Page 47 of A Vocation of Violence
“Come,” He beckoned, holding open the door.
Heart pounding, I stepped across the threshold into the wolf’s den.
Chapter Fifteen
The hush of Night Horse’s abode enveloped us, a stark contrast to the raucous London streets we’d just abandoned. The dim glow from oil lamps cast dancing shadows upon the walls, which were adorned with landscape paintings that spoke of faraway places and untamed wilderness. I let my gaze wander across the room, pausing at sculptures of creatures both wild and domestic, marveling at their lifelike forms. My heart raced with the thrill of trespassing into forbidden territory, but my curiosity held me captive.
“Forgive me an impertinent question,” I began, my voice barely above a whisper, as if the tranquility demanded it, “but how long have you lived here?”
“Long enough,” he replied, his voice low and husky as he closed the door behind me. “I rent this place from an admiral in the navy who spends most of his time abroad, exploring the world.” He studied my surprise with amusement, his dark eyes reflecting the dance of the cozy flames in the fireplace. “You’re wondering how a heathen like me could appreciate such European culture, aren’t you?”
My cheeks flushed under his knowing gaze. I had, indeed, been wondering if he appreciated the art of a culture thatextinguished his own. I’d assumed his private domain to be something entirely different, and for that, I realized, I was afflicted with more ignorance than I’d unwittingly ascribed to him. “I apologize,” I admitted, bowing my head slightly in contrition, chastened by my own bigotry. “I shouldn’t have presumed. I hope I didn’t offend you with my clumsy tongue.”
“You are forgiven,” he said, a teasing smile playing at the corners of his lips. “And it is not my experience that your tongue is clumsy.”
As I stood in the softly lit room, surrounded by good taste and safety, I fought a softening of my insides as I gazed at him.
He stood close enough to touch.
But the divide between our lives might as well have spanned continents.
Our conversation shifted then as he produced the disturbing note from Jack the Ripper. His fingers traced over the ink as he read aloud the vile threats.
“Who is he to presume he can dictate your life?” Night Horse growled, his anger echoing my own inward obstinance. “He’s obsessed with you, Fiona. And obsessions like these are most often deadly for the woman.”
“Do you think he knows I’m here?” I asked, a new fear lancing me through.
He shook his head. “I made certain we were not followed.”
Only in a presence like his could I believe that. In the collective imagination, the Ripper was a preternatural enigma. Someone capable of almost inhuman feats of violence and torture.
But so was Aramis Night Horse.
“That isn’t to say you don’t risk much by being here, alone with me. I’ve lived among Londoners long enough to know the tongues would wag themselves to ruin if you were discovered here.”
“Is it different in America?” I asked, seeking solace in the idea of a world where such constraints did not exist.
He made a face. “It is different withmypeople, because we don’t only fuck those we think we own by right of marriage. Love takes many forms, as does partnership. Men such as Darcy and Tunstall, for example, wouldn’t have to hide their love from the law.”
Shock rippled through me like a cold wave as Night Horse spoke of Tunstall and Darcy’s dangerous secret. “How did you find out?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
“I figured it out on my own,” he replied, his dark eyes steady and unapologetic. “They’re careful, but not as careful as they think.”
“Why didn’t you ever mention it?” I couldn’t hide the surprise in my voice.
“It was irrelevant.” He leaned back against a carved wooden chair, the shadows accentuating the strong lines of his face. “Among my people, we know the spirits choose their vessels without regard for the shapes they wear,” he continued. “A soul’s companion is not bounded by the flesh that cloaks it. If people want to share a home and a bed, there is no reason not to do so. If a woman says she is a man, she may live as a man. Take a wife. Hunt and fight.
“If a man says he is a woman, he may live as a woman. Help sisters, aunts, and cousins raise and teach their children. Weave textiles, trap, and gather. There are no laws to stifle or punish desire and personal truths. We don’t have thousand-year-old books to tell us who to fuck and how to behave.”
I mulled over his words, feeling the weight of societal expectations pressing down upon me like an iron collar. “That must be a strange but fantastic way to live,” I said, my voice tinged with envy as I imagined a world free from the suffocating constraints of society.
Night Horse shifted his gaze toward the window, where the moon cast its pale light across the room. “You seem ready to throw that caution to the wind with Jorah,” he observed, his tone inscrutable.
“It was the Ripper that drove me to him, I’m coming to realize.” Heat crept up my cheeks as I recalled my near-encounter with Jorah. “We hadn’t actually… Well, we were interrupted before anything transpired… I find myself relieved by the interruption.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because I’m not sure Jorah isn’t a monster.”
