Then suddenly he was gone, ripped off me by someone dressed in a dark hood. The newcomer punched my assailant in the stomach then shoved him away. My attacker crumpled like a doll and lay entirely still except for the blood oozing from the wound in his stomach.

He hadn't been punched, he'd been stabbed. And he was dead.

The wisp of smoky haze rising from the body told me that. It formed the man's shape, right down to the abundance of whiskers and broad hands. It was the man's spirit, yet I hadn't touched the body in order to see it. Either that had been the situation all along, or my power had grown stronger.

The spirit didn't look at me but at his murderer. He bared his teeth. "Damn you! You tricked me!" The smoky essence thinned and floated past me as if on a breeze. I leaned away from him, but he didn't touch me.

I blinked and he was gone. Only the body remained, and my rescuer. Or the man I had to fight off next.

He pushed his hood back and I gasped. "Fitzroy!" I choked on the name, relief bringing fresh tears and tightening my throat.

He crouched at my side and helped me to sit. The corset made it difficult to do on my own. He stroked my hair off my face and checked me over by the miserly light of the streetlamp. His touch was entirely clinical.

"Are you harmed?" His voice quavered ever so slightly.

I had some bruises on my thighs, but I wouldn't tell him about those. I couldn't anyway. Speaking had suddenly become the most difficult thing to do. I simply shook my head and fought hard to not let my tears overwhelm me.

But when his face softened and he picked me up, it all became too much. I pressed my cheek to his chest and sobbed. It was pathetic but cathartic too. My fear flowed away along with my tears until there was nothing left but a sense of wellbeing. It was wrong to feel grateful to be in the arms of my captor, yet I couldn't bring myself to hate him. My relief was too great, the strength of his arms too comforting. He was keeping me safe, just like he'd promised.

He did not set me down. We walked for some time through the dark streets, not speaking. His arms didn't loosen around me. If anything, they seemed to tighten. I couldn't see his face, tucked under his chin as I was, but I could hear his heartbeat. It had been erratic at first, but was now steady.

"Where are you taking me?" I asked. We seemed to have left the slums. The houses we walked past were larger, the streets emptier. It was late.

"Home."

I don't have a home. I closed my eyes and listened to his heartbeat again. The rhythm lulled me and chased away the memory of that brute's fingers, his stench and my fear. I felt more like myself again, with a clearer head and a sense of dignity that had been absent since I'd realized what he'd intended to do.