Time Rip (5 page)

His brother is another matter.

Discreetly, Arthur, Holmes, and I exit the room to give the other three their privacy. They have a lot to talk about. So do we.

"In here." Arthur opens a door at the end of a hall and ushers us into the library, filled with leather-bound books and smelling of lofty literary adventure, the perfect place for a hushed conference with a fictional character.

"You know what I hate most about your Ripper hypothesis?" he asks Holmes. "It makes sense," he answers himself. "I'm very afraid you've pegged it. But it puts me in a loathsome position. I must do something, of course. We can't let a killer go free. Yet to stop him, I'll have to accuse the son of a friend. If he's proved guilty, it will devastate his father. The trial alone would disgrace the whole family, whatever the verdict. If it should somehow go in his favor, he could possibly sue me for libel or slander. Either way, the admiral will have my
gonads
on a platter for instigating the business."

Someone's been a bad influence on him.

Holmes suppresses a smile. "I don't suppose you could ask the police to keep your part in the proceedings confidential."

"I could, perhaps, but I wouldn't."

Yeah, that's what I figured. He's an upfront kind of guy.

"A dilemma," Holmes says, "and one for which I don't have a solution."

Me, neither. Then again, I wonder if we need one. It's never been decided for certain how many the Ripper killed, but most historians of the case put the number at five or six, with the last one being Mary Kelly. Except we know she wasn't his victim--and it wasn't Mary, anyway, but some poor girl named Jessica. Meaning, maybe Geoffrey has already decided to stop. Or he soon will. I have an idea on that score.

"I could put the fear of God into him," I suggest. "It won't punish his past crimes, but it'll steer him away from future ones."

"How?" they both ask, one question in two voices.

"By turning into an avenging angel in a fur coat. I'll need a white robe to start with though."

What I'm thinking, actually, is dressing up like an angel and visiting Geoffrey as a messenger of divine wrath. I'll warn him to mend his evil ways or suffer the consequences, then scare the fucking shit out of him to drive the threat home.

Quickly, I present the idea to Arthur and Holmes.

They don't like it.

"Geoffrey's not easily fooled or frightened," Arthur says. "No offense, but it would take a more fearsome man than you to do the job."

He thinks.

"Didn't I mention the part where the angel turns into a wolf?"

Holmes narrows his eyes at me. "No, you didn't." His gaze shifts to Arthur. "You'll have to excuse him. He ran afoul of some opium fumes at Marris's house. It appears the effects haven't quite worn off yet."

I guess I'll have to demonstrate.

"Watson! What on earth are you doing?"

"My good fellow, put your clothes back on."

"If I do, they'll be shredded when I turn. My canine form is much larger than my human."

With those words, I drop naked to all fours and summon old magic, my birthright, passed down from parent to child through countless generations. Electric prickles sting me. I feel my skin glow. Arthur and Holmes stand rooted to the floor, rigid, staring. In seconds I'm wearing silver white fur, powerful and huge, more than double the size of an ordinary wolf.

Fearsome?

Hell, I'm a holy terror.

"
Grrr.
.. " I bare fangs and snarl to prove the point, then nuzzle Arthur's hand and lick it, like a friendly hound, to show him it's still me under the fur, and he's safe.

Dumbfounded, he pats my head, a dazed reflex response. "Good Lord... Lycanthropy... What next?"

"Fascinating," Holmes says. "Watson, why have you never told me you were a werewolf?"

Duh, I dunno. He never asked, maybe?

Damn, I'm disappointed. I did have an ulterior motive for this trick. I'd hoped the shock of seeing me shift might remind him who he used to be and break the spell. Metamorphosis magic is rarely a hundred percent complete. Just like it's still me inside the wolf, there's got to be a piece of Hunter hidden somewhere in Holmes.

So how do I dig it out?

Wondering if we'll be trapped here forever, I return to human form and pull on my borrowed clothes while Arthur rakes his wits back together. He's had a very strange night, but he's being a really good sport about it, I think.

"All right, your plan is
manifestly
better than I first thought," he tells me with wry understatement, "but I'm still not sure it's the best way." A weary sigh heaves out. "I suggest we all get some sleep and decide tomorrow. I hope you won't find it too inconvenient to share the same room. With Miss Kelly here, there's only one spare bed, I believe, but I know the admiral won't mind you using it. I'll show you where it is, if you like."

Sleep with Holmes? Gee, what a hardship...

Real hard, as it turns out. Stuck in platonic mode and yawning, he's off to dreamland within minutes of hitting the mattress. Lying beside him, I'm awake and wretched with the granddaddy of all hot air balloons bobbing between my legs. Seriously. I've wanked off twice already. My swollen gonads refuse to deflate. And that's no metaphor.

It's agony.

Sherlock Holmes sleeps in the nude, did you know that? Whoever would have thought it? I mean, honestly, I'm supposed to
rest
in this predicament? Never truer were the words
so close, yet so far.

His scent surrounds me, taunts me. Hunter was a shifter and smelled like spicy feline. Holmes smells more human, but warm and musky and intensely appealing.

Slumberously sexy.

He lies on his back, legs splayed, one arm draped over his middle, his chest rising and falling with regular breaths, his chiseled features sanded smooth by repose. In the soft glow of a candle on the bedside table, I see the outline of his body under the covers, note a provocative mound at the juncture of his thighs. Holmes is well hung. Hmm, I wonder if he inherited that package from Hunter, who stallions envied, or if it's his natural endowment. Since Arthur never mentioned such details in his stories--rather remiss of him, I've often felt--I can only speculate.

While I study him, he rolls toward me, in his sleep, onto his side. The arm, which rested on his middle, ends up slung over mine. Just what I need.
Groan.
His body heat brands me.

"Mmm... " he mumbles, obviously dreaming. The arm tightens into an unconscious hug as he sidles closer, like he thinks I'm his pillow. His head lands on my shoulder, and hot breath steams my neck. "Mmm... Sylver... "

Who?

Not Watson.

My name.

At the muffled sound of it, my heart slams my ribs.

Holy shit, he must be dreaming of his real self.

"Hunter?" I grip his biceps. "Hunter, are you in there? Wake up, pussycat--come back to me!"

His head jerks up. Eyes snap open.

Gray eyes.

But I think I spy a tiny glint of amber in them. Reflected candlelight? Or do I really see my lover gazing at me from behind the gray? I see something more than friendship, I know that.

My mouth goes dry.

The eyes half close, sleepy and sultry--
bedroom eyes
whosever they are. The voice, a drowsy purr, matches them.

"What's the matter, Watson, can't you sleep?"

My own voice snags in my throat as his hand slips under the covers and explores between my legs.

"Ah, I believe I've discovered why," he whispers.

"A logical deduction," I croak out.

"Elementary, my
dear
Watson. I know your body as well as my own. We've been lovers for years, haven't we?"

Say what?

I'm aware some of his fans have theorized the Holmes character was gay--or, alternately, smitten with Irene Adler--but many others consider him more the asexual type. I always have.

Until now.

Long fingers curl around my cock and squeeze. A warm mouth covers mine, a tongue probes deep. Lightning cracks. I'm blinded. A whammy of a kiss blisters my brain and fries the air around me.

Wow.

I think I owe Plato an apology.

::I think you owe
me
one.::

The telepathic grumble rattles my cranium.

A familiar grumble.

::If you'd kissed me when you first thought of it, we could have been home almost as soon as we left.::

We're home?

I was right? A kiss did the trick? Or, rather, broke it.

I flatten palms against steel pectorals and shove him back to see, stare up into blazing amber. I feel satin sheets. We're in our own bed, in our own era.

I'm torn between relief and regret.

"Your timing sucks," I tell him. "Another few seconds, and I could have fucked Sherlock Holmes. He was hot stuff, too."

"Yeah, well, now you'll have to fuck me. Shit happens."

I heave a long-suffering sigh. "Okay... if I really, really
have
to, I guess I can--"

"
Grrr.
.. " With a feral growl, he grabs my shoulders and flips me onto my stomach. Except the growl sounds suspiciously like laughter in disguise.

His knees dig between mine and push my thighs apart. I expect a battering-ram entry next, but hot hands land on my ass instead, and spread my cheeks.
Oooo...
He just buried his face in my crack. I'm forced to endure several torturous minutes of tongue-fucking.

I'm not complaining.

But something suddenly occurs to me. "Hey, I thought
I
was supposed to screw
you.
"

::Did I say that?::
he asks mind-to-mind, as his mouth is otherwise engaged.

"Yep, I remember the exact words. 'Now you'll have to fuck me.'"

::Okay, if I really, really
have
to.::

Fast and furious, he hauls back, positions himself, and rams his dick in up to the root, nails me to the mattress with a wicked sharp stroke.

"
Uhh
," I grunt.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he says aloud--but don't believe for one instant that he means it. "Did that hurt?"

"Yes!"

"Good."

Very. Exactly what I was thinking, in fact. Animals, as a rule, aren't gentle lovers, nor are shifters. We mate like beasts, and we like it that way.

But Hunter and I like it even better than most. Before I can say "Holy jackhammer, Catman," he turns into one, pounding in and out, humping me into raw hamburger. I shove back to meet each solid thrust--burrow a hand under myself and fist my cock, pumping it in a counterpoint rhythm to his.

The blood in my veins turns to fire. Savage heat floods me. The ripe scent of sex fills my nostrils, and snarls fill my ears--but most of all,
Hunter
fills me, body and soul. The power of our joining swells me to near bursting. Sweat covers us both, and we're panting, straining, making a mess of the bed. It's a heady, wild moment, and we wallow in it. Together we build it higher, hotter, harder... Until we explode all over each other in a loud, wanton shower of sparks.

Metaphorically speaking.

"Very funny," he gasps, collapsing on top of me.

He's
always
reading my thoughts--then bitching about what he finds. But for the first time, it doesn't bother me. I discovered, while he was Holmes, that I missed his merciless mental presence. He's a pain in the neck, but he's mine, y'know? It's nice to have him back in all his aggravating glory.

"Thanks. I love you, too," he says, making it sound like a gripe, but I know he means the words, regardless. Actually, I suspect Hunter's Holmes was gay because Hunter is--just more discreet about it because of the time period.

I roll to my side, heaving Hunter off my back and onto his, then twist around to face him. "I
am
glad we're home. But I'm sorry we never got to find out what happened to Geoffrey."

"Maybe we can find out now." He sits up and reaches for his laptop on the bedside table. I watch while he starts a genealogical search that leads to an online collection of old obituaries.

He frowns.

"What?" I look over his shoulder and read about the death of Geoffrey Lawrence, son of Admiral Lawrence. Geoffrey, it seems, died of cholera, probably contracted during his excursions to the East End, on November 12th, 1888. Three days after we left. No wonder he spent the ninth at home, feeling fatigued. He must have been on the verge of becoming ill. Cholera is a very fast acting disease.

"Well, Egbert did say he was going to make himself sick." Hunter breathes a small sigh and lays the laptop aside. "I can't say I'm all that sorry to see it, though. I
still
think he was the Ripper. So did Arthur."

"Me, too. But at this point, there's no way to prove it." I stretch and yawn. Suddenly I'm exhausted. "On the other hand, Arthur became very interested in the supernatural in his later years. I wonder if we influenced him any on that."

"Who knows?" Hunter shrugs and stretches out on the bed. He looks as tired as I feel. "We probably influenced his fiction. I inspired the story where he killed Holmes"--he pulls me down next to him--"and you inspired
The Hound of the Baskervilles.
"

Ha. Ha.

Life is back to normal, I can tell. Hunter's being a smart-ass. And I'm getting ready to beat him with the pillows.

Gee, it really is great to be home.

Mimi Riser has been an actress, model, clown, belly-dancer, jewelry designer, editor and publisher, but her first and foremost love is writing. She specializes in offbeat tales where laughter reigns and good always triumphs--but she makes her characters really work for their happy endings. Her books have been said to read like a snowball rolling downhill, gathering size and speed as it goes. But if you think her stories are crazy, you should see her life. Once devout city people, she and her husband exchanged the hustle and bustle of Philadelphia a lifetime or two ago for the natural, rugged splendor of the rural southwest. They were looking for a simpler way of life. They got it. It ended up being so "natural and rugged," they spent their first six and a half years there in a hand-built house with dirt floors, no electricity and no plumbing. This has proved helpful for her historicals as she can now write about the "olden days" from personal experience. They have since rejoined the 21st century and enjoy life on the open range with a house full of eccentric cats and a large, wacky dog who thinks she's a cat, too. Mimi has had five novels published to date along with numerous articles and short stories. Her historical romance,
I Do
, was a "Top Ten Finisher" in the mammoth Preditors & Editors Readers Poll of 2003, and her contemporary comedy,
Every Jack Needs His Jil
, won the poll the following year for the "Best Mainstream Novel of 2004."
Samantha White and The Seven Dwarves
is her first erotic-romance and was one of the winners in Amber Quill's 2007 Heat Wave contest.