I know, I know, I should be writing "I do" but this story has been knocking round in my head for a while now and I really wanted to write it. I promise, I have not forgotten Lady Jane and I will get back to her eventually.

Special thanks to TangentiallyTJ for proofreading.

Enjoy!

Chapter 1: The Morning After.

Hal stirred. A narrow strip of sunlight was penetrating the otherwise dark room through the gap in the curtains. It landed on his closed eyelids, filling his world with the hazy red glow it created and slowly dragging him from his slumber back to consciousness. Eyes still closed, he tried to roll over and turn away from the light, but there was a weight across his chest and stomach preventing him from doing so. Something cold and stiff appeared to be stuck to his skin. He opened one eye and glanced down to see what it was.

His gaze fell upon a mess of dark blonde curls spilling over his chest and neck. The curls were attached to a head, which was attached to a body, which was attached to a woman. A naked woman. A naked dead woman. And Hal couldn't for the life of him remember how she had got there. He knew what must have happened, obviously, but the previous evening was all a bit of a drunken blur.

He placed his hand on her shoulder and pushed her off him, his skin stinging as the blood that had glued him to her all night became unstuck. Sitting up, and wincing when his head throbbed a little, he glanced back down at her. He could see her face now.

"Huh," he muttered with surprise. It was Cat, one of the girls from the show and Fergus' current tumble of choice. She's the one who could kick her legs above her head when she danced, he mused, right up into the air... pity she was dead really. He certainly hadn't set out intending to kill her last night. He certainly hadn't set out intending to screw her last night. He couldn't remember what he'd intended to do last night and thinking about it was making his head hurt even more.

Only one thing could rid him of this hangover and that was another drink. He touched his hand to the gaping wound on Cat's throat and withdrew it, examining his fingers. Not a drop. She was completely dry. He had to admire his handiwork. But it did mean he would have to go downstairs for something to drink. He groaned and finally rolled out of bed, picking up his silk dressing gown on the way to the door.

When he got downstairs to his club it was completely deserted bar one person. She was sitting on one of the barstools, hunched over the counter top; her arms were folded in front of her and her head was resting on them, using them as a pillow. She appeared to be sound asleep. She was still wearing her evening dress, the gold one with the beading, the one that brought out the amber in her eyes.

Jennifer Wren.

Jenny.

Birdie, only to him.

His songbird.

"Good morning," he said, padding towards the bar on bare feet. She lifted her head but didn't turn around to face him.

"Afternoon."

"Is it?" He asked, walking round to the other side of the bar. "Oh."

"You must have had quite a night then," she sighed, leaning on the bar with one elbow and resting her chin on her hand. She didn't look at him; instead she seemed very interested in fiddling with a discarded tea towel.

"Just wish I could remember it," he replied, turning his attention to looking for something to drink that wasn't alcohol.

"I know that feeling." She smiled, still looking at the towel.

Hal gave up on finding a decanter on one shelf and made his way to the other end of the bar to see if he would have more luck there. He slipped in a puddle of something on the floor, let out an involuntary yelp and had to grab hold of the counter to regain his balance.

"Sorry," Birdie said, looking up, "that's my fault. I went to have a drink earlier and… spilt it, forgot to mop it up."

Hal regained his composure quickly. "Not to worry, I'm sure we can find someone else to do that," he said with a smirk, then frowned and glanced around the deserted club. "Where is everyone?"

"It's Monday Hal," she said, returning her attention to the tea towel, "Believe it or not, some people actually have lives and jobs outside of this place."

"Really?" he said with mock surprise, then smiled and returned to his search but to no avail. "Birdie, is there a decanter anywhere?"

"I think Dennis had the last of it this morning."

"Bugger," he muttered under his breath, cursing Dennis and casting his eye around for some good brandy instead. Birdie took a deep breath and looked up at him for the first time. Her eyes were red, sleepy-looking.

"Haven't you had enough to drink?"

"What makes you say that?" he asked, reaching to the back of a shelf to find the best vintage. He collected two glasses but when he went to pour Birdie a drink, she shook her head.

"Hal, your face is covered with blood," she said, replying to his question. Hal took a first sip from his glass and closed his eyes, sighing with satisfaction as he felt the burn of the liquid slide down his throat to his stomach, dimming his desire for blood and igniting a different one.

"Is it?" he said, leaning against the bar so that his eyes were level with hers. "Perhaps you should do something about that," he almost whispered. She smiled, giggling a little, like she did every time he looked at her as he was looking at her now. It was an elegant giggle, musical and almost childlike, but not in an annoying way. He liked it, it reminded him of years ago, when he first met her.

She picked up the towel she'd been fiddling with earlier and leaned further forward across the bar so that their faces were inches apart. Slowly, and without breaking eye contact, Birdie raised the cloth and began to dab the blood off his chin, but it wasn't long before he pushed the towel out of the way and surged forward to close the gap between their lips.

The kiss was deep and, once she had got over the surprise of his attack, Birdie returned it, bringing her right hand up to rest round the back of his neck, like she always did. But this kiss didn't feel the same as it normally did, something wasn't right.

Hal drew away from her, frowning. She felt... different, he couldn't put his finger on it. He kissed her again, slowly, and again, more forcefully. No, something was definitely wrong. She wasn't looking at him anymore; instead she seemed to be focused on a small stain on the varnished wood of the bar. Her eyes were becoming more bloodshot and her chin was trembling slightly.

Hal cupped her face with one hand: she felt cold. He squeezed her cheek, her shoulder, her arm: she seemed squishy, like snow. He stroked her neck softly, listening closely: she had no pulse.

"Birdie?" he whispered, not wanting to believe what he knew must be true. It wasn't just her chin trembling now but her whole body, her eyes were closed in an effort to try and hold back tears. "Birdie, what has happened?"

She didn't reply. "Birdie!" He grabbed her chin and forced it up so she had to look at him. She sobbed for the first time. "Tell me what happened to you."

He fixed her with the gaze that made men, centuries older than her, tremble with fear and spill out their deepest, darkest secrets. She opened her mouth but shut it again when no sound came out. She tried again but to the same effect. Her eyes flickered to something over his shoulder.

He followed her eyes to the door behind him which led to the wine cellar. He glanced back at Birdie but she was staring at the stain on the bar again, sobbing every few seconds. He turned his attention back to the door to the cellar, pushing it open slowly and making his way down the steps.

He was hit by the smell first, that beautiful scent, so when he got to the bottom of the stairs he knew exactly what he would be faced with. But he still wasn't prepared to see Jennifer Wren, Birdie, his songbird, stretched out on the floor, cold and unmoving, with her throat torn out.

Hal climbed the stairs slowly. Birdie was still sitting where he had left her, at the bar, but her head was now in her hands and her shoulders were shaking uncontrollably with unrestrained sobs. She appeared to force herself to look up when he reached the top of the stairs. She bit her lip in an effort to stop the sobs.

"Who did it?" he asked, his voice quiet and controlled.

"I d-don't remem-ember," she managed, still sobbing.

"Nothing at all?" She shook her head and dissolved into more tears.

Hal sighed. He walked out from behind the bar, stepping over the puddle of alcohol, and made his way out of the club and upstairs to his room, leaving Birdie sobbing at the bar. She couldn't be helped. Not now.

He was going to find out who killed her, and he was going to make them pay.

Reviews very welcome :)