A/N: This is officially a first: I have written a sequel. This follows Devil in the Light so if you haven't read it, this story won't make a lot of sense.

I'd also like to give a shout-out and huge thanks to phryneandjack, who gave such a wonderful review of Devil in the Light on her (his?) blog and called it amazing; you actually made me blush.

As always, this was beta'd by the superbly incomparable Firebird9 (thanks, babe!).

Finally, the key: /*/*/*/*/ = POV change; /*/*/ = scene change/same POV

As ever, concrit is love.

Enjoy!

/*/*/*/*/

paindarkworryfearacheconcernOW

Groggily blinking his way back to awareness, Jack Robinson took an incautious breath. The resulting agony had him hanging on to consciousness by sheer force of will and he desperately swallowed back nausea, afraid that his head would actually fall off otherwise. A few more rapid blinks cleared his vision enough to see that he hadn't gone blind; it really was that dark. A second after that, he had to fight down a surge of panic at the realization that he wasn't at home or in his office. In fact – where was he? He wasn't willing to try sitting up yet, but a cautious twist of his neck proved bearable and Jack gently turned his head, seeing with growing unease that he was in a small, dimly-lit room with no windows and what appeared to be a heavy, solid door. An itch at his temple suddenly made itself known and Jack absently reached up to rub at it – only to go still when his arm was stopped after just a few inches of movement. Carefully looking down, he sucked in a shallow breath at the sight of a thick, dull-grey shackle clamped tightly around his left wrist. A quick glance to his other side showed him that his right hand was free, so he scratched his forehead, absently wincing at the brief stab of pain, and took a rapid inventory of his body.

The only restraint he saw was on his left hand, but he'd apparently been ruthlessly subdued, if the pain in his ribs, abdomen, and back – also, his mercilessly-throbbing head and, because there had to be a cliché somewhere, his aching right knee – was any indication. Frowning, Jack shifted on his 'mattress' in a vain attempt to find a comfortable position and thought back, trying to remember what had happened. His immediate memory was alarmingly blank, but he forced himself to think through the headache and was able to pull memories from at least four days earlier. He'd been at home with Phryne, having successfully coaxed her into staying in that evening, when a call from Hawkins had put an early end to their night. It seemed that Sergeant Page had been returning from a robbery call with his new constable, Hollingsworth (a transfer in from the East Central station), when he'd been set upon and abducted by three medium-sized men wearing what Hollingsworth had described as very plain brown clothing, hats, high-collared workman's coats, and standard-issue brown boots. And even though Jack and most of the officers he'd had available at the time had scoured the area, they'd found no trace of Page and no clue as to his whereabouts.

Mason had disappeared two days later, with the only lead coming from a regular at the bar he'd been passing. The information was the same as Hollingsworth's, the only difference being two kidnappers instead of three.

With two of his people missing, Jack had elected to spend the next few days in his flat (which he'd decided to keep long before they'd finalized their relationship) rather than Phryne's home, and she had gotten upset. Once he'd worked past his own initial anger, Jack had been surprised at her reaction; he'd rather thought she'd be pleased that he had a bolt hole – if for no other reason than to give him someplace to go if (when) they had an epic row (or it was that Time of Month, if Rosie was any indication; thus far, it had proven to be a wise precaution for him). On top of that, he'd assumed that Phryne, who had never lived full-time with a romantic attachment, would feel a bit stifled at the implied permanency that him moving in lock, stock, and barrel would create.

He'd forgotten he was dealing with Phryne Fisher. As she herself had told him (on more than one occasion), once she decided to do something, she was in all the way. So, having decided to be with Jack, she had evidently decided to be with Jack. As such, him having what she rather contemptuously called 'one foot out the door' was creating friction. It didn't help matters that he hadn't actually used it for anything but a clothes storage unit for nearly the entire time they'd been together (That Time of the Month aside), and Phryne had had enough. She'd understood his reasoning for the first month or so, but when they'd meshed so easily from the beginning that even her Red-Raggers were surprised (and hadn't that been a fun conversation?) – and with no signs of trouble on that front in their immediate future – her patience had run dry.

And that might be part of the problem, Jack suddenly considered. Things had, for the most part, gone so smoothly with their romantic partnership that any issues or trouble were very likely being blown out of proportion in an effort to compensate for the lack of – tension? trouble? problems? – well, whatever you wanted to call it. Jack loved Phryne beyond all reason, but he was the first to admit that she liked to argue and debate, and frequently just for the hell of it. She also had a tendency toward 'big,' which, like as not, was going to drive him to insanity, because Jack wasn't a fan of fighting, arguing, or unnecessary confrontation in general, especially over something as trivial as the toes of his shoes being pointed away from the wall instead of toward it.

(that being said, he'd found that 'arguing' for the sole purpose of 'making up' was an entirely different subject and he'd been a very attentive pupil)

To make matters worse, Jack was unable to articulate just why he was so reluctant to give up his bachelor lodgings . . . especially when the only reason he could even give himself was that he liked having a place that belonged only to him. He knew he was being a touch ridiculous, but then again, Rosie had never wanted to be in his space the way Phryne did, and while most of the time he loved it, sometimes he just wanted to be alone. And yes, he knew – no, he hoped – that all he had to do was say so, but he wasn't the most loquacious of men, much less eloquent, and he had no desire to hurt Phryne by telling her to leave him be, damn it, he needed space. Also, he was still unsure that vanishing into a seldom-used room of the house the way Phryne did when she was feeling anti-social (which happened more often than he'd expected) would guarantee his privacy. After all, the house was Phryne's and while her household had overwhelmingly accepted him, he still felt tagged as 'guest' instead of 'resident.'

Which, now that he thought about it, was patently absurd. He'd already made this mistake once, not telling her what he was thinking, and since neither of them had acquired the ability to read minds since then, clearly he needed to talk to her. If said conversation resulted in her telling him to leave, well . . . well. He wasn't nearly so weak as that, to walk away at the first serious argument (and Phryne was hot-headed enough to try it, because this was just as new for her – more so, actually – and she had gotten somewhat accustomed to pulling strings and watching men eagerly dance to her will). Neither would he collapse at the first real objection to their union. Prudence Stanley had found that out to her unpleasant surprise and extreme regret, shortly after they'd returned from Inverness.

(Jack had to fight back a smile at the memory. She had doubtless thought that he, being a mere policeman, would be cowed at facing Mrs Prudence Stanley, chairwoman of this, board member of that, and Phryne's high-society aunt; apparently, she'd never met her niece. In addition, George Sanderson was his former father-in-law (and current boss). He had to be worked up to it, but once the mindset was reached, George could out-snob her without even breaking a sweat. That was actually a meeting he'd like to see, for the sole purpose of watching the show.)

In any event, they'd been at odds and Jack had found himself staying later and later at the station, because heading back to his quiet, empty lodgings held little appeal, but neither did he want to be harangued or badgered the second he stepped through the door. That had been – Jack felt another spike of panic when he realized that he didn't know what day it was . . . or long he'd been out. One thing was clear, though: whoever had taken him was being very selective about their abductees. Mason had disappeared two days after Page, and Jack had been ambushed (by four men, he remembered now, and felt an odd pride alongside the worry) two days after that (right outside the station, actually, which would have been more alarming but for the fact that he'd practically moved into his office and hadn't left it unless he was checking a lead or going back to his flat, giving them only one real pattern to work from. Well, that and it had been after seven before he'd finally given in and left for the day.). The thought of Mason crystallized the niggling suspicion he'd been harbouring since shortly after Page was abducted and Jack had to exercise considerable restraint to keep from verbalizing his thoughts.

They'd been taken by the other side of that damned slaver's ring. The 'client' side.

Despite himself, Jack shivered. This was not good. Wayne Nelson was crafty, intelligent, and cunning, and he'd successfully operated a wide-scale slave ring out of the port cities of southern Australia for over three years before Phryne had stumbled across it. Even then, it had taken the combined forces of Melbourne and Inverness to bring it down. During the subsequent pre-trial preparations, the overriding concern was getting the members of the ring tried, convicted, and either in prison for life or hanged, depending on the actual crimes committed. But in the four months since the initial takedown, it seemed that no one – the police included, damn it all to hell – had considered the buyers. They'd all been so focused on bringing the kidnappers to justice that not one person had stopped to wonder about the reaction from the powerful, wealthy people who had been running the receiving end – and whose product source had suddenly dried up.

Apparently, they weren't taking it well.

Jack counted himself grateful that he'd been abducted instead of outright killed, because that meant a small chance of survival . . . though it was early days yet. He might well end up wishing for death before this was over.

Yes, Jack, of course I'm going to leave you languishing in a cell – never mind removed from Australia – without tearing the country apart. Because I'm so good at waiting passively.

Phryne's voice was so clear that Jack looked wildly around, suddenly terrified that she'd been captured as well. When he saw nothing but pitted and scarred grey walls and a filthy floor, he fell back against the wall of his cell and let out a soft gasp of mingled relief and pain. Even as he thanked God that she wasn't here, Jack was aware of a new undercurrent of fear, because once Phryne knew he was missing, she would move heaven and earth to find him (and she would upend hell, too, if she thought it would do any good), and she would give no thought at all to herself or her safety. Collins had no chance of standing against her. Hawkins might – assuming neither man had been taken – but he knew Phryne, he knew about Jack's relationship with her, and he had a profound appreciation for her skills. Like as not, he'd be the one holding her coat while she ransacked the building.

In spite of the situation, Jack gave a faint smile at the thought. He was scared out of his wits that Phryne would get hurt while looking for him, but he also knew that she was extremely capable and had finally, once they'd both come to terms with their feelings and what that would mean for an actual relationship to work, acknowledged the fact that accepting help (or asking for it. though that was admittedly rare; one couldn't stop the rain from falling, after all, and Phryne was a proud woman) wasn't a weakness, and it wasn't a slur against her abilities. So Jack knew full well that Phryne would find him come hell or high water, and be as safe as it was possible for her to be while she did it. If she had to raise Cain (and Abel, Eve, and Adam) in the process, then so be it.

And if she didn't find Jack (or have him returned to her) in pristine condition, there would be at least three explosions. Because they were talking about the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher, he meant that in every possible way. He might wish otherwise, for her sake, but Jack knew she would come for him, so he blew out a quietly-resigned sigh and did his best to relax, because if the opportunity arose for him to effect his own rescue, he needed to be as rested and prepared as possible. Whether he escaped or was found, he would go home to her. In the meantime . . . he'd survived the war, he'd risen to the rank of Detective Inspector at a comparatively young age, he'd weathered having George Sanderson as both father-in-law and boss, Prudence Stanley was his de facto mother-in-law, and he was Phryne Fisher's husband (in all but actual ceremony).

Did these people really think they could scare him?

/*/*/*/*/

17 hours later

"Miss Fisher, I assure you, we're doing everything we can."

Senior Sergeant Will Hawkins winced. Phryne Fisher didn't like that answer on a good day, but with Inspector Robinson missing . . . she was already several steps past on edge and didn't do 'being placated' at all, status of the day aside. This was not a good day. Hollingsworth was about to get his head (or other, more sensitive parts) handed to him and Will debated with himself for a few seconds before reluctantly deciding to intervene. The boy was new to the area and didn't (yet) know any better, so it was rather unfair to let him be killed right off the bat for kicking a hornet's nest he didn't know was there, entertaining though it would have been.

"Constable," he rumbled as he came around the corner, giving Miss Fisher a nod before catching the young man's gaze. "I've got this; go see if Collins has found anything."

"Yes, Sergeant," Hollingsworth said gratefully, vanishing around the corner like the hound of the Baskervilles was chasing him. Will watched him go with mild amusement before turning his attention to Miss Fisher, who looked not at all repentant.

"Will," she began, but said nothing else when he held up a hand and gestured her into the inspector's office.

"I know," he started, holding her gaze as he seated her in the nearest chair. "But he's right; we're doing everything we can. We just have the bad luck to be dealing with competent people."

She huffed in annoyance and made an annoyed gesture, causing the delicate material of her green scarf to flap about for a few seconds.

"It's been almost two days, Will!" she exclaimed, only just remembering to keep from shouting (she was understandably upset, but Will strongly suspected that with very little effort, she could be heard giving orders on the deck of a navy ship in the midst of a hurricane, should the situation call for it). "And with Mason and Page missing as well, it has to have something to do with that bloody slave ring."

Will had come to the same conclusion – which was why he'd instituted a rule that no officer who'd been involved in that operation leave the station until their missing men were found or the culprits apprehended. Food and clothes were brought to them and the situation was currently tolerable (well, for a given value of 'tolerable'; 'barely' was probably a better word), but it wouldn't remain so for much longer. But before he could even think of what to say to Miss Fisher, she proceeded to mentally slap him upside the head.

(Will had a much greater appreciation for the fact that Jack Robinson was not only still sane, but thriving in a relationship with her)

"What did the Inverness officers say?" she asked, and Will just . . . stopped. The look on his face seemed to be the only answer she needed, because her eyes went wide and she leaped to her feet, flushed with indignation.

"No one's contacted them?!" she demanded furiously, cornering him against the desk and pinning him with a hard glare. "Did you forget they were there?!"

There were several answers Will could have given to this, but he chose both the better part of valour and the honest truth.

"It isn't that we forgot they were there," he began cautiously, leaning back just a tad (alright, several 'tads') in a vain effort to get away from her completely justifiable anger. "It's just – well, we're the police. People don't generally target us, at least not this specifically, and so it's not something we readily consider. That being said," he continued, astonished that she made no effort to speak (though her glare did kick up a notch), "it's an excellent suggestion. If you'll step back, I'll call them now and see if we can't pool our resources."

She gave him a long, searching look for several seconds before nodding and stepping away. Her eyes never left his as she settled herself in her chair and Will didn't dare breathe until he was out in the hall. No wonder the inspector let her sit in on (or run) so many interrogations! The devil himself would be hard-pressed to lie to her, never mind refuse to give her something she wanted.

Collins' worried look greeted him as he rounded the corner by the front desk and he did his best to allay the younger man's fears with an upbeat, "Might have a lead, Collins. Hand me the phone?"

The constable's face was ridiculously easy to read as he obeyed, but he'd grown up quite a bit in the past four months and Will watched with approval as he schooled himself to wait for an explanation. There had a lot of angry muttering in the station, questioning why Inspector Robinson had chosen Hugh Collins as his personal constable after he'd promoted Richard Mason, but his behaviour during and since the takedown of that slave ring had quieted most of the doubts, and it was a generally-accepted fact that Collins was well on his way to being a fine officer.

The sound of the operator greeting him pulled Will's attention back to the reason for his call and he took a deep breath after requesting the Inverness Central station. He still didn't know how to tell Miss Fisher, but they had no leads and the trail was getting colder with each passing minute. If Inverness couldn't help them, then it was unlikely their missing men would ever be found.

"Inverness Central, Sergeant Kingston speaking," a dark tenor suddenly said, startling him. But only for a moment, and then he found himself letting out a relived sigh. This man had been part of the task force, so he wouldn't need to be spoon-fed the situation.

"How are you, Sergeant?" he asked in genuine curiosity laced with a touch of apprehension; this man had also been present when Inspector Robinson had nearly killed Nelson after he'd been arrested and he hadn't appreciated his own inspector's handling of the situation. He'd eventually been brought around but . . .

"I'm doing well," the other man replied cautiously, his own curiosity palpable. "May I ask who I'm speaking with?"

Feeling like a perfect prat, Will coughed and said, "I'm sorry, Sergeant; it's Will Hawkins, senior sergeant at City South in Melbourne."

There was a very long moment (or four) of silence. The operation might have one of the most successful jobs in a decade of Australian police history – and to date, the most successful joint operation in either station's existence – but rival police stations (especially those in differing cities) would never be 'easy' with each other. There would always be some tension.

It was this realization that prompted Will's next statement.

"Is Inspector Sheridan available, Sergeant? I'm afraid we have a problem."

And with that sentence, he'd just won the award for 'Understatement of the Year.'

/*/*/*/*/

Detective Inspector Wesley Sheridan couldn't decide whether he wanted to shoot every bureaucrat currently living or force them to do – in triplicate – the unnecessary paperwork they mandated for loyal, hardworking officers of the law whose main goal in life was doing their job. The number of trees sacrificed to those fools' need to feel important was beyond ridiculous (no, really; he kept expecting them to create a form to be used for opening a door) and would try the patience of Job. He'd only just started his most recent case's report and was already hoping (wishing?) for a murder. Or three.

As such, his senior sergeant's voice calling him to the phone had him on his feet and out the door before his chair finished spinning around. Kingston's carefully blank expression gave him pause, but the other man handed him the receiver and left before Wesley could ask. He blinked in genuine surprise before lifting the receiver to his ear and saying, "This is Inspector Sheridan."

"Oh, thank God," a voice that he vaguely recognized breathed with obvious relief. "It's Will Hawkins, from City South in Melbourne."

Sheridan went still. Though he liked Jack Robinson well enough, and had great respect for him and his men, hearing 'City South, Melbourne' would always make him twitch. Just a little.

"And how can we help you, Sergeant?" he inquired cautiously, noting with mild surprise that he actually felt a little nervous, though for the life of him he couldn't have said why.

There was a brief pause and Sheridan frowned, suddenly wondering why it wasn't Jack on the phone. Before he could ask, the other man took a deep breath and said, "Over the past week, Inspector Robinson and two other men who were involved in our joint operation have been abducted. I was wondering if you've . . . had . . . "

He trailed off, clearly realizing that there was no possible 'good' way to finish that sentence, and Sheridan actually gaped at the phone for a minute before he pulled himself together.

"No," he said slowly. "We have not."

And he had to close his eyes then, because he knew, even if the other man hadn't said it. Damn it. When he'd asked for something to stave off the paperwork, he hadn't meant for God to send him to bloody Melbourne!

But if three of Robinson's men were missing, then it was just a matter of time before his people were targeted as well. And that? That wasn't happening. So he'd go and save Jack's sorry arse, and then he'd never complain about paperwork again.

(well, until the next triplicate stack of forms he had to fill out so he could order pens for the office)

"I'll get my men together and we'll be on our way as soon as we can," he told Hawkins, saving him the embarrassment of asking. "Can you get us into a hotel?"

There was a startled beat of silence before the other man, with well-hidden surprise (and much less hidden relief), said, "Of course, How many rooms?"

Sheridan gave that a moment of thought before deciding to bring the sergeants who had been on the original task force; he'd prefer the entire group, but taking seven officers (eight, including him) to Melbourne for something as . . . mundane . . . as finding three missing men (fellow officers though they were) would bring questions and scrutiny that he didn't particularly want to deal with.

"Three, with two beds each," he answered. There would be five of them and that would give him both a private room and a makeshift bullpen if need be.

"Will do, Sir," Hawkins assured him before pausing again. Sheridan waited patiently, sensing something else behind this silence.

"I appreciate your assistance, Inspector," the other man began, obviously choosing his words carefully. "And I'm sorry to put it on you. But whoever did this is just as clever as the original ring and we have, quite literally, nothing. No clues, no evidence, and half a lead." A heavy sigh preceded his next statement – which chilled Sheridan to the bone.

"Miss Fisher thinks that the client for that ring is behind this, as revenge for losing such a lucrative form of commerce."

Sheridan swallowed hard; he hadn't considered that. But even as the thought occurred, he had an idea.

"It's a good thought, and very likely accurate," he said. "And give me about three hours to get to Melbourne, if you will. I have a few people I need to talk to."

This time the silence was knowing and Sheridan was reminded that Jack Robinson didn't hire (or keep) stupid people.

"Good luck, Sir," was all Hawkins said. "And Godspeed. We'll be waiting."

Giving a grim smile, Sheridan snapped his fingers at the constable currently on duty to summon him.

"We'll be there, Sergeant. And have everything you've got ready, because I don't think we can afford to wait."

"Yes, Sir," Hawkins almost barked, and Sheridan had to hold back a thoroughly inappropriate snicker; he could still pull off a parade ground voice when he needed to.

"See you in a few hours," he told the other man before hanging up and looking at Hansen.

"Call Kingston, Hopkins, Graham, and Caffrey to my office, now," he ordered the boy. "Then go requisition five weapons and two cars."

His eyes wide, Hansen stuttered out, "Yes, Sir!" as Sheridan headed back to his office. Once there, he dropped heavily into his chair and buried his face in his hands. The client. God. He really didn't know whether or not to hope Jack and his men were still alive. Despite the thorough records Nelson had kept, the ICPC had only found a fraction of the abductees . . . but he would never forget them, even if he lived forever. The trauma, the horror, the degradation . . . it was as much a part of them now as the blood in their veins, and they would never fully recover. Sheridan wouldn't wish that on his worst enemy.

A knock on the door broke his train of thought and he took a deep breath before calling his men in. They weren't going to like this (hell, he didn't like it), but they were some of his best, and if anyone was going to help find Robinson and his men, it would be this lot.

Three curious expressions and one mutinous look greeted him and he held back a sigh. Kingston had never quite forgiven him for making them culpable in his desperate bid to keep Jack from killing Wayne Nelson and it was rapidly becoming an actual problem. Sheridan didn't want to transfer Greg, but if the man didn't grow up and accept what had happened, he wasn't going to have much choice.

But this wasn't the time and Sheridan mentally shook his head, pushing that issue to the back of his mind. He looked each of his men in the eye before outlining the state of affairs and noting with approval that all four of them fully appreciated the gravity of the situation – to the point that no objection was raised when he told them that they were heading to Melbourne in about two hours.

"Go home and pack for a few days," he instructed them in conclusion. "We'll be at a hotel, so you won't need your full wardrobe" (that was mostly aimed at Caffrey) "and be back here no later than two. Go," he added when they failed to move. Graham, Caffrey, and Hopkins obeyed, but Kingston hesitated, only to change his mind at the last minute and leave without a word.

Alone in his office, Sheridan took a fortifying breath. The easy part was over. Now came the challenge. With a perfectly steady hand, he picked up the receiver in his office and asked to be connected to the city gaol.

When the front desk guard picked up, he took one more deep breath.

"This is DI Wesley Sheridan. I need to arrange an immediate visit with Wayne Nelson."

God help them all.

/*/*/*/*/

As she waited for Will to return from talking to the Inverness Central station, Phryne Fisher exerted all the discipline she'd found in the bloody, burned fields of France and forcibly shoved her fear for Jack into a mental steel box before triple locking it and throwing it into the back of a walk-in closet for good measure. They would find him. They'd find him and he would be unharmed and everything would be fine.

Please, God. Let everything be fine.

But Phryne had too much experience with life and she couldn't sustain the fairytale. At the very least, he'd be injured because Jack would not go quietly. And though the very thought made her grit her teeth in anger, Phryne was pragmatic. She could live with 'injured'; it could be recovered from. But if Jack was damaged in any way, shape, form, or fashion, then the bastards who had taken him needed to make their peace with God bec—

No. They needed to make their peace with the devil, because she wouldn't let heaven be an option for them.

The violence of her thoughts might have alarmed another woman, but Phryne Fisher knew herself very well and while she could be (and was) called many things, 'naïve' didn't make the list. It didn't even rate an honourable mention. Past experience had taught her to be leery of letting people get too close, but those few who made it past the gauntlet were guarded ferociously and for life.

And she loved Jack too well, had worked too hard to get him – and even harder to keep him, because their romantic partnership was going surprisingly smoothly for the most part, but they had wild differing personalities in several respects and those differences clashed on what seem like an hourly basis sometimes – to let a group of filthy, despicable human beings who not only profited from the misery and suffering of their fellow man, but enjoyed it, take him away from her.

No, the only way Jack Robinson was leaving her was by his own volition and with a legitimate reason.

Though . . . this flat he'd been keeping was disturbing. Given how deeply and desperately he'd wanted to be with her, his insistence on keeping a backup was surprising. And – hurtful. She hadn't treated him well at times, before (and while, actually) she realized that she'd actually fallen in love with him, but by his own admission, he hadn't been nearly as forthcoming as he should have been, either, and she'd thought they'd worked those issues out.

And what truly annoyed her about the situation was the fact that Jack almost never used the damn flat! In the four months since Inverness (not counting this case), he'd spent exactly three nights and two – no, four, days at his bachelor's lodgings. In the beginning, she'd approved of his caution, because they'd both painfully learned that 'love' did not always equate to 'harmony,' and it only made sense to have a safety net, so to speak.

Now, that being said, she still didn't know what had driven him to spend those days and nights alone; he'd never volunteered the information and while as a rule, Phryne wasn't afraid to speak her mind, she had discovered that she wasn't sure she wanted to hear his reasons – because this new relationship with Jack had taught her something that had quite likely taken a year off her life from absolute shock.

Phryne was afraid that she wasn't enough for Jack.

Oh, not in the bedroom. No, even if Jack were the cheating type – which would have rendered them getting together moot, assuming the world ending didn't take care of the problem first – their lovemaking was incomparable. He was perfectly willing to try anything twice (which she'd wondered about until he'd pointed out that he needed to make sure the first time wasn't a fluke; it was such a brilliant philosophy that she'd adopted it on the spot . . . with some truly delicious results) and on those rare occasions that one or both of them didn't care for something, or like a proposed change or addition, no accusations were made or recriminations flung about.

To be sure, disappointment was there, but it was never the center of things. Generally, they would take a few minutes to sigh, pout, or think uncharitable thoughts (depending on what had or hadn't happened), and then move into something they both enjoyed.

Well, or Jack would just kiss her until she couldn't have told you what planet she was on. Her detective inspector was a glorious kisser and loved to do it. The first time she'd let him, he'd kissed her for over an hour before he'd even begun to undress her and the resulting lovemaking had been . . .

It was a very, very good thing she'd sent her household to Queensland for the weekend.

(and she still occasionally received glances that were both scandalized and envious from her neighbor, Mrs Stonewall)

No, what worried Phryne was something more mundane. She wasn't particularly fond of Rosie Robinson nee Sanderson, but she had to admit that on the surface, she was a more suitable choice for Jack than Phryne was: solid, respectable, non-scandalous, and someone who obeyed societal formalities and restrictions, but without being boring or a shrew. Unadventurous, perhaps, but that was not uncommon among the women of her social class.

Due mostly to Jack being who and what he was, Phryne had no issue with toning down some of her more outrageous tendencies if she was aware of the fact that doing otherwise might truly harm him or his reputation, but she refused to bow to what the majority of society deemed appropriate for a woman of her station. Her fear was that Jack – who would never say anything, because he truly did not wish to change her – might come to resent her for putting him beside her in her battles against social convention and the 'just because' excuse to cling to old traditions.

And she was, quite simply, too afraid to ask him, choosing instead to turn her fear into anger. She knew it was wrong, and unfair to Jack, because if she never said anything, how was he to know what was bothering her? He'd said the exact same thing to her that night in the restaurant, and he was absolutely right. Unfortunately, knowing you're being foolish and openly admitting it are two completely different things and, like virtually every other person on earth, Phryne wasn't one for readily admitting her faults.

And so they argued, and squabbled, and picked petty fights because it was easier than dealing with the real issue.

(she would have been shocked speechless to realize that this was actually a fairly common occurrence in long-term relationships, but the overall circumstances of her life were such that a healthy romantic relationship wasn't something she'd really seen, much less observed up close and personal)

Had Jack not disappeared, this likely would have gone on for some ridiculous length of time, and served no purpose other than making everyone involved miserable.

But now that she was facing the reality of what being without him was like, Phryne was damned if she'd let that nonsense continue. She wasn't fine with him keeping his flat, but she owed him the courtesy of asking why he thought it was necessary and, given that his reasons were likely both understandable and reasonable (because Jack's reasons were always understandable and reasonable, to her vexation and her household's amusement), then they'd work out a compromise.

Her musings were broken when Will came back through the door and Phryne glanced at her watch, stunned to realize he'd been gone nearly two hours (which shocked her until she remembered her anger; he might simply have chosen to avoid her until she'd calmed down, which she reluctantly conceded was understandable), before looking up expectantly. His expression was a complicated mix of relief, triumph, and – was that embarrassment? – and she cocked an eyebrow at him, wordlessly demanding an update.

"Inspector Sheridan is coming, and he's bringing help. They'll be here within the hour."

This news had Phryne actually slumping back in the chair while her own relief welled up. She'd gotten to know Wesley Sheridan before she and Jack had returned to Melbourne; she'd insisted on thanking her rescuer in person and Jack had been amenable to it, so they'd spent a few hours with the Inverness DI (remembering how he'd corralled Jack into getting the positively delicious black suit he'd worn that night could still make her smile) and by the time they'd left, Phryne had the same respect and appreciation for the man that Jack did.

And he was coming here to help find Jack, his men, and the people who'd taken them. For the first time in two days, Phryne felt like she could breathe.

She'd come to several conclusions since she'd realized Jack had been taken, some of which were immediately discarded as impractical or wishful thinking, and even a few 'Mad Hatter' scenarios. What was left, however (the buyers of Nelson's ring), had a feel of rightness that she'd learned to trust. She'd first truly noticed it when she'd deduced where Lila Waddington had gone; her leap from 'mayday' to 'mental asylum' would have sent Jack's blood pressure through the roof had he known, because there was no logical reason for it. But the certainty that had burned through her could not be ignored and it had been vindicated when she and Jack had discovered the poor girl suffering in that cell.

That feeling of rightness, that rock-solid certainty, had only presented itself to her a few times – generally she found her answers the same way the police did: by asking questions, doing legwork, and putting the pieces together – and as it had yet to lead her astray, Phryne was not going to ignore it. Hence, her unwavering certainty that their culprits were the other side of the slave ring. But because it was Jack, she was going to do the impossible and rein herself in, so that she was working with the police rather than making them run to catch up. Luckily, Will Hawkins was mostly up to the challenge, which eased some of her fear – especially as, unlike Hugh Collins (Phryne loved the boy, she did, but he was still appallingly naïve and could not be broken from the habit of taking things at face value for love or money), Will had a fair bit of experience with the dark side of life and, consequently, was what Phryne called 'An Optimistic Pragmatist.' He understood the world but hadn't been beaten down by it.

Wesley Sheridan, on the other hand, was beyond up for the challenge of keeping pace with her, and though she would be worried until Jack was safe and home, the crippling, sanity-stealing panic had faded. In its place rose a cold rage. Never in her life had Phryne had patience or tolerance for people who refused to accept the consequences of their actions. If you were going to poke a dog with a stick, you didn't get to be angry when it turned around and bit you. If she was right about this being Nelson's client, then they should have been intelligent enough to accept the fact that they'd been caught doing something illegal (and detestable, despicable, and every other derogatory term she could think of) and thankful beyond reason that they – as the buyers – had gotten away with it. Nelson's records had been unbelievably thorough, but no mention of the recipients of his 'sales' had ever been mentioned, not even by his bookkeeper, and so that trail had started cold and immediately gone nowhere.

These revenge kidnappings were going to be the group's downfall, because Phryne cared not one whit about jurisdiction, legalities, or even logistics. If by some miracle they actually managed to remove Jack from Australia, then she would follow them to the ends of the earth.

And if she had to take the world apart in order to find him, well . . .

God had once created the earth in six days. He could do it again.

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