Straight on til morning, p.1
Straight On 'Til Morning, page 1
Copyright © 2021 by K.J. Sutton
All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
ISBN 978-1-087-96233-7 (hardback)
ISBN 978-1-7334616-5-8 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-7334616-6-5 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Front cover image by Giulia Valentini
Typography by Book Covers by Seventhstar
Published in the United States of America
Also by K.J. Sutton
The Fortuna Sworn Saga
* * *
Fortuna Sworn
Restless Slumber
Deadly Dreams
Beautiful Nightmares
* * *
The Charlie Travesty Serial
with Jessi Elliott
* * *
A Whisper in the Dark
A Light in the Dusk
A Memory in the Flame
A Sacrifice in the Smoke
A Song in the Night
* * *
Novellas
* * *
Summer in the Elevator
Please be aware this novel contains scenes or themes of dubious consent, sex, profanity, queerphobia, sexism, murder, amputation, and an animal death.
Chapter 1
August 5, 1895
London, England
“Don’t be frightened.”
The male voice didn’t belong to anyone I knew, and fear rushed through me. My eyes snapped open. I saw in an instant the intruder wasn’t, in fact, actually inside my room—a face peered through the window.
My first thought was that I was dreaming again, and soon Liza or Mrs. Graham would appear from nowhere, their faces lined with weariness as they tried to wake me.
There was also the factor of how high my bedroom stood above the ground, where no one should have been able to go. There were no trees or rooftops for someone to stand upon, either.
“I’m not frightened,” I whispered at last, though the stranger could not possibly hear me. It was a boy, I noted as I sat up. He looked to be my age or a little older, perhaps eighteen or nineteen. Slowly, I pushed the bedclothes aside. My toes touched the rug. It was real and solid, which was unlike any other dream I’d experienced. I paused, hesitating, and felt a quake of trepidation.
“I won’t hurt you,” my visitor added.
Curiosity got the better of me. I left the warmth of the bed and sent a novel tumbling to the floor, the one I had been reading before I must’ve succumbed to sleep. I edged toward the window, moving through a slant of moonlight. The boy’s eyes flicked to my nightgown, which was so thin the outline of my body was visible—I’d forgotten to retrieve a dressing gown.
Blushing, I halted. We were close enough that I could see my breath on the glass now. The boy’s hand was pressed against it. I stared first at the swirl of his fingerprints, then at his face, then toward his feet. They hovered in the air with nothing below to explain how he was there. My eyes searched the space around him, searching for the gleam of strings. Nothing but air.
“It’s you,” I breathed, awestruck and terrified. But I didn’t move, no matter how loudly my instincts screamed to run. After all, none of this was truly happening. “You’re Peter.”
His eyes glittered. “And you’re Wendy.”
We studied each other, and it was obvious that Peter was no gentleman. His sun-streaked hair was too wild and his nose was crooked, as though it had been broken several times. There was a mark on his jaw, a darkened patch of skin shaped like one of those countries my brothers had trouble remembering the names of. But Peter had the most riveting eyes, so blue they were nearly silver. His smile drew me in, as well. The curve of his lips held secrets that I wanted to know.
Then there was his clothing. The fawn-colored trousers he wore were faded and threadbare. His shirt was loose, and it had likely been white at one time, but now it was decidedly less so. The ties were undone, allowing me a generous glimpse of his tanned, hard chest. On his feet were a pair of leather work boots. He wore no suspenders, waistcoat, or overcoat. While winter hadn’t yet arrived in London, the night wasn’t kind to those without layers or fires to warm them.
“This is a dream,” I said at last. “It has to be.”
The boy’s grin grew. “Perhaps you’re finally awake, and you’ve been asleep until this moment.”
There was something dark and feral in that smile, like a beast weaving through trees beneath the wide, wild moon. I glanced at the latch between us, wanting the reassurance that it was firmly in place. Peter kept his focus on me, and I felt his silent question. Would I let him in?
As if he’d heard the question—impossible, since I hadn’t spoken it out loud—Peter tilted his golden head. “I have learned that there are two kinds of people in this world, Wendy Davenport,” he informed me. “Those who are brave enough to open the window and those who aren’t.”
“There’s a difference between bravery and foolishness, sir,” I retorted, hugging myself.
“Perhaps.” He floated there in the air, staring at me, so separate from everything familiar and safe I was tempted to lift the latch for that reason alone. “Do you want me to go, then?”
I opened my mouth to reply, but something stopped me from saying the words. Several seconds ticked past. Satisfaction began to radiate from Peter’s starlight eyes. He probably knew, just as I did, that if I didn’t let him in I would forever wonder what could have been.
“It’s only a dream,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone else. No harm could truly befall me, whatever I chose. Peter said nothing. My heart pounded as I reached for that latch. Time seemed to hold its breath.
Then, so quickly I wouldn’t have a chance to reconsider, I grasped it and pulled it up.
The window swung open.
I retreated, prepared for anything, and Peter landed soundlessly with another amused expression. The moonlight fell over him, revealing a faint smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Now that he was on the other side of the glass, he was curiously silent. His gaze dropped to my feet and rose again, slowly. The amusement in his face faded. My heart felt like an anvil pounding against my chest. Could Peter hear it? Was my fear as naked as I felt?
Then the boy began to advance. I promptly retreated, breathing faster. Get out. The words rose within me, and yet I couldn’t say them.
No, I admitted at the same moment my back collided with the wall. I didn’t want to say them.
Peter put his arms on either side of my body, his palms flattening against the green wallpaper. A rush of scent came with him, and in my mind’s eye, I saw a lush, green place of storms and sunlight. Something deep inside me stirred.
We stared at each other some more, and suddenly I knew why I didn’t want to banish him—the air between us felt charged in a way I’d never experienced before. Not even with that handsome chimney sweep I’d once met in the alley behind the house, who had pressed such wet, clumsy kisses against my mouth as he pushed his hard length inside me, clutching my thighs with dirty, soot-blackened fingers. Afterward, as we’d both fixed our clothing, our breath mingling in the cold night, I’d glanced at him beneath my lashes and wondered if that’s what it was always like. Quick, pleasureless, painful. Everything opposite to what I’d read in my beloved books. That was what I’d risked my reputation for? That was what I’d been longing to experience for so long?
The chimney sweep never came back—despite our weeks of flirting and that dalliance beneath the dark London sky—and I never got an answer to my question.
Until now.
“Do you truly sleep in this?” Peter questioned, lightly plucking the sleeve of my nightgown. His voice was low and heated. My veins warmed in response, along with another part of me that I had only recently begun exploring after the stars came out, when I was safely tucked beneath the bedclothes and no one else could see. When there was no risk of someone discovering my wanton, secret shame.
My voice was faint but steady. “Yes.”
Peter’s eyes brightened with curiosity—perhaps he’d been expecting a different reaction. That of an innocent maiden, who had never experienced such bold touches and brazen proximity.
This was a dream, I reminded myself, refusing to look away. There were no repercussions in a dream.
Peter must’ve seen something in my face, something that emboldened him, because his head tilted and he regarded me with unbridled desire. If there had been a charge between us moments ago, the air was practically crackling now.
Without any trace of hesitation or doubt, the golden-haired boy put his fingertips against the hollow of my throat. I didn’t move or speak, and after another moment, he skimmed them down my chest, then to my breasts. He dragged the neckline of my nightgown as he did so, and the sleeves slipped off as if they were hardly more than silk stockings.
Now I truly was half-naked. A cool breeze kissed my bared skin, making me realize the window was still open. I shivered, but not because I was cold, and I felt my nipples harden.
Peter noticed, too. He dragged hi
Under any other circumstances, I might’ve found the words strange. But he spoke them so sincerely, his tone ringing with truth, that I felt myself open to him even further. Something hungry and urgent stole over me. “Kiss me,” I breathed.
Peter didn’t bend his head or move closer. Instead, he dropped to his knees. I stared down at him, baffled but not afraid. Slowly, giving me ample opportunity to protest, Peter pushed my nightgown up, and up, and up, until it bunched at my waist in a pool of white lace and cotton, exposing my naked thighs to the air. It felt like my cheeks had caught fire, but I didn’t stop him. I just continued to watch, fascinated and aching.
Slowly, Peter leaned forward and pressed his face between my legs. A gasp hurtled up my throat, and I clapped my hand over my mouth to stop it. Dream or not, the instinct ran deep as my bone marrow—to hide, to muffle, to keep any transgression a secret. Then Peter’s tongue touched me. The sensation drove out modesty and reason. My head tipped back of its own volition, even though I wanted to watch Peter and see what he was doing. I’d read about this act, of course, but the reality was nothing like what I had imagined.
After another moment, I forgot how to form rational thoughts. Peter’s wicked mouth sucked and stroked, so skilled and relentless that I could only make strangled, helpless noises. I was biting my wrist, I realized at some point, probably in a futile attempt to hold onto a solid object as the rest of me floated away. My other hand fumbled at the wall. Peter held my legs tighter, and the movements of his tongue became even more dominant. Demanding.
The rest of the world ceased to exist. Pleasure, I thought distantly. That was the feeling building within me like the crest of an ocean wave. It felt like I was on the verge of something, as if I stood outside of a closed door or the edge of a cliff. Peter focused his attentions on one part of me now, sucking it with an intensity that made it difficult to remain upright.
“Oh, God,” I moaned, a plea in the words, although I wasn’t quite certain what I was pleading for. Peter didn’t stop or pull back. Just as my lips parted to cry his name, my body shattered.
I’d never felt anything like it.
Heat and light spread through my entire being. I split apart and soared. I knew I was making a sound of some sort, but my senses had been overtaken by the ecstasy crashing over me. I was powerless, utterly at its mercy, and I didn’t care. The wave lasted seconds, yet it seemed like a small eternity, somehow.
Eventually, of course, that wonderful eternity came to an end. I drifted back to the ground, back to London, back to the dim bedroom I still stood in. Sense and reason returned slowly.
I opened my eyes in a daze. My body felt weak, drowsy, as if I’d just run for miles. When I looked down at Peter again, he winked and rose to his feet effortlessly, using his ability to fly. My nightgown fell back into place, but I didn’t move. The quiet seemed too loud, too ringing. Words failed me, though, along with any ideas of how to act after such an event had occurred.
I saw something move in my peripheral vision. Expecting nothing more than a fluttering curtain or a cloud passing over the moon, I glanced toward it… then froze. I was slow to comprehend what, exactly, I was seeing. I blinked, stared some more, and blinked again.
“Your shadow, Peter!” I gasped, trying to recoil. I was already pressed to the wall, however, and all I could do was stare. “It’s… possessed.”
Peter was not concerned. He slipped past me in a rush of warmth and began to touch everything.
“Where I come from, things are different,” he said over his shoulder, raising the lid of my music box. Its melody tinkled. I hadn’t sold it because it didn’t have worth to anyone but me. “If you spend too much time there, your shadow begins to separate from your body. The darkness contains all the parts of yourself you don’t want.”
My eyes felt wide as saucers. This was, perhaps, the strangest dream I’d ever had. “Extraordinary,” I managed.
While Peter explored every nook and cranny of the room, humming beneath his breath, I examined his shadow and wondered what parts of him were within those depths. It seemed to examine me right back. Then, without warning, the thing lunged at me.
Shrieking, I tripped on the edge of my long nightgown and fell against the wall again. Peter’s shadow wrapped its insubstantial hands around my neck and began to squeeze. Rasping, I slapped and clawed at it. Nana, the family Newfoundland, barked from the hallway.
Peter wrested the shadow away from me and shoved it back into place. It went still against the floor, as if acknowledging defeat. Straightening, Peter shook his hair out of the way again.
“My shadow has taken a disliking to you, Miss Davenport,” he drawled.
I cowered in the corner, rubbing my throat.
This was no dream. Which meant that all of it—Peter, what we’d done, and everything that had happened during the past few minutes—was entirely real.
It took me several attempts to speak. “My family must have heard that. I think you should leave.”
“You think?” Peter echoed, turning to face me. “Or you know? You should be certain of the things you say. You cannot take them back.”
I thought of what I did know. For years, word had spread about the boy who could fly and who never seemed to grow older. In the taprooms and over cups of tea, men and women spoke of his allure and his ability to melt with shadows. A girl I knew, Lottie, claimed he had bewitched her. People whispered the words demon or vampire when his name was mentioned. Mysterious deaths and disappearances were accredited to him. But there were also rumors of how he granted wishes or had the ability to pull one away from the brink of death.
Throughout my childhood I had listened to the tales, wide-eyed, and a secret part of me longed to meet this frightening creature. Just to see him for myself, discern whether there was truth to the myths, and discover whether or not I was brave enough to meet his gaze.
And make a wish of my own.
Somehow, when so many others had been ignored or denied, I was being given a chance to do just that.
Gathering my nerve, I opened my mouth at the same time Peter said, “This broach is quite lovely. Mr. Brooks could probably fetch a high price for it.”
Thoughts about wishes faded. I frowned as Peter moved on from the dressing table. “Wait a moment. How did you know that I’m… acquainted with Mr. Brooks? Have you been following me?”
A rhetorical question, seeing as I already knew the answer—it felt there was a puzzle piece clicking into place within my head. All day I’d felt a sort of tingling at the back of my neck, as though someone was watching. I felt it at the shop, on the street, in the carriage. I’d dismissed the sensation, blaming it on restless sleep and reading so many fanciful novels.
Raising my gaze back to Peter’s, I took a step to the left. Closer to the door and away from him.
“Yes,” he answered, unrepentant. He folded his arms and shook some hair out of his eyes.
Transparency was a rare thing in my world. Taken aback, I gave a slight shake of my head. “Why?”
“I heard you this morning. In Whitechapel. You told Liza that you wanted to go on an adventure.”
Alarm rushed through me. Though Peter obscured my view, I glanced toward the street, worried that someone could see him or hear what he was saying. He smirked at this. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” I said stiffly. “I’ve never been to the East End.”
The boy tilted his head. “Well, that’s odd. I could have sworn it was you I saw, selling your mother’s necklace.”
I went rigid at these words. The stillness was so prominent that we could hear Nana’s nails clicking on the floor in the hallway. She scratched at my door and whined.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” I whispered, hugging myself to ward off the sudden chill.
Now Peter leaned even closer. His voice dropped. “I shall not tell a soul, Wendy Davenport.”
Once again, a shiver traveled through me that had nothing to do with the cold. To hide it, I lifted my chin and attempted an imitation of my mother’s glare. “It’s rude to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations, you know.”
