Shadowdance (15 page)

Mary wasn’t so ignorant as not to know that a man might have a cockstand merely because he was in close contact with a woman. It did not stop the empty space between her legs from growing warm, or a soft, insistent throb from developing there. The sensation was so unexpected, so unfamiliar to her, that Mary didn’t know what to do with herself. For lack of a better place to go, her hands settled on the sides of his trim waist, and a tremor lit through him. She let her hands fall, but it didn’t seem to help. Every dull thud of his heart reverberated through her.

So closely pressed, they had to adjust their breathing. With each exhale Talent made, so must she inhale. Back and forth, in and out. Sharing the same air, building a soft, slow rhythm. She had no escape, nowhere to look but at him, into his eyes. His gaze was unwavering, studying
her as though he saw her soul. And perhaps he could, for she felt splayed open. His mouth was a word away, close enough to feel every breath he took.

Deep within her a shiver began, and her neck ached with the urge to cant her head, tilt her chin just so until his mouth fit to hers. Dear God, she wanted to kiss Jack Talent. Perhaps he saw the knowledge dawn in her eyes, for his gaze narrowed, his breath coming faster.

“Christ, Chase, close your eyes or something.” As if leading by example, he closed his own, turning his head slightly.

It was a two-shot knockdown to her heart, and her breath hitched, the action pressing her farther into him. A strangled sound wrenched from deep within his chest.

“Why?” she managed to ask.

His throat moved on an audible swallow. “Because the sight of you is causing me pain. And even if I do not look, I can feel your gaze on me.” The confession was raw, agonized, and angry.

It destroyed what was left of her pride. Mary closed her eyes. It hurt to look at him too. His head moved an inch, bringing his cheek flush with hers, and the stubble of his beard scratched her skin. She squeezed her eyes tight, fighting to ignore the feel of him, and his earthy scent made her mind a muddle.

“Admit it,” he whispered wryly. “I am the last person you’d want pressed into you in this manner.”

She stilled. Was he? Rocks gouged her from head to foot. A particularly sharp one had her shoulder blade screeching for relief. Nothing was comfortable about the situation. And yet where his hips ground against hers had grown unbearably hot. She wanted to move, if only to grind back. Her cheeks flared with the knowledge.

Good God, would those blasted men ever leave? She could not breathe anymore. She needed out. Her chest sawed as she tried to get more air. But there was only Talent, surrounding her, making her think things she shouldn’t.

He did not miss her distress. A ragged sound broke from his lips, and he adjusted his position, the action making her squeak.

“Toss it, I’m going to shift,” he said against her skin. “It will be sudden, and hopefully it will knock the car clear of those chatterboxes.” His breath tickled her ear. “The moment I do, run. Don’t look back. Run all the way home.”

“I am not going to run away. I can help you.” She wanted to run, but she couldn’t leave him.

She felt him smile against her. “I am going to be quite nude when I shift back.” He paused. A beat that pulsed through her. “Do you truly want to be around when that occurs?” He was laughing at himself.

But she couldn’t. Not when the very image filled her with disquiet. How horrible, when he couldn’t even look at her. “No,” she admitted. “I’ll go.”

“Good thinking. Besides, I’m running too. I will see you again tomorrow, little fritter.”

Something soft brushed her cheek. His lips. It was so light and fleeting she couldn’t be sure if he’d truly kissed her or simply moved his head. And then she couldn’t think at all.

A violent swirl of energy and movement licked over her, disturbing the air. A hard limb struck her elbow, another her knee, and Talent was a blur above her. Then the freight car was flying to the side. Cool air hit her face as men shouted. Mary leapt to her feet, running despite
the screaming pain in her limbs from the sudden action. She dashed over the tracks as cries rang out. Only when she was nearly clear did she look back. And a laugh burst from her as she saw one man faint and a great black horse race across the yard.

D
arkness greeted Jack when he returned home. He lived alone now. Ian, that thickheaded, stubborn Scot, had insisted that Jack was his heir apparent. As such, Jack was entitled to a third of the vast Ranulf fortune. When Jack had tried to return the funds, Ian flatly told him to “either take it or throw it into the Thames, but give another word of protest and I’ll stuff it down your bloody throat.”

So Jack bought himself a modest home and let Ian’s man of business take care of the rest.

He had more than enough money to employ a full staff, but it felt wrong. He wasn’t a lord, or even upper-crust gentry. Acting the part wouldn’t make it so. He had a housekeeper come round to clean and launder, and see that his pantry was stocked, but that was the extent of it. Hell, he’d been a valet long enough to look after his own wardrobe, and he could cook when needed.

He was grateful for the solitude as he stood in the cold, dim hallway with the memory of his discussion in the rail
yard playing in his head, and with it came temptation. To find his tormentors. To end it all.

Bare-arsed naked and shivering from the cold, he made his way up the stairs and into his room. But just at the threshold, he tensed and paused. Every muscle in his body quivered as he inched his way in, claws extended and at the ready. Stupid that he’d come this far into his home without taking proper precautions. And fucking miserable that he still worried about being ambushed.

Nothing stirred. No scent of something off. He was safe. Relatively.

Jack bolted the door to his room, then made his way to the bathing chamber. Heedless of the cold porcelain, he sat his bare arse in the tub and let the water fill up around him. The rush of water and the still hollowness of the bathing room calmed him as he stared up at the medallion on the ceiling. He’d lit one lamp, and a golden halo of light kept the shadows at bay. But it was too quiet. He used to love silence. Now it only allowed thoughts to creep in.

Hot water lapped at his chest, stroking his skin like a tongue. Jack’s throat constricted on a gag, and he lurched up, grabbed the soap, and scrubbed it over his flesh. Lather foamed, his skin stinging as he used his nails. And still a sticky film of muck seemed to cover his skin, sinking into his guts and churning them.

They were out there. And Jack could have their names. If he wanted them.

“No. Let it go.” It was too dangerous to go out now. And he’d have to face
her
. With blood on his hands. He rocked in the tub, need and vengeance crawling through him. “Let it go.”

Scrubbing, scrubbing. Not enough. The soap dissolved, and his fingers swept over his skin like a caress.
Sly caresses, hard hits. He never knew how they would touch him next
. A sob broke from him. He sank beneath the water, and it folded over him and burned his eyes. His world was silent and warm. Suffocating. A second later he burst from the watery womb on a snarl, his body trembling and tight.

They were out there. And Jack could not live while they did.

By the time Mary limped home, the sun was close to setting. She was bruised, battered, and exhausted. Nothing else mattered save stripping off her dirty clothes and sinking into a hot bath with a cup of tea and a good book to keep her company. Decadent. And necessary. Limbs aching, she climbed the steps that led into her building, only to stop when a cloaked figure stepped in front of her.

In an instant Mary had one knife pinned to her visitor’s throat and the other poised to sink into the person’s gut.

A breathless feminine laugh filled the cold air. “Bleeding hell, Mary,” said Tottie. “I thought you were more hospitable than this.”

Mary studied the GIM’s eyes and listened for the telltale sound of her whirring heart. Satisfied that it was truly Tottie, she slipped her knives back into their hidden wrist holsters and moved back. “One cannot afford hospitality in our line of work, Tot. Something you ought to know.”

Tottie gave a curt nod. “It was careless of me.” She scanned the area around them, taking in the shadows that grew along the stairwells and fenced front walks. “Especially now.”

Mary’s back tensed, a trickle of forewarning creeping along her spine with cold feet. “Has there been another murder?”

“Can’t be telling you what I don’t know.” Tottie gave a brusque shake of her head, her GIM eyes going cold and worried. “Director Lane wants to see you immediately.”

There were moments when Jack wondered how he got out of bed. He knew why, however. In bed, he’d sleep. With sleep came dreams. Rather, memories. Because before—and he always thought of life in terms of Before and After the torture—Jack had not had the imagination required to think up such horrors. Early on, in those dark days of raw healing, he’d tried an opiate to sleep. Instead of giving him welcome insensibility, it made his dreams more vivid: the hands holding him down felt real, as did the sick pain. He woke screaming. And couldn’t seem to stop. Best to sleep as little as possible.

Tonight, however, there was no need to sleep. The devil’s offer lay heavy on his shoulders. Tonight, lying in wait was a list of names. Not the ones who’d merely stolen his blood. But the others. The pain and rage brought forth by seeing that bastard today had only made things worse.

In the grey shades of night, Jack wove around muck-filled puddles as he made his way down Bishop’s Bridge Road. All was quiet, still in that small slice of time when the great city slept. Such a small rest London gave itself. But when it did, the world seemed to stop. The soft hiss of rain filled the echoing void around him. Raindrops pelted his face and tasted bitter as they trickled over his lips. He walked on ghost feet, keeping to the shadows like a slinking cat.

Ahead, Paddington Station sat waiting for him, its ubiquitous Greek revival architecture giving no hint of the splendor that lay within. Jack made quick work of getting there. Once inside he stopped, rubbed a hand over his
wet face, and raked his fingers through his dripping hair. The enormous space soared above him, a lofty latticework of iron and glittering glass, stretching out in three great arching spans. He felt at once tiny yet infinite, comforted yet free. So still in here. So very still. The steady tap of rain upon the vaulted glass roof merely highlighted the quiet. A man could let go of his tension in such a space.

Slowly he walked, the vastness surrounding him. Jack loved rail stations. Cathedrals to transit, they offered a chance for escape. Stopping before tracks that pointed the way out of London, Jack took a deep breath, tasting the coal and the metallic bite of brake dust.

In a few hours, trains would arrive. He could go. Leave everything and everyone. He let himself imagine it, climbing into a car, the gentle rock and sway of the carriage as it sped out of the city. No one would know who he was, what had happened to him.

Heat and pressure prickled behind his lids, and he swallowed convulsively. A man could run, but he couldn’t hide from himself.

With a heavy tread, he found the advert panel, promising smooth and youthful skin. A plump, rosy-cheeked tot having a bath smiled down at him as he slid his hand along the wood frame and lifted the hidden latch. The smooth coolness of paper touched his fingertips, and he grasped it, even as his entire body recoiled at the idea. A year ago, even a few nights ago, he would not have hesitated, so great was his rage, his need. Now luminous brown eyes, the precise color of topaz backlit by the sun, hovered in his mind’s eye.

Chase’s condemnation would be the swiftest, the most foul. Others, the ones who loved him, would be more hurt, but the mere thought of facing her disappointment sent
a wave of disgust through his flesh. Shame was a sticky tar that coated and burned. Jack gritted his teeth against the sensation and closed his eyes against the sight of the small square of paper he held between his fingertips. He kept his eyes closed as he pocketed the missive. And he squeezed them tighter still as he reached inside his greatcoat and pulled out the vial of blood within.

His hand shook, his shame growing thicker, hotter.
Do not do this
. Regret and despair rolled down his throat like slime. His hand shook harder, sweat pebbling his brow. Hissing a breath out between his teeth, he shoved the vial into the hidden compartment. Another two breaths and he was staggering to the nearest rubbish bin. His evening meal came up in a violent wave. Empty and battered, he slid to the floor, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand.

The flutter of the doves among the iron rafters and a distant whistle told him it was time to go. But he stayed a moment longer, pulling out the paper. The first name leapt from the page: Mercer Dawn.

Mercer
. A shudder went though Jack. He remembered.
“Mercer, finish off, will you? There’s others who have need.” “Just one more taste.” Gleaming yellow eyes looking him over, cold hands on his fevered skin. “Such tasty blood, he has.”

Relief and despair mingled. Jack now had the means to kill those who had hurt him. But deep in his heart, he feared that was not what would heal him.