The silvery sheen of the war-wolves was streaked with ichor as they advanced on the woman clad in black leather and the young man clad in gold who stood before them.  "You're very bad dogs," Viceroy England said.  She brandished her riding crop.  "You need to be punished."

The wolves laughed in their low, growling voices, and the largest of them stepped forward.  "We are not the ones who will be suffering here," he said, "We will skin you and wear your meat for garments as we have everyone else we've chosen."  As they broke into a run, the pallor of the shapeshifter known as Morgan, who stood by her side, began to take on a metallic tint and his teeth and claws grew sharp until he became an anthropomorphic simulacrum of their opponents.

A pair of the wolves balked at that, but the leader charged on undeterred, leaping towards the Viceroy's throat.  The rest had no choice but to follow, and the screeching sound of metal on metal echoed through the city streets. 

She tasted blood in her mouth, the wolves' claws raking red weals across her skin.  A glance at her side showed Morgan, though larger than any of the individual war-wolves, struggling to stay uptight as they began to mob him.

Her main opponent began to press its face closer to hers, and she knew it was going to attempt to drain her life essence.  With a grunt of determination she crammed her right wrist into the creature's maw.  It almost grinned, and began to clamp down harder with viselike pressure.  With her free hand she reached to her side, drawing out a coiled leash.  She snapped the collar around the warwolf's neck and began to draw it tightly, until it was forced to open it mouth to breath.  Quickly she flew upwards as other wolves nipped at her heels, and tied the other end of the leash around a lamp post, and left it there to hang.

She darted back and forth, collaring each of the warwolves in turn, until they dangled like Christmas ornaments along the city block.  Finally, she alighted next to Morgan, who returned to his human form.  "You trying to make me jealous?" he said teasingly.

She wrinkled her nose.  "Contact D.U.C.K. and let them know we have new contributions to their lab."  She looked upwards, knowing that the constriction would not be tight enough to damage their metallic throats, though they were left unable to free themselves.  "They can jail them or vivisect them for all I care." 

He nodded, "Yes, Mistress."

She began to relax slightly.  "When you are done, come join me at the Dungeon."

He looked down.  "Permission to speak freely, Mistress?"

She blinked. "Of course."

"I had made plans to spend this afternoon with my Uncle."

"Of course, family will take priority!"  She ruffled his hair.  "Enjoy your time with your Uncle.  I will come meet you at your flat this evening?  I will bring over some takeout, maybe Thai?"

He nodded emphatically, "That sounds good, Mistress. I will see you tonight!"

She leaned in to kiss him firmly on the lips, then soared off into the air.  He stood for a moment, watching her, then flew back home to contact Sam Pritchard, acting head of the Department of Unknown and Covert Knowledge.

Later that evening, as the sky darkened over the city of Sussex, Viceroy England glided slowly, enjoying the slight chill to the air.  She closed her eyes, almost floating, picturing his pink tongue as it caressed her leather boots, cleaning them immaculately, and the way he shivered so contentedly when her 8" spiked heels ground his face into the carpet as she relaxed on her sofa to read the morning paper.  The depth of his obedience to her was the most beautiful thing she had ever experienced, far more than the ritual respect she garnered from the citizenry in her role as protector of the realm, because she knew it came from love. 

It was amazing to her how much their relationship put a bounce in her step, and just a simple telephone call would leave her smiling broadly for hours.  She and Morgan had been together for years, yet she still felt like a giddy schoolgirl every time she anticipated one of their meetings.  She had never believed in soulmates until she had met this one.

Finally, she reached the apartment complex where he lived.  She landed in an isolated alleyway, and transformed into her civilian identity of Francesca Grace.  It had taken Morgan some time to understand the concept of secret identities, as well as why it was advisable for him to have his own place of residence and attend college courses rather than simply move into her Dungeon.  She wanted him able to integrate into human society, and to become a self-supporting, independent adult. 

Impulsively, she crossed the street to the small general store, thinking of buying a glass of wine and perhaps some flowers for the visit.  As she looked around she saw a man she recognised as Morgan's next-door neighbor, accompanied by his twin sons.  The boys were dressed identically in alternating white and black, she thought it made them look like miniature zebras.  "Francesca!  Good to see you again." 

Despite her long career, she still found it amusing how many people on the streets treated her as a peer, even greeting her by name, when of course they would give her due respect as Viceroy England.  "Hello, Yorick," she said.  "I'm just picking up a present for my boy."

"I'm just getting something for supper for my … boys."  He grinned, and tipped an imaginary hat towards her.  "Come along children."

The twins uttered a chorus of piping "Yes Sir," and followed along, stopping briefly to bow to her with a stereo "Good evening, Ma'am."  She smiled indulgently at them, giving them leave to depart, and they trotted on their way.

Several minutes later, after awkwardly juggling the plastic bag containing the takeout as well as the bottle of chilled white wine and the flowers, she entered through the front door of his complex and strode up the stairwell towards his flat.  As she reached the middle of the hallway, near his door, she paused.  The flat next to his was, so far as she knew, vacant … at least, she had never seen anyone using it … but something about it seemed odd this evening.  Not something she could place, but it made her uneasy.  Yorick's flat was at the end of the hallway, but she had no desire to interrupt his time with his family.  At the corner of the hallway, just to the left of Yorick's door, was the miniature piano she had always found so charming.  Morgan in fact had been trying to teach her to play the instrument, although she had never kept pace with his daily practices, and just used it occasionally for her amusement.  She walked over to the piano and tapped out a couple notes of simple melody with one hand, being about the limit of her skill set.

As if in response, the door to the right opened several inches.  She turned, expecting to see one of the twins, but the doorway was empty, the room filled with an impenetrable darkness.

She found this unnerving, and turned towards Morgan's flat, seeking comfort from her inexplicable malaise.  She inserted the key into the lock and opened the door. The room too was dark, barely illuminated from a small window by the moonless night, just enough to make out vague shapes.  Seated cross-legged in the middle of the room was a familiar form.  She could barely make out its general proportions, and could not see its facial features at all.  The figure rose to his feet and began to walk in her direction.

"Morgan?" she asked.

In response to her query the figure did not speak, but shook his head silently, answering in the negative.  He continued walking and soon passed her, opening the front door and then closing it behind him, leaving her in the dark.  She remained frozen, her heart pounding, for several seconds before she whirled around and ran out the door. She looked up and down the empty hallway before her eyes settled on the centre door.

She stared at it for a long time, and then willed her transformation back to Viceroy England.  Narrowing her eyes, she let her heightened perceptions pierce through the mundanity which surrounded the door, to reveal its magical nature.  She muttered to herself, "de Sade's balls!" as she recognised the truth behind the mere physical appearence: the door to Marcosa House.  She remembered well the night that she, accompanied by Elaine Marston and Larry Talbot, encountered the horrors created by the ghost of 19th century sorcerer Belaric Marcosa.  She had first met Morgan there, in a bestial form which caused her to first mistake him for one of Marcosa's demons.  He had come under Marcosa's influence years before, hoping for a transformation to a more normal appearance, long before his true nature had revealed itself.  It had taken years to reprogram the boy from the layers of self-hatred Marcosa had induced in him.  The man had even forced Morgan to regularly regress, both physically and emotionally, into a version of himself at seven years old, so as to enjoy abusing an even more innocent and helpless victim.  Morgan's inner child too had taken years of reparenting on Francesca's part before he had been able to integrate into the boy's primary personality.

She opened the door and passed through space, both physical and conceptual, until she found herself back in the long hallways of Marcosa House.  Her footsteps creaked against the ancient flooring, yet she was caught by surprise by a blow against the back of her head.  She fell to the floor and then rolled over to find herself facing the Sentinel of Hell, in actuality a stone gargoyle more usually posed over the entrance of the House, which was frequently animated by Marcosa.

She screamed in anger and frustration, a strangled sound, and her fury exploded at the gargoyle.  Diamond-hard fists met stone, and she did not even feel the bruises left by the creature as she tore it into pieces.

She stood up tall and looked around. "Morgan?" she called out.  "MARCOSA!"  The name was a curse on her lips, her loathing for the sorcerer so deep it felt like physical nausea.

She strode though the mansion, riding crop lashing out at door after door, shattering each one in its place.  Finally, she entered a boudoir and she saw the pair of them.  Morgan was nude, suspended upright by chains at his wrists and ankles; miniature gargoyles which resembled the one she had destroyed crawled over him, their claws and teeth tearing at his skin which was broken by innumerable weals and welts.

She almost choked out the words.  "Morgan?" He looked up at her, and then hung his head again in shame.

Marcosa watched the silent interchange.  "I had forbidden him to speak to you, although in this one case, I will be magnanimous."

"You're an incredible woman, Francesca," Morgan said.  "You're my dark paladin ... the only person other than Marcosa who has ever really touched me."

Viceroy England felt her blood turn to ice water in her veins.  "What are you saying?"

"I sold my soul to the devil the day I entered Marcosa's desmesnes," Morgan continued.  "I'm a thing, an owned thing.  I had no right to enter into a friendship with you."

"What … what about little Morgan?"  She floundered desperately to say the words that would make it not be so.  "Doesn’t he have a say in this?"

Marcosa made a silencing motion with his hand, and Morgan only hung his head in self-loathing once more.  Viceroy England cursed and flew towards the sorceror, but he disappeared into immateriality before she could make contact, and she found that she had flown outside the door back into the hallway of Morgan's apartment complex. 

She whirled around mid-air, charging again through the door only to find herself in the empty, unrented room next to the one Morgan had occupied.  She began to shake uncontrollably, her body incapable of containing the emotions which wracked through it.  She flew forward once more, shattering the window, and out to the city outside.

By luck or happenstance, she was distracted by the sound of squealing tires.  She was incapable of resisting her duty, and like a bolt of black leather lightning she hurtled towards the ground, diverting a car which had lost control and was sliding straight towards a woman and her pram.

She turned towards the woman who had fallen to the ground, clutching her infant.  "Are you all right?" she asked.

The woman looked up.  Viceroy England's face was calm, implacable, projecting reassurance.  "Y-yes Ma'am … th-thank you … "

Viceroy England nodded.  She heard the sound of police sirens in the distance, and knew she had to get out of the area as soon as possible.    She checked on the driver to make sure he was unhurt, and then stayed in place until the police were within view.

She bolted upwards into the skies once more, heading out of the city.  As soon as she was sure she was isolated, she allowed herself to tumble into the ground.  Her façade broke down and she began to cry.  Great, wracking cries which tore through her uncontrollably.  Her hand traced along the various ornamental chains she wore attached to her leather corset, and found the one containing the cross.  She was not devout, and wore it more as an affectation and rememberance of her own childhood in Catholic school than anything else, yet still as she glared at the small device through her tears she felt betrayed.  She tore it off, tossing it away from her into the distance, and began to cry once more.

She would live on, she knew she would.  She would continue with her duty to protect the nation that she loved.  But she knew she would never feel whole, again.