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

Jack

“Why are you dithering behind me like that?” I snap as I pull Polly out of my shadow for the third time in the space of five minutes.

Polly had been studiously pretending he hadn’t ravished her until she came all over his hand and mouth. Her only admission that it had happened was her particularly savage beating of the rugs and scrubbing of the floors and the bright red blush on her cheeks that spread down past the neckline of her dress.

Until now.

“All these fine people are looking at me, sir, and they don’t think I should be near you. Nor do I. I’m the housekeeper,” Polly answers with as much dignity as she can muster, chin held high, eyes dipping away from mine.

“How can they tell that?” I demand. I can tell things about humans by looking at them. Sniffing them.

None of them smell as appetizing as they used to.

Except for Polly. She smells... even better than last night.

“Well—you’ve got on a fancy cloak and your high silk hat, and you look every inch a well-bred gentleman—except for those boots, sir.”

“Hang the boots. You look respectable. Cleaner than most of these little sausages on legs,” I mutter.

“My dress is threadbare ‘round the elbows, and my shoes are almost worn through. My dress is too tight and too short,” Polly whispers, agony on her face as I hook my arm through hers. “Mr. Springton! Stop it,” she hisses, twisting away. Her eyes scan the streets of Pimlico. “You can’t touch a lady in public unless she’s your wife. That’s how it is in England. Mr. Bunson once had a vicar in to speak to us all about good and proper conduct. Ever such a long sermon it was. Called it Victorian Morality and Christian Duty.”

“I have nothing against Christian Duty. I wouldn’t be here without it,” I smile. It’s true. Without Heaven, there’s no Hell, and no Middling, either. “Victorian? After the fat queen?”

“Hush! Good glory, Mr. Springton.”

“.”

The red flush had faded, but it’s back with a vengeance. “You mustn’t call a man by his Christian name if he’s your employer or even an acquaintance. Not in public.”

“Hm. When can I touch you like I want? Can I call you Polly?”

“I’m your servant. You can call me whatever you like.” She sidesteps me—damn her. “As for touching—no. Only an engaged couple or a husband and wife go about arm and arm. There would be no touching, no kissing, nothing like that unless they’re people of low character.” She swallows hard. “You must think I’m awfully low now. After last night.”

I snort and give her the coldest glare I possess. “After last night, I think better of you than anyone in London—or this world, for that matter. You’re mine, Polly. Don’t you remember?” My gaze turns heated the longer I stare at her, pinning her into a dark strip of alley between two shining white buildings.

“Yes, I know, I—”

“But I’m just as much yours.” I stick my elbow out, telling myself I don’t care if she takes it.

But I do. I know she doesn’t know what she’s taking hold of, but I don’t care. She can be mine. I can make her mine...

Polly unleashes a deep rush of air from her lungs, sighs, and slides her wrist hesitantly through the crook of my arm. “Sir, people will say things about me—and about you, too. This isn’t Whitechapel. This is a nice part of the city. I don’t belong anywhere but the market dressed like this.”

“We are going to buy you dresses. Dozens.”

“Dozens! Two would do!”

“Ten,” I say, and when she starts to protest, I yank her off her feet and half drag her along.

And I feel bad that she stops speaking after that. “I’m a horrible beast,” I remind her. “I don’t want you to argue with me.”

“No, sir.” Her voice is sad and meek.

It’s very irritating. Worse than irritating. Unbearable. “God damn it!” I burst out.

People shudder and shy away, suddenly walking faster lest my foul tongue infect their ears. Polly winces.

Another tug, and this time I leave the pavement by an inch or two, skimming the ground in my fury. “I’m a horrible beast. I shouldn’t care if I hurt you, but I care about that. Very much. I don’t want you to argue with me when I’m trying to—to—do something.”

“To be kind to me?” she suggests in a soft voice.

Bloody hell. My nose loves her scent, my tongue craves her flavor, my hands cannot get enough of the feel of her—and now she has enslaved me with her sweet, soft tones.

I can only growl.

But her hand stays in my arm, even after I scowl at her, flashing my teeth like I would on the hunt.

“SHE MUST HAVE FIVE new dresses, all the things that go over them and under them. Shoes. Hats. Parasols. Umbrellas.” Each word drops as a command. The plump little ladies who own the dress shop in the High Street nod and scurry, ignoring Polly’s little yelps of protest.

“You scared them. They’re running,” she whispers as they fairly fly.

“Good. They know I’ll bite them if they don’t listen.”

Well, no, they do not know that, but I know that—and I made sure Polly knows it too. She doesn’t laugh and assume I’m speaking in riddles. She may not know exactly what I did to Bunson, but she knows enough.

“You can’t hurt innocent people, Mr. Springton.”

“No humans are innocent.”

“Well... some try. There are plenty of bad folks in London if you want to bite someone,” she says, lips pursing.

It’s horrific how badly I want to kiss her. I’m positive a Flameheel has never wanted to kiss their prey, and Polly is my prey... I still want her delicious flesh—just in a different way. Even last night, I didn’t want to kiss her just to kiss her. Now I do. I want to kiss every inch. I want to put myself in every opening she possesses, part of owning her. My cock aches at the thought of slipping deep inside of her, feeling her body gripping mine. Invading that sweet pink cunt, and then the tighter, darker pucker behind it. I want to slide my shaft past her pale pink lips and watch her eyes widen as I thrust into her mouth. Her throat.

It’s utterly unfair that she should wield so much power without doing anything remarkable.

“Did you bite Mr. Bunson?” she asks softly, so low I doubt human ears could hear her.

“Many times. Until he stopped breathing,” I say.

She’s still beside me for a long time. The plump little women with graying hair come back with modest black dresses covered in lace, dresses in bright pinks and lavish purples, boxes and boxes of white undergarments, and confusing-looking waistcoats that have no armholes and far too many buttons.

Polly is still silent.

“I won’t lie to you. You won’t like me if I lie to you or hurt you. And I want you to like me,” I admit the galling truth and poke at the stiff brocaded effrontery on the counter. “What is this?”

“A corset, sir.”

“Do you want it? It looks awful.”

“It helps a girl stay slim.”

“I want you to be as slim or plump as you choose. The plumper you are, the more there is to squeeze,” I hint, hoping she won’t want the evil thing.

“If sir would wait outside, madam can begin dressing.” One of the women is back, looking at me with fear. The other stands behind her, looking at Polly with disdain. Disgust. Looking down on others helps humans retain their courage, it seems. “Unless perhaps madam would feel more comfortable at another shop more suited to someone of her standing.”

That one will be dinner. Later.

“Madam prefers this shop, and she will change at her leisure,” I say with flint in my tone. I pull Polly aside. She looks miserable. “What now?”

“They’re going to see that I don’t have any knickers left,” she breathes, voice shaky.

“Oh. Well, that’s simple.” I reach over to the counter and grab a fistful of dainty white and cream-colored fabric from the flat white boxes. “Here.”

“Really!” The disgusted one marches forward as if to seize the fabric from my hand.

“I never saw the like!” The frightened one puts her hands to her cheeks.

“Well, you’ve seen the like now,” I snarl. “And mind how you speak to this young lady, or it may be the last you’ll ever see.” My walking stick flashes through the air, and I land it on the pile of clothing with enough force that you can hear the wood underneath receive the blow.

It might be my imagination, but I believe Polly is smiling. Just a touch.

She likes being protected. Defended. I saw it the first night I met her with her pitiful and harried gratitude.

I like this little sly smile better, the one that vanishes. I want it to stay longer. Maybe if I eat both of the old pigeons clucking and gasping at me...

“You go. I’ll hurry,” Polly urges, tugging on my sleeve.

It’s my turn to grab her arm, holding her by the wrist and pulling her close. I bend my head and whisper in her ear. “How does a man make a woman his wife in this country?”

For a moment, she stammers nonsense, and I shake her to jar back to proper words. “They get married by a vicar in a church,” she hisses. “Or some get married in the registrar’s office.”

“What church? Where? What office?”

“I don’t know, sir, wherever the bride’s parish is, I reckon!”

“Why do you sound like that? Your voice is... high.” And worried. My first instinct is to wrap my hand around her throat or slash it open. That’s usually how I make that sound stop.

Damnation, it’s going to be hard to keep Polly alive.

“I don’t know. Why are you asking?”

Why am I asking? “Would you like to be married? Would you like it better than being a housekeeper?”

Her mouth bobs open and shut. “Well... yes! Girls like me don’t get married until we’re very old, sir. We can’t afford it. We have to work in service, and once you’re a wife, you’re sacked. Unless you marry another of the staff.”

“I have no other staff. You’d have to marry me.”

Polly looks at me for a few seconds, her eyes filling up and her face changing colors. I’ve no idea what to do with a human who cries except kill it to end its pain faster—if it hasn’t annoyed me first, in which case, the suffering comes to a natural conclusion when it expires. “You can say no. I don’t make you do things you don’t like,” I remind, stunned to hear my own voice getting huffy.

Why shouldn’t she want to marry me? She says other women in her position don’t wed! She didn’t want to end up face down in an alley while Bunson accosted her. I’ll keep her safe—safer than any other man in the world could keep her! Fed, clothed, housed, and I’ll buy her things... I’ll give her pleasure each and every night. Or day. Both. Night would make it easier to hide the hooves, I suppose...

“It’s not a matter of liking, sir. I imagine I would like it well enough. But why would you want to?” Polly leans close.

“Ahem!”

I silence the pointed cough from one shopkeeper by flinging a handful of banknotes and coins at her. “Wrap everything up! We’ll manage without alterations.”

“Madam hasn’t chosen her hats,” the braver (and ruder) of the two argues as the other flitters about, collecting money while muttering about my manners. “Madam would look decidedly common without proper haberdashery, sir. Even worse than she does now.”

Oh, yes. She’s most definitely supper.

“Madam will choose in a moment!” Polly whirls and spits back with a single stamp of her dainty foot.

Oh.

Oh , saints and demons. I like when she does that.

“Because I want you to be mine, Polly. I don’t want to let you go. I want to touch you and not have you say it’s wrong. I want you to walk next to me on the street and not worry that someone will say you shouldn’t. I don’t like that humans have these silly rules about class and dress,” I groan at the end. “You all taste about the same, honestly.”

“There’s more to just being able to move about London without raising eyebrows, sir. There’s... well, there are some people who marry for love.”

“And you’re one of them?”

She laughs, a sad, bitter laugh, with her blue eyes still so bright. “No. That would never be me.”

“It would never be me, either.” Flameheels don’t wed. We breed—rarely. Females are fucked, spawned with, and infant Flameheels are left beside a few fresh kills so they don’t starve.

We’re always alone or killing.

And they say Hell is much worse, but when I look into Polly’s eyes and think that I might never have seen them... I’m not so sure.

“A fellow usually gives a girl a ring.”

Is that a yes? Her face is blank. Still. Her skin stays one solid pale peach color, and her eyes aren’t weepy. I suppose it must be a yes, then. “Then pick your hats. And don’t let the old trouts push you about. You are to be Mrs. Springton. That name commands respect where I come from.”

Because I could drain the blood and eat the flesh of everyone in this city. They should be afraid.

“Yes, sir.”

I bend and catch her chin. Kiss her mouth once, hard, just to feel it, the sweet, plump lips that push back against mine in a reflex as her gasp of surprise parts us. “Engaged couples may do that,” I quote her laws back to her, and then I spring out of the door, heels igniting before it swings shut.

Now. Where in London does one buy a ring and find a vicar?