Dreams of Darkness

by D L Pitchford et al.

  I am not afraid.

  I should be. Anyone would be.

  But I am not afraid.

  I have spent too long searching for this monster to waste time and energy of fear.

  All I have is the blade Gran handed to me, too small to do much damage, and I haven't the skill to wield it properly. I yank the knife from inside my cloak and urge my feet forward.

  I am not afraid.

  The girl whimpers again, tears pooling over as blood oozes from a fresh gash. Her dress is in tatters, but she'll live. I'll make sure of it.

  "You there!"

  The girl gasps. Her eyes seek out mine.

  But the wolf does not turn. He doesn't even seem to notice me.

  I brandish the blade and take another step closer to the couple. "Unhand her, demon!"

  He snaps his jaw near her throat but doesn't bite, and after a heart-wrenching moment, he turns to me. A snarl contorts his snout as golden eyes assess me.

  I continue my approach. I need to distract him, but the girl doesn't move. I doubt she can. She's afraid.

  As she should be.

  I come to a stop midway down the alley. "You're the monster. The Beast."

  He gnashes his teeth and devotes his entire attention to me, rising to his full height. No, surely that's eight feet tall.

  But I am not afraid.

  "You're the one I hunt. The one who killed those girls." My fingers tighten around the handle, readying myself. "I don't know who you are or what you're doing, but I know this: I will stop you. I won't let you hurt anyone else."

  His muzzle twists in what can only be a derisive smile.

  Then, he dives.

  I jab out the blade, aiming for the stomach, but he's quick, agile. Faster than me.

  Large hands—paws—clamp around my wrists, rendering the blade, and myself, useless. My head smacks the pavement as he drops on top of me, snapping at my ear.

  The cobblestones dig into my back. I heave, trying to catch my breath, but he presses me into the pavement. His claws dig into my arms despite the layers of cloth. His hot breath grazes my throat. He could kill me in seconds—it would only take one scratch or one bite—but still, I am not afraid.

  I should be.

  A low growl hums in his throat. His grip tightens on my wrist, and the blade clatters to the street.

  What is he waiting for?

  His snout presses into the crevice at my neck. His nose, cold and wet, against my throat. Then, his teeth—sharp, long, terrifying—break the skin without resistance.

  But he retracts.

  I gasp when his tongue, smooth and hot, traces over the fresh wound, lapping at the blood, and the realization hits me.

  He's not waiting. He's going to devour me slowly. And he's going to enjoy it.

  A hand—more hand than paw, at least—grips my shoulder, and I struggle to breathe as his weight settles atop me.

  I am at his mercy, but I'd wager he has none.

  I clench my eyes shut, allowing myself to relax, to accept my fate. He has overpowered me in every sense of the word, and nothing I can do will deter him from the task at hand.

  Something oddly warm grazes my knuckles—

  The blade.

  Still warm from how tightly I gripped it.

  His hot tongue traces the wound again, and he paws at the neckline of my dress. An eager yap escapes his muzzle.

  My eyes flash open.

  I am not afraid.

  My hand closes around the handle once more—he abandoned holding me down in favor of tearing at my clothes—and with all the force I'm capable of, I plunge it into his side, between the ribs. Right to the heart if it were long enough. If he has one.

  He yowls, recoiling, releasing me.

  I leap to my feet, legs wobbling.

  It takes a second to gather my bearing.

  Even with a blade in his side, I'm not staying to see how well he recovers. That injury didn’t do much more than dishevel his thick gray-brown fur.

  I clutch the cloak, wet with blood at my throat, tighter around my body and make for the nearest safe haven.

  Chapter Two

  Iknock on the door until my knuckles are raw. "Mr. Shaw, Mr. Shaw, please open the door!"

  It's an ungodly hour to be sure, but taking refuge is a necessary precaution. I need medical attention. Besides, I have injured the Beast—however slight—and I doubt he will take kindly to me when he finds me again.

  Nevertheless, I am not afraid.

  Relief floods my body when the door creaks open. Instead of the round face of the housekeeper, Mrs. Pierce, it's John Shaw who answers in his nightshirt.

  He pulls the door wide and closes it behind me. "Miss Currant, what in heaven's name are you doing out at this hour?"

  I shake my head and allow myself to stumble into his arms. "I'm sorry to bother you so late, Mr. Shaw—"

  "How many times must I tell you, Miss Currant? Please, call me John."

  I take a deep breath, trying to steady my trembling legs. "Of course."

  "Let me make you a pot of tea. You look pale." He guides me by the shoulder deeper into the house. "Should I call for Mrs. Pierce? I'm sure she wouldn't mind…"

  The only lit room is the study. Papers are splayed across the desk, illuminated by a gas lamp at one corner. Behind the desk, there's one lone shelf of books, primarily histories, though most of the Shaw family's books are kept in the room next door.

  "Don't bother Mrs. Pierce," I say as he sits me on a chair. "I only need a moment and—"

  But John leans close to me, his brown eyes examining me in the newfound light. "You're injured." His fingers, thick and calloused, reach for the teeth marks at my throat but hesitate before making contact. "And your cloak—it's red as blood. What happened tonight?"

  I bite my lip. "I found him. The Beast."

  John's lips flatten. "The animal attacks?" He cocks his head. "Found 'him?’"

  If anyone were to understand, it would be John Shaw. He has, after all, been my ally since I first discovered April Hennessey on the street not five weeks ago. He has made himself indispensable to this investigation. It would be wrong not to share this news.

  I nod, though it stings. "It's a person. Or, like a person. It's a monster. He was a man, but also a wolf. Hideous, overwhelmingly strong, incredibly fast. I thought—" My voice cracks. My eyes flutter shut. "I found him attacking a girl—she was no older than me, absolutely terrified. I had to stop him."

  For a moment, John doesn't speak.

  I wait, eyes shut, for him to acknowledge the revelation. To join me in my excitement for this unprecedented discovery.

  Instead, he rises from his squatting position by the chair and exits the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

  In his absence, I press the cloak to my wound again, though the blood flow has slowed, and take steady breaths.

  How can he not care about this revelation? How is this so unimportant to him? He has been by my side since I met him a month ago, since I shared with him the concerns I have for girls in the city, girls like me.

  When he returns, he carries a bucket of steaming water and gauze. "Let's clean you up," he murmurs, pulling up another chair beside me.

  I lean back, displaying my injury to the room, and close my eyes while he dabs at it with a cloth dipped in the hot water. "Thank you. I didn't know where else to go."

  John releases a breathy chuckle. "Miss Agatha Currant, you are, without a doubt, the most reckless person I have ever met." Amusement tugs at his deep voice. "You must be an angel—you would have to be heaven-blessed to survive a meeting with the Beast."

  Despite my pounding head—being thrown to the ground definitely left its marks—I laugh, too. "I'm no angel, Mr. Shaw."

  "Yes, you are." He pulls back, and my eyes flutter open as he drops the cloth back into the hot water and leans close again. "Let's get this out of the way…"

  I don't realize what he means until his fingers find the tie for my cloak, stained wi
th my own blood. My eyes latch onto his brown ones, and I tremble as he undoes the bow and removes the layer of separation. It falls on the chair behind me, and a weight settles between us—I am more exposed now than I was pressed against the cobblestones not too long ago.

  John studies the bite marks with a stern gaze, then reaches for the wet cloth again to further clean the wound. "Why didn't you come here immediately?"

  I wince—the heat stings. "I did."

  He shoots me a glare. "Before the Beast tried to eat you. Lean back." He stretches my neck with his free hand. "The more you move, the longer this will take."

  I comply without hesitation, trying to relax under his touch.

  Despite the circumstances, I relish his skin against mine. I would be pleased if he showed me this much care on a regular basis. If he wrapped his arms around me, held me close. If he kissed me.

  But that could never happen. He’s more than ten years my senior.

  He sweeps the cloth across the wound, removing any remnants of blood, his breath tickling my skin. "Can you promise me something?"

  I frown. "Yes?"

  He drops the cloth in the water and lays his hands on my shoulders, drawing my attention. "You cannot put yourself in danger like that again. It was irresponsible, careless." His thumb rubs a line along my collar—I shiver. "I won't risk losing you."

  My breath catches. "'Losing' me? I didn't realize you cared that much."

  John laughs, and his damp hand cups my cheek. "How could I not care? You are an angel, Agatha Currant, and I will always protect you." A smile tugs at his lips. Warmth emanates from his brown eyes.

  I lean into the touch.

  I'm no angel—no matter what John Shaw thinks—but I could probably use the protection.

  "Next time," I say, closing the distance between us, "we'll go after the Beast together. I promise."

  My lips press to his—warm, chapped, mesmerizing. Perfect. A thick arm wraps around my waist and pulls me flush with him, dragging me atop his lap. This is hardly appropriate—I shouldn't even be here at this hour without an escort—but I no longer care.

  Because John Shaw, the epitome of manhood, is kissing me like his life depends on it.

  When he pulls back, his eyes are alight with desire. "You shouldn't walk home alone tonight," he insists, reaching for the gauze to properly cover my injury. "It's not safe."

  I'm not sure how "safe" it is here either, but I'm more than willing to find out.

  "I wouldn't want to."

  "You must stay the night." His lips trail kisses along the top of my breasts while his fingers secure the wrapping. "It would be ungentlemanly to cast you out at this hour."

  A quiet moan escapes my lips when his hand glides down my side. "Of course."

  "But it would be a shame to wake Mrs. Pierce to make up a bed." He lays a couple kisses near the edge of the wrapping, slow and affectionate. "We'll have to find somewhere else for you to sleep tonight." The thick hum in his voice says he has somewhere particular in mind.

  I don't complain when he takes the lamp in one hand and leads me toward the staircase with the other.

  Chapter Three

  “And this one?” My fingers trace over a small circle of raised white skin. "Where did you get this?"

  John's chuckle rustles my golden hair, his breath sending goosebumps across my bare skin. "That's what happens when you're shot with a Whitworth rifle at twelve hundred yards."

  I frown at the scar on his shoulder. "It's a wonder you survived."

  "Well, Miss Currant, we Shaw men are particularly resilient." He presses a kiss to my jaw, then another under my ear. "That's the only reason I've managed to stay strong while spending so much time with you." His hand settles over my bare breast, loose, relaxed.

  I bite my lip. "I didn't realize you felt that way."

  He shoots me a rueful smile. "You're barely marrying age. What could I have said? It would hardly be appropriate."

  Not that there's anything appropriate about what happened here tonight.

  Unsure, I turn my focus back to the many scars on his abdomen and arms.

  He's fought in many wars across several continents, and he seems to have sustained damage during every battle. I didn't realize the harshness of war until examining him.

  "What about this one?" My hand pauses over a thick and bulbous scar over his ribs under his arm. "It looks particularly painful."

  "I'm no stranger to pain." John shrugs. "A Boer rebel nearly pushed me off Majuba Hill."

  His words are blasé, uninterested. Between all his time spent abroad and everything he saw during his wartime experiences, he mustn't find that time noteworthy or out of the ordinary. But I cannot remain blasé about these kind of injuries.

  Up until a month ago, I led a particularly uninteresting life.

  Then, I found her.

  The girl on the street. April Hennessey.

  And life has been a whirlwind ever since.

  From investigating her death to meeting John Shaw to my run-in with the Beast only a few hours ago, my world has finally become one big adventure, and I embrace every insanity that comes along with that. I relish the danger.

  John Shaw, however, seems more interested in keeping me in this bed than in continuing our investigation.

  I release a long sigh and sit up, pulling away from his embrace. "I need a glass of water."

  He nods.

  A quick survey of the room reveals my dress near the foot of the bed, but I have no desire to pull on the many layers for a short jaunt downstairs for a drink. Instead, I locate John's nightshirt on the floor and tug it on. It's big enough to cover my petite form—he is, after all, a full foot and a half taller than me.

  I give him a quick kiss on the cheek before slipping from the room.

  Chapter Four

  The stairs creak as I make my slow descent. Darkness has enveloped the household, and I clutch the wall to stay steady. While I've been in the Shaw house many times in the last month, this was my first time on the second story.

  Downstairs, I trace my way toward the kitchen.

  I can navigate the first floor with relative ease, even in the dark, but I pause, surprised to find a lamp alight in the library. That room was dark when I arrived earlier.

  I peek my head inside the room.

  As many times as I've visited the Shaw household, I've never spent much time in the library. John primarily occupies the room next door, devoting hours upon hours at his study desk. The library itself remains empty.

  Except, perhaps, at night when his younger brother takes up residence.

  Edwin Shaw, half dressed, legs crossed, with a half-eaten apple in one hand and a leather-bound book in the other, sits atop the small table near the window. He takes a few meager bites of the crisp fruit while he reads.

  This is hardly the first time I've run into Edwin, though I'm not sure we've ever had a full conversation. No matter how often I visit, he remains out of sight and keeps to himself. He's never particularly warmed up to me.

  Best to leave him alone.

  The floor squeaks as I withdraw, ready to head toward the kitchen for that glass of water, but I hesitate.

  Edwin has discovered me, and he studies me with narrow eyes. His pursed lips, wet from the juicy fruit, glimmer in the firelight.

  I take a quick curtsy. "My apologies, Mr. Edwin. I didn't mean to interrupt."

  He snaps the book shut and, instead of responding, takes another bite.

  "I'll be on my way. I won't distract you further." I offer him another bow before stepping over the threshold.

  "I highly doubt that, Miss Currant. You are a continuous distraction to this entire household. Particularly my brother."

  A flush rises to my cheeks, and my eyes scan the nightshirt—thin, white, obviously not mine. "I must apologize then, Mr. Edwin. I certainly don't mean to be. Your brother…" My eyes dart toward the stairs in the distance. "Mr. Shaw, I mean, has been a great help on more than one occasion. I wouldn
't want to be a burden to him."

  "No." Edwin's eyes narrow thoughtfully. "I wouldn't recommend it."