#jmge

There is a pestilence over London. It's not in the water, not in the meat or the bread. It's not in the air, though the smog is thick with factory smoke and the glow of new electric lights.

No, the plague is of men; made by them. Molded by them. Hunting them.

I can feel each cobblestone through the worn, blackened leather of my boots and the thrum of the city echoes with my footfalls. I almost wish I could enjoy it – feeling the heartbeat of the night – but when you're running for your life you cannot indulge in simple pleasures.

The Browning in its holster is a constant weight against my thigh as I round the nearest side-street and I bless the stars that the pier is quiet this evening.

It would be unfortunate if anyone were to be caught in this crossfire – the less people know about the creatures that stalk them as they sleep, the better.

I've been tracking this particular beast for a fortnight and though he left a trail of blood and destruction, it took far too long to lure him out.

Thankfully, the Kirschtein blood in me has always been excellent monster bait.

The groan behind me grows in fervor and the stomping of leaden legs are not a comforting addition to the gentle lapping of waves against wooden bows and stone. I pivot sharply but my footing is off, careless.

My shoulder slams into the closest wall, deep red bricks stained white with sea salt, and I'm immediately set upon by a hulking, gangling body.

The shot from my Browning misses the creature by inches – my palms soaked with sweat and salt water – and the bullet shatters the lantern behind us, raining down glass that glitters in the moonlight.

I'm greeted by a series of yellowed, dripping teeth and the panting of a body whose lungs long stopped working. The stench from its gaping maw is rank with decay and death and even in the dark I can see its putrid gray skin, clinging desperately to the half of its face that still remains.

Ghouls really are the foulest things.

“Evening,” I say cordially as its hulking hand fists in the front of my shirt, “I do hope I wasn't interrupting your midnight stroll.”

It roars in my face defiantly and I shudder as flecks of spit spray against my cheek.

Thankfully, this is why we always hunt in pairs .

The scrape of tempered metal against leather rings like music, and before the lumbering creature can even turn to investigate, a flash of silver slices the air.

The ghoul's arm goes slack instantly and I have just enough time to step aside before its body splits in two, splattering a repugnant black ooze as it collapses on the cobbles.

My companion for the evening is new to our entourage's adventures, though I'm glad to say he is no less skilled. Not that I would expect any less from someone from the Isles – with what they had to deal with, I'm sure he sees our monsters as child's play.

Mr. Bodt is sporting a green, single-breasted waistcoat high on the chest, and his suit makes him look long, lean, and athletic. He's abandoned his coat for mobility but his leather riding gloves match the brown of his trousers. I try not to stare, and fail miserably.

His hair, just like it had when we set on this adventure seventeen hours ago, is impeccably parted to the side and nestled under a gray, checkered flat cap.

I sigh and let the cool breeze of the sea fill my lungs.

There's something different about the water at night – like the murkiness of the city and its plague can't touch it.  I find myself admiring the fuzzy reflections of the lanterns in the gloom as the boats bob lazily in the swell of the ocean.

Mr. Bodt sheaths his sword back into his ebony cane quietly, so as not to disturb me, and I wonder not for the first time over the last week whether Erwin paired us up for this mission deliberately or if he was tired of the rest of the company's complaints.

No matter.

“We should report our findings in the morning,” I say, gesturing behind us, “We don't want to keep the Smiths waiting.”

To say the Smith mansion is grandiose would be an understatement. The stone is whitewashed and stunningly in tact.  All fifty two rooms serve a different purpose, though you would be hard pressed to get Erwin Smith to give you a tour.

It used to belong to his father, though the Smith bloodline is rich with history and I'm too busy to try to unravel the trail of blood and war that lead him to inheriting it. Erwin's a good man, if not a bit excessive, and I try to remind myself of that as I walk past the cherub fountain in his entry courtyard.

The mansion looks more like a castle than a home with its Greek Revival parapets and masonry. As I approach I'm greeted by wide, stocky windows and a heavy, oak door that has seen its share of time. The scratches and runes on the brass handle are deep and timeworn, impossible to read from the weathering.

I don't even get the chance to knock before the door flies open, revealing Mr. Smith's partner in this monster hunting endeavor.

Levi is a severe man, with clouded eyes and dark hair that is somehow both unkempt and perfectly placed.  He is dressed to match his title – in a fitted three piece suit with a white waistcoat and a watch nestled in a pocket by his breast that once belonged to his sister. Isabel Ackerman  married the heir to the Smith estate nearly ten years ago now, and her brutal murder was what jump-started this whole campaign. They don't talk about it, but Sasha is convinced vampires were involved.

Regardless, Levi has not left Erwin's side since it happened, living within the cold stone walls where his sister was murdered. I take note of the dark circles under his eyes as he gives me a cursory once over.

That's one of the terrible things about death – it feeds off the souls of the living.

Levi is glaring at me, and I can't say I'm terribly surprised. Since I broke Mr. Jeager's nose several months ago I've not been the most popular guest at the Smith household.

I can't remember what I did to earn his ire recently , though. I'm sure there's a list.

Thankfully, Levi is not one for formalities, and I have to admit I'm relieved by his cold welcome.

“You're late,” he says. It's not accusatory, but I still feel the need to pull myself to my full height in defense.

He stops me before I can muster a response. “You have a new assignment,” he says in lieu of an apology, shoving an envelope into my hands, “Get down to the chief inspector's office. Bodt's already there waiting for you.”

The door slams in my face and I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from snapping.

“You could have at least said please ,” I grouse at the wood paneling. The door, in all its majesty, does not respond.

With a forced breath out, I turn on my heel and head back out into the busy morning streets, the stench of sea and fish at my back.

I'm still not accustomed to the sound of screeching tires and the honk of horns. The chief inspector's office is a plain, brick building on a dodgy street where trams clang through the center accompanied by horse-drawn carriages and shiny new automobiles, that I maintain are a passing fad at best .

One of the monstrosities chugs past and the exhaust it vomits out stings my eyes as I duck inside. I cough liberally in my shirt sleeve and am surprised to find Mr. Bodt at my side in moments, his warm hand gently patting me on the shoulder.

“That crisp London air, ay?” he teases, that lovely brogue accent just as lilting and smokey as it was last night.

“Puts hair on the chest,” I wheeze, “Thank you, Mr. Bodt.”

“Please, I can't stand such formality,” he says, “Marco is more than fine.”

I swallow, my heart catching, and give him a lopsided smile. “ Marco , then.”

He grins, toothy and kind, and I try not to think about how my skin tingles when he pulls away.

Despite its outward appearance, the inside of Chief Inspector Zacarius' office is not awful . The dark wooden floor is polished and well maintained and his incident board covers the far wall, black and white photographs spaced out in neat lines. The chief inspector himself is a large man, as powerful as his title, and he stands in the corner of the room, furiously smoking a pipe.

He doesn't turn around as we enter, but instead points at the wall.

“The more gruesome of them is on my desk,” he explains, smoke filtering from his nostrils, “But I warn you, they're not for the faint-hearted.”

“I doubt our hearts are ever fainted,” I quip under my breath. Marco hides a snort behind his hand and I swear the sun dances off his smile.

Most of our encounters have been in foggy streets under the cover of night, outlined by the fuzzy glow of lamps, but seeing him in the sunlight like this is a tad overwhelming. I knew he was handsome but... Lord .

The gray-and-black striped trousers he's wearing cling to muscular thighs, and he pairs it tastefully with a morning coat he takes off to drape over the back of a chair. My eyes rake over the way his burgundy vest clutches to the broadness of his chest and I can't help but notice how his biceps shift when he moves to stand by the board at the chief inspector's desk, already deep in thought.

I observe how his brow scrunches when he's thinking, and it makes the freckles across his tan skin all that more pronounced.

I realize then that I know painfully little about him; most of our brief conversations have been about the job and not ourselves. There was never time. Though I'm usually fine with the distance, I find myself aching for companionship when I look at him. I have to wonder if it's just wanton loneliness or if there's something particular about Marco Bodt that I can't put my finger on.

Can't. I want to scoff. More like won't .

My gaze lingers and Marco catches it with the ghost of a smile.

I try to tell myself that the nod he gives me is confused and not appreciative, but the flush crawls up my neck all the same.

With a scrub through my sandy hair, I shrug my own coat off and roll up my sleeves.

Time to get to work.

I take a cursory glance at the photos on the wall but there's not much to glean from them outside of the obvious.

A massacre. I don't need to look at the pictures to know which workhouse it was. I can almost smell the mortar and sickness, can almost hear the insults and feel the hard, unforgiving stone on my bare feet. The building was designed like a cross to invoke penance, but all it did was suffocate those inside, reminding everyone that not even God cared about them.

The murders must have happened in the staff rooms, considering how ornate all the decorations are, how nice the furniture is. The report Levi handed me said only the foremen and staff had been slaughtered, and a vindicated heat boils beneath my skin.

“Good riddance,” I mutter. Marco turns, but says nothing.

Undeterred, I continue flipping through the notes on Mike's desk as Marco stares pensively at the photos to my right.

There's a common thread between all of them. Whether in just the notes or reflected in the photos are three parallel lines, like long scratches, all over the bodies and walls. The methodical placement of all these marks makes my stomach churn, and I can tell it's trying to say something but I can't pinpoint what .

Marco rubs at his forehead, pressing into his temples, and his brow furrows on one of the more mundane pictures in front of him.

“Are you alright?” I ask, turning to him fully. Marco stiffens and he doesn't even bother with a placating smile.

“Headache,” he whispers back, “I'm quite alright.” It does nothing to ease the tension curling in my gut.

The picture is of a man, casually dressed and sloped against the wall with his head lolled to the side. One of his legs is twisted awkwardly, and though there's a smattering of gray across his chest where the blood seeped through his shirt, it is nowhere near the intensity of the other scenes spread before us.

The photograph must be right outside the manager's office; the hallway behind him is long, with doors on either side, and the shadows they cast are lengthy, leaving the picture feeling far more threatening than any of the others.

Sweat beads on Marco's brow.

I put my hand on his arm and his muscles are taut, his skin burning. The panic rises up my neck and catches in my throat.

“Marco?” I hazard. He doesn't look at me, his eyes glassy, and I tighten my grip. “Oi – ”

“No man did this,” he hisses. His accent is thick in his mouth, like his tongue is getting difficult to wield, and his hand on the desk is trembling.

My mind is whirling and I want to be able to ease the tension rolling off of him, to bring that ruefulness back into his face, but I'm not soft enough to ebb away the pressure.

All I can do is try not to stutter as I point out the obvious.

“That's...That's why we're here, Marco.” Marco doesn't respond. I wet my lips and my breath comes to me too quick. “Remember?”

“No man,” he spits again, pupils blown so wide they overtake his irises, “No man, nor beast. No man, nor beast. No man, nor beast. Nomannorbeast – ”

He repeats it under his breath – over and over like a mantra – and his voice grows heavy and deep with each iteration.

The words scrape out of his throat, his nails dragging against the desk in lengthy, menacing strokes.

Threes. He's scratching the table in three long parallel lines.

The dread and adrenaline take control of my unresponsive body. I cover his hand with one of mine and grab his face with the other, forcing our eyes to meet.

My heart stops.

Where usually I'd see whiskey with streaks of gold, I'm now met with an all encompassing black.

“No man, nor beast.” He whispers it, like it's a secret, then breathes: “It's something far worse.”

The windows to our right explode. Marco is unflinching as glass rains down on us, grazing our skin, and the world trembles and shakes beneath our feet. I distantly hear Mike curse but my eyes are trained on Marco's blank expression, the heat of his skin beneath my hand. My heart is pounding in my ears, thumping dangerously loud in my chest.

It hits me with a terrible lurch in my body that we may be in over our heads.

I forget how to breathe.

I don't know how I find the strength to wrench him out of that chair. I don't know how I find the courage to stumble out of the inspector's office, glass crunching under our feet. I muster up whatever fortitude I can, whatever stubborn resilience the Gods gave me, and haul Marco down the road to the only place nearby that I know is safe from this madness.

Mine.

My loft is cramped – the second floor of a faded brick roadhouse, and it sits sandwiched between two identical looking buildings with tiny windows that do nothing to let in the light or block out the cold.

The interior is sparse, barely above tenement housing with its narrow rooms and unkempt floors, but it's organized, and I like to keep it that way.

Or rather, I keep it there whenever I'm around , which isn't much these days.

Marco assures me that he's fine as I shoulder my way in, but I know the churning in my stomach won't subside until the whites of his eyes return. I deposit him in one of the wobbly chairs by what passes for a dining table and turn my attention towards the kitchen.

My hands are shaking as I flick through my pantry – exceptionally sparse, just like everything else in here. I have several beans in a jar, a bottle of something that must have been alcohol once, and a tiny box of imported tea, the packaging covered in a language I can't understand. It smells herbal, if not a little dusty, and I turn with it as I face Marco again.

He's hunched forward, his broad shoulders curled inward and making him look so much smaller. His thumb and forefinger pinch a spot between his closed eyes and I hesitate to speak, worried I'll break him from whatever he needs to do to bounce back from... that .

Still, I clear my throat. His eyes shoot open and though the black has faded into a dull gray, the smile he gives me is taut.

“Tea?” I offer, holding out the box. Marco laughs, the hollowness of it echoing in my chest.

“I'm gonna need somethin' stronger,” he replies. I turn back to the pantry.

“Scotch, then.”

The amber liquid sloshes as I pour it into the only clean glass I have and I struggle to remember the proper portions. I'm mainly used to drinking it straight from the bottle, dust and inhibitions be damned. But Marco tolerates me, and I'd like to keep that reputation if I can, so I try my best to remember what a normal person would consume.

Even though our situations are anything but normal .

I give myself a generous helping too before setting the glass in front of Marco and sliding into the seat across from him.

His smile is gracious as he nods his head in thanks and then he takes a swig. Marco's face scrunches up in disgust and I swear I can almost see the path the liquid takes as it burns down his throat. His Adam's apple bobs and I track the movement before I can stop myself.

“ Blimey! ” Marco curses, the lilt back in his voice.

I hide my smirk behind the rim of my glass. “I never said it was good scotch.”

“You weren't kidding,” Marco coughs, his eyes watering, “That'll definitely put hair on my chest.”

My mind jumps to the image immediately and I force down whatever excitement tries to bubble its way up.

I let the air settle, focusing on the chips and knife marks on the table, but I can feel Marco's eyes on me as the silence carries on. I hoped the scotch would sate the twisting knots in my gut, but all it does is rile them further. I bite the inside of my cheek, hoping it'll stop the question that's rising in my throat.

What...What happened back there? What is he?

“If you're looking for the right word to describe it,” Marco begins, setting his glass down, “You could say I’m a clairvoyant and had a vision.” His smile is cheery, but there's a distance to his expression that I can't place and I hate how it makes my heart constrict. “If clairvoyant sounds too gauche, you could say I'm a medium. Or a psychic. Or a monster.” He shrugs and just like his laugh, the gesture rings hollow, “I've been called many things.”

“How about I just call you your name?” I murmur.

He looks up from his glass, surprised. Then, the corners of Marco's eyes crinkle when he smiles and it leaves me gasping for breath.

“That sounds lovely.” Marco holds out his hand then, palm up, and I don't even realize what he wants until he inclines his head towards mine. “May I?”

Wordlessly, I extend my arm and Marco's fingers settle over my hand on the table between us.

The warmth of Marco's hands shocks my system. My hands are notoriously cold and calloused – Death's hands, my mother used to call them – and the skin is worn down by gun-triggers and manual labor. Marco's are smooth, but there are pale marks on his arms of scars long passed healed, and I try not to let my eyes linger on the paths they make against the tapestry of his skin.

“Have you ever had your palm read before?” he asks quietly, eyes flicking up to meet mine.

Even through the foggy window, the light catches his irises and I see shimmers of gold among the brown.

“No,” I admit as I force myself to focus back on our hands. I don't tell him I never put any stock into fortune-telling, but something tells me he already knows.

No one in our line of work lasts long enough to worry about their future.

Marco takes the answer in stride, smiling to himself as if in on his own private joke, and closes his eyes. I watch as he inhales and his chest fills with air, pressing against the fabric of his immaculate burgundy waistcoat and I take a moment to admire the shifting of his muscles beneath his shirt, the flexing and relaxing of his arms as his settles more readily in his seat.

I don't even realize I'm staring until Marco's thumb caresses my wrist and I snap to attention.

The paths his fingers take as they trace against my palm leave me shivering, and I can't fully blame it on the drafty windows.

Marco follows a line that slides between the creases of my thumb and index finger, ending towards the center of my palm, and the cautiousness of the action leaves my skin tingling.

“This,” Marco explains, the pad of his index finger ghosting from the base of my fingers across my palm, “Is your heart line.”

“Not much to it, I guess,” I jest, and the smile it pulls at his lips is enough to put me at ease.

Or maybe that's the alcohol. It's hard to tell at this point.

“You have a lot of strength in you,” Marco reads. His eyes flick up to mine and I feel trapped by his gaze even though there's a smirk at his lips. “But you're cautious when it comes to relationships.”

I feel breathless, and not just from the stuffiness of the air. “What else?”

“This here,” Marco continues, his index finger dragging slowly along a line above my thumb towards the center of my wrist, “This is your life line.”

His calculating stare stops halfway down where a small scratch sits and his thumb circles the area with a gentleness that leaves me winded.

“Your life line has a circle in it,” he says, brows pinched.

I swallow. “Is that...unusual?”

“No,” Marco assures, “It just means something happened when you were younger that was incredibly emotional for you.”

A list a mile long, really. I shift in my seat and school my expression, even as Marco's eyes continue searching.

“You may have to narrow that down,” I remark. It's a poor deflection and we both know it.

He doesn't press, and I don't indulge him.

Marco continues on and I get lost in his descriptions, mind a haze as he interprets the histories of my skin. He goes on about my headline, how it describes my intellectualism and how I have an enthusiasm for life –

“ Could have fooled me,” I joke, and Marco's chuckle warms something deep in my chest.

– But after several long minutes we fall into silence and Marco's gaze gets drawn back to the circle. I watch him as he brushes it again with his thumb, like he's trying to rub the mark off of my very soul, and a lump grows in my throat even though my skin feels so very warm.

“At the chief inspector's,” Marco begins quietly, glancing at me before he moves back down to my hand, “You seemed...cagey.” The hand he has under mine tightens its grip and I scowl, biting the inside of my cheek. “It couldn't have been the photos,” he continues calmly, “Since I have a feeling you've seen worse.”

The defensive words boil up before I can stop them. “Why don't you just shut – ”

“Was it because you worked there as a child?” Marco asks.

Cold breaks out across my skin. My blood freezes. My heart stills.

I stare, slack-jawed, but Marco remains unperturbed.

His eyes have that same glassy sheen they did before, and his breathing is steady just like his voice. “Was it because of what happened to Thomas?”

I feel like I'm choking. There's a tightness to the air, a heaviness that has nothing to do with the dust, and it strangles me as it sinks into my muscles.

It makes my mouth loose in the same instance.

“We worked in a factory nearby,” I croak, feeling lightheaded, “Lived in the workhouse with our mothers.”

I don't know if I tell him what happened. Everything is a haze. I do know that I think about it.

I remember the smell of the unprocessed cotton – the thickness sticking to my lungs. I remember the sounds of the machines and the taste of metal in the back of my teeth. I remember Thomas, just barely turned twelve with the beginnings of manhood in his handsome face. I remember him laughing, the ugly, adorable way his nose scrunched up when he did, and I remember the way my heart had soared every time our eyes met.

I remember his sleeve getting caught in the turnstile. I remember his screams. I remember him reaching out to me for help, and I remember being frozen, tears streaming down my face as he was torn apart.

My eyes sting as Marco lets me go and the world spins. I feel sick, exposed, and I fold my shaking hands in my lap.

I ask myself what is worse: the recollection of it all, or the relief that someone else now has to burden this memory with me.

Bile and guilt build in my throat and I stare down at the tangling of my fingers.

“Am...Am I cursed?” I whisper; wobbly, like a child.

Marco blinks, hands trembling, and he curls his fingers into his palms as he pulls away.

“Forgive me,” he says, a sigh shaking out of him, “I shouldnt've...” He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing out a deliberate breath. It vibrates the tension from the air and the weight on my chest disappears. He looks up at me and his smile is weak and painfully raw. “I suppose we're both cursed.”

My gaze falls again to the table and I scrape a hand down my face, trying to wipe the strain from my skin.

Thankfully, the part of my brain not still reeling reminds me we still have a job to do and I focus on that, use it as my tether to the Earth when I'd prefer to disappear off the face of it.

I'm unsteady as I stand but my obstinance gives me resolve.

Marco blinks up at me and he looks more haggard than I am. “Let's go,” I tell him, “We still have a report to give.”

“It's a fucking demon,” Levi remarks none-too-kindly around the tip of his cigarette holder, “Did it really take you this long to figure it out?”

“Oh, do forgive us,” I snap back, “We must have missed your lesson on Satanic beings. Was it before or after your dissertation on Svartalfheim?”

“Gentlemen, please ,” Erwin implores in that deep, authoritative voice. We're in one of the four parlours in the Smith estate and I can't help but feel like this room is too much. There are paintings and portraits of unknown men and women adorning the walls and even the wallpaper is busy, with its bright blue colour and intricate, repeating geometric florets. It's peeling at the edges, and I'm reminded yet again how much loss this house has had. Not that Erwin and Levi would ever express it.

Marco sits in the ornate green chair to my right, but he remains quiet, staring into his tea. He hasn't touched it since we arrived and though he refuses to look at me, I find my eye straying to him when Erwin and Levi confide quietly in each other.

They address us again and I know I take too long to acknowledge them.

“Have you ever been to a séance?” Levi asks, his voice sharp like a slap. I shake my head. I'm far too exhausted to come up with a witty response and just like before, my gaze flicks to Marco.

He remains silent, though his grip tightens on his cup.

“The foreman at that workhouse has,” Levi explains, “Whatever demon got summoned there must have followed him to work the next day.”

Erwin interjects then. “I have reason to believe this may be a repeated event,” he says, looking between the two of us, “I want you to investigate and eliminate the threat should it arise.”

“Do we know if it's deliberate?” Marco wonders, his voice rasping his throat. He still doesn't look up, teeth worrying his lower lip, and my heart constricts. I don't know what compels me to move, but I put a hand on his shoulder and give him a reassuring squeeze.

Marco still doesn't move, but the tension in his muscles deflates and that's enough for me right now.

Erwin is polite enough to ignore the gesture, but Levi gives me a long, calculating stare as Erwin continues.

“No, we have no way of confirming whether it's deliberate,” he confides, steepling his fingers, “But we can't take that chance.”

I nod. “Understood. How do we track them?”

Erwin stands then and hands us two cards, each with “ Esteemed guest of Mr. Levius Ackerman ” scrawled in Levi's impeccably perfect handwriting.

I look between the card and Erwin.

“You can't be serious.”

Erwin smiles, and somehow that's more chilling than anything else we've faced so far.

“I hope you gentlemen work hard,” Erwin says, “And please, do try to enjoy your evening.”

Let the record show, I hate Erwin Smith and his horrible, awful schemes to get exactly what he wants.

I'm not sure if it's become apparent, but I am not used to lavish parties and expensive drinks. I'm used to seedy pubs and cheap beer and liqueurs, not imported wines and absinthe taps. Just because I've grown from the cobbles does not mean I know how to operate outside of it, especially in polite society.

In fact, many people who have worked alongside me would point out that I am very rarely polite .

It doesn't help that this home is beyond luxurious. Wood paneling lines the main entertainment hall and a large, exquisite fresco is painted on the ceiling, depicting pastoral beauties with vibrant colours and rosy lips. The mansion belongs to Oluo Bozado, though you would be hard pressed to find him meandering about with his guests. No, that philanthropic title belongs to his wife Petra, who is well known for her grand parties and take-charge attitude.

Everyone is dressed in suits and fancy dresses, and though I borrowed some clothes from Erwin, I can't help but fidget. I feel out of place to the point where even the shoes I'm wearing – pumps with a high arch that make it impossible to run or fight in – leave me wobbling and unsteady. I'm surprised I don't barrel headfirst into the waiters mingling between the crowd, trays full of delicious, fragrant foods.

“You look quite handsome,” a voice to my side says, and if the lilting accent alone didn't tip me off, the hand that rests at my lower back definitely does.

I turn, a self-depreciating comment on the tip of my tongue, but when I see him my words die in my throat, brain fizzling into silence.

To say Marco "looks handsome" would not even begin to describe it. He's decided to go with a black tailcoat jacket and pants for our evening, and the white waistcoat he has sits snugly against his chest, contrasted with a striking black bow tie. His tailcoat is cut to fit the body, emphasizing his waistline, and his long legs are only fully accented by how high on his waist the trousers are. His normal cap has been replaced by a top hat, but the mirth in his eyes remains. His white gloves are a stunning contrast to his cane, who's ebony body hides its own secrets.

I swallow thickly. My face feels warm, but perhaps that's just the heat from the roaring fire in the corner.

“I feel ridiculous,” I reply eventually, nudging Marco lightly in the side and taking a much needed step back, “I've no idea how to work a crowd like this and I am positive my tie is a complete disaster.”

Marco rolls his eyes and it seems he's already become accustomed to my antics. Good. I'll take Marco charmed over haggard any day.

And then he surprises me by stepping into my space, filling me with his scent. My head spins. Deftly, he unties the knot that I struggled with and begins anew.

“You don't need to feel ridiculous,” Marco assures, voice low as his slender fingers slowly loop the silk, “You're already attracting attention for all the right reasons.”

We're so close. Marco's expression is calm and gentle and I'm terrified that if I look up into that gaze I won't be able to turn away ever again, trapped by his eyes and stuck on the precipice of a cliff I'm almost certain we'll want to dive off of.

I focus on his hands instead, heart racing. “And how do you know that?” I find myself whispering, breathing hitched.

“Well,” Marco hums, slowly tightening the tie and straightening it out against the column of my throat, “You've certainly drawn my eye.”

“I doubt it's for the right reasons,” I breathe. Marco's fingers brush against my neck as he pulls away and our eyes meet reflexively.

It's a horrible idea. I'm caught by his compassion, struck to the core by his kindness, and driven by something I have definitely hidden for the majority of my life.

I take a breath and feel his next words caress my lips.

“Don't be so sure,” Marco murmurs, easily grabbing two flouts off a passing tray without breaking our stare. He hands one to me as he steps back and I catch the reflection of his appreciative gaze in the glass. I swallow the champagne when he offers up a silent cheers, but I can barely taste the sweetness of it as Marco's eyes sweep down my torso.

Well.

A murmur in the crowd draws our attention and the audience parts, making way for the guest of honor. I feel Marco tense at my side.

Hitch Dreyse is a young woman, though her expression and the way she carries herself implies she is far older than she appears. Her eyes are wide and amber coloured, with wavy light brown hair that spits in the face of modern feminine styles. Her dress is black as night with a train that drags on the floor, and the sequins send the low light from fledgling electricity dancing across the room.

People scramble to get a good look at her; with her enticing, ever-present smile and the way she commands the room as she strolls over to the round table at the other end of the hall.

She turns, surveying all of the guests, and tilts her head. The room falls silent.

“Now,” she says coquettishly, “I need six people to join me around the table.” There's a mad dash towards the other end of the hall and I find myself pressed into Marco's side, my fingers wrapping around his bicep.

Marco stays surprisingly still as his fingers drum out an unknown rhythm on the neck of his cane.

As soon as the seats fill up, Hitch steps into her seat and grins.

“For anyone who doesn't know – ” she pauses and there's a low chuckling among the crowd that makes my stomach churn, “– We are about to conduct a séance.” Marco lets out a slow breath and I hold mine. “I need everyone to be silent. Would our lovely guests at the table please join hands?”

They do, and a hush falls over the room. There must be at least seventy people in here, but none of them speak – not even a cough or a nervous sneeze. It's eerie, and my fingers tighten on Marco's arm.

Hitch starts speaking and though it's theatrically over-the-top, there's a threatening undertone to it that keeps us both on edge.

“I ask forbearance,” she begins, “I ask you to suspend your disbelief and imagine your minds floating in the darkness of time.” I can see Marco's fingers curl into a fist, his jaw clenching, and I rub my thumb soothingly along his arm. “Let your imaginations be literate and roam with me back in time to the ancient seas,” Hitch continues, “Back in time to the days before, when the spirits walked and the sun was new.”

The lights flicker and I would blame faulty wiring if I didn't know any better. The crowd gasps in excitement but all it does is make me hyper-aware of the thickness in the air, the taste of metal in the back of my mouth.

“I call to the speakers of the dead,” Hitch shouts, “Come to me. Come to me. ”

The hands around the table grip together like vices, and something awful and globby and black reaches out, wrapping around everyone's arms and keeping them stiff, keeping the connection open. People begin to cry out, screams and shrieks of horror and everyone around the table is engulfed, surrounded by thick, gray tendrils that wrap around their torsos and around their legs. Hitch laughs, high pitched and manic, and her voice rings louder than the rest. Something dark and foul smelling oozes from her mouth and begins taking shape on the table.

I reach for the Browning at my hip and Marco's fingers wrap around his cane.

“Ready?” he asks, withdrawing his blade. I look at the intensity of his expression, at the fierceness of his eyes and the tension of his jaw and the world falls away. No screams, no fear, no building falling down around us.

My silence must startle Marco because when he turns his face morphs in concern and so much genuineness I feel my resolve grow tenfold. My heart catches in my throat and his free hand finds its place on my shoulder.

“Jean?” he asks. I can't help it. I laugh. I step into his space with a smile I know is far too self-assured for what I'm about to do, but I bridge the space between our lips all the same.

The angle is awkward – my nose squishes into Marco's cheek and Marco's surprised jolt makes his teeth smack against my lip – but Marco melts into it. He indulges himself just like I am and sighs into the kiss as he shifts, the hand on my shoulder migrating to my jaw so he can pull me the way he wants. I let him, and drown in his natural musk and the sweet, lingering taste of champagne on his lips.

“Just in case we don't survive,” I whisper, pulling away.

Marco's face is bright red, lips parted, and he looks so dumbfounded I have half a mind to do it again.

It clearly takes him a couple moments to catch up and when he blinks away the awe, he's grinning. It's stupidly adorable. “I can't believe you have so little faith in me,” he replies.

“Shall we, then?” I ask and Marco nods, a smile on his face. We both turn to the table; to the growling, rasping creature congealing on the wood, and I take a deep breath.