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  "But you pulled me out of the water, instead," Timothy interjects. "And have been pulling me out of trouble ever since." The hollow laugh sounds again. "That's my only talent, you know, according to Father. Trouble. He considers me such a disappointment compared to his firstborn. Geoffrey is Father's favorite, of course. I'm just a chronic pain in his pompous posterior."

  "Geoffrey is an idiot, I've always thought. He reminds me of my father, preaching doom and gloom all the time, so self-righteous." Marris makes a sour face. "He can't open his mouth without depressing me. Bloody bore. Still trying to change the world, is he?"

  "Just the east end of it these days."

  "Ah, yes, I've heard of his forays into Whitechapel, interviewing beggars and whores, then writing scathing letters to Parliament and the press, demanding reforms. I can't believe the admiral condones it."

  "No, Father's not much for social reform, or politics in general, but he admires Geoff for sticking to his guns regardless. 'There's a man for you,' he spouts. 'Your brother's got backbone if he hasn't much sense'... Meaning I've got neither."

  "Stop it, Tim. The old whale is just spouting hot air. You're man enough for me."

  With a sudden move, Marris spins him about and shoves him back against the door--pins him there with a long, possessive kiss--then drops to his knees and attacks the front of Timothy's trousers. A semi-erect cock pops free, but I only get a glimpse of it before it disappears into Marris's mouth--where, I presume, it grows larger. Mine would.

  Timothy moans and fists his hands in his lover's hair. His features contort, run the gamut of expression from agony to ecstasy. A stream of garbled grunts pours out of him. I think he's biting his tongue to keep from roaring.

  Must be one hell of a blow job.

  His body goes rigid--spasms--and relaxes with an explosive exhale.

  Marris carefully tidies up after himself--licks the spent dick clean, tucks it away, and refastens Timothy's fly for him--then swipes the back of his hand over his mouth and stands up, sporting a smug smile. "There, that should hold you for a bit. Run along home now, love, before Admiral Blowhard discovers you weren't playing cricket today, and sends out a search team. I'll see you again in a week, shall I? Next Friday as usual?"

  "I couldn't stay away if I tried," Timothy says, his voice husky and hoarse.

  "I know." Marris gives him a last, lingering kiss. "You're so predictable. That's why I love you."

  The door clicks open, and a silent Timothy departs.

  Well, that was interesting.

  Marris watches the street a moment, his long robe stirred by the evening air. A piece of litter blows in over the threshold and rustles around his feet. A page from a newspaper? He picks it up, starts to toss it back outside, then stops. His posture stiffens as he reads something.

  "Imbecile," he mutters, crumples the page, and shoves it into his pocket. With a raspy sigh, he bolts the door, then pads the length of the foyer toward the stairs.

  Can we go now?

  Air, I need air, damn it. Opium is a narcotic. Narcotics put you to sleep.

  Yawn...

  I start sinking to the floor.

  A firm hand grips me under the arm and hauls me upright, hauls me back behind the drapes--but I can still see through the center crack. If I can keep my eyes open...

  "Busy day, eh, lad? Tired?"

  God, yes.

  Oh, wait, that wasn't directed at me.

  Burke has returned. Curiously, his jacket and shirt haven't. He's naked to the waist. I see him in profile from the left, thin as a knife blade--and just as lethal looking. Not muscular, but wiry, taut, all tough meat and gristle. A hard man to chew. I agree with Timothy. I don't like Burke either.

  Marris seems to feel otherwise.

  "A bit," he answers, languidly slipping a hand into the pocket of his robe. A lazy gaze travels over the bare chest. A sultry grin curls his lips.

  Burke responds with a lecherous leer. "But not too tired for me, I hope."

  So that's how it is, huh? I hope they don't decide to fuck in front of us. I've had enough voyeurism for one night.

  "If we seek a villain, there's a likely candidate," my companion whispers.

  "Sure, it's always the butler, isn't it?" I whisper back. "Except we are not searching for a villain. You are."

  The only thing I want to find is a way to break the hex and return us home. This is all very fascinating, I'm sure, and I do think gray eyes are quite charming. But I prefer the original amber.

  "I meant Marris," he hisses in my ear. "The butler is merely his henchman."

  Burke turns, and I see his other side. My breath catches at the sight of a serpent tattoo, barbaric and beautiful, coiled around his right arm from wrist to shoulder.

  "No, not too tired for you," Marris tells him, still grinning. "Just damned tired of you. Never bugger a boy, Burke. They grow into men with small tolerance for big mistakes--and no regard for the randy bastards who make them."

  "Eh? You do talk in riddles, lad." Burke chuckles. "Spit it out plain. What's stuck in your craw now?"

  "Your pretty work is a bloody mess, that's what."

  "It's supposed to be. You wanted it to look like a Jack-smart butcher job, didn't you, with nothing left to put a name to the meat?"

  "And you're certain you carved the right roast?"

  "Dead certain. Who else would be sleeping in her bed?"

  "Right. And because of where she was found, everyone else is certain, too." Marris stops grinning. "And you're just dead."

  With no more warning than that, he pulls a Derringer from his pocket and shoots the man pointblank in the chest.

  Holy fucking shit...

  His face frozen in disbelief, Burke sways from side to side, like a cut tree that can't decide which way to topple. Marris tries to sidestep him and slips--gets caught in the fall, pulled down with him. A blond head cracks against the corner of a marble-topped table, leaving a smear of red on white stone, and knocking over a lamp as both men hit the floor.

  And stay there.

  Silent.

  Motionless.

  A broken heap.

  An awful question.

  I can smell the answer from here. Double death. No doubt about it to a werewolf's nose. They both died almost instantly.

  "Curse me for waiting! I should have seen this coming and prevented it." My partner darts forward and crouches by the corpses.

  On narcotic numbed legs, dizzy with shock, I stagger after him. I'm not sure if he realizes it's too late.

  Too dangerous.

  The toppled lamp landed near the bodies, soaking the carpet with oil. Carpet that touches the hems of long drapes. And a smoldering wick to ignite it all. In moments the whole room could be ablaze. Part of it already is. An ominous crackling sounds. A sudden sharp brightness, heat, acrid fumes.

  Cough...

  Fire and I have a love-hate relationship. Contained in a hearth, it's a beautiful kaleidoscopic creature--friendly, warm, fascinating to watch. Unleashed, it's a merciless monster, dragon breath hot. Hungry. Fast. Insatiable.

  Fleet footed flames chase each other across the floor and climb the curtains, consuming all they touch, growing bigger and bolder as they feast. Wasp-winged smoke stings eyes and lungs. Listen closely and you'll hear the harpies of hell singing to the mad music of the blaze.

  Yes, I'm waxing lyrical. It's a defense mechanism. I read once that composing bad poetry relieves stress and helps stave off panic.

  It's not working, by the way.

  I'm scared shitless.

  My costume is made of fire-resistant fabric. The rest of me isn't. Werewolves are tough but not indestructible. Wildfire is one of the few things that can kill us quickly, one of the few things we fear. But more terrible for me is the thought of losing Hunter--whoever he's playing right now. Maybe Don Quixote tilting at windmills. He's trying to save Marris and Burke from cremation, reaching straight into the funeral pyre, as it were, flames all around him.

  "Fo
rget it!" I yell. "They're already dead!"

  "They're evidence," he argues.

  "Of what? We know who murdered whom and how it happened."

  "But not why, exactly. Although I do have my theories on that. This is only one piece of the puzzle. There's more to come. Paper... I must find that paper... "

  He's nuts.

  And obviously has no intention of listening to me.

  Some things never change, do they?

  "Hah, here it is," he exclaims, "still in Marris's pocket--and still intact--what luck! I see the whole picture now."

  Whoopee.

  I've no choice but to stumble through the inferno, slug him senseless, and drag him. He may think he's an expert at fisticuffs in this form, but I know I'm fuckin' desperate. Also, I caught him by surprise. Now all I have to do is get him outside before we're burnt toast.

  It would help, of course, if the smoke hadn't grown so thick, if I had a clearer view and a clearer head, if my air passages weren't clogged with soot. Gasp. I can barely breathe, barely see, and I've lost my bearings. Which way is out? Where the hell is the door?

  Slam-wham-bam--

  Crash!

  Ah, that way.

  How do I know? Because someone just busted it in from the street side. Either that or a wall collapsed, but it sounded more like the door.

  "For the love of God, sir, stand back!" a loud masculine voice pleads. "The Fire Brigade's been summoned. Let them handle this."

  "No time, cabbie," a second voice answers, equally loud and even more manly. "If Mr. Lawrence is inside as his father suspects, he must be found and brought out now. Stand back yourself if you're afraid. I'll let the Brigade deal with the flames; that's their job. I'm a doctor. Saving lives is mine."

  "I thought you said you were a writer. In fact, I know you are. I read your story in Beeton's Christmas Annual last year. Rippin' good yarn it was."

  "I'm very flattered, I'm sure," the doctor drawls, sounding anything but. "Now are you coming with me, man, or shall I go it alone? There's not a moment more to lose!"

  "Oh, I'll come all right. Never let it be said Egbert Popkins is a coward. But if I burn to death, me old missus will kill me. She hates it when I ain't home on time."

  Egbert? There's a person called Egbert?

  Hacking and coughing, head reeling, my hexed honey in tow, I stagger toward the voices, an audio beacon to guide me out... I wonder what the doctor's name is. A doctor who's a writer, huh? And Beeton's...

  Nah, it can't be. That would be way too much of a coincidence. Besides, I'm pretty sure we're in London, and if this is 1888, he's living in Portsmouth right now--and wherever we are, it's not there, or Marris wouldn't have said "the sea at Portsmouth" when he and Timothy were reminiscing. If we were in Portsmouth, he'd have said "the sea here" or--

  "Doctor, look, a lady and a gent!"

  Then again, there's nothing to stop a Portsmouth resident from traveling to London, is there? A business trip, maybe? Visiting friends?

  "Quick, outside with them, Popkins!"

  "Double quick, sir. I'll take the gent."

  Which leaves me--no damsel, but definitely in distress--to the gallant care of a dark-haired, dynamic young man who looks very like his early photos. I recognize the hefty build and wholesome face, the sharp eyes and thick mustache. An author, for sure, whose first significant work, A Study In Scarlet, was published 1887 in Beeton's Christmas Annual. Egbert was right, too. It is a rippin' good yarn.

  I've read almost everything he's written--or, rather, will write--and a lot of what's been written about him. The young doctor isn't a knight yet, but he will be one day, and he acts like one now, sweeping me up in strong arms and carrying me out of hellfire to a gas lamp lit street where a horse drawn hansom cab waits.

  Well, I'll be damned.

  I've just been rescued by Arthur Conan Doyle.

  He sets me on my feet by the open door of the cab and wipes a white handkerchief over his face, flushed from the heat of the flames and exertion. "Are you all right, madam? Is anyone else trapped inside? I came here on behalf of a friend, Admiral Lawrence, looking for Mr. Timothy L--"

  "The gent's all right, just a bit singed around the edges," Egbert interrupts. The brawny redhead climbs down from the vehicle. "He was out cold, but roused up when I loaded him onto the seat. Says the admiral's son left for home before the fire started, and he doesn't think there's anyone else in the house. Leastwise, no one alive. To hear him tell it, the Brigade may find a couple of charred corpses. A murder victim and the man who shot him. I'd best notify the Yard."

  "Not yet, you won't!" Disheveled and sooty, a head pokes out of the cab. "Detective Lestrade would bungle the investigation--as usual. I'll solve it myself. It's my mystery, blast it. I found it, I'm keeping it."

  Egbert arches his brows. "Balmy from the smoke, are we?" He casts a sideways glance at Arthur. "It sounds like he's read your story, too, sir."

  From the corner of my eye, I notice the Fire Brigade wagon at the end of the street, heading our way, and make a fast, if fuzzy, decision.

  "No. He is your story," I say.

  Was that me or the opium talking? Am I still a tad tipsy?

  Yes. In case anyone was wondering.

  On the other hand, our star sleuth was about to spill the beans anyway. He's bewitched, but not the least bit bothered or bewildered by it. I could try to lie our way out of this muddle, but any explanations I fabricate, he'll be sure to contradict. The truth may not be the easy path, but it's the straightest.

  It may even work.

  I smooth the front of my frock and paste a smile on my face. "Dr. Conan Doyle, meet Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He used to be Hunter Steele, but we had some pixie problems tonight. He's been transformed by a wickedly whimsical spell."

  "Pixies? You're the one balmy from the smoke." Holmes frowns at me and nods to Arthur. "This, sir, is my good friend Dr. John Watson. Don't mind the babbling--or the dress, for that matter. He's in disguise to help me catch a killer. A foul fiend who preys on the women of Whitechapel."

  The cab horse snorts.

  "My feelings exactly," Egbert mutters.

  He and Arthur exchange looks, the latter stony-faced silent.

  I resist the urge to vomit in the gutter.

  Suddenly I realize why this date gave me chills. In a gruesome rush, I remember all sorts of vintage crime trivia. For instance, it was the morning of November 9th, 1888 that a girl identified as Mary Kelly was found in pieces in her room. Historians are divided on that identification; some speculate it wasn't her. But right now, I think it was.

  "You've seen Mary?" Timothy had asked.

  "Miss Kelly is probably en route to the Continent by now," Marris had said.

  And from Burke... "You wanted it to look like a Jack-smart butcher job, didn't you?"

  "Let me guess," I say, staring into gray eyes, "that paper Marris read, and you risked your life to read by firelight... It was a news story about the latest--and bloodiest--Jack the Ripper murder."

  "Along with some choice comments about the case in general."

  "Except we know the new murder wasn't Jack's work."

  "All the more reason to find him, since the police seem flummoxed."

  "And his copycat is kaput, so there's no sport for you there. I hope you're happy now. You wanted a big case. You got one."

  The gray eyes narrow to cool, calculating slits. "Your powers of deduction are improving. Excellent, Watson. What else do you think we know?"

  "You're both balmy! That's what I know," Egbert answers. "Inside with you, miss... er, sir... whatever you are." Half lifting, half pushing, he hustles me into the cab.

  Fine. I wanted us out of here anyway before the street fills with firemen.

  "It'll be a tight fit, but you'd best try riding with me, sir, in case they turn violent," he tells the doctor. "Where to, do you think? Hospital, or the police?"

  I glance out the window to see Arthur peering in, his face aglow in the lamplight, hi
s eyes as calculating as Holmes's.

  "Neither," he says, and squeezes in with us instead. "Take them back to the admiral's house with me."

  "But... " Egbert opens his mouth to protest.

  Arthur stops him with a raised hand. "In the first place, they appear to know who I am, though I never introduced myself. Secondly, when we found them, they were ringed by fire. The skirts of that... ahem... disguise might well have caught, yet didn't. A rather curious fabric, wouldn't you say?"

  Only in this era. Besides being flame-retardant, it's a fiber blend that hasn't been invented yet. I'm impressed he noticed.

  "And third"--the hint of a grin twitches his lips--"you may think me mad, Popkins, but I happen to believe in fairies."

  Which I knew, of course, and had bargained on when I told him the pixie part. No shit. Someday he'll write a book on the subject, The Coming of the Fairies. He was--is--a man of honor, intellect, and vast imagination.

  "Granted, this pair may be even madder," he concedes. "But one of them also looks remarkably like I've pictured him in my mind. And honestly"--the grin broadens--"what author could resist the chance to talk to his protagonist in the flesh?"

  "It's a pity then the other one falls so short of the mark." The cabbie glowers at me through the window.

  I flutter my lashes at him. "Don't let the ruffles fool you, Egbert. Underneath I've got everything Watson had."

  "That's what worries me." He turns to climb onto the driver's seat.

  "Wait," Holmes halts him, "when you were in the navy, you served under Admiral Lawrence, correct?"

  "Aye, that's why whenever he's in town, up here from Portsmouth, he always uses my cab. Never wants no one else to drive him or his."

  "Then you know his sons, too. What's Geoffrey like?"

  "The speechmaker? Sober young gent, ramrod stiff. Headed for knighthood, I'll warrant, and a grand career in politics. He's ambitious, that one. A bit broody, but sure of himself. Determined. Sets his course, sticks to it, and sails over anything that gets in his way--" he breaks off, frowning. "Here now, how did you even know I was in the navy?"