Time Rip (2 page)

Zero-percent now. I know many drugs are legal and easily bought in this time period, but shifters, of any era, can't handle the heavy stuff. At all. We're cheap drunks with low tolerance for intoxicants in general. Hunter, in his magically metamorphosed state,
may
have a higher tolerance than usual, but I can't be sure of that, and I don't want to find out the hard way.

Time to go, I think.

"C'mon, ace, haven't you seen enough here?" I have. Smelled enough, too. "Let's scout outside." Where there's more air. "Don't you need to check the street for clues?"

I reach for his hand to usher him out--stumble and bump into a wall.

Whoa, who moved the floor?

Never mind, I've got my bearings again.

Several paces away looms a big blurry rectangle with a spot of brass sticking out of it. A front door if ever I've seen one.

"Forward, march!" I tug my charge toward our escape hatch.

He tugs back. "What on earth has gotten into you?"

Poppy fumes, I'm afraid.

Have I mentioned shifters are cheap drunks?

Well, I'm cheaper than most. A couple of beers, and I'm dancing on tables. A few whiffs of--

Oh, lookie, we have company.

Down the stairs troop two young men, one dark, one fair, both attractive. The first wears tailored tweed--expensive but sporty--the second, slippers and robe, like he's ready for bed. Or just climbed out of one? They pause midway down for a quick kiss.

Uh-huh.

Neither has noticed us yet.

"Quick, over here." Gray Eyes grabs my arm, sweeps aside a pair of floor length drapes, and pulls me with him behind them.

Sneaky, aren't we?

Tipsy and listing slightly to port, I peek out through a crack in the curtains to see a thin, swarthy man in servant's livery enter through a side door. He greets the other two with a mock of a bow as they reach the foot of the stairs.

The blond in the robe waves him aside. "No need, Burke. I'll see the gentleman out."

"Aye, Master Marris. I just wanted to report I finished that job you gave me. Right pretty work I made of it, too." Burke nods, smirks, and exits the way he came.

The brunet frowns. "I don't like that man."

"I don't blame you." Marris chuckles. "He's rather an atrocious butler. But he has other useful skills."

"Such as? What job was he talking about?"

"Nothing you need worry about, Timothy my love. Call it a diplomatic mission. You might not guess it to look at him, but Burke's a powerfully persuasive chap, ought to be a politician." A sly grin punctuates the comment. "Suffice it to say your little problem is now solved."

"You mean... " Timothy's brow furrows. He doesn't appear overly burdened by intelligence, does he? "You've seen Mary, spoken to her?"

"Burke did. Same thing."

"She'll take the settlement I offered?"

"Already has, I gather, or Burke wouldn't have declared the job finished. It was either that or take her chances with your father. The uppity chit, she didn't really think he'd let you marry her, did she?"

"She, um... hoped her condition would convince him."

"More likely he'd have given her the boot and disowned you. Thank Burke for making her see reason. Miss Kelly is probably en route to the Continent by now, her purse packed with your guineas. And your bastard in her belly."

"Don't remind me." Timothy scrubs a hand over his face, as though trying to wash away the incident.

Marris drapes an arm over his shoulders and walks him to the front door. "You know, love, you wouldn't have these problems if you'd stick with the likes of me. There's no danger
I'll
ever get pregnant on you."

"No, just the danger of prison," Timothy says with a hollow laugh.

He's right, unfortunately. Drugs may have been legal in this age, but homosexuality wasn't. The so-called crime of sodomy could get you sentenced to hard labor. Ask Oscar Wilde.

"You worry too much. I'll protect you, Tim. Haven't I always? Who was it fished you from the sea at Portsmouth when those bullies pushed you in?"

"You. Quite surprised me, too. I'd never imagined a vicar's son would swim so well."

"And I found it odd that an admiral's son couldn't. But as you were only seven, I forgave you for it."

"Which I found most magnanimous, seeing as you were a big bold lad of ten at the time." Timothy's gaze softens. "That was how we met, remember?"

"Everything, love, even the date. It was the ninth of October, 1872, exactly one month and sixteen years ago from today."

Which pinpoints when we are for me. Let's see... October plus a month, seventy-two plus sixteen... It must be November 9th, 1888 right now.

Why does that date send a cold chill down my spine?

"I'd gone fishing for sea serpents that morning," Marris recollects. "My father had told me they were merely a myth, but I'd spoken to seamen whose stories refuted the old man's pious proclamations and were much more fun to believe. One sailor even showed me a serpent tattoo that coiled around his right arm, like a bracelet, from wrist to shoulder. Very impressive to a boy. I thought if I could catch such a wondrous creature, I'd exhibit it and make a fortune."

"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.

"Forget 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.