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phenomenon of bisexuality. I've never thought it meant that a person requires both genders, just that a bisexual person has the choice of either or. Timothy's made his choice tonight, and something tells me he's going to be okay with it. How he'll deal with Marris's death, I'm not sure, but he has Mary now to help him through life's trials. And he has a father, too, one he can finally see eye to eye with. He and Mary are right. They'll manage, and probably very well.
    His brother is another matter.
    Discreetly, Arthur, Holmes, and I exit the room to give the other three their privacy. They have a lot to talk about. So do we.
    "In here." Arthur opens a door at the end of a hall and ushers us into the library, filled with leather-bound books and smelling of lofty literary adventure, the perfect place for a hushed conference with a fictional character.
    "You know what I hate most about your Ripper hypothesis?" he asks Holmes. "It makes sense," he answers himself. "I'm very afraid you've pegged it. But it puts me in a loathsome position. I must do something, of course. We can't let a killer go free. Yet to stop him, I'll have to accuse the son of a friend. If he's proved guilty, it will devastate his father. The trial alone would disgrace the whole family, whatever the verdict. If it should somehow go in his favor, he could possibly sue me for libel or slander. Either way, the admiral will have my gonads on a platter for instigating the business."
    Someone's been a bad influence on him.
    Holmes suppresses a smile. "I don't suppose you could ask the police to keep your part in the proceedings confidential."
    "I could, perhaps, but I wouldn't."
    Yeah, that's what I figured. He's an upfront kind of guy.
    "A dilemma," Holmes says, "and one for which I don't have a solution."
    Me, neither. Then again, I wonder if we need one. It's never been decided for certain how many the Ripper killed, but most historians of the case put the number at five or six, with the last one being Mary Kelly. Except we know she wasn't his victim--and it wasn't Mary, anyway, but some poor girl named Jessica. Meaning, maybe Geoffrey has already decided to stop. Or he soon will. I have an idea on that score.
    "I could put the fear of God into him," I suggest. "It won't punish his past crimes, but it'll steer him away from future ones."
    "How?" they both ask, one question in two voices.
    "By turning into an avenging angel in a fur coat. I'll need a white robe to start with though."
    What I'm thinking, actually, is dressing up like an angel and visiting Geoffrey as a messenger of divine wrath. I'll warn him to mend his evil ways or suffer the consequences, then scare the fucking shit out of him to drive the threat home.
    Quickly, I present the idea to Arthur and Holmes.
    They don't like it.
    "Geoffrey's not easily fooled or frightened," Arthur says. "No offense, but it would take a more fearsome man than you to do the job."
    He thinks.
    "Didn't I mention the part where the angel turns into a wolf?"
    Holmes narrows his eyes at me. "No, you didn't." His gaze shifts to Arthur. "You'll have to excuse him. He ran afoul of some opium fumes at Marris's house. It appears the effects haven't quite worn off yet."
    I guess I'll have to demonstrate.
    "Watson! What on earth are you doing?"
    "My good fellow, put your clothes back on."
    "If I do, they'll be shredded when I turn. My canine form is much larger than my human."
    With those words, I drop naked to all fours and summon old magic, my birthright, passed down from parent to child through countless generations. Electric prickles sting me. I feel my skin glow. Arthur and Holmes stand rooted to the floor, rigid, staring. In seconds I'm wearing silver white fur, powerful and huge, more than double the size of an ordinary wolf.
    Fearsome?
    Hell, I'm a holy terror.
    " Grrr. .. " I bare fangs and snarl to prove the point, then nuzzle Arthur's hand and lick it, like a friendly hound, to show him it's still me under the fur, and