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

Jack

What is this feeling?

When she came to me, running, crying, smiling—and leapt into my arms and clung to me?

I could crush the world in one fist with the power I suddenly felt coursing through me.

“What is this?” I whisper in her hair, stroking her back, nuzzling her cheek. I lap her tears away, then kiss the salty trails.

She is as delicious as ever.

“I don’t know. I think it might be love,” she whispers as if she’s afraid to believe it.

I share her fear—but I’m not foolish enough to pretend it isn’t happening. This feeling—this almighty rush. It’s strange. Never felt it before. I thought I had felt everything. Fear, joy, pain, amusement, desire, lust, anger, rage, delight...

But never this.

“I think you’re right,” I say in wonder. “I think it is.”

SHE WEARS A SOFT GREEN dress with darker green panels. She has a silly little hat that has a long black feather and a short white one tucked into a satin band. I think the hat is ridiculous, but when Polly puts it on... Her eyes light up. She stares in the looking glass for several long minutes in silence. She even leans forward and taps the surface, bright blue eyes wide.

“It’s me. This isn’t a dream.”

That my Polly should think living with me is a dream and not a nightmare...

“Do I look all right?” I ask. I’m well aware that few people would even recognize the woman standing before me if they’d known her five days ago, a trembling thing in threadbare clothing with a tearful, desperate voice.

“You look ever so handsome.” Polly smooths down the lapels of my jacket and buttons it over my waistcoat. “Ever so smart. Except for those boots.”

“You and these boots.”

“You’re about to be married. Why not put on a polished pair?” Polly asks, sticking out one foot, showing me soft black calfskin ankle boots that have a row of tiny buttons up the side. The heel of it gives her calf a delicious arch, and my mouth starts to fill again, teeth aching to bite down—not too hard, though.

“I don’t have another pair. You cannot polish these in all your finery, nor can I,” I declare. “But tomorrow, Mrs. Springton, you shall polish to your heart’s content.”

The smile that fills her face wraps itself around my heart and whatever passes for a soul. “This will be my home?”

“Well, it was already. You lived here!” I point out.

But Polly shakes her head vigorously, biting her lip. “Never. Never had a home where I could truly say it was mine. I don’t remember where I lived before Bunson’s, not clearly, but we were put out of it, and my mother passed soon after. Bunson tossed children out all the time. And even coming here—a servant only has a home as long as her master wishes to employ her. You could have thrown me out after a day, a month, or a year—and just like that—I’d have nothing and nowhere to go,” she whispers.

I seize her hand. “This is your home now. Wherever I am, that’s where your home will be, and then you can never lose it as long as we’re together. As for this,” I gesture around the flat I’ve taken, the topmost one because I could come in and out of the windows as I pleased, “the house stands empty of occupants and full of furniture and fripperies. Be a little magpie and beautify our nest.”

“Oh, it doesn’t need anything, —except the drapes could use a wash and your room needs a good clean. The wardrobes could do with a proper airing...”

“Come, little magpie,” I purr and pull her close to me. “There’s a registrar’s off Regency Street. After the wedding, we will go to that restaurant. Simpson’s?”

“Oh! No, . No. I couldn’t.”

“Why not? You will be the wife of a wealthy ‘foreign’ gentleman with a flat in Pimlico. We could let out the rooms below, I suppose. You’d be in your element, Polly, looking after a property like this.”

“Could I?”

I nod, warming to the idea. “And if one of the tenants is late with the rent, I’ll—”

“, no!”

“I’ll bite him. Just once?” I suggest. Mind you, I don’t say how hard I’ll bite.

“Perhaps. But Simpson’s... Even I know what that place is. It’s not for people like me. Why do we have to go have tea out in a restaurant? I still have plenty in the larder.”

“I thought perhaps we ought to save your strength for later,” I whisper, whisking her ahead of me. I catch her against the wall, letting her feel that I’m suddenly hard against the curve of her rear. “I don’t know if I can wait until we get to a bedroom. This entire house stands empty. Would you like to take my cock right here, Polly? Skirts lifted up, knickers around your ankles while I squeeze into your tight little sheath?”

She gasps against me, moving away. I catch her by both elbows and wait until she goes limp against my chest. “Don’t you think we should wait a few days?” she whispers, blushing.

“Why?”

“Well. Men don’t... Not when a woman’s bleeding.”

“Silly. Why shouldn’t I? We’ve got a bath and towels. Plenty of soap. It’ll wash off.” I run my hands over her hips, concentrating. With my eyes closed and my more primal senses alerted, I can feel her heat, even through the gown she wears. Her hips are feverish under my hand. I risk pressing my palm between her thighs, and my skin practically boils. “So hot inside. You want those feelings I give you. I felt you riding my fingers like a runaway horse. Did I make your little cunny feel good?”

“Yes,” she admits, leaning back into me.

“I will never do things the proper way. I will want you every way. I will want you to take me in the places they tell you that you shouldn't, on the days they say you shouldn’t.” My hand switches like lightning, going from front to back, skirt hoisting up as my fingers lodge between her cheeks. “Here.”

A moment of hesitation, and then she nods.

“And here.” My hand clasps her throat, then strokes upward over her mouth. To my surprise, she nods eagerly, instantly.

“My good girl.” I rub my jaw against her cheek, nearly knocking off the dratted hat with all its plumes.

“You do the same for me,” she admits, a hint of a giggle under her breathless voice.

“And I’ll need to. Your nectar dulls my other appetites, Polly. The lust I have for fucking you is the only thing I’ve ever known that outweighs my need to feed.” It’s my turn to laugh, twisting her to kiss me. “Bedding me saves lives. You’re the heroic one now, miss.”

I love the way her innocent face suddenly reflects the crooked smirk on mine. “Not until you make me a ‘missus.’ And I suppose we can go to Simpson’s if you really want to. I bet they have beefsteak and roast potatoes all year ‘round.”

“Mmm. That sounds tempting. Perhaps I’ll learn to live off of these inferior creatures—as long as I still have you to dull my other appetites.”