Bedeviled was written for adults and contains themes, language, and content not suitable for every reader. Please read the content warnings below and protect your mental and emotional health. These warnings are not exhaustive and may not cover all triggering content.

Violence including:

Gun violence

Decapitation

Torture

Fire injury and death

Death, including implied vehicle death

Animal injury

Graphic sexual content

If you'd like to avoid these scenes,

you can find them in the last half of Chapter 17 and 26

Fire injuries

Swearing

Grief and dissociation

Aris perched on the chimney and watched the light fade from the rooftops and spires of New London, waiting for his prey to creep through the darkening streets. The last rays of the setting sun turned the forest of chimney smoke and industrial steam into golden pillars that held up the sky.

When the sun winked out beneath the skyline, he spotted her, weaving through the labyrinthine streets like a ferret in a warren. Aris flexed his claws, then launched himself into the air, tucked his wings in tight, and plummeted below the rooftops like a falling stone.

It was time to hunt.

His wings snapped open and he twisted, banking around the side of a brick building as the updraft lifted him above the bottom row of windows. She shot across the side street in front of him, the brass rim of her goggles reflecting the electric lamplight just coming to life on the main thoroughfare.

With a few pumps of his wings, Aris rose high enough to follow as she took a sharp right turn to parallel Main Street, keeping to the shadows to hide the wheeled boots that powered her down the alley. Candles and lamps flickered to life in the windows below him as the twilight glow of the clouds faded into night.

She slowed, cutting the power to her wheels, which retracted far enough to let her heels hit the ground with a soft thud. That meant she wasn’t going much farther, so he could catch up if he cut her off at the next intersection. Flexing his claws in anticipation, Aris sailed into the next alley, dropped to about six feet from the dirty cobbles, and shimmered into his human glamour.

He hit the stone silently just before the intersection of the alley and cross-street, next to the dented door of a boarding house. With a quick snap, he straightened the lapel of his black jacket, grinned, and turned the corner.

She nearly ran into him, squeaked in surprise, and leveled a pistol at his chest before he could blink. With the huge goggles obscuring half of her face and her hair wild from the speed of her wheeled boots, she looked absolutely adorable.

What this situation called for was an expression of shocked dismay that was one or two degrees too ridiculous to be serious.

He raised both hands and said in a low voice, “Why, Lady St. James! Threats of violence against someone who is only here to help? I’m shocked at you. Shocked. What would your mother say?”

Growling, she dropped the pistol, pushed her goggles onto her forehead, and glared at him. “She would say that I am well within my rights to shoot you, you interfering corvid. The prospect gets more tempting the longer you stand before me.”

He tsked. “Manners, my lady, manners.”

“Why must you sneak up on me at every opportunity?”

The woman did not know her appeal when she was a disheveled, irritated mess. He closed the distance between them with one smooth step, bringing his chest nearly into contact with hers, and stared down at her, knowing she’d rather die than retreat an inch. It made teasing her so unfairly easy.

With one finger, he touched the space between her brows where the wrinkle from her scowl was deepest. “For this expression, right here. It is unbearably adorable.”

His proximity made her react as it always did: her pupils dilated and her breath caught, heart speeding audibly. But she got the better of that reaction, letting her instinctive passion morph into anger.

Gwenevere St. James had a temper she rarely showed the people who loved her, but Aris was particularly good at kindling it. He ought to be, having known her so long. Pretending to be a pet raven for years had given him unique insights into her life, and an honest understanding of her character that not even a partner could match…which meant he knew every button to push.

And if triggering her temper kept her from deteriorating into the maudlin mess she had been for the past several months, he was more than happy to be on the receiving end of her ire.

Moving faster than any mere human, she grabbed his finger, executed a move he was unfamiliar with, and turned his wrist into something she called a joint lock.

“Gwen,” he said, reasonably. “That hurts.”

“Do all faeries lie as prettily as you?” she asked, letting go of him to stuff her goggles into the leather satchel she wore across her torso. They left red marks around her eyes. Rather like a raccoon. “Or have you cultivated that skill on your own?”

“Faeries cannot lie, you know that.”

“I wonder. Perhaps you have lived too long among humans.”

“There is no question of that. You have thoroughly corrupted me.”

With a few deft motions, Gwen tucked her brown curls into something resembling an acceptable hairstyle and made herself presentable. Or as presentable as she could be after motoring around the New London streets on a piece of wheeled artifice. He plucked a stray leaf from the top of her head.

She waved him off and bent to secure the wheels of the foot rig to the clamps on her calves. It was an ingenious bit of artifice that stored the kinetic energy of her every motion in the runes engraved along the sides and used the stored power to turn the wheels. Leaning forward released more power, and leaning backward slowed the wheels.

Using the wheels required a surprising amount of skill and often resulted in the rider landing on their arse. Watching Gwen master the tricky device had been one of the more enjoyable experiences of his life.

The contraption was built to fit over her boots and hid nicely beneath the hem of her enchanted coat. So aside from the lack of hat and gloves, she was, at least, moderately presentable. Not that it would make much of a difference to the person they were about to ambush.

“Corrupt or not,” Gwen said, glaring at him from the corner of her eye, “you will behave yourself. If you intimidate her into hiding, I will not forgive you.”

Aris held up both hands to show his innocent intentions, plucked a pigeon feather from her hair when she wasn’t looking, and followed Gwen to the middle of the next street. They stopped in front of a door that was rather nice for the neighborhood and knocked three times.

When it opened, a small elf woman peeked out. A pair of wide eyes peered at them from a round-cheeked face, and her dimpled chin waggled uncertainly as she tried to decide whether to ask them what they wanted or slam the door in their faces.

“You must be Miss Heatherbloom,” Gwen said. Her voice was gentle and disarming, which had an immediate effect on the smaller woman.

“I am. What can I do for you?”

“My name is Lady St. James, and this is my friend, Mr. Crow. Our mutual friend, Mr. Bywater, suggested we might visit you. He said you are the finest taxidermist in the city, and that the birds you provide always look the most lifelike on ladies’ hats.”

Miss Heatherbloom’s tan cheeks turned a dusky rose color with pleasure, and she tucked a stray lock of hair behind one pointed ear. “It’s very kind of him to say so. He is the most talented milliner in the city, so it is an honor to work with him. But it is getting a bit late and, well”—she searched the street behind them with worried eyes—“given the state of things, I’m sure you’ll understand that accepting visitors—”

“Of course, we understand. These are frightening times. But if we might leave you with this?” Gwen held out a pamphlet for S&P Investigations, Inc.

Miss Heatherbloom took it carefully, glanced at the cover, and said, “I’m afraid I don’t need any help solving magical mysteries, thank you.”

Gwen was not put off so easily. These conversations always got tricky at this point. Aris prepared himself for a quick demonstration.

“Given your circumstances, I understand you may not feel safe trusting anyone. But please know that we are here to help, should you find you need it. Refugees from the Sunset Lands are always welcome.”

Miss Heatherbloom’s mouth popped open. Her fingers tightened on the pamphlet until it crumpled, and she went as still as a hare hiding from foxes. Poor thing.

With a shaking voice, she said, “I’m sure I have no idea what you are—”

Aris interrupted her by shifting into his raven form. It took no more than an act of will, and his human glamour disappeared. He landed on Gwen’s shoulder in his raven form to give the woman a friendly croak. She blinked, all the color drained from her face, and Gwen leaped forward to catch her before she fainted.

“Was that really necessary?” she demanded as she lowered the limp woman into a sitting position on the floor of her foyer. He leaped off Gwen’s shoulder and shifted back to his human glamour to help. Miss Heatherbloom was a solid little thing, heavier than she looked, which meant she was also likely larger in her true form.

While she was unconscious, her glamour slipped, revealing traces of the faerie beneath. Maintaining a glamour took an act of will, and while only those with years of experience could create a glamour that lasted through even a few hours of sleep, fainting was a different story.

“She’s relatively young,” Aris said as he began fanning her. “Wake her quickly, or the glamour will fade and she’ll be even more terrified than she already is.”

Gwen pulled smelling salts from her satchel and swiped them beneath the woman’s nose. She snorted, her body spasmed, and her eyes popped open. With a squeak, her glamour solidified, and she tried to scoot away.

Gwen let the woman go and held up her hands. “I am so sorry we frightened you. It was not my intention. I simply wanted you to know that we understand, and you have a safe place, should you need it.”

Miss Heatherbloom scrambled to her feet, regained her bearing, cleared her throat, and said, “Your visit was most appreciated but I have quite a lot of work to do so, if you don’t mind, I’ll have to ask you to leave.” She bravely shoved them into the night before slamming the door in their faces.

They stood there for a moment, listening to several locks click into place.

Aris said, “Mr. Crow? Really?”

“You are the one who insists on coming along for these little visits. If you’d like a better pseudonym, you are free to make one up yourself.”

“Perhaps I shall. We couldn’t do much worse. Though she still had the pamphlet in her hand.”

The last fae refugee they visited had thrown the crumpled paper in his face.

Gwen sighed. “I doubt she will be able to read it after crushing it so.”

“She knows she is not alone now. That is the important part.”

And they would be able to warn her when King Obyrron eventually invaded with fae armies at his back. Whenever that might be. It had been over six months since he and Gwen escaped the Sunset Lands after stealing Gwen’s sister, Ophelia, back from the fae king. Which meant likely only two weeks had passed in faerie time, as mortals reckoned it.

That wasn’t long enough for the faeries to adjust their invasion plans after losing their general. At least, they could hope so. But Ophelia, the general in question, still would not speak to her sister, so they could not be certain. Whether they could call on the hidden fae to fight when the king invaded was another story.

She glanced at the door one last time and squared her shoulders. “Perhaps she would have given us a warmer welcome if you had not gone avian on the poor woman.”

“We’ve had little luck either way. Best to make things clear quickly. At least then you have the rest of the night to run about being a hero.”

“If you do not like it,” Gwen said as she hopped down the stairs, “you can fly home and play chess with Samuel.”

“He beats me too often, these days. I do have my pride, you know. Besides, who will be here to rescue you if I leave?”

She sniffed. “I do not need rescuing.”

“If you keep fighting monsters, you will.”

“No one else is protecting these people,” she snarled, suddenly angry. “Scotland Yard has neither the knowledge or the manpower to make a difference, and they refuse to consult me despite the obviously supernatural nature of the murders and disappearances. They are convinced Jack the Ripper has resurfaced, the fools.

“Tony’s agency is the only one that can recognize the truth of the situation, but he is still so understaffed that he cannot do much good. The witches refuse to tell me what they are doing to help, and the government turns a blind eye despite all my warnings.

“Aside from all that, this is the only—” She swallowed the last words, took a deep breath, and shook her head.

“And it is the only thing that makes you feel alive,” he finished.

Gwen made a sound that meant I hate it that you know that about me, then bent to unstrap her wheels and lock them in the down position. Once she settled the goggles back over her eyes, she said, “If you want to help, float about and signal me if you see any ne’er-do-wells. If you’d rather irritate me with that clever tongue of yours, you can fly home.”

“I could think of a few other things to do with my tongue if you’d like,” he said before he could stop himself.

A vision of Gwen as he had seen her in faerie, stretched out beneath him with her dark hair spread on the moss around their naked bodies, flashed across his memory, making him hard in a rush. Luckily, his glamour could easily hide that, but he doubted she’d missed it.

Gwenevere St. James did not miss much.

She leaned toward him, bathing him in her scent, and said, in a low voice, “What I would really like you to do with your tongue is bite it off.”

Then she rocked onto the wheels and rolled into the darkness at unsafe speeds. Aris swore and leaped, shimmering to his raven form at the height of his jump, and pumped his wings until he was high enough to spot her. He could not smile as a raven, but his amusement bubbled up into a series of caws that made Gwen shake her head.

He would take her angry, frustrated, cutting, or sarcastic, so long as she was passionate and alive. But Ophelia had not forgiven Gwen for dragging her back to the mortal world. Adjusting to the change hadn’t been easy for Lia, and the joyful reunion Gwen dreamed about for a dozen years had turned into a source of constant pain. For weeks she had put on a brave face, smiling and laughing for the benefit of Sam and Sally…but then she would do almost anything to protect her young wards.

In the quiet hours of the evening, however, when she was alone, she sat unblinking before the fire, lifeless as the mannequins in Percy’s shop. Now and then he found her curled on the floor, unresponsive.

When he’d been trapped in his raven form as Aristotle, he wanted nothing more than to carry her to her bed on the nights she worked herself to sleep in the study. Now that she knew what he truly was, he could finally carry her safely to her room, but that did not stop the gut-deep sensation of falling he felt every time he saw her suffer. It was the same sensation he felt when the air went flat beneath his wings and he dropped without warning.

Watching the woman who had always seemed more alive than anyone else fade like the pages of the old books she read was something worse than heartbreaking.

Then Tony Hardwicke, the former inspector for Scotland Yard, had started his agency. He called upon her to consult on a case and a little life returned. But those cases had been few and far between in the first couple of months. She hadn’t come fully back to life until the monsters invaded New London.

Movement caught his eye, cutting off that thought. It was just a simple shift in the shadows between a bakery and a rundown public house, but to the eyes of a fae raven, it was enough.

Aris shifted his wings, gliding above the shape that slunk across the alley and croaked three times. Gwen slowed, oriented on him, and raised a hand. He shifted his wings twice, and she pulled the pistol with silver bullets from her pocket. She was two streets over to the south, but the werewolf raised its head and scented the air, picking up the smell of her fear. The creature shivered as if the scent was a physical pleasure.

Then it began stalking her.

Aris stayed above it, giving Gwen a marker to follow, keeping his eyes on both predator and prey. She disengaged the wheels, produced a silver knife in her free hand, and crept toward the cross street on silent feet. If she was careful, she could cut the wolf off and shoot it before it attacked.

Of course, he would have to carry the body out of town under a glamour, which was both tiring and irritating. But better than leaving what would appear to be a dead mortal on the street.

If the creatures remained in their wolf shape after death, his role would be much easier. But it had been so long since monsters were common in large cities that the old method of identifying magical creatures, like tying wolfsbane around the wrist or ankle of the dead werewolf, would mean nothing to the citizens or constables.

Instead of being heroes for ridding the city of a dangerous monster, they would be considered murderers.

The wolf stopped, raised its head with ears erect, and turned its muzzle east. Aris did not hear as well when in raven form, but he saw clearly. A dwarven man plodded down the main street in his soot-stained overalls, likely returning from his shift at the ironworks. Light reflected from the steel toes of his boots, and the rhythmic thud of his steps echoed off the buildings. He did not know what danger waited nearby.

The beast growled a low warning rumble meant to protect his hunt from other predators, but it made the dwarven man freeze. It wasn’t the growl of a stray dog anyone might hear on any given night; it was the vicious hunger of something unnatural, something that enjoyed the scent and taste of fear almost as much as the kill itself.

Damn.

Aris cawed and dropped his head in warning, but it was too late.

The dwarven man spun in a slow circle, searching the shadows for danger as he pulled a heavy mallet off his shoulder. At least he was armed. Gwen’s fear wasn’t strong enough to keep the wolf on the hunt, not when the scent and sound of more terrified prey leached through the air.

Aris had a split-second to decide whether to stay aloft so he could monitor everything, or drop to the ground to put himself between the beast and its victim. The wolf sprang into a run. Gwen rounded the corner with her pistol raised, and Aris dropped from the sky, shimmering as he fell.

He hit the ground as she fired the first shot and spun to see the werewolf’s tail disappear around the corner; her shot sent chunks of brick flying from the building across from them.

Gwen swore, kicked her wheels down, and leaped forward.

“Two streets to the south!” Aris yelled as he sprinted after her.

Gwen’s wheeled boots were fast, but the werewolf had a head start. By the time they reached the street, the beast was already circling the dwarven man, snarling and frothing in a display meant to heighten the fear to a fever pitch. The bulky man held his mallet at the ready, prepared to swing, his arm muscles bulging. And while his hands did not shake, even Aris scented the fear and adrenaline polluting the air.

“Get me a clean shot,” Gwen said, leveling her pistol.

The wolf was relatively small for its kind, but still nearly reached Aris’s waist at the shoulder, making the burly dwarf look childlike by comparison. It was smart enough to keep the dwarven man between them, pacing back and forth so that Gwen would not have a clear shot. But the smell of fear must have been driving it mad because it quivered with anticipation and great gobbets of slobber dropped to the ground with audible splats.

He needed to move before the wolf sprang, or the dwarf would likely be dead even if Gwen managed to squeeze off a shot. So, Aris edged closer, not even pausing when the werewolf turned toward him and snapped.

“Brace yourself,” he warned the man, then coiled and leaped in a smooth motion.

He hit the dwarven man, wrapped his arms around his barrel chest, and turned as he fell, taking the impact on his back and shoulders. The weight of the dwarf drove the air from his lungs as they hit the street.

Gwen opened fire, but the wolf had already leaped, and rock chips skipped off the cobbles where the beast had been. It landed and sprang forward at an angle, aiming at the dwarf’s exposed back. Aris raised his legs, planted his feet on the monster’s massive chest, and pushed. The creature sailed over his head, the gun barked again, and the werewolf yelped in pain before it hit the ground.

Long claws scrabbled against the cobbles as the beast righted itself, filling the air with scraping and deep-throated growls tinged with a sharp edge of pain. It didn’t wait for Gwen to fire another shot, it simply attacked.

Fear squeezed an iron fist around his heart as the beast tore toward her, but Gwen did not flinch. She sighted down the barrel and pulled the trigger once, twice more, aiming as cooly as a veteran soldier. But the monster did not stop.

Gwen tried to leap aside, but the beast hit her in mid-air. The two of them spun sideways, going down in a tangle of limbs and fur, claws, and teeth.