Author's Note: As always, my beta, ColeandPhoebeForever, is amazing. She helped me straighten out my timeline and Samson's age, and a good number of other inconsistencies brought on due to my laziness and considerable lack of any kind of measurable attention span. Thank you, Kim!

Enjoy!

SAMSON

The halls of the Dubois household were dark and quiet, and every step Samson took sounded like a drum, matching the sound of his pulse pounding in his head. He followed Margot, keeping to the shadows as she led him towards the Blue Parlor.

The fury that had consumed him earlier, when he had learned the depth of Stanford's betrayal, had subsided in Margot's presence. He did not wish to see that look of terror on her face ever again. He wanted to kick himself for losing control like that. He had thought that his uncontrollable temper had been tamed in the past several months, but apparently it lived within him still, waiting to strike like a bolt of lightning, full of fire and fury and destruction.

Every atom in his body screamed at him to run into the streets and tear London apart until he found Lena. That was the reason his hands were trembling, because he had to fight so hard against his instincts and stay within the house as he gathered more information.

Oddly, he was not afraid to meet the Viscountess. Perhaps he should have been, considering the possible consequences of revealing himself, but he could not find the terror within him. All of his energy was devoted towards one singular goal: to find Helena. To bring her home. And to never, ever let her out of his sight again.

Margot stepped up to the door that led into the Blue Parlor and held her hand out to signal Samson to stop. He stepped back against the wall, as far into the shadows as he could go, and waited. His shirt felt intensely confining; a black linen vice that caged him in on all sides. He had found a great deal of clothing in the trunks in his attic, even a pair of sturdy leather boots that fit him surprisingly well. Apparently some of Helena's male ancestors had been giants as well. He had only needed a bundle of black linen, a needle and some thread to alter a shirt and pants to his measurements, and then, for the first time, he had known what it felt like to be a normal man, dressed in normal attire.

He hated it. The clothes men wore today, even when simplified, were constricting, uncomfortable, and infuriating. He greatly preferred the loose-fitting cotton trousers and thick fur cloak that he'd worn in France. But if he was to join the world of man, he had to be properly attired. No matter how much he chafed at the confining clothes, he knew they were necessary.

At least everything he wore now was black, so he blended well with the darkness.

He was most definitely not dressed as well as the men of the Dubois household, who retained a veritable army of French tailors, but at least he wouldn't be scandalizing anyone with a view of his bare chest.

Of course, his chest wouldn't scandalize Lena. In fact, he rather thought she might disapprove of his newly acquired clothing.

"Wait here a moment, so that I can make sure she's alone." Margot whispered, peeking into the parlor. "Oh, good." She raised her voice. "Maman? I need to speak with you."

"What is it, darling?" Lady Dubois replied from the parlor. She disguised it well, but Samson could hear the raw edge of pain in her voice.

Margot stepped inside, disappearing from Samson's view. He took a few steps back, increasing the distance between himself and the door, in case he needed to flee.

"Do you remember when Lena fell into the river when she was a child?" Margot asked. Samson almost smiled. Margot could definitely be trusted not to dance around the main point of a conversation.

"She told you about that, did she?" Regina asked wryly. Then she sighed. "Yes, of course I remember."

"And do you recall what she said when she was found?"

"She said that an angel had pulled her from the water. Margot, what is this all about?"

"And do you remember what you said a few months ago, about how you didn't care who it was that Lena had fallen in love with, because you were so happy to have her back?"

This time, Regina did not answer. She was silent. Samson took another step back.

"You know of him?" the Viscountess asked softly.

"He is the one who saved Lena from the river, Maman."

"And he is here? Now?" Her voice was trembling, but whether it was from sadness or anger, he couldn't tell.

Silence. Margot must have nodded.

"Send him in."

Margot appeared in the doorway, glancing around for Samson. She couldn't see him in the shadows, and that made leaving them so much more difficult. This was the last time he would ever be able to hide from the Dubois family. He felt as if he was balanced precariously on the edge of a cliff.

"Samson?" Margot whispered.

He took a deep breath and stepped forward. "I am here, child."

She waved him towards the door and disappeared back inside. The curtains had been drawn within the parlor, so the only light came from a few gas lamps and a fireplace within the room, casting a ghostly, dancing beam of orange light out in the hallway.

Samson stepped up to the door and reached out to push it open. His hand was shaking.

Suddenly, he wasn't so sure he could do this anymore. The old fear, the old memories of screaming and cursing and pain - so much pain - all of it came back to him, squeezing the air from his lungs, freezing him in place.

And then, like a cool, gentle wind kissing his skin on a hot summer day, he felt the soft brush of Lena's lips on his cheek, and he heard her voice echo through his thoughts, warm and sweet.

"I love you," she whispered.

Samson pushed the door open and stepped into the parlor.

He wasn't sure what to expect, but he was prepared for hysteria, every muscle in his body coiled tightly, ready to spring to life and carry him away into the night if the Viscountess screamed.

But she did not scream. She fixed her eyes on him, and even in the dim light, he could see that they were the exact same pale, vivid green as Helena's. Her hair shimmered in the light, the palest shade of blonde. Her skin was smooth and flawless, just like her daughter's. Time had treated Lady Dubois kindly.

She stood. Samson remained fixed in the doorway.

"My name is Regina Dubois," she said calmly. It did not escape him that she had introduced herself with her Christian name and not her title. That sort of familiarity was usually reserved only for family.

"Samson, my lady," he said, his voice soft and calm. Regina nodded, as if she thought the name suited him. A ghost of a smile curled his lips.

"It would appear that I have you to thank for saving my daughter's life," she continued, as casually as if she were discussing the weather with a friend.

"Anyone else would have done the same, my lady," he said.

Regina sent him a weary smile. "I doubt it. That river is notoriously treacherous. We are very lucky that you were nearby." Her voice softened, and her smile faded. "She told me about you, you know. She talked about you for months after you pulled her from the river. Her beautiful, dark-haired angel with golden eyes." Then she moved towards him, and Samson almost took a step back from her. He managed to stop himself just in time.

He submitted to her scrutiny, even though every fiber in his body screamed at him to run.

She nodded, just once. And Samson breathed a deep sigh of relief. She believed him.

Then she reached out for him. He could only watch in surprise as Helena's mother, the Viscountess of Aguessac, took one of his large hands in hers, and lifted it to her lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

He was too stunned to say anything.

When Regina released his hand, she lifted her gaze to his, and tears glittered in her eyes.

"Thank you for saving my baby," she said softly, her voice trembling. "Please help us save her again."

GREGOIRE

Greg had nearly finished his third glass of brandy when Gerald stepped into the library again, holding a scrap of paper. Greg stood, and his father stopped pacing to glance up at the butler.

"The footmen have returned from Hyde Park, my lord," Gerald said tonelessly. "They found Lord Stanford, shot dead."

Greg fought the immediate urge to shout with delight at the news of Stanford's death. It was both a blessing and a curse; everyone in the Dubois household wanted Stanford dead, but not in these circumstances. Not when he had been the only link to Lena and Abby's disappearance.

Gerald took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. "There was no sign of the ladies."

Philippe sighed. "So Stanford was not responsible for this," he said grimly. "And he was not working alone."

"We found a note on his body, my lord," Gerald said gently, holding out the scrap of vellum. "But it does not seem to make much sense, I'm afraid."

Philippe took the note and nodded his dismissal to the butler with a murmured word of thanks. He unfolded the paper and read it aloud.

"Of midnight vapor glide obscure, and pry in every bush and brake, where hap may find the serpent sleeping; in whose mazy folds to hide me, and the dark intent I bring. You saved her from a river, once. Perhaps you can save her again."

Philippe frowned down at the letter, confused. "Utter nonsense," he muttered.

Gregoire did not respond. He couldn't speak, or move, or breathe. He could only stare, unseeing, as the blood drained from his face. He reached blindly for his chair and sat quickly before his legs became unable to support him. His mind filled with images that he could not suppress. They came unbidden and uncontrolled, screaming through his head, blinding him to the present.

Suddenly, he was back in France. Back in his childhood. Back in the cold, dead forest.

He remembered that day so well. He remembered the biting winter air, and the distant sound of the river rushing through the woods, swollen into rapids by a late snow. The smell of frost and wood smoke from a distant fire. The sting of snowflakes as they drifted peacefully down onto his cheeks.

He remembered Lena's dress, a vivid blur of yellow amidst dead, gray woods and pristine white snow.

He remembered the fear, the sheer and abject terror that pounded through his blood and gave him wings as he ran from the creature in the woods.

He had not thought about it in so long. He had tried so very hard to forget.

It was rather small, for such a terrifying thing. Smaller than a bear. Smaller than a fully grown man. It moved through the forest on all fours, swift and silent and predatory, its fur a sick patchwork quilt of different colors and textures, matted with grime and dirt and blood. It wore the head of a wolf that was missing the bottom half of its jaw. A gaping, hollow grin. Hungry. Mindless. Terrifying.

It had taken years for Gregoire to realize that what he had seen was actually a mask, the skull of a wolf, hooded by the pelt of another creature.

Deep, shadowed eye sockets, and bright, glowing eyes, so pale blue they were almost white.

Those eyes watched him in his nightmares still.

The memory evaporated, leaving him shaking and tense, but firmly in the present.

"It's the monster," Greg said, his voice hoarse with shock and fear. His father's head snapped up, and his gaze was sharp and alarmed. "The thing that chased Lena into the river."

"Son," Philippe said in a firm voice, "nothing chased your sister into the river."

"I saw it!" Gregoire leapt to his feet and slammed his fist down onto the desk, making an inkwell and several candlesticks rattle violently. "I know you don't want to believe me, father, but I know what I saw. I did not imagine it. Something chased her. It looked right through me and it went after Helena and I'll be damned if I let it hurt her again!"

"Gregoire, be quiet," his mother commanded from the doorway, her voice sharp and unyielding. Greg whirled around to face her, and stopped dead in his tracks. Everything stopped. The clock stopped ticking, his heart stopped beating.

His mother stood in the doorway, head high and shoulders squared, perfectly relaxed, every inch a Viscountess. To her right, Margot clung to her skirt, watching them warily.

And to her left stood a giant.

He followed Regina and Margot into the room, and immediately the library seemed to shrink. He was at least a foot taller than Greg, probably more, and though he wore dark, nondescript clothing, Greg could tell that this stranger was enormously strong. His hair was long and black, and pulled into a queue at the nape of his neck. In the light of the fire and lamps, the skin on his face and hands was tanned and smooth, and lined with thick white scars.

All at once, every word Lena had ever spoken about her angel, the one who had saved her from the river, came rushing back to Greg.

He was so tall, Greg! Taller even than Papa!

Long black hair, dark as a raven's wing.

His eyes were yellow...no, no, they were golden. Do you think all angels have golden eyes?

Scars on his hands and face, like one of the pirate kings you're always pretending to be, except real.

I don't know, perhaps his wings were lost when he came down from Heaven to save me.

Greg had never seen this angel. Jacques had shot him and scared him off by the time Greg's little legs had carried him to the river. But in the weeks that followed Lena's brush with death, her angel was the only thing she would talk about.

As it turned out, her description of him had been very accurate. This was the man who had pulled Helena from the river and saved her life.

"You," Greg said, his voice thick with disbelief.

The angel nodded, just once.

"It can't be," Greg's father whispered, narrowing his eyes. He shook his head. "Regina, who is this man?"

"Helena's angel," Regina replied calmly. "As luck would have it, he is real."

Greg's father pinned the giant with a skeptical frown. "Can you prove this?" he demanded.

The man nodded again, just once. Then he lifted his hand to the collar of his black linen shirt and pulled it to the side, revealing a round, puckered scar on his left shoulder. His skin was pulled taught over large muscles, and patterned with those thick, white scars. But the scar left by the bullet was darker, and newer than the rest of them. "She was wearing a yellow dress," he said. His voice was deep, and sad, and gentler than Greg had expected. His words had a very faint French accent.

Greg glanced over at his father to find that his face had gone very pale. "Mon Dieu," Philippe whispered, reaching blindly for the chair next to him, and sitting down heavily. "C'est impossible."

"Ce n'est pas impossible, mon amour," Regina said softly. "C'est vrais."

It is not impossible, my love. It is true.

Though his hands were trembling slightly, Greg found his voice. "Did you see it?" he demanded. "Did you see what chased her into the river?"

The giant pinned him with bright yellow eyes. Golden. His lips thinned, and the muscles in his jaw clenched.

"Yes," he said in that gentle voice. "It wore the skull of a wolf."

"A mask," Greg said, nodding.

"It had blue eyes," the giant continued, and his large hands curled into fists, and his eyes flickered in the firelight. "It smelled like blood."

In the silence following this statement, everyone seemed frozen in place, staring wide-eyed at the giant.

Everyone but Greg, who stepped forward, heart pounding. All eyes turned to him. He moved around his desk and walked towards the giant, whose expression was mixed, equal parts wariness and confusion. He flinched when Greg moved within arm's reach, a movement so subtle and discreet that Greg almost didn't notice it.

The giant was afraid.

Up close, he was even larger, with thick muscles that strained the fabric on his chest and arms. He was easily a foot taller than Greg, perhaps more.

Greg held his hand out, and the giant blinked, and then, after a brief hesitation, he reached out and shook his hand. His palms were rough and calloused, like Greg's, and his grip was firm, but gentle.

"What is your name?" Greg asked.

"Samson," the giant replied.

A voice came from the hallway behind them. "I see you've brought Goliath to aid our cause, Greg."

Samson stepped aside and allowed Montford to enter the room. He was staring up at Samson with awe and interest.

"Jasper, Earl of Montford," he said with a nod. "Forgive my rudeness, but I am incapable of holding my tongue in times of stress."

Samson nodded. "It is a fitting name, I think."

"Nonsense," Margot said sharply from beside her mother. "Goliath was evil. You are not."

Despite himself, Greg smiled. So did Samson.

Then Greg nodded and leaned forward, so that only Samson and Montford could hear him. "They found a note on Stanford's body," he said softly, and he lifted his gaze to Samson. "I believe the message was meant for you."