Teresa learned many things during her time in the humans’ prison, among them the art of observing people without them realizing. Around her mortals gorged themselves. Some, in booths, feasted from multi-tiered towers of appetizers. Most gathered around two huge art deco trestle tables bearing enough food to feed an army.

Between the heads of the trestle tables, ensconced at his customary seat, the being known as Samuel watched the room with a small smile. Each person walking past him after filling a plate with food nodded to him, and he took that respect as his due. Once in a great while he pulled someone aside to speak briefly with them.

Teresa hated being kept cooling her heels like some commoner. She was a baroness of the Seeleigh court, and eventually these cretins would realize that. In the meantime, she had to kowtow to the Powers until she built herself back up. The first step of that building back up was, of course, teaching that Unseeleigh bitch and her walking vibrator that she wasn’t someone to be trifled with.

While she waited she reviewed her Seeming's attire. Fashions had changed since the Unseeleigh screwed up her plan. Instead of burying herself in crinoline, linen, and lace, she wore a single layer of glorious crimson silk. After years spent attired in nothing but a prison coverall, she felt all at once free and exposed. The silk lay smooth and cool against her skin. The sensation raised a response from her body that merged seamlessly with her lust for revenge. She would break Ophilia's toy in front of her, then kill her while she mourned. Deep within, she wanted to cripple her, bind her with bands of steel, and leave her staring at Micah’s remains. If she did that, The Morrigan would just release her. That wouldn't do. Teresa wanted revenge, not a blood feud.

She heard the stumbling mortal at the same time she smelled him. At some point in the recent past he had soiled himself and hadn't been too careful about cleaning up. Her nose wrinkled and she turned to keep the bum in sight. Sammie chose who got in carefully. If something that awful made it inside, it was either powerful enough to intimidate the warder or connected enough to secure an invitation.

When he heard her retching, the drunk turned to her and went pale. He looked like he wanted to crawl away, but instead he staggered toward her, falling to his knees an arm’s length away. He had a haggard voice and strange accent, one that must have changed since she her imprisonment.

“Dona Belle. I'm here, just like you said I should be. Please don't melt me.”

She looked down her nose at the pathetic wretch before her. Mortals annoyed her. They always had, with their demands to be treated like adults long before they were old enough to know basic manners. The new mortals, ever since they mastered machines, had become horridly presumptuous. If she didn't need someone to do the chores, she would gladly do away with the lot of them. Her voice carried centuries of disgust when she spoke, and the drunk cringed appropriately.

“You must be mistaken. I am not this Belle of whom you speak. Perhaps she resides elsewhere within Samuel’s club.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got you. Belle died in prison. You're not Belle. What you want me to do here, not-Belle?”

She stared at him, willing him to go away. He cringed, and after a few moments dropped his gaze to her shoes, but he refused to leave. His stench made her steadily more nauseous.

“You stink. If you insist on staying near me, you will go clean yourself.”

“Yes, Mistress!”

As he scampered off in search of a sink, Teresa heard a chuckle from behind her. Schooling her face to express respect without seeming subservient, she turned to face Samuel. He stared at her retreating minion, but she could tell he focused his scrutiny on her. She nodded infinitesimally. He motioned for her to speak.

“Samuel. I have returned.”

“So I see. You look beautiful, as ever.”

Samuel's voice was seduction in sound. It was the taste of chocolate and the feel of velvet in auditory form. The past years had been good to him. She gave a brief thought to dalliance, but her lust at the moment would not be sated by sex. She wanted blood, blood and terror and pain. She frowned slightly at Samuel, her expression conveying her lack of interest. When he spoke again, his voice remained rich, but no longer combined with the silk on her nipples to make her hunger for him.

“You told my Door Warden you wished to speak with me. Why?”

Carefully, now. She couldn't appear a supplicant, lest he take her as a minion of his own. An especially hard task, since she was a supplicant in all but name.

“I am planning vengeance against the one who engineered my fall. She insulted you by spurning your suit for her hand to take up with that unliving thing. I thought you might have designs of revenge, and did not wish to have us interfere one with another.”

He stared at her a full thirty seconds. His smile wavered from a neutral greeting to a predatory hunger to a touch of true amusement, but she dared not look away from his eyes before he replied.

“Your consideration is appreciated. I was not, however, planning any such vengeance. You may feel free to pursue your scheme unhindered.”

“No plan of vengeance? That's strange. I thought I felt forces being marshaled. Are you certain you aren’t planning something?”

“I am so rarely without a plan in motion, dear Teresa. However, at this time I have no designs on The Morrigan’s daughter Ophilia. I wish you luck, however.”

“Ah. I see.” She didn’t want to use her next ploy, but Samuel had forced her hand. “Perhaps there is some part I might play in your scheme? I have been out of circulation for so long most of our friends will have forgotten I am a player.”

“Oh, I doubt they’ve forgotten. But you still might have a part to play.”

“What part did you need me to play in your scheme?”

“Not in mine, Teresa. A friend needs some assistance. What was your plan for The Morrigan’s girl?”

Teresa wished he would stop using that name. Names of power called to their owners, and if she kept being called, she would listen in. If she listened in, she might interfere. If she interfered, Teresa Gelt would be so much fodder.

“I am going to stake her to a crucifix with steel spikes, blow that thing she’s taken up with to pieces with dynamite, and then cut her heart out and eat it while she watches.”

“A delightfully simple plan. Where did you think I would have room to help with that?”

“The toy is hard to pin down. Perhaps you could assist with that?”

“You’re both going about this all wrong, you realize.”

Samuel’s comment left Teresa staring. She had no idea who else he was talking to. Not knowing made her tense, and being tense made her angry. When the drunk came sloshing back up to her, she backhanded him before he could speak, knocking him onto one of the trestle tables. He slid to the ground, and then crawled over to kneel at her feet. Silently.

“Teresa, I am disappointed. Barely out a day and you muss my table.”

“Sam, I have little time. Before long, it will become common knowledge that I am free of prison. When it does, they will be on their guard. Will you assist me, or not?”

“Say rather that I will put you in touch with one who will assist you, if I think your plan is worthwhile. Now, what do you think will go wrong?”

“Go wrong?”

Sam's perfect face twisted with derision. “No plan survives contact with the enemy, Teresa. You of all people ought to be aware of that. How will you get past the Golem's Words?”

“I told you, I'm going to blow him up.”

“You'll need more than that. He was created by the Polymath himself. The man was possibly the finest mage of the Renaissance. You speak as if you can simply hand his creation a candle with a sparkler stuck in it and 'T.N.T.' written on the side and he will shatter.”

“You have a better plan?”

“To destroy a Golem, you must know the Words that drive him. Knowing that, you can make him destroy himself.”

Teresa frowned. He was right, of course, but she hated being shown she was wrong. “You know his Words, then?”

Samuel’s reply dripped affected boredom. “Enough of them. Suffice it to say that I know how you could destroy him.”

“What of her? She has to see him suffer, has to see that he is dead before she dies.”

“Simple enough. Release her.”

Teresa's frown deepened. “What do you mean? I want her imprisoned, not freed. I would lock her up, but her mother would free her. I have to kill her.”

“Her mother, The Morrigan.” Teresa winced at Samuel’s casual use of a name of power, but he still spoke, decidedly not replaced by a smoking hole in the floor, “will only change what The Morrigan does not like. Ophilia caged would garner her wrath. Ophilia freed of the stupid restrictions she has placed on herself, on the other hand...”

Teresa smiled. This is why she loved Samuel so. He always had the best advice for her.

“Who is the person you thought could help me? I will, of course, incorporate those elements of your plan which were superior to my own.”

Samuel's grin frightened even one who had stood in the face of the Unseeleigh's cavalry and cast them back to their hovels. He gestured to the empty seat beside him. Teresa was honored. She had never been invited to Samuel's table before. Her rise might be as meteoric as her fall.

She slid around the table, the split of her skirt deliberately showing off a long, lean expanse of creamy white leg. Samuel smiled at the sight, and his hand hovered, almost as if he would lay it on hers once she seated herself. She settled herself into the seat...

And something old, evil, and angry invaded her mind.

***

Michaela sat talking to the Pixie until the captain arrived. He walked in, took one look at her, and the cigar dropped out of his mouth when he shouted.

“Where the hell were you last night, Miles?”

Michaela glanced surreptitiously around, but the Pixie bolted the moment the door opened. She stood, carefully schooling her face to insubordinate belligerence.

“I don’t know, captain. Maybe I was out doing what your other unmarried officers do when they’re, y’know, off duty, like getting drunk and laid.”

By now the captain didn’t bat an eye at her tone. After a moment, her words registered, and he stopped, frozen in mid-rant and mid-stride all at once. He stared at her for a full half minute, shaking his head every few seconds as if arguing with himself. Finally he got a disgusted look on his face, like he realized he’d fallen for a stupid practical joke.

“Miles, if you’re trying to tell me you and the Mountain that talks like a Gentleman got it on last night; I really, really never want to hear you talk about that again. Not only would it be none of my business, it’s just plain wrong. Now I got a mental image of a Mastiff trying to mount a Chihuahua.”

“I do my best, captain.”

“Yeah, well. Look, I don’t care what you do with your free time, but sometime last night your collar in the John Doe case melted down.”

Confusion made Michaela incautious for a moment, and genuine curiosity entered her voice. “Belle broke? That’s not like her.”

The captain hadn’t made his position through politics. He pounced on the slip before she could fix it. “You know her? I didn’t know you two had a history.” He shook his head, focusing his thoughts again. “Never mind. I said melted down, I meant melted down. The remains are in the morgue down at Jefferson, you’ll need to go take a look. Take Franklin with you.”

A sudden spike of cold fear ran down Michaela’s spine. Her shoulder blades itched ferociously, and she started digging through her desk.

“What are you looking for, Miles? Don’t tell me you left your badge here last night.”

“Nope.”

“Then what? You forget Franklin’s address?”

“Nope.”

The captain reached her desk, set his coffee down, and started tapping his fingers on the cheap linoleum surface. After a few repetitions, she looked up at him. Some of her panic must have shown in her eyes. He took a step back, but repeated the question, his voice and posture insistent.

“What are you looking for, Miles?”

He wouldn’t go away until he got an answer. She bent double and twisted herself around, finally remembering which of the hiding places she last used. She pulled her desk drawer all the way out and ripped at the duct tape. Straightening, she looked at the captain as she slapped her hidden package down on her desk and stripped away the tape. The captain stared at her, a strange look on his face. When she spoke, her tone was considerably less than respectful.

“What?”

“I can’t tell which disturbs me more; that my best detective is a contortionist; or that she keeps her gun case taped to the underside of her desk.”

She flipped the top open, and he continued, “With her service revolver inside the case. Miles, why don’t you carry your service revolver?”

She didn’t have time for a conversation. “Never needed it before.”

“Miles, you routinely bag psychos, mobster assassins, and bikers. Now you’re telling me you need a gun. Should I call the National Guard?”

She gave the captain a smile. He really wasn’t a bad guy. She mostly gave him trouble so that when she inevitably transferred to another city, he would gradually forget about anything else she had been. Just this once, she tried to be nice to him. “Yeah, captain. I know Belle from way back. She’s bad news. I need a gun for this one. For what it’s worth, I don’t think the National Guard would make much difference. Don’t worry, though. I’ll take care of it.”

Once in a while, something happened to remind her she wasn’t one of them. While she spoke, the captain tensed up and backed away. By the time she said she’d take care of it, he stood at the door to his office. His reply echoed through the glass pane as he closed it behind him.

“Yeah, you do that. Don’t forget to call for backup if you need it.”

***

X perched high in the rafters of Sammie’s place. Far below, Teresa Gelt sat next to Sammie, false levity plastered to her face as she watched mortals gorging themselves on a traditional harvest feast. When she spoke, it was nearly inaudible, but X had been tricking the oversized since before men knew steel. He listened carefully to each and every word that passed between Teresa and Sammie.

“This is different.”

Sammie affected surprised condescension. “Of course it’s different. You’ve changed.”

“It has never been this different before.”

“You’ve never changed this much before. What are you planning to do now?”

Teresa’s head rolled about like the muscles that connected it to her body did so only poorly, her gaze settling on Sammie before she settled into motionlessness once more.

“I plan on finding her and unmaking her.”

Sammie selected a single canapé from the tray on his table and sampled a tiny bite. The faintest of frowns etched his perfect brow. Focused on everything related to Sammie, X heard a muffled scream from somewhere behind the bar, where the kitchens should be.

“I keep telling people they fear the wrong things, but so few listen to me.”

“You have a better plan I should be using?”

Sammie met Teresa’s gaze, puzzlement coloring his visage. “Were we talking about you? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

Teresa’s face twisted into a frustrated scowl. “Tell me truly, Sam, what should I be afraid of?”

Sammie’s eyes rolled. “I don’t have the time.”

Teresa’s lip curled. “Please, Sam. Deign to tell me what you think I should fear.”

Sammie took another nibble of the pate and cracker. “Oh, that’s much better. Of course you fear her, as you…”

Teresa’s voice was hot, her eyes wide with anger. “I do not fear her!”

Sammie ignored her, his voice rolling straight over her indignation. “…As you should, unless you are an idiot unworthy of my time.”

When Teresa sat silent, Sammie continued. “You need to fear The Morrigan’s daughter as well. If the magic of Ophilia’s birthright is roused and unoccupied, it will tear you apart for daring to disturb her.”

Teresa snorted, and Sammie looked askance at her. A longsuffering sigh escaped her, and she nodded an apology. “Continue, please.”

Sammie waited a moment to be sure his guest wouldn’t interrupt again, taking another small nibble at the cracker as he did so. “Her lover. A Golem created by an inspired craftsman can be dangerous when his Words are invoked.”

Teresa gritted her teeth, her voice carefully controlled when she spoke, her tone respectfully curious. “Tell me, please, how would you get around Micah’s Words?”

Sammie took the rest of the cracker into his mouth, closing his eyes as he savored it. When he was done, he looked at his guest once more, his expression pleased. “Much better. I would…”

X heard the catch in Sammie’s voice before he felt Ricky flit up to the beam beside him. His lover’s frantic whisper cut through the silence of the rafters, but X barely heard what he said. “X, a thing has come up! I am needing your assistance very much!”

X’s attention was still on Teresa when she followed Sammie’s gaze up to his hiding place. He looked down into her eyes. He gazed through the windows of her soul and saw the Demon of Unmaking, Belle Isle staring back at him. Before Ricky could say another word, X grabbed him and fled. He only hoped he could lose the demon before she tracked the pair of them to their island hideaway.

***

Matt awoke to the sound of a phone ringing and the sight of an agitated cross-dressing Pixie hovering overhead.

“Matthew! Up! Up! Your lady, she is in need of you!”

Matt was out of his nest, on his feet, and pulling on his pants before he realized the phone was still ringing. He reached over to the old wall handset, one hand still struggling with his pants.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“Hello?”

“Franklin? This is Captain Hayes. We need you to meet Detective Miles at the Jefferson Morgue.”

The captain’s voice was unsteady. Matt hadn’t known him long, but by reputation Captain Hayes was unflappable. Something must have gone terribly wrong for him to be so shaken up. Matt lowered his voice in an attempt to soothe the captain.

“I’m on my way, sir. Any details for me, or would you prefer I go in with an unbiased perspective?”

Despite the static on the line, Captain Hayes seemed calmed by Matt’s confidence and nonchalance. When he spoke, his voice had the slow, considered cadence of a man thinking about his words, not one taking the counsel of his fears.

“Good question, Franklin. I hadn’t really thought about it yet, but there is something strange about this. Go to the morgue, check out the Jane Doe we sent over, and tell me what you find.”

“Will do, sir.”

“Oh, and Franklin?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Can you somehow convince Miles to never do her ‘obedient little detective’ act again? I mean, never again. That’s the scariest thing I’ve seen today, and when you see the body, you’ll know how scary I’m talking.”

Matt pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it a moment. Surely the detective couldn’t have scared the captain by being polite to him? Either way, he had a job to do, and keeping Captain Hayes assured of his competence and professionalism would only help him do it.

‘Yes, sir. I will attempt to do so. I’ll speak to you as soon as I have something.”

“Do that. Talk to you later.”

A flurry of buzzing erupted in Matt’s other ear.

“Matthew! I have a list of the fashion advices and the romantic rendezvous activities for you.”

Matt didn’t pause in pulling his clothes on, but he did focus his attention on the Pixie. Ricardo flittered back a few feet, for which Matt was grateful.

“I’m sorry, Ricardo, but duty calls. If you’ve penciled the list down, I’ll be glad to read it as I walk.”

The Pixie held out a child’s spiral notepad. For the Pixie, it was an oversized clipboard.

“My writing, she is most delicate. Can you read it?”

Matt examined the notepad. A unicorn graced the cover. The writing was tiny, near picture perfect cursive. Matt carefully kept his smile grateful, hiding the amusement he felt.

“Thank you, Godfather. I will read this and attempt to put your recommendations into effect. I’m not certain Detective Miles is interested in me…” A thought struck him. “Or available, come to think about it.”

The Pixie froze in place, his face a study in horrified realization. His voice mirrored his face.

“This hurdle, she is one Ricardo has not thought of! I shall go at once and ascertain the lady Michaela’s amorous status!”

Before the Pixie could flit off, Matt interrupted.

“Wait! I’m about to go see her. I could just ask her.”

Ricardo buzzed back in, a grin splitting his face.

“The fun, where is she in that? Leave this to Ricardo! I go!”

Once Ricardo left, Matt raced through the rest of his morning preparations. He ate, washed, and dressed in record time. That done, he considered his walking stick and hat. They weren’t necessary for the practice of Bartitsu, but as he’d seen yesterday, they added several options for offense and defense. In the end, he picked them up as he headed out the door. The afternoon was unseasonably warm, so he quickly doffed his coat, slung it over a shoulder, and proceeded to Jefferson Hospital at a brisk walk.

When he arrived at the hospital, he asked at the information desk about the location of the morgue. A short walk and a brief elevator trip later he knocked on a heavily insulated door. He got no response to his first knock, so he hefted his walking stick and rapped a few times.

The only warning he had was the click of the latch. The door swung open violently to reveal Detective Miles haranguing a lab coated technician.

“Look, Doctor….”

The technician, a heavyset young man with a shock of near-white hair, interrupted Michaela.

“I’m not a doctor, ma’am. I’m just a lab tech. I can let you in here, but I’m not supposed to leave you in here alone.”

Michaela whipped out her wallet, flipping it open as she did.

“Okay, Mr. Lab Tech. This is a badge. I am a detective. Do you know what I detect?”

“Uh, no?”

“Mostly, I do cases that involve homicide and organized crime. You’ve heard of the Mafia, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Do you know what lots of the other cases are?”

The young man had already gone nearly as pale as his hair. The goose bumps might have been from the chill in the air, but they might have been from the slightly manic smile on Michaela’s face. When he spoke, his voice broke on the second word.

“Uh, no?”

“Do you know what serial killers are?”

“Uh, why don’t I just go back to the lab? You come tell me when you’re done, okay?”

“Yeah, why don’t we just do that?”

The young man finally registered Matt standing outside the morgue door. He looked up, and up, and up, finally meeting Matt’s gaze. Matt smiled and nodded. The tech ran off with a squeak. Matt pulled the door shut behind him, watching Michaela the whole time. When she first opened the door, she had been on edge. Now she was positively hyperkinetic, skipping back and forth between the heavy door and the examination table in the center of the room. Matt turned and carefully locked the door. Once that was done, he stepped over to the empty table.

Michaela bounced to the door to Matt’s right, popping it open and peering through. Over her shoulder, Matt saw a curtained window into a viewing room. Michaela stepped into the viewing room, did something with the curtain, and then stepped back into the examination room. She shut and locked the door behind her, every move radiating frenetic energy. When she turned back to face the room, she forced herself to stillness, like she was afraid she would fly apart at the seams at any moment.

She stared at the door to the morgue proper almost as if she feared it would come to life and bite her. He tapped the stainless steel table to be sure he had her attention, then spoke in the most calm, soothing voice he could manage in the chill environment of the exam room.

“Detective Miles, you appear to be agitated. Is there a reason for concern, or have you simply indulged in too much sugar and caffeine?”

Michaela froze, and suddenly the air reeked of crème brulee. She seemed unwilling to step any closer to the morgue. Matt shrugged and stepped to the door. From behind him, he heard the distinctive ‘click’ of a revolver’s hammer being drawn back. He spun, his stick interposed between them. She leveled the police issue revolver at his chest. The average-sized gun looked huge in her tiny hands.

“What the hell, Detective? I get that you’re not interested. I’m not going to press things.”

Matt didn’t want to get violent with Michaela. He wanted to get shot even less. He’d seen her move. If she wanted to shoot him, he would get shot. He had two options. He could try to talk her down, or he could try to get the jump on her. Which he did depended on her state of mind.

“Look, Michaela, if I’ve done something to offend you, I apologize. I’m sure we can work this out.”

“Put down the stick, Matt.”

If he had the stick, he could reach the whole room with a lunge. If he didn’t, she could get a shot off before he could reach her. He froze for an endless moment, his thoughts racing. In the end, one simple thing decided him. He couldn’t hurt her, even if it was the only way for him to survive.

Moving slowly and carefully, he lowered his walking stick to the ground. He set his bowler atop it, and then, moving with the same exaggerated care, straightened and took a step back to lean against one of the walls. When he started to move his hands behind him to keep his shirt clean, Michaela waved the pistol again.

“Keep your hands where I can see them, Matt. Answer some questions for me. Don’t mess around; I’m having a really bad time right now.”

“What’s the problem?”

Michaela’s voice, normally an even mix of sarcasm and benevolent disdain, filled with tension and pleading.

“Matt, please. Don’t ask me any questions. Just… don’t.”

“Whatever you want, Michaela. We’ve got plenty of time.”

“No, we don’t. That’s the problem. I’m trying to figure something out, and I’m not sure how to do it.” She froze, uncharacteristic indecision writ clear on her features. “I just wish you were as nice a guy as you seem.”

Matt felt something twist deep in his gut. She thought he was a nice guy. Ricardo told him that was a death knell, women wanted forceful and manly, not nice. Then again, she thought he was nice enough not to shoot. Nice had advantages. He pitched his voice to its most soothing.

“Michaela, had you stopped to consider that I might actually be as nice as I seem?”

“Nobody is. Nobody ever is. Worst part about it is that for some reason, I care now.”

“You didn’t care before?”

She looked at him. Her gaze met his, and he saw something deep within. Doubt, where yesterday he had seen certainty. Fear, where before he’d seen faith. He wanted to help her, but couldn’t quite see how. He saw something else, too, but that had to be his imagination. She stared at him. Not just watching him but staring at him. “Not really. Not the way you do. I knew that no matter what I did, it had to be the right thing. I couldn’t not do the right thing. Now? I’m just not sure.”

“I know this sounds simplistic, but why don’t you start with not hurting anyone?”

“It’s kind of who I am, Frank. I’m all about hurting bad people.”

“Are you sure that’s all you’re about?”

Her voice was tiny, uncertain, hard to hear even for him. “Not anymore.”

“I know this is a little bit of a digression, but it’s really important to me right now. Could you put the gun down? At least until we’re done the existential debate about the nature of good and evil?”

When he said “Good and Evil,” a light went on behind her eyes. When she spoke, the trumpets had returned to her voice.

“That’s it! Matt, I hate to do this to you, but if you move, I’m going to kill you. I don’t want to kill you. Hold absolutely still. Got it?”

“I think I understand your instructions. Can I shift to a more comfortable position?”

“Don’t think I can let you do that. Now hold still.”

She moved a few feet closer to him, and the gun was gone. She moved again, and the room stank of burning sugar. Matt squinted in sudden brilliance. Michaela held a spear, the blade made of pure white light. It hovered inches from his face, and his hair stood on end where it came near him. Beyond the head of the spear, he could barely make out Michaela’s face. Doubt warred with something else, something he’d never had a chance to see. Her lips moved, and he heard her voice whisper past the all consuming light of the spear.

“I wish I could think of another way to do this.”

To his credit, Matt didn’t flinch as the spear slashed downward, so sharp it didn’t tug at all as it passed through his coat and shirt. Something slid along his side from his nipple to his knee. Something hotter than lava and colder than ice, and it left a strange tingling where it passed. A hiss of shock escaped his lips, but he felt no pain. Yet.

The spear head swung away from him, and lightning played down his ribs as Michaela ran her fingertips down his side. Suddenly none of the past few seconds mattered. The slash through his clothing, her erratic behavior, the captain’s mysterious need to have him visit the morgue. None of it mattered. She stood inches from him, her fingertips running along his naked skin. The feel of her touch was so intoxicating he almost didn’t hear her words.

“Oh, thank God. No burns.”

She tugged on his shirt, and he looked down to meet her gaze. The terror was gone from her eyes. Something still frightened her, but she no longer had the wide eyes of a trapped animal.

“I’m sorry, Frank. Belle’s escaped. I have no idea who she’s gonna be hiding out in.”

Her words, one by one, made sense. As a sentence, they refused to coalesce into meaning. The only meaningful thing was her hand, still lying gently against his bare hip. Where the blade had been beyond description, the sensation of her against him was simply too intense for him to react coherently. He felt his body responding to her. He was surprised she couldn’t feel his erection pressing against her through his slashed clothing. Instead, she stared up at him, awaiting a response. With ferocious concentration, he cudgeled his brain into producing a cogent reply.

“Who’s escaped?”

Her reply came instantly and made the source of her tension obvious. “Belle.”

The name hit him like a shock of cold water, but that water sizzled away in the heat of Michaela’s proximity. The shock did get his brain functioning once more. Michaela’s hand played idly with the bare skin of his side, moving in little patterns. Looking into her eyes, he realized she wasn’t doing it consciously. Still, it carbonated his blood, making his brain fizz. She waited for him to speak, growing agitated again.

“That is bad, Detective. I presume you needed to determine that I wasn’t possessed?”

“Right in one. I love smart guys. Maybe that’s why I haven’t really hit it off with any of them before…”

In that moment, dawning realization lit her eyes. Time slowed as he watched emotions crawl across her face. First came the realization of what she had just said. Then he saw her twitch as the implications slammed into her; she’d admitted that something clicked between the two of them. Next Matt watched awareness wash over her; awareness of where her hand was, how close her breasts were to his manhood, and the strength of his reaction to her proximity. Finally, he felt her shiver as intense, primal need scoured everything else from her face like an avalanche erasing a ski lodge.

Michaela moved, and she was kissing him hungrily, her mouth playing across Matt's, electricity tingling along his lips. Her legs wrapped partway around him, holding her up, holding her to him. Michaela’s left hand clutched at his hair, pinning his mouth to her. Michaela’s right hand took full advantage of the tear in his clothing, running over his shoulders, his back, leaving trails of fire across his skin. Her body, taut with muscle, soft with curves, writhed against him as her legs flexed.

Matt responded eagerly. He reached around her, sliding her toward him. Matt cupped Michaela’s ass with one hand, pulling her against him, pushing her down until she rubbed against him. At that, her eyes popped open and her kiss became frantic. When Michaela didn’t pull away, Matt buried his other hand in her hair and forced her to slow down. He savored her mouth. She tasted of candy and need. Her tongue hot against his, he felt her moans of desire vibrating through her mouth.

He knew if he let himself go even one step further, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. Matt pulled her away and stared deep into shocked eyes of cinnamon brown. Michaela whimpered wordless sounds of need as she struggled to close with him again. His voice came out thick with his own need for her when he spoke.

“Are you sure this time?”

Michaela’s face was a study in frustrated impatience, and he could barely make out her strangled “Yes.”

“If I don’t stop now, I’m not going to. Are you ready for that?”

Some semblance of sanity superimposed itself for a moment over the need in her eyes. Her voice savage with sincerity, she asked, “Frank, do you want to do this?”

For once, Matt didn’t try to control his voice. Desire made his voice a deep rumble that vibrated through her where she pressed against him. “Oh, God yes.”

“Then if you don’t shut up and take me, I’m going to beat you senseless with your own walking stick.”

Michaela’s last words got lost in his mouth. Matt devoured her passion eagerly, tongue playing against her teeth, toying with her tongue. He pressed her down against him, letting her feel his need for her. Matt had to get his ruined pants off. Kicking her discarded coat out of the way, he stepped over to the table in the middle of the room, leaning her ass against it before he pulled away his trousers.

Matt needn’t have worried about her falling. One leg clamped around him, the other kicked at his pants, forcing them down. He heard Michaela’s shoes hit the floor along with his pants. The feel of her bare legs against him was nearly as intoxicating as the feel of her warmth pressing against the length of his dick. Matt pulled her away from him, lined himself up, and pressed himself into her.

He tried to, at least. Still trying to be gentle, he pushed into her. She slid backward across the table, away from him. He felt her hot and wet against the tip of him, felt the pressure where he should be sliding inside of her, but it wasn’t happening. Matt pulled her back, and saw nothing but confused need in her eyes. Both her legs wrapped behind his waist and she pulled herself onto him with the strength of her thighs.

She tried to. Despite himself he winced. Michaela’s voice was strangled with suppressed need when she spoke.

“What’s wrong?”

His own voice wasn’t much better, and he watched with amusement as his bass rumble vibrating through her made her eyes cross with blissfully agonizing sensation.

“Doesn’t fit.”

“Huh?”

“Since you’re perfect, I seem to be too big.”

***

It took her a moment to realize what he meant. When she did, fury at a long dead crafter flashed through her. She got so angry her words whispered out of her instead of staying inside her own head.

“I’m going to dig a very special pit for sculptors that skimp on orifices.”

Matt started to pull away. She was having none of that. She bore down with her thighs, just enough to let him know on no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t get an inch further away from her than he was now. His hand traced circles across her back, making it hard to think, making it hard not to try once again to push him into her. Only the thought of how much she’d hurt him if she did held her back.

She stared at his chest. She could curl up and sleep on that chest like a bed. She hadn’t intended to tell him like this. He’d probably figured it out already, but he hadn’t mentioned it. Telling him would be different. Until she told him, he could be lying to himself. Once she told him, he would go away. Fearfully, she looked up into his eyes. In blue and green she saw passion, and patience, and need, and a little confusion and frustration, but no condemnation. Fearfully, she opened her mouth and confessed.

“Frank… You’ve figured some of it out by now, right?”

His hand didn’t stop, but his lips quirked up in a little grin. Damn puppy, looking so cute when she couldn’t pull him into her the way she wanted to, needed to. He spoke, and the way his voice made his whole body rumble vibrated him against her clit, nearly overcoming her self control.

“I figure out things. It’s my job. What thing were you talking about?”

“I… I’m not human, Frank.”

The hand buried in her hair slid free. His thumb traced across her cheek, and then he slid his hand down her front to begin toying with her nipples. His movements were slow, languid, hypnotic. When he spoke, she twitched against him. To his credit, he pushed back instead of wincing.

“I suspected. It matters why?”

His hands drove her mad, one tracing patterns on her back, the other brushing across her nipples, her belly. She couldn’t decide if she wanted him to keep doing that or go lower. She leaned into the hand on her back and let him decide. His words finally registered. He didn’t care. No. He cared, but it didn’t matter to him what she was, it only mattered that she was her and was with him.

“Under all the pretty and the soft I’m made of marble, Frank.”

His fingers kneaded her back as he pondered. His other hand lingered longer on her belly as it passed between her breasts. She realized his hand was so big he could toy with both of them at once if his palm was on her stomach. A moment later fire raced down her spine as he did just that. His next words made no sense for a moment as his rumble made him vibrate against her, inside of her.

“Marble doesn’t stretch. Damn it.”

She was thankful she couldn’t bite through her own lip. His hands tortured her, dragging her closer and closer to something, she had no idea what, but desperately wanted to find out. It wasn’t fair. She tried to pull back, tried to stammer out an apology.

Matt buried her hand in his hair again, forcing her head back, making her look into his eyes. He was so ferociously strong, she realized suddenly. She’d never known a mortal even close to this strong. The thought frightened her, comforted her, enflamed her further. He didn’t wince when her muscles twitched, trying to pull him inside her. When he spoke, a moan escaped her, and she couldn’t bring herself to care.

“Don’t ever apologize for what you are. To me or anyone else. Now, let’s see if Grey, and Masters and Johnson are worth the paper they’re printed on.”

Michaela had no idea what he was talking about. She was about to ask him when he slid his hand down from her breasts. His dick slipped away from her, one of his fingers slipped in, and out, and in. His hands were huge, one fingertip filling her inside, the heel of his palm rubbing up against her clit. He shifted, and his thumb started rubbing in little circles against her clit. She grabbed at him, pulled him to her, found his mouth through a haze of passion.

She kissed him without thought for anything else. Matt’s fingers were insistent. Demanding. Persistent.

Successful.

Michaela screamed her orgasm into his kiss, her whole body tensed, and her back arched as pleasure raced through her. When she could think again, she realized he was holding her in the air, effortlessly, one hand between her thighs and one hand on her back. The feel of his fingers against her, one inside her, the sheer strength of him excited her all over again. She leaned into him, reveling in the warmth of his bare chest. Michaela felt the length of him resting along her thigh, the tip warm against her belly. She reached down and began petting it with one hand. It twitched whenever she touched it, and Matt’s indrawn breath let her know she was having an impact on his self control.

“What I wouldn’t give for a friggin’ impact drill right now.”

She couldn’t see his face, but she knew his eyebrows shot up. His bass rumbled through her again.

“That sounds painful.”

“I don’t care. I want you inside me. I want to feel you pressing up against me, buried to the hilt in me. I want to see the look in your eyes when I feel you come hot and sticky inside me. Do you get it?”

Matt’s voice carried a hint of disappointment. His dick, rigid and throbbing against her, made the reason completely clear. His hands were moving again.

“You didn’t like it?”

She pulled back and looked him in the eye. The moment she did, she realized the disappointment in his voice was utterly fake. On top of being strong as an ox and hung like a horse, he could act. She was trying to think of something witty to say when he spoke again.

“You have glorious orgasms. The kind that nearly makes me come watching you. You know what else?”

She tensed, having no idea what he was about to do or say, but completely sure he was about to shake the foundations of her world again.

“What else?”

He lifted her up until he could look her in the eye. His grin subsided, and she felt a frisson driven by fear and anticipation rush through her.

“You taste like candy.”

Matt lifted Michaela straight up, leaning her back as he did. She had no idea what he was doing, but trusted him completely. Then his mouth found her clit and she didn’t care what he was doing. Her thighs settled onto his shoulders, her shoulders rested on one of his hands.

His tongue lapped against her, darting inside to taste her. She stared unseeing at the ceiling tiles as he toyed with her, teased her, guided her once more down the path she’d just learned. She’d been there once before, and had no inhibitions about doing it again. She arched her back, pushing herself to him, and this time her scream echoed through the room as she came.

When she stopped twitching, she realized she was dangling down his front, her knees hooked over his shoulders. His hands toyed idly with her breasts and belly again. She sniffed the air and giggled. It did smell of cooked sugar in here. She felt his dick pressed between her back and his stomach, hard against her. She wriggled, using him to scratch her back. She giggled again when she groaned.

The sound of his frustrated groan, the smell of burning sugar, and the feel of him hard against her combined to inspire her. She grinned, and heard the teasing in her own voice when she spoke.

“Bet you can’t do that again.”

He froze just a moment in surprise. A deep, throaty chuckle vibrated him against her.

“I’ll take that as a suggestion.”

He started to pull her up, and she moved.

Her thighs clamped to either side of his face, she dangled down his front. Note to self; no blood means no blood rushing to my head. One less pit for Mike. He filled her field of vision, abs and thighs and chest all corded with muscle. Front and center his dick quivered. She reached for it, giggling when she saw her hands against it for scale. It was the size of her forearm. His tongue found her clit again, and she resolved again to find a way to make it fit.

For the meanwhile, though…

She ran her tongue along the length of him, and was rewarded with a shudder that ran through his whole body. When the shudder reached his tongue, it broke her concentration completely. Her hands clutched at him reflexively, and he shuddered again. She cast caution and subtlety to the wind and wrapped her lips around him, sliding him into her mouth, swallowing him down as far as she could. Still she couldn’t fit him all the way in. He bumped against the back of her throat. She whimpered her frustration and was rewarded with another shudder that ran up through him to land on her clit. That sensation forced her to groan with pleasure and need once more, starting the cycle all over again.

Thought went away. Time went away. Michaela’s hands stroked at the base of him, her tongue licked at him, her head bobbed back and forth as she worked at him. She came, her screams muffled by his dick. The scream raked her teeth across his skin, and he was coming, his hips thrusting him into her, the taste of him washing through her, salty and sweet and faintly metallic. It shocked her, pleased her, and she clutched at his thighs as both of them shuddered their way to stillness.

When both of them were finally still, Matt lifted his mouth from her. His bass rumble tickled her throat. She loved his voice.

“I win.”

Michaela moved again. Her arms were around Matt’s neck, her legs wrapped around his stomach. She stared into his eyes, blue and green and suffused with satiation and affection.

“You win?”

“Well, yeah. You bet me I couldn’t do that again. What do I win?”

She grinned and licked at her lips, making the motion as suggestive as she knew how.

“You didn’t like your prize?”

He grinned down at her.

“Ok, I’ll take it. How do I win another?”

“Right now?”

“Well, okay, maybe not right now. Unless you’re going to insist?” Matt was so cute when he tried to be suggestive. For once, she didn’t care if she thought of him as cute. Multiple orgasms buy an enormous amount of pit forgiveness.

“Up to you. Ready for another round?”

He looked around, a slight frown on his lips. “Maybe later. I can think of far more romantic surroundings. How about your place?”

“Uh…”

“Oh, hell.” His sudden blasphemy took her off guard.

“What’s wrong?”

He was even cute when he was being sheepish. Then again, anyone would look cute after what they just did. How fast can I get an apartment? Or just a room with a bed?

“I really don’t think I can fix these clothes, and the only thing less inconspicuous than a seven foot tall man is a naked seven foot tall man.”

“Oh. Oh, shit.”

“Yeah. Can you run back to my apartment for me after you’re dressed?”

She moved. Then she grinned up at him, fully dressed and tapping one foot impatiently. “Gimme your keys and keep the door locked. Oh, and if you get a chance, you might want to check out the body in the other room. I think I know what happened, but I might be wrong. It’s the one in the bucket.”