A Victorian Demon’s Guide to London, Love, and Being a Hero (Time for Monsters)

Polly

Do I go to bed and leave supper on the table? Do I wait until he comes home?

I should wait until he comes home.

I pace in the kitchen, which smells of bacon, onions, and leeks. Tonight’s dinner is liver and bacon in onion and leek gravy. Of course, if I add the liver to it now, it will be tough as an old boot by the time Mr. Springton gets back—whenever that is.

“No, I’ll wait until he comes in, and then it would only be a few minutes for the liver to cook through and the rest to heat up. Again. And if he’s angry that it’s not ready the second he sets foot in the door, I’ll give him a glass of wine. Or brandy? Do gentlemen take brandy before a meal? Does bacon go tough?” I run my fingers through my hair and catch the strays, sliding them back into the bun at the top of my head. March is cool, but the flat is warm and toasty without being unbearably hot like it was last night. My dress is lighter, that’s what it is.

Last night.

I stand stock still, remembering how he grabbed me around the waist—how he ripped me out of the heavy, fine dress that buttoned all the way up to under my chin, with sleeves all the way down to my wrists.

I swallow and feel my breasts tighten like they do in the cold—only I’m not chilled this time. It feels hot in my middle and tight all over, like pins sticking in me when I breathe.

You were about to faint. He didn’t know he’d rip your dress and underthings right in half. He’ll take you shopping tomorrow.

I press a hand over my bosom, wishing for the hundredth time that I was flat-chested like Gertie. My breasts are big enough that my dress sits differently without the snug little cotton undershirt. Kitty said I ought to have something better, something like the brassieres that are in the back of the women’s magazines, all the way from Paris. Or a corset.

Too thin to need a corset, and don’t need men looking at your shape—such as it is.

I push the lust I’ve seen on the lads’ faces out of my mind. Wipe away the leers of Mr. Bunson and his brother.

Mr. Springton doesn’t leer. He smiles. He smiles as if he owns the world and finds it all a bit funny.

Mr. Bunson leered like he owned me .

When I think about Mr. Springton kneeling next to me, everything is tight and prickly again.

“Four hundredweight of beef dropped off at Bunson’s. A very surprised-looking pair of little boys opened the door, and such a hulloo and a cry broke out. There. That’s your wages for the month, .”

I whirl when Mr. Springton enters the flat, talking away as if he’s been behind me for hours. My spine shivers inside of me and I wonder if he truly has, if he’s been hiding somewhere, watching me.

“Oh! Thank you, sir!” I gasp. “Four hundredweight! That’s more than enough!”

He tosses his coat and hat on the settee behind him, and the dark smile he wears stretches. “Good. Let them fatten up. If there’s one thing I despise, it’s a bony adult,” he mutters. “Supper?”

“Yes, sir! Brandy, sir?”

“Only if you have a glass, too.” He slides down the small, narrow hall.

I freeze in the midst of hanging his hat and cloak. “I don’t drink, sir.”

“Have you ever tried? It’s rather nice.”

“No, sir, I...” I need to stop staring at the red streaks on the wooden floor. Blood. Bloody footprints.

Well, of course. Smithfield’s yard runs thick with blood; it’s common knowledge. Not many a fine gentleman would go down to purchase food for orphans. Bless him.

I run to stop soaking the liver in milk, strain it, and toss it in the pan with the bits of bacon, leek, and onion. “I’ll be there in a minute, sir! I’m just going to scrub up these footprints.”

“And then dress for supper?”

“I... Dress for supper?”

He strides out of the bathroom, curls wet down and combed sleek to his head, a shadow of dark stubble standing out on his pale skin. “Put on the dress I brought you. The blue one. Tomorrow, we’ll buy more—if you like. Would you like, ?” he asks, stepping up close to me.

Lord. He’s handsome.

I’ve never thought a man was handsome, not once. In my head, that gave a lad power over me.

Mr. Springton already has so much power over me, and I don’t even mind.

My voice comes out a mere breath when his arm brushes my waist as he circles me. “I don’t know if they’ll fit without altering them, sir.”

“Shall I help you into one again, ? Or out of one?” There’s a hungry twinkle in his eye, and his smile spreads and stretches, a handsome smile in a handsome face.

Lord, I’m lost.

“I can manage, sir, as long as I’m quick.”

brANDY. A FINE DRESS that is far too low for a woman of good character to wear. A plate of food heaped high, and more where that came from. Snowy white linens and candles again—in what Mr. Springton calls a candelabra. “Have I fallen into some fairy story?” I blurt as the first sip of dark amber fluid fires through me, burning my throat and nose.

Mr. Springton sips, swirls his glass, and stares at me over the rim. “What story would it be, ?”

“The handsome knight saves the girl from the evil old witch, I expect, and takes her back to marry the prince and live in his castle.”

“Hmm. No. Not that one. We have different stories in my land.”

“Do you? Will you tell me one?” I ask shyly. Does that seem presumptuous? “It’s just that after I came to Bunson’s, I never got much chance to look at books, and most of the reading I learned I haven’t had no use for and—”

His hand raises, and I stop at once.

“In my land, there are no knights. No princes. No good fairies. There are only monsters. We eat the princes and princesses. We eat the witches and the evildoers.”

“This doesn’t sound like a very happy story,” I mutter, quick to drink again.

“Then hear this one. Deep in the woods, where all the beasts dwell, the most daring of the beasts was out hunting. His claws were sharp. His appetite was sharp. He stalked his prey, a pretty little morsel walking alone in the dark.”

Mr. Springton pushes his plate away. Leans forward. Black claws on the tablecloth.

What? No. It was a trick of the light. Of the brandy. He has no claws. Humans don’t.

A small, stiff voice in my mind warns me that he’s acted differently than every other human I’ve ever met.

My breath freezes, and I feel so cold that not even the fire or the brandy helps.

“The girl was running. From another sort of beast—a weak, fat, slobbering sort of beast. There was a battle. Well, you really can’t call it much of one since the weaker beast growled a few times and then was eaten all up.”

“Mr. Bunson wasn’t eaten,” I blurt.

Mr. Springton stops, jaw tightening as his lips thin. Then his smile returns, small and pointed, a knife tip in my heart. “Very good, . You saw through my story. What else do you see through?” he asks in a silky whisper. It wraps around my throat and pulls tight, stopping me from speaking.

“You don’t need to be afraid. The rest of the story has a nice ending.”

“Does it?” I squeak, shaking my head to try to clear it. He’s not an actual beast. It’s... What is it called when you say one thing to mean another, but they both have the same meaning? I don’t know, but I’m sure educated people like Mr. Springton would know.

“The beast who killed the other beast took a liking to the pretty girl. She was brave and kind. Willing to help and work hard. She took care of others and herself. For the first time in his life, the beast wasn’t hungry for food. Just a taste of her. Sometimes... sometimes he thinks the girl might be hungry for new experiences—even the dark kind he would give her.”

There’s silence. Mr. Springton’s out of his seat, standing behind it, nostrils flared, a figure like a statue, all proud and frozen in stone.

“Would you like that, ?” he finally asks, voice something between a snarl and a whisper.

I’m confused. I don’t know if we’re in the story or talking about real life. Do I answer as the girl in the story or myself? Or are we one and the same? Is Mr. Springton the beast who eats other beasts or a strange rich man who buys his housekeeper dresses and makes her feel safe and afraid at the same time?

Or are they one and the same?

“Would you like that, ?” he repeats, voice a little softer, smoother.

I nod, and the room tips and swirls at the edges. “I’ve liked everything so far,” I say, a hand to my forehead.

“Then I think you’ll enjoy this, too.”

Mr. Springton is beside me. The familiar iron grip of his hands skips my arms and lands on my bare shoulders this time, but I don’t protest. Just gasp.

How can he be the man in front of me and the beast in the story? He has a man’s face... but I feel his claws bite into my skin as his mouth lands on mine.

I’ve never been kissed. Not once. Kissing leads to babies and being forced into the street, that much I know.

But when Mr. Springton pulls me tighter to his chest, an urgent grunt of his lips against mine, I don’t even try to pull back.

He said he would only do things I like, and oh... “Mr. Springton—”

“Jack. They called me Jack. You must call me Jack, ,” he whispers, kisses moving down my neck.

It must be the brandy working because the world tips and spins, and I land with my back against the tabletop, my hair inches from the flickering flames of the candelabra.

Flat on my back, served up for the beast to eat.

What nonsense.

I drag my eyes from the dripping wax above me, and my eyes struggle to see anything but the black dots the candles’ flames have left in my vision.

Mr. Springton stands in front of me, between my legs, pinning my skirt to my knees as he breathes in fast, uneven spurts. His hand reaches up and tugs at his tie and collar, ripping them open.

“What’s happening?” I ask, spine tight. I should sit up. Run. Scream.

I know what’s happening. I’m letting it happen. I don’t feel helpless or hopeless like when Mr. Bunson was chasing me. I wanted to run from him, to flee, to find help, to be rescued.

Well, now I’m rescued, safer than I’ve ever been, as more danger than I’ve ever been in seems to stare me in the face.

I simply wait.

Mr. Springton smiles and pulls a chair behind him. “I’m going to have supper now.”