Shadowdance (10 page)

Jack told him, and Will whistled long and low. “Hell of a thing. Would have liked to see that, actually.”

“I bet you would.” Jack snorted. “You’ve never heard of them?”

“No.” A wry smile pulled at Will’s mouth. “Though my specialty is extermination, not research.”

“I’m done playing,” Jack said in a low voice. “You don’t want to give me the names. Fine. I understand that. I’ll find another way.”

Will glanced at him. “The other way is staring you right in the face. Join us. Your blood is incredibly valuable now. Bargain with them.”

“No.” Jack slashed the air with his hand. “I will not sink that low.” He’d fallen enough because Will was Nex, and that made Jack guilty by association.

“Ah, now, Jack, do not waste an opportunity over
righteous indignation. You’re already as good as one of us, at any rate. Once in, it is for life. You’ve always known that.” Will’s hand lashed out and grabbed Jack’s arm, shoving up his sleeve to expose his wrist. “Look at that. Smooth, clear skin.” Eyes flashed with dark humor and too much pity. “Why am I not surprised that you hide it?”

Because it was a shame that he could not bear to look upon. And Will knew it. When Jack tore free, Will lifted his own arm, revealing the mark of the Nex tattooed upon his skin, holding it out like a taunt. “They saved us. Me, you, and Nicky.”

Jack didn’t need reminding. As if he’d forget the ragtag group of orphans collected and trained by the Nex to haunt the streets for funds and information. The sanguis, the shifter, and the half-breed. They’d formed their own little gang of terror, stealing from weaker human gangs before the fools even knew what had hit them. Nicky had been their leader. Following him had been the greatest mistake of Jack’s life.

Leave her. She’s dead anyway, and the bobbies are coming.

Jack pulled himself out of his crippling thoughts. Not that Will had noticed, for he was still sermonizing. “When you couldn’t breathe through the fucking hole shot in your chest, they brought you in.”

Jack shook him off. “And when I wanted out, they beat me until I could not walk, see, or think. Just me and the pain. Who took me in then, Will?”

Will’s upper lip curled. “And what will your new little family do when they find out? When Ian Ranulf realizes his precious adoptive son is no better than the brother he’d been forced to overthrow?” Because Ian’s late brother had sympathized with the Nex’s cause, and Ian most certainly did not.

Deep inside himself, where it did not show, Jack trembled. The air grew thin. There was not enough of it to draw into his compressed lungs. His world was crumbling, and it was of his own making.

Will laughed, short and ugly. “And what of your sweet Mary?”

She is not mine. Never will be
. Shit. The shaking within spread outward. Through clenched teeth, Jack got the words out. “Leave her out of this.”

God, but the urge to run and seek her out, protect her from all of this, had his bones aching. But who would protect her from him? The constant knot in his stomach grew larger, harder.

“Or you’ll kill me?” Will offered.

Jack searched his smirking face, the smothering, airless feeling pressing down on his chest. They both knew Jack could not do it. They were bonded by blood and circumstance. Neither of them could betray the other, because they both had too much to lose. Even so, Jack slowly shook his heavy head. “I’ll simply make you wish you were dead.”

Will’s eyes grew cold. “I already do, mate. And the pisser is you know that if Mary should find out what you’ve done, she’ll wish you were dead too.”

I
do not know how much I can tell you. This”—Poole waved a hand in the direction of the crawler lying upon his dissecting table—“being far beyond my purview.” He harrumphed and bent closer to the body. “At least the other beings you’ve brought me were made of flesh and bone, not like this mechanical nightmare.” The crawler that had breathed fire was about 80 percent metal, though his eyes, glassy and staring up at the ceiling, were far too tortured for Jack’s comfort.

After a long night being beaten black and blue and having to spar with Will this morning, Jack was tired, irritable, and hungry. He moved closer to the table and the portly little surgeon. “Perhaps concentrating on the fleshy bits instead of grousing might help.”

Poole narrowed his eyes at Jack. “Very amusing, Master Talent. Worse than Ranulf, you are. Certainly more of a pain in my—” He cut himself off with a quick apologetic look at Mary Chase, who stood as far away from the table as she could without actually leaving the room.

Wan and silent Chase, who, if Jack had to guess, was trying desperately not to cast up her accounts. She was going a bit green around the mouth.

Jack quirked a brow at her, wondering if he ought to find an excuse to get her out of the room, but upon receiving a defensive frown turned back to Poole. “You can say
arse
in front of Chase, Mr. Poole. She’s quite familiar with the word, I can assure you.”

“You being the greatest arse,” Chase retorted blandly.

Poole snorted. “Walked into that one, my boy.”

Yes, hadn’t he? Why the devil in him wanted to provoke, he couldn’t say. He’d been twitchy since setting eyes upon her this morning. Why it pleased him that she had the wherewithal to snipe back at him was a mystery as well.

Chase stepped close, bringing the faintest scent of spice with her. The work lights caught the tiny gold earrings in the shape of the goddess Isis that she wore, and when she moved they glimmered, pulling his gaze to the delicate hollow just beneath her ear. Jack’s entire body seized up, his awareness of her humming along his veins. Which was damned annoying.

“The decomposition is quite advanced,” she remarked, and Poole, of course, beamed.

“Quite. What interests me, Mistress Chase, is that the deterioration only went so far, then halted.”

Beneath the harsh electric light of Poole’s surgery, Chase’s skin held a greenish cast, which may or not have been due to her aversion to death, but the smooth curve of her cheek and the lovely turn of her lower lip held Talent’s attention. She was whole and well. A spot on his shoulder tingled, and the memory of her mouth there, licking and sucking, lingered.

Suppressing a grunt of irritation, Jack adjusted his
stance. “So he was the walking dead. Or is there another point you’re both alluding to?”

Both Poole and Chase peered back at him as if he’d said something rude, and Jack glared. “Were we to spend endless minutes getting around to the fact that these things are part zombie and part machine?”

With exaggerated patience Poole drew the thick examining spectacles he favored from his breast pocket and put them on. “Don’t know why anyone need speak, seeing as you know all,” he muttered, as he picked up a scalpel and bent very close to the crawler. Using the tip of the blade, he peeled back a flap of skin from a cut he’d previously made along the crawler’s thigh. Beside Jack, Chase swayed a bit before steadying. He resisted offering her a hand. She would hate that, and he did not want to touch her, not after last night’s exchange; that had been hard enough to walk away from.

“What I can tell you,” Poole went on in a crisp voice, “if you care to learn anything, is that this fellow was likely dead before these limbs were applied.”

“How can you tell?” Chase’s question was weak, and her gaze darted to the foot of the table.

Poole’s blue eyes were big as moons behind his glasses as he glanced up. “Well, note the way the blood has collected along—”

He broke off when Chase abruptly turned and left the room with haste. Jack watched her go and then forced his attention back to the bodies upon the table. “I’d advise simply stating the facts with Chase next go-round.”

Poole nodded grimly. “Hides it better than Inspector Lane.” There was no judgment in Poole’s voice. Rare was the soul who did not become ill after, or during, a visit to his surgery.

Jack pressed a knuckle to the underside of his chin as he studied the crawler that used to be Mr. Pierce. “And this one?”

Poole assumed his brusque stance. “I do not believe this one was dead before the change. However, look here.” He pointed with his scalpel. “He did not have artificial limbs applied. More like he was becoming metal. It’s as if the gold melded with his flesh.”

Upon close inspection, gold seemed to blend like little gleaming fingers into his decomposing flesh. “Reminds me of ivy,” Jack murmured. “You know, how it will attach to a house and encompass it.”

“Yes, exactly.” Poole shook his head. “Strange business.” He looked particularly gleeful about the notion. Regulators did not call him Poole the Ghoul for no reason.

Jack straightened as Poole sighed. “In all honesty, Master Talent, I suggest you have Mistress Evernight take a look at them. She’s the mechanical expert, after all.”

Mary braced her hand upon the cool plaster wall in a dark corridor off Poole’s gruesome surgery and took another deep breath. Blast it, she could do better than this! How galling that she should lose her composure in front of Talent.

“Are you ready?”

Mary bolted upright at the sound of his deep, smooth voice. Damn that man, but he crept about on cat feet. And damn her for not quite being able to meet his eyes. “Yes.”

Smoothing her skirts, she stood before him. She would not make excuses, but she could not quite find the strength to talk to him either.

Oddly, Talent filled the silence for her. “Here.” He reached out, and she flinched, but with a perfunctory flick
of his fingers, he merely tucked in a lock of hair that had dangled over her temple. His expression was grim, almost angry, as if she’d put him out. Another brusque touch at her sleeve straightened her gown where it had bunched. Mary could only gape up at him. And his frown grew. Without a word he turned and crisply walked away.

Mary found herself following.

After a moment he spoke. “We’re headed to Evernight’s laboratory.”

She could feel his gaze running over her.

“I thought she might be able to tell us about the mechanics,” he added, as if chastising her for not asking.

“Yes.” Mary took another breath, hating her embarrassment. “That is a good idea.”

Talent halted with a curse, and Mary stopped too. His eyes narrowed on her. “So help me, Chase, if you grow meek-mouthed on me, I’ll lock you up in the infirmary and have them examine you for madness.” He lifted his large hand in annoyance. “So you have an aversion to dead bodies? Why shouldn’t you? They are foul.
Murder
is a foul business. If any one of us were in our right minds, we’d be as far away from all this as possible.”

His hard features darkened as he worked himself up. “If you ask me, the ones who are immune to it all are already half dead. Don’t lose what bit of humanity you have, Chase. It makes you better, not weaker. End of discussion. So just… let go of this useless embarrassment, accept this about yourself, and get on with the damn case.”

He stopped there, apparently out of steam from his lecture. And, having no more to say, he crossed his arms in front of him and simply glared.

Mary’s lip twitched. “Lock me in the infirmary. Not
bloody likely, Talent. I’d cut your knees out from under you before you took two steps.”

That haughty look he’d perfected grew in intensity. “I wouldn’t lay down a challenge if I were you, Chase. I might just take it up.”

With a sniff she turned on her heel, her step light and brisk, and he followed easily.

“I’m all aquiver.”

His pace missed a beat before he muttered, “I wouldn’t be offering up that information either.”

Holly Evernight’s laboratory was massive, bright and open with a grid of floor-to-ceiling windows. However, as it was also the work place for a host of inventors, the bodies were brought into another room for privacy.

“I’ve secured an area out of the way,” Holly explained as she pushed back a pair of massive oak doors to reveal a cavernous room at the top of the building. Constructed like a greenhouse, the room was comprised entirely of glass-and-iron panels. Sunlight flooded the space, but since it was London, the light was grey and weak. A set of levers, linked to a network of large chains, made it possible to slide the roof open. Mary needn’t wonder for what. She drew to a halt and gaped.

“Is that—?”

Holly stopped beside her and beamed. “A dirigible. Yes.”

Talent whistled long and low as he too took in the sight. “Never seen a model such as that.”

The dirigible was nothing new. In 1883, Mary, along with the rest of London, had read about the Frenchman Gaston Tissandier and the first electric-powered airship. A marvel of modern ingenuity. A year later
La France
,
the first fully controllable airship, made its maiden voyage. Heady times, yet Talent was correct. Those ships had been, in essence, hot-air balloons attached to a motor and pilot’s basket.

What loomed over them was different.

Shaped like an elongated cylinder, the balloon was about one hundred feet long and painted in cloud-like patches of grey and white, much like London’s typical sky. A web of wires hugged the stiff frame of the balloon and attached it to an enclosed pilot’s cabin, also painted shades of grey. Two enormous propellers hung off the back. The whole thing was suspended halfway off the floor by a network of steel girders.

“I’ve always wondered what it would be like to fly,” Mary said before she could think to stop the words.

Talent glanced at her. “Do you not fly in spirit form?”

“Yes,” she said, keeping her eyes upon the airship. “But there is no physical sensation to it. I have my doubts as to whether it would be the same.” She turned to him. “You’ve shifted into a bird before, yes? Is it lovely? To fly?”

His expression was so blank that she knew she’d surprised him. He took a moment before answering. “Yes,” he answered with a breath, “it is lovely.”

She’d thought as much.

Talent turned his attention back to the dirigible. “That is quite an airship, Evernight.”

“It is a semirigid construction,” said Holly proudly, “which allows for strength and lightness of weight. The frame is a steel skeleton under a canvas skin. Not only is it fully maneuverable, but it reaches a top speed of fourteen knots.”

Holly smiled up at the conveyance. “However, that is not what makes it special.” She walked over to a large
wooden cabinet fitted with numerous brass dials and knobs. Taking a key from around her neck, Holly slipped it into a slot upon the panel and turned it. Instantly the great airship began to hum, the floor beneath Mary’s booted feet vibrating. And then the very skin of the airship seemed to shimmer before disappearing altogether.

“No need having Londoners see us up in the sky.” Holly gave a nod that spoke of self-satisfaction. “I would explain how the process works, but it would likely bore you to tears.”

This much was true. Shortly after joining the SOS, Mary had become friends with Holly, finding a kinship in their shared social awkwardness. And while Mary enjoyed Holly’s company, hearing her wax on in scientific terms often had Mary’s mind drifting.

“You, Mistress Evernight,” Talent said with one of his rare grins, “are bloody brilliant. Have I ever said?”

Mary could only blink in shock at his effusiveness. Holly, however, appeared accustomed to such praise from him, for she merely nodded, then added briskly, “Despite what you may think, Master Talent, flattery will not get your hands on all my toys.”

That grin stretched, and it twisted something in Mary’s chest. “We shall see, Evernight.”

“If you are through?” Mary snapped.

When they both looked at her in mild surprise, she made a vicious inward curse and modulated her voice. “There is business to attend to.” Which did not include Talent flirting with Holly. They could do that on their own time.

“Of course,” said Holly. “This way.”

In uncomfortable silence they entered a small chamber to the side. Mary braced herself for the inevitable nausea
and light-headedness, but was pleased to see that the bodies were tucked inside an alcove where Mary did not have to look at them.

Talent took it upon himself to assist, and, donning thick rubber gloves and a heavy smock, had the grim task of retrieving mechanical devices for Holly to inspect. Grudgingly Mary accepted Talent’s advice and simply waited as far away from the bodies as possible.

“Let’s see now,” said Holly, when they’d finally cleaned off poor Mr. Pierce’s gold heart. “This device is, as far as I can determine, a GIM heart.” Midnight-blue eyes, framed by thick black lashes, turned to look at Mary. “Quite elegant hardware you GIM possess, dearest.” She started to smile, but glanced at Talent, as if just remembering he was there, and a wash of pink touched her cheeks.