Shadowdance (16 page)

M
ary had been the assistant to Poppy Lane for quite some time. Certainly long enough to be well acquainted with being called into Poppy’s office at odd hours on a moment’s notice. This was what Mary told herself as she gave a nod to Poppy’s secretary, Mr. Smythe, who sat just before the large iron-and-brass office door. But Mary had her doubts.

Outwardly she gave the impression of calm. Mary was known for her unflappable demeanor. She’d overhead enough SOS gossip to know that she and Poppy were often called the Stone and the Icicle. They’d had a laugh over that, fostered the image even, for theirs was a hard life and having a formidable facade was yet another layer of protection.

What worried Mary now was that inwardly she was an utter mess. Instinct told her that this meeting was not to be a friendly chat to see how Mary was getting along in her first case. Worse, Poppy Lane knew Mary well enough to see past Mary’s well-crafted social mask.

Slowly Mary turned the doorknob and went inside.

Poppy smiled when Mary entered. More trouble, Mary thought grimly. Poppy only smiled when she was about to pounce.

“Mistress Chase. Sit.” She gestured to the empty chair placed before the nice little heat stove.

Mary settled in, and Poppy moved to pour the tea. “You look a little worse for wear.”

Mary hadn’t had time to change her gown or re-coil her hair before coming to see Poppy, and she was dusty and unkempt. “I work alongside Jack Talent,” she said wryly. “We thought we’d found a suspect today, but we lost him in the train yard.”

“Pity.” Poppy handed her a cup. “Speaking of Talent. What is your impression of him?”

Calling on every bit of training she’d amassed, Mary held Poppy’s piercing gaze without flinching. “He is cagey, suspicious, quick to anger, and quite arrogant.”

“Well, yes,” said Poppy with a touch of asperity, “but we all know that much already.” She cleared her throat. “I ought to have been more specific. How do you find his handling of the case?”

Just the question Mary had feared, for suspicion lurked in Poppy’s dark eyes.

Mary’s heart worked so fast now it hurt. The compulsion to tell all was thick on her tongue. Poppy Lane was not merely her employer. She was her mentor, her friend. And what did she owe Jack Talent? He lied, perhaps murdered, he… She swallowed down a sigh. He suffered. She knew that with a bone-deep conviction.

“Mistress Chase?” Poppy prompted. “Has the cat got your tongue?”

“He has little patience for questioning.” Best to stick as
close to the truth as possible. “But he is also quite perceptive. And quite determined to catch this killer.”

Sweat trickled down her spine as Poppy studied her. “You haven’t noticed anything… unusual?”

Mary allowed herself a smile, as if her insides weren’t quaking. “I have never before had a partner, Mrs. Lane. If you want me to speak ill of him, perhaps you’d better tell me why.”

Poppy did not move, but it seemed as though her narrow frame leaned closer. “All right then. Let us cut through the muck. Jack Talent has had control of this case for far too long without his usual results. In agreeing to assign you to the case, I had hoped you might give us insight into this anomaly.”

The cold shaking within Mary grew. Poppy had wanted her to keep watch over Jack. Yet again, Mary had been maneuvered. “If you had intended for me to spy on my partner, you might have said when I began.”

“Come now, Mary,” Poppy snapped. “You and I both know you had reasons for picking this particular case. I did not bother to ask, because I trust you. But surely now you can confide in me as to what those reasons were?”

Good God, what did Poppy know? It had to be damning for her to turn against Talent. “Forgive me, mum, but Jack Talent has been more than loyal to you and yours. According to the Ranulf, he is your family.”

“Of course he is!” Poppy’s slim shoulders slumped, and she pressed her fingers to her eyes. “Last night, about an hour before Lord Darby’s ball, Mistress Evernight was abducted in front of the SOS offices.”

Mary’s hands clenched convulsively. “What can I do? How can I help?”

Grimly, Poppy bent to retrieve a strip of vellum pressed
between two sheets of paraffin paper. “This was found near the spot where Mistress Evernight was taken. I do not know if it pertains to Evernight or not, but we kept it regardless. Mr. Lane is going to have a look at it under a microscope to see if it yields any clues to its origin.”

Taking care not to damage or over-handle the note, Mary put on her gloves and peeled back the paraffin paper. “ ‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.’ ” Mary glanced up at Poppy. “My mother used to quote that verse to me.” Unfortunately, those whom Maman considered angels were not quite benevolent, winged beings.

“Bible verses,” Poppy muttered. “I do hate it when they resort to using quotes. It smacks of an overdeveloped sense of one’s own cleverness.”

Mary fought a smile. Many a criminal liked to taunt, and Poppy Lane hated taunts. Mary handed Poppy the papers. “While most attribute the quote to a basic Christian duty to be hospitable, given that we know angels are real, I wonder if this message is trying to tell us something more.”

“Mmm.” Poppy tapped her fingers upon her lap. “Do you suppose someone has entertained angels unawares?”

“Perhaps so. Or perhaps it is all nonsense. I can tell you that, to my knowledge, the Bishop of Charing Cross has never before left a message behind. Perhaps this incident is not linked to the case.”

“Perhaps.” Poppy smiled vaguely. “A bit too much ‘perhaps’ for my liking, Mistress Chase.”

“Mum, forgive me, I do not see how this involves Talent.”

But Poppy’s pale lips pursed in negation. “A witness has come forward,” she said. “She claims she saw a man greatly resembling Jack Talent grab Mistress Evernight.”

Bloody hell. The precise time Mary had been getting ready for Darby’s ball. She’d assumed Talent had been doing the same. Now she could not be sure.

Poppy took a slow sip of tea, and her hand shook. The porcelain cup landed on the saucer with a delicate clink. “No one knows of this but you and me.”

“And his accuser. Who is it, if I may ask?”

“Tottie.” Poppy tapped her nails upon her thigh. “As she is my assistant now, she came directly to me.” Poppy frowned a bit, and her tone became almost sorrowful. “Jack is not the same. Not after…” She took a bracing breath. “You must understand how it would grieve me were it true, but I cannot ignore this. So I am asking you, do you have any suspicions that Jack Talent has turned against the SOS?”

For years Mary had entertained herself with little fantasies of being the one to bring Talent down. She’d imagined herself in this very office, telling Poppy that she had finally found proof of his perfidy. Now Poppy stared at her, those keen brown eyes searching. The perfect opening. And yet Mary paused.

Despite the iron-hard will and resolve in Poppy’s countenance, there was a plea in her voice. It was well hidden and slight, but there just the same. Jack’s downfall would do more than grieve Poppy; it would devastate her and her family.

For that alone, Mary could only pray that Talent was innocent. Even though she feared he was far from it.

“I need to know,” Poppy said in a low voice. “Is Jack the Bishop of Charing Cross?”

Mary stared straight at Poppy as she consigned her honor to the devil. “I do not know, mum. But I shall find out who it is.”

He whispered through the night, black ink spilling over ebony wood. Unnoticed, unheard. But alive, so alive and waiting for the moment. The moment when he could breathe without that sick, choking feeling taking hold. His prey slithered in the darkness as well, comfortably ensconced in a stolen coach and not quite as silent, for he was too sure of himself and his role as predator, never realizing that there was a bigger predator in town now.

Jack followed along, leaping with ease from rooftop to rooftop, watching, waiting. And listening.

The woman’s laugh drifted up first, a high, tittering sound, designed, he supposed, to entice a man to continue with his attentions. “I shouldn’t, my lord.” There was a breathy little catch to her voice.

“You really should, my love. Just give me a little taste. Yes, like that.”

A moan, then grunting. Far above the rocking coach, Jack’s innards rolled. Memories threatened. Hands upon him, the laughter, the jeers. That voice:
just a little taste
. Teeth sinking in deep, and the slick tongue sliding over his flesh, sucking. Jack’s skin crawled, leaving him with the desire to rip it from his bones. Disgust, humiliation, shame. And hate. So powerful that he shook with it. Hate transmuted into rage. He held on to it, channeled it into power and control. Moving along the edges of the Pall Mall, the coach finally turned onto a smaller lane, the rider sitting straight as if he couldn’t hear the slapping of flesh against flesh. Perhaps he couldn’t, perhaps he’d grown immune.

Jack had not. Ideally he would have waited until he and his prey were alone, but not tonight. Not with those sounds filling his head. Teeth grinding, his body vibrating
with the need to maim, he jumped, landing upon the coach roof with light feet. The driver turned. One punch and the man slumped. A startled noise came from within. Jack gave them no more time. His claws tore through the roof as if it were paper. The woman inside screamed. Glimpses of her pale, bared thighs filtered through the red rage, but he had little care for her. No, it was the insect crawling away from her, desperate to flee the carriage.

Jack reached down and grabbed him, heedless of the blows the little bastard rained upon him. He hadn’t shifted. He wanted this scum to see who was going to end his life. Holding his prey secure, he leapt high, the weight in his hand making the launch awkward. His prey screamed, his flailing legs hitting the edge of the coach roof hard. A snap rang out, followed by another scream, this one of pain. Jack held fast, using the strength in his legs to jump again, a great bound that took him to the end of the lane. He dragged his catch along until they were deep in an alley where no soul would dare follow.

There he tossed his prey down. The demon scrambled, one limb twisted at an odd angle. “I’ve no quarrel with you, Bishop!” His skin was turning from human ivory to demonic grey, the stolen visage of a handsome lord melting into an ugly mug. Jack squashed down his chest with one booted foot.

“Just a taste,” Jack growled, his sight going hazy. “Isn’t that what you said?”

The demon’s wild eyes flared. “What? No! I never—”

Jack hauled him up, his claws sinking deep into the demon’s belly. “Just a taste of me! Isn’t that right, Mercer Dawn?”

Black blood trickled from Mercer’s lips. “I didn’t make it hurt. Not like the others. I could have.”

On a roar Jack raked his claws upward, gouging through the demon’s flesh, making the rotter convulse. “Do not speak!” Fangs elongated in his mouth, his body began to grow, muscles swelling, and leathery black wings once again sprang from his back.

The demon gaped with terror. “You’re no shifter. What in hell’s name are you?”

He towered now, a being over nine feet, and the surge of clean, hot power running through him was unfamiliar yet welcome. The demon dangled in his grip. One good swipe and he’d easily sever his prey’s spine. He craved that death. He would kill everyone who had ever touched him. “Revenge,” he growled.

Mercer cried now. Vile tears tinged with blood. “Please. Have mercy. I didn’t…” Yellow eyes stared up at him.

Golden-brown eyes filled his mind’s eye. Shining up at him as he bracketed her body to protect her. Jack paused. Bile coated his throat. Memories threatened. Mary Chase dancing in his arms. Taking a life. Hanging from that wall.

I liked you. When we first met
. Mary.
Hell, focus
. His claws sank deeper into the demon.

“Please,” Mercer babbled, “I’ll give you anything. Anything you want.”

Anything? Jack’s list of wants had grown. He wanted his sense of control back. Damn it, he wanted his life back. He wanted.… Jack’s body trembled as the roar built up in his chest, pushing, choking, until it burst free.

H
olly shivered and huddled closer to the rough stone walls that lined her cell. Across the way was a cell made of thick glass panels and a grid of gold bars. Inside sat a diminutive woman. Nothing by way of features to see but a pair of dark, glittering eyes that peered out from behind hanks of thick black hair. The woman had taken to bashing her head upon the bars as she recited a man’s name over and over until it became a mad song.

Holly looked away, not knowing who this man was, but rather fearing he’d be in for trouble should the woman escape, because the way she uttered his name was not kind. Those eyes were insane and made Holly feel as though her soul would be sucked away should she gaze upon them for too long.

Refusing to cry, she began to rest her head upon her raised knees, but stopped and flinched. Her face was on fire with pain, her jaw and cheek throbbing where the female guard had punched her. At the very least she had refrained from blackening Holly’s eyes.

“She needs to properly see,” her cohort had said, another woman with beautiful light-green eyes. Dead eyes. “Her hands are not to be harmed either.”

Oh, but her stomach? Her legs? They could be pummeled.

Clutching herself tighter, she rocked a little, trying to create some warmth. There were others down here. She could hear them moaning. And smell the stench of their uncollected waste.

At the sound of clattering keys, her heart leapt in terror. The lock of the far-off cellar door turned with a groan, and everyone went alarmingly silent. Footsteps rang out, a slow, horrific
click, click
. Holly dug her nails into her palms. She would not beg; she would not scream.

But the shadowy shape of a man grew closer. And then he was there before her. Watching. Waiting.

Holly lifted her head, for she knew it would only get worse if she did not acknowledge him. A shock jolted through her body. The man before her was Jack Talent. She’d heard many stories about Talent—that he was mad, soulless, a killer—but she hadn’t wanted to believe them. They stared at each other, and his eyes began to glow with a manic light.

“It is time to go to work, little girl.” Talent’s voice was not his usual one, but cold and flat.

“You’ll have to kill me, for I won’t help you.” Brave words, for even now her stomach revolted with a hard lurch that she barely kept down. She rather doubted she could withstand the torture that would inevitably come before said killing.

Talent’s teeth flashed in the light as a disjointed laugh broke from him. Then he shifted, growing and becoming
a thing of nightmares, his jaw elongating, fur erupting over his skin, claws and fangs shining in the low light. A lycan. His words came out oddly muffled as he talked with that long snout. “Properly terrifying?”

Mutely she shook her head, not to disagree but in terror.

He laughed again. “Not to worry. I won’t hurt you.” He turned his misshapen head in the direction of the other cells. “I’ll just let you watch as I tear them apart. Perhaps I’ll start with the proud Lord Darby.” He gestured to the shifter who had been brought in the morning after she’d arrived in this hell. The poor golden-haired fellow strained against the iron chains punched through his shoulders and looped around his body. Embedded deep in the stone wall, those chains held fast no matter how much he struggled. Blood poured through the shifter’s open wounds, and Talent leaned down to lap one rivulet up with his tongue as the shifter roared behind the gag in his mouth.

This time she could not restrain herself. Holly turned and retched, the acrid burn of vomit scorching her throat and nostrils as Talent laughed. “Ever had a taste of shifter blood? No? It is quite delicious. And potent.” He paused, his brow furrowing as if he pondered the effect. Then his frown grew. “But not as powerful as this, I think.”

In his hand he held a glass vial filled with blood. It ought to have repulsed her, but there was a glow to the deep-ruby liquid, a richness of color that held her in thrall until she blinked hard. Talent turned to address one of the thugs in the room with them. “Help yourself to Darby, and then take his place quickly.” He laughed. “We shall need to keep the SOS distracted for a while yet. Then you may do what you want to the agents guarding him.

“As for you, Miss Evernight,” he said to her. “We’ll get you cleaned up and ready to work.”

Holly’s limbs trembled as she rose. God forgive her, because she was going to do as she was told.

Spying on a supernatural was a tricky business. In general, most could not see a GIM in spirit form. Save for the lycans. The wolf in them could see spirits. However, strengths and weaknesses were as varied as people. Mary knew of some lycans so out of touch with their inner wolf that her spirit could dance naked in front of them and they wouldn’t bat an eye. Demons, on the whole, were too obsessed with the flesh to see the spirit, and elementals were too human, which meant they didn’t trust what was not corporeal. Then there were the shifters. Despite what many believed, shifters were not animals hiding in human skins. True, they might shift into an animal, but that was through force of will. It was not setting an animal free, as lycans did. No, shifters were more demon than anything else. Thus trailing a shifter ought to be an easy business. But Jack Talent was an unknown threat. Because getting caught by him would not only be disastrous and humiliating; if certain facts were to be believed, it could get her killed.

The very idea of Talent being the Bishop made her ill to the core. Was he a killer? Who was it they’d chased earlier? It occurred to Mary, rather belatedly, that Talent had been alone with the strange man for enough time to converse, and yet he hadn’t made mention of any revelations. Perhaps Talent was working with this man.

Mary did not know what to think. She had, however, seen the worry in Talent’s dark-green eyes when he had realized that she’d be working alongside him. Just a flash
of it before he’d smothered it away. And Mary now wondered, was it because he had intended to sabotage the case from the inside? Had he taken Holly because she’d discovered something about the clockwork hearts?

Damn it, but this was Jack Talent, the man utterly loyal to Ian Ranulf, the man who had risked his life to help Poppy and Winston Lane. Talent lived and breathed the SOS. Since he’d joined up, no other regulator had solved more cases than he. She ought to know, as she’d been the one tasked to record every regulator victory.

Divergent thoughts muddled Mary’s mind as she trudged back to her flat. Once there, she hid her body within the secret compartment specifically designed for the task, and went on the hunt.

Outside, Mary spread her spirit wide, losing all sense of shape. In spirit form she could be vast. It was a strange experience, to let go of one’s physical form. Even as a spirit, one tended to need that connection to life. Letting go took great faith in the knowledge that, no matter what the form, the essence of oneself was not in the physical but in the spiritual. And so Mary dissipated, melding with the fog that hung in the night air. Odd as it felt, odder still was the lingering feeling of having a heart, having lungs. Those organs she’d left behind, and yet it seemed as though her breath came on fast and her heart whirred within her breast. Mind was not matter, but will. And it did not easily give up the sensation of being flesh.

In the blue of twilight, the city’s souls were a map of stars laid out over London, so profuse that it took effort to sort out each individual. Oh, but it was the worst sort of invasion, looking at the light of a person’s soul. As a GIM, Mary could see every soul’s light, but she’d been
trained to turn that power off until necessary, for it was too personal a thing. Necessity trumped manners tonight. It was the light of Talent’s soul that Mary sought. Having connected to him before, she need only relax and let the link join them once more. Talent, she thought.
Jack
.

A recognizable vibration brushed up against her, the touch of his soul to hers. Far below, a gleaming, silver-blue light emanated from his form. Gone was the sickly mustard-yellow of pain that had tainted it when she’d tracked him down years ago. His physical pain might be gone, but his inner turmoil was strong, a brilliant flame fragmenting like sunlight hitting the edge of a diamond.

Like a bird of prey, she swooped down low, following the glow of his soul toward Portman Square, then onto Baker Street. Once there she stopped and gazed up at the town house in which Talent’s soul lay. The house was quite lovely, a stately Georgian, with a front colonnade, black brick facade, and cream trim. Almost all the windows were dark, save for a lonely light coming from the third floor.

Mary drifted close to the house, where the sharp scent of coal smoke mingled with the crisp cold night. Was this his home? Another victim’s? What was Talent doing now? To go inside was a must. Even so, the urge to stay outside was strong. Cursing inwardly, Mary went through the keyhole, as unnerving an experience as any.

She did not linger in the dark halls—nothing alive was on the ground floor. What she did see, however, were fine furnishings, if somewhat sparse. The house felt unused and forlorn. Beneath the emptiness, however, a glimmer of Jack Talent hummed. Faint echoes of his essence ran from the door and up the stairs, as if he frequently took
this path, never lingering in the public rooms but always going into the private areas of the house. Mary followed the trail. Too soon, the door from which the sole light shone was before her.

Had she a heart, it would have been working at top speed. She had to enter, had to believe that he would not see her. Had to believe that he was innocent. Only one way to find out.

The room was a bedroom. A sense of familiarity struck her, as if she’d been here before. Then she realized that it was filled with Talent’s furniture from his old room at Ranulf House. The sound of water tinkling caught her attention. Rising into the upper reaches of the ceiling, Mary drifted with caution. Most people never looked up. Certainly not in their own homes. But then, Jack Talent was not most people.

All thought ended as she entered the bathing room and found him. Happy Christmas, but he was a sight. One that had her spirit swelling, then tightening, with a surge of emotion. Hunched before the washbasin, Talent’s bare back was to her. She’d never given much thought to the aesthetic qualities of the male back. Perhaps because she hadn’t seen a truly beautiful one in the flesh until now, and thus hadn’t had a chance to appreciate how elegant the lines could be.

The mellow glow of lamplight caressed Talent’s smooth skin, highlighting the clean symmetry of his broad, straight shoulders and the tight slabs of muscled flesh that flanked the valley of his spine. Pale linen drawers hung loosely on his narrow hips, low enough to expose where his spine met the indented globes of his arse. Happy Christmas, indeed.

Talent ought to look vulnerable, undressed as he was.
In all their years of acquaintance, she’d never seen him in anything less than full and proper attire. She did not count the dark day when she’d found him hanging nude and bloodied in that torture chamber. Honor demanded that she keep that image separate from the man she knew as Jack Talent. It had been merely a tormented body, not him, not his soul. Now the impact of seeing him struck her like a fist. The corded strength of his neck and the tight swells of his shoulders alone could hold her in thrall.

His reflection in the tall vanity mirror was clear, and the front of him was as glorious as the back. His naked chest was brutish in its musculature. Flat, wide pectorals, small brown nipples, abdominals like tightly packed cobbles, and smooth, taut skin. The image of it all burned into her memory with just one glance. Dear God. It should not affect her so, his animalistic strength. She’d never favored such physiques, and yet her attention was riveted.

She ought to go. Talent was merely undressing. Nothing untoward. Unless she counted her own actions. Guilt swamped her. This was unconscionable. She really ought to…

He dipped a hand into the basin, swirling the water with his fingers, and the network of muscles along his torso rippled, a breathtaking display of power in motion.

She found herself sinking down, her spirit reforming into the shape of her physical body as her defenses weakened. She wasn’t flesh, she ought not feel a thing, yet unbearable heat flooded her being.

His fingers swayed back and forth, a meditative movement, as he stared at the water, his expression somber and
his big, strong body stooped forward. Atlas holding up the world.

It hurt to witness. More so when he stopped and looked at himself in the mirror. And kept looking, as if he couldn’t quite recognize his reflection. Or perhaps he didn’t like what he saw.

It was that lost, almost hopeless darkness in his eyes that made her want to go to him, despite the numerous rejections he’d volleyed her way over the years, and despite the very real possibility that, if she did, he’d be furious. But he wouldn’t see her at any rate. She was invisible to him. Sorrow held her there, heavy and painful. She ought to go. She couldn’t leave.

The pure, tinkling notes of dripping water broke the silence as he lifted a rag to his chest and began to wipe it. The movements were perfunctory, a swipe up his neck and down the other side, the hard scrub under his arms, then over his chest and stomach.