by Kelley York
James’ brow furrows. “He suspects spirits? Why?”
“One of the victims, Mr. Brewer, told a neighbour the day before his death that he’d come across footprints in the snow leading onto their property, but none leaving again.”
Odd, to be certain, but— “Spirits aren’t prone to leaving tracks,” I point out. Foss frowns.
“Mr. and Mrs. Brewer also claimed something eerie was happening but couldn’t explain just what it was. Our local vicar had planned on visiting to bless the home but, well, he never had the chance.”
“Well, yes. I suspect it would be rather eerie if one had a person prowling their property and stalking them,” James says, and I know he doesn’t mean to sound condescending but, bless him, he can’t help it sometimes. I find it amusingly endearing—when it’s not aimed at me.
Foss exhales heavily through his nose, frustration beginning to seep into his features. “It would be easier if I could show you the location and the bodies. I can assure you, whatever did this was not human.”
Miss Bennett clears her throat. “Mr. Foss’ employer is, of course, more than willing to compensate you for your time, boys.”
Bollocks. I can already see the cogs in James’ head turning as he pins me with a thoughtful stare and says, “Allow my partner and I to consult for a moment, if you would.”
“Yes, of course.”
I level a scowl at Foss’ back as I step out of the room with James. In the living area, I move as far from the kitchen as I can. The look I give James with my mouth pulled thin ought to say precisely what I think about this entire idea.
James pockets his hands, leaning a shoulder into the wall beside the window pane. “Oh, come now. What’s the harm in having a look? At least we get a free trip.”
I keep my voice low, arms tucked stubbornly across my chest. “We’re not detectives, James. Do you really have any interest in poking about a grisly murder site?”
He bites back a smile. “That question sounds like a trap.”
My expression deadpans. “Forget I asked. Name me one good reason why we should take this job. And do not say ‘money’ because we’ve been keeping plenty busy here.” Granted, not always for the best pay, but we’ve been getting by. Some weeks are better than others.
“Adventure? Travel? If nothing else, we can take a day or two for ourselves and have a brief holiday.”
“We’re not likely to have time to ourselves on this little outing,” I point out. We would be at the mercy of our host, rooming separately I imagine, which is frustrating enough on its own. We suffered through enough of that at Whisperwood. “Is this one of those things you want to do just for a laugh, or do you truly want to do it?”
James blinks those lovely hazel eyes at me as though he had not been aware there was a difference between the two. “Ah…yes?”
I contemplate shoving him out the window and settle for the most unimpressed look I can muster. Turning away, I sigh heavily.
What are the pros and cons of this? A bit of time away from Whitechapel, yes. But also, time away from our own home just outside the city. We’re already away so often on work that it drives me mad. Yet again, we’d be in a place we’d need to be vigilant over every move we make, and I grow so weary of not being in the comfort of our small countryside house where I can reach out and touch James whenever I damn well please.
After a moment, I turn back to him. “One week to investigate. That’s all. And if they’re offering less than fifteen pounds, we’re not taking it. Agreed?”
Pleased, James flashes me a grin. “Agreed.”
It’s a much higher bid than we would ask from any client here in the city, and it’s an intentional hurdle on my part. Less of a likelihood that we’ll have to accept this job, and then I won’t have James pouting at me for turning it down.
We return to the kitchen. Foss looks to James expectantly as I step to the stove where a teapot waits for me to pour myself a cup of moderately warm tea. It will likely be all I have in my stomach until dinner. While I have no issues negotiating, I’ll leave this one to James. He never has any qualms about asking after payments.
“Mr. Foss, how much is your employer willing to pay for us to visit and decide if this is a supernatural occurrence and thus requiring a full investigation?”
Foss doesn’t seem the least bit put off by the question, at least; he was undoubtedly expecting it. “Twenty pounds for the initial visit.”
Which meets and exceeds my initial bid. Damn.
“…And another sixty should you discover the cause and correct it.”
I choke on my tea.
“We’ll take it,” James blurts, though I see him from the corner of my eye levelling a triumphant smile in my direction. Miss Bennett leans over to clap a hand against my back while I try to clear my airways.
Foss lurches to his feet, grasping James’ hand and giving it an enthusiastic shake. “Oh, thank you, thank you! Wonderful news. I would like to depart first thing in the morning, if at all possible.”
“At your pleasure, Mr. Foss.”
“Excellent. Then I shall return tomorrow about nine, yes?”
Miss Bennett sees him out. I inhale slowly with a final cough and look to James, perhaps a bit sulkier than I mean to. “Well, I suppose you’re pleased.”
“I believe your demands were more than met,” James says with a—yes, pleased—grin. I despise those grins. They make me want to punch him and kiss him all in the same breath because he’s simultaneously obnoxious and adorable.
“You’ll humour me by allowing us to return home tonight, then?” If I’m going to be forced to room apart from him for a week, then I should like to have one night sharing a bed beforehand.
His smile turns sweet. “I live to humour you, darling.”
“You live to give me headaches.” My voice has softened, perhaps resigned to my fate. A job is a job. All we have to do is travel to this Lord’s estate, have a quick look, and inform him nothing supernatural has taken place. Better yet, perhaps we can make contact with some of the spirits of the deceased who can communicate with us who is responsible for their untimely deaths. A hit-or-miss option, seeing as spirits are notoriously rotten at communicating.
Miss Bennett returns and regards us with a thin smile. “Certain the pair of you aren’t getting in over your heads?”
“No harm in having a look,” James answers with a hum. “We’ll be quite all right, I promise.”
“I trust that you will.” The look of warning that crosses her face is directed more at James than at me. “However, it isn’t any spirit that concerns me. Please tread carefully.”
She isn’t saying as much, but I know she’s referring to the fact that we need to express caution in drawing attention to our relationship. James, in particular, is about as subtle as a bag of bricks through a shop window—and Miss Bennett knows this because it’s James’ lack of subtlety that originally tipped her off to just how close we are. Despite it being known, it is not something she openly discusses unless it’s her giving us gentle warning to be careful.
“As always,” James chirps. A response that gets a snort from both Miss Bennett and myself.
Home is not a terribly far journey outside of the city, but just far enough that there are many nights, after a long day’s work, where it’s more effort than either of us care to exert to go back. Today we catch a coach home, because it’s already growing late, and we need time to pack and ensure things are locked up for our prolonged absence.
Home is the one place where my nerves don’t crackle on edge quite so loudly. Surrounded by nothing but fields and flowers and quiet countryside, we’re quite secluded out here. I have James to myself with no fear of someone stumbling across us. No fear of judgment or ridicule or prosecution. I can wake beside him every morning and steal as many kisses as I please. We can cook and eat our meals together and e
njoy the freedom of being able to sidle up to one another any time of the day and tuck a hand down the other’s trousers. Not luxuries we could safely indulge in anywhere else.
So it’s no surprise that I relax as we exit the carriage to head inside. The moment the door has shut behind us, James throws his arms around me and his voice is a deep, shiver-inducing rumble against my ear. “Hello there, sweetheart.”
The carriage has hardly had time to exit the driveway and I can’t bring myself to care. I twist in his arms, already slipping my hands into his hair and rising to kiss him properly for the first time in several days. I appreciate the way he immediately melts against me, his mouth eagerly slanting against mine in between his breathless words of, “That’s much better.”
We have things to do and it’s already late in the evening. Dinner and bathing and packing…and yet I appear to be entirely distracted with pulling at James’ clothes instead. “I suggest making this memorable lest I forget what it’s like to have you touch me.”
James laughs as I disengage. He begins shedding out of his coat. “No pressure, though.”
“Plenty of pressure.” I take a few slow steps back, discarding my shoes and coat in the process and donning a pleasant, playful smile before starting in on the buttons on my own clothes.
There has been the occasional night we’ve been desperate enough to give into our urges while crowded together on a cot at Miss Bennett’s, but those are always hurried acts, often ending with my face either shoved into a pillow or James’ hand across my mouth because keeping quiet is not, in fact, one of my strengths.
Here at home? We don’t even make it farther than the parlour, honestly. The house is cold without a fire going and James is, as always, deliciously warm under my hands and over me and inside of me.
It’s long past dark out by the time we’re spent, and I’ve begun to think we ought to get to other things. We lie in the sparsely furnished, moonlit parlour upon the settee, windows cracked to allow in a quiet, cold breeze that ruffles the curtains. Absently threading my fingers through James’ hair, damp where it rests against his forehead, I think I would like nothing more than to spend the rest of my night right here.
I’m aware we’ll fall asleep if we linger much longer, however, and it’s with a regretful sigh that I press a kiss to his temple. “Let’s make quick work of packing our things and we’ll get some proper rest.”
James makes a displeased noise and noses at my throat. He hasn’t shaved today; the scratch of his jaw against my skin almost tickles. “Why don’t we have someone to pack for us?”
“Because one of us wanted a job which does not pay handsomely enough to afford a servant for such things.”
He tsks. “Why would you do that?”
I roll my eyes and shift my hips purposefully against him in a way that makes him shiver. “Come now. I’ve missed our bed. The sooner we pack, the sooner I can crawl into it.”
“Right, right,” he sighs, moving away wearily and granting me quite a lovely view of his naked form painted with silver light. He’s a fair bit trimmer and taller than he was when we met, and the misty glow from outside highlights the criss-cross of deep scars he received from Mordaunt’s ghost, and a few others he’s obtained since—like the narrow, upraised line cupping his left side, a reminder of the first job we took under Miss Bennett’s tutelage six months ago. An unruly spirit sent a tray of cutlery flying and James, ever needing to be the hero, had put himself between the ghost and me. A butcher’s knife caught him right there as it whizzed past and then lodged itself into the wall behind me.
Unconsciously, I flex my own scarred hand. For the most part, it’s only a minor inconvenience, stiffness I have to massage loose especially when the weather grows cold. Of all the scars I now wear, it’s the only one that bothers me.
James scrubs his palms over his face and turns a sullen look in my direction. Tired James is one of my favourite looks on him. Dishevelled and pouty and indignant, like some big, lazy cat who’s been disrupted from its nap.
Truthfully, when I said, “we need to pack,” it translates to “I need to pack because you’ll end up with three trunks of absolutely nothing useful and you’ll forget clean socks.” Which means I set James to fetching us something small to eat from the kitchen whilst I pack a trunk of clothing, our Bibles—James’ significantly more worn than my own—a few bottles of holy water, and whatever else we might need should we encounter spirits after all. James will keep my laudanum on his person. It’s better that way.
It’s been awhile since we’ve travelled such a distance. Every job we’ve done thus far has been in London or not far outside it, a cab ride or a short hop on the train. London is a massive place with more than enough work to keep us busy. Honestly, busier than I might care for sometimes, but it allows us to keep this house. Our home might be much less than either of us grew up with, sparse in decoration and luxuries. We’ve had a steep learning curve in how to take care of it all on our own—cooking and laundry were initially a nightmare—but this is the home we’ve created together, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
James returns just as I’ve finished packing. He places a plate of eggs, dried beef, and a hunk of undoubtedly stale bread with butter atop the dresser for me. “What are the odds this turns out to be a regular murder?”
“High.” I close the lid to the trunk and thumb the latches shut. “Gruesome does not have to mean supernatural.”
“I suppose it’s difficult for people to think humans could be capable of such horrors.”
Our eyes meet for half a breath, both of us sharing the same thought, I suspect. We’ve seen just what people are capable of. People like Maxwell King and Charles Simmons and Nicholas Mordaunt… We know better.
“If nothing else, we can try to put at ease any of the spirits of the victims while we’re there,” I say.
James smiles. “Look at you, bringing peace to the dead.”
I give him a pointed look and relocate the trunk from the foot of the bed to the floor so that I can retrieve my plate and sit to eat. “For your sake only, I assure you. You’re a far better man than I.”
“I think you’re better than you give yourself credit for.”
I think James gives me entirely too much credit. I wouldn’t be in this line of work were it not for him. Too much of a coward. What bravery I muster is always spurred on by his presence, by his courage, and a desire to keep him safe.
I don’t argue the point, however, instead tucking in to eat. After which, I’ll tend to a few more things about the house. Dishes, packing a few snacks for the train that will go bad if left behind anyway, washing up since it’s far too late to lug water to the tub for a proper bath, a final dosage of laudanum so that I might rest easy… Only once all of that is finished do I crawl into bed tiredly beside James and curl myself against his side to sleep. It’s a night before a job, and I cling to him tighter than is necessary.
As always, I sleep fitfully, plagued by nightmares of unearthly shadows that devour us whole.
I am not and never have been a morning person. James is even worse. Whereas I can rise with the sun and accomplish what needs to be done, James greets my morning prodding with a plaintive whine.
“Too early,” he protests in a sleep-ladened voice. “More sleep.”
My medicine always wears off during the night, leaving me with a restless, itching sort of buzz in the back of my skull I cannot quiet until my morning dose. It’s minimal at home, but still present, especially with the prospect of a large job looming over our heads. Still, I humour James by lying there with him for just a bit, chuckling as he pulls the blankets up and over our heads.
“We’ll be late, and you’ll not have time for breakfast if you don’t get up,” I murmur.
I feel the heat of his breath on my skin, and then James gnawing lazily at my shoulder. “I have my breakfast right here.”
He whimpers. “Fine, but let it be known that you’re terribly cruel.”
I toss back the blankets and sit up. James is adorable when he’s tired and moping, and I’d love nothing more than to waste the day away lying here with him. I insist on crawling out of bed on his side, meaning I slide a leg across his hips and straddle him a moment before sliding off to the other side. “Cruel is my middle name, yes.”
James cracks an eye open to watch me with calculated interest, a slow smile crossing his face. He grabs for my wrist and I dance back and out of his reach, all the while marvelling at how far we’ve come. Back at Whisperwood, James was very particular about certain touches, about me initiating intimacy. Even after our first time together, there were days where his nerves would get the best of him, and he’d put a halt to my affections. It’s been months since that’s happened. I’d call that progress.
There are other things that I watch for. Letting my hands wander when he sleeps, for instance. I think waking in such a way, with my fingers or mouth in compromising positions upon his person, takes him back to a time and place he prefers not to think nor speak of. Even to me.
He sighs plaintively and sits up, his hair an incredible hedgehog of strands jutting up in every direction. “What have I ever done but love you? Why do you hurt me so?”
“Because you make me go on these jobs,” I drawl, stretching my arms above my head and slipping free of my nightclothes.
“It’s hardly my fault you don’t find them as fun as I do.”
I could point out that part of the reason they terrify me so is James’ complete lack of self-preservation instincts, but I see little purpose to it. I just sigh, tossing my clothes over his face. “Up and washed, darling. We’ve a long day ahead of us.”
For as impatient a man as people take me for, I express the utmost patience for James and his whimpering. Perhaps because I’ve learned to tune it out. Or perhaps because I know when he’s whining for the sake of whining, or when he’s complaining because something is sincerely bothering him.
