vague. She was still having trouble understanding Stanford's sudden change of heart.

Margot's sudden giggle brought Lena's attention back to the present. "What's so funny?"

Her sister sent her a grin, the particular kind of grin she adopted when she had a secret and didn't wish to share it. "Nothing."

"Right." She narrowed her eyes playfully. She had never indulged in sisterly bickering with Margot; she had already withdrawn into that quiet, biddable shell by the time her sister had been born. But at her heart, and in the presence of her companion, she had always been a Dubois: fierce, clever, and stubborn. "And why is this 'nothing' so very funny? Surely it would be more amusing if I could share the joke."

Margot's eyes widened a fraction. She had not expected Lena to question her avoidance. Then her eyes narrowed again.

"Why won't you tell me what virginity is?" she countered in a haughty tone. "You said Stanford stole it. Why not tell Papa and he'll get it back for you?"

Lena felt the blood drain from her face, and vertigo threw her vision into disarray. She dropped to her knees, vaguely aware of the pain that would manifest as ugly bruises on her legs tomorrow.

These new emotions, it would appear, were both a blessing and a curse.

"Never," she breathed, reaching out for Margot and pulling her into a fierce, tight hug. Her sister didn't struggle; she stayed quiet while Lena fought her demons. Visions of scorn, disgust, revulsion in the faces of the beau monde, the humiliation of what she had done, what she had lost, of her ruin. She couldn't handle it, if anyone learned. Not yet. "You must not tell anyone, Margot. Je t'en supplie."

I beg you.

"It's okay, Lena," Margot's voice was quiet and gentle. "I won't tell a soul, I swear it."

It took her a few moments before the trembling subsided. When she regained control of her limbs, she released Margot and slowly got to her feet. She glanced down at her little sister. Not so little, anymore. She looked like a younger, dark-haired version of Lena. She was looking up at Lena with concern.

"I'm fine," Lena said quietly. "I promise."

Margot nodded, but she said nothing for a long time. And then, finally, she sighed and turned to head back inside the house. "Let me know if I can help with anything, okay?" she said over her shoulder.

Lena smiled, touched. "Of course."

She would need to get control over her emotions before she made a fool of herself in front of the beau monde. She could not walk around as unguarded as she was now, prey to anything anyone said or did. She felt helpless.

Which made sense, when she thought about it. She had lived within a protective shell for her entire adult life, virtually oblivious and emotionally shielded to everything that might cause undue emotion. She needed time to gather her strength and relearn how to act like the jaded, cold-hearted debutante that everyone knew her as.

With a sigh, Lena turned to walk back into the house. Movement, like sunlight glittering off water, caught her eyes, and drew her gaze up to the attic windows, three stories up. Shadows within shadows. Nothing to be concerned about. And no one but the servants went up to the attic.

She shook her head, and realized that her hands were clenched into tight fists, straining the seams of her gloves. She relaxed. She had to stop trying to find him in shadows and illusions. She had enough to worry about with Stanford running like a rabbit in a hawk's shadow, and Margot learning her darkest secret, and her father and brother treating her like she was made out of glass.

She had to stop trying to find him. She would see him again in a few months.

For now, it would have to be enough that she had him in her dreams.