Shadowdance (27 page)

Moore shrugged. “Then you get to play the part of good little regulator and turn him in. Or kill him. It matters not to me.”

“If Mr. Talent loves me as you say,” and how it hurt to utter those words, “you could achieve the same result by simply threatening my life.” Mary didn’t want to give them ideas, but they had to have contemplated as much. She needed further information.

“That approach would only serve to exacerbate the situation,” said Moore. “This is quite simple. You shall either agree and talk him out of it.” Because if Mary was
lying and she did love Jack, she would do anything to save him from ruin. And Moore’s smug expression said as much. “Or,” she continued, “you solve our problem for us. Regardless, we get what we want without any culpability.”

There were threads here going far beyond Mary’s ken. Her mind raced forward. “There is still the matter that you offer no proof of Mr. Talent’s wrongdoing. You understand, I have no reason to trust your word.”

Moore rose and swept her trailing skirts out of the way. “Come with me and you shall see your proof.”

D
eep in the darkest part of the shadows, Mary stood. A light rain had begun an hour ago, only to turn into a downpour. Now, despite her thick black cloak, her skin was damp and cold. No matter. She did not move, but watched and waited. Concentrating on her breathing kept her still, and, every few minutes, lifting one and then the other foot just a fraction kept her circulation flowing and her muscles alert. She feared it would be a long wait this night. Sensible humans were tucked up in taverns, sitting out the rain by drinking and carousing. And because their prey was inside, the scum that fed on them were tucked up as well. Waiting.

It seemed everyone waited.

Water ran along her icy cheeks, beaded in her lashes, and clung to her lips. She did not move. He would not come. She knew it in her bones. It was only a matter of time and patience to prove Moore mistaken. Before her lay Trafalgar Square, abandoned save for a few industrious rats, picking away at refuse that was scattered about.
Residual light from the city cast an eerie blue-green glow along the glistening pavers and against wet brick buildings.

“Soon,” whispered Moore at her side. “Soon he will come.”

Mary quelled the urge to flee. She’d spied on Jack once before and had vowed never to do it again. Yet here she was. A twinge went through her body, and she almost turned away when she felt him. Not in a touch, but in the way the energy in the air shifted. Few would ever understand that the world was filled with frequencies of energy. Constant vibrations buffeted her spirit, and each being had a unique feel. Jack Talent’s was now more familiar to her than any.

He approached from the east, his movements slow but steady. Darkness cloaked him, and she was too far away and too hidden to see his expression. Everything in her froze as he drew nearer. Would he sense her as she did him? Scent her? However he did not look left or right, but simply moved toward Nelson’s Column.

Cold metal touched Mary’s clenched fingers, and she flinched before she realized that Moore was trying to hand her something. A small pair of binoculars. Moore’s voice was but a breath at her ear. “Watch.”

Heart cranking so slowly that her veins hurt, Mary eased the binoculars to her eyes. Talent’s face loomed large and clear. Pain and weariness lined his features. His once bright eyes were dead hollows.

Another figure moved out of the shadows and headed toward Talent. Talent’s entire frame stiffened, his expression wiped clean. The man stopped too close, his body leaning in.

Mary’s stomach clenched, her grip on the binoculars
bruising. No words were exchanged, the man merely waited, the whole of his attention on Talent. Talent hesitated, his shoulders lifting on a deep breath; then he pulled back his undone collar, exposing the tender column of his throat.

A dizzying wave of nausea hit Mary so hard that she swallowed convulsively. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He’d die before giving up his blood. But he stood still, his gaze burning into the other man. A low laugh rolled over the square, evil and smug all at once, and then the man leaned in, blocking Mary’s view of Talent’s face. But not enough for her to miss the way Talent’s body seized, or how his head fell to the side, his fist clenched and bone-white against his black topcoat.

Or the way the man embraced him, pulling him closer. Like a lover.

The Nex had held him, used and stolen that which ought to be his right to give. Why would he give more? Because he would do anything to get revenge.

The pain in Mary’s heart grew unbearable as she watched the men separate. The stranger staggered back, his eyes glassy with gluttonous satisfaction. Then he glanced down at his hands and grinned. Words were exchanged, the man’s delivered with a satisfied smile and Jack’s with an angry scowl. And then Jack walked away, his head bent as he lurched out of the square. Both men soon faded from sight. An icy wind swept over her a second later, so cutting it burned her eyes.

“Poor girl, how you shiver.” A gentle hand stroked the back of her head and warm breasts pushed against Mary’s arm. “And for a man so undeserving.”

Moore’s breath limned her skin, her taunt burning as she whispered into Mary’s ear. “No better than a whore,
really.” A soft laugh left her. “Not that I can truly condemn our man for taking what is offered. Talent’s blood is so very delicious.” Cool lips brushed Mary’s temple. “Hot from his flesh.”

Tears gathered in Mary’s eyes, distorting the shapes of the square. Later she would let them fall. But not now. “And did you take it?” She turned, and Moore’s lips were so close to her that she breathed in each exhalation. Mary did not back away. “Fresh from his flesh?”

The woman’s lashes lowered as she studied Mary’s lips. “Oh, yes. Many times.” Her mouth curled into a smile, and their bottom lips touched. “In many ways—”

Mary’s move was swift. A strangled gurgle left Moore’s lips as she jerked and lashed like a fish on a hook. Mary held her close, not letting her get away, clutching tight to the wooden stake she’d thrust under the woman’s chin. Blood bubbled from Moore’s mouth, hot splashes hitting Mary’s face. She did not let go but stared into Moore’s eyes as the light in them began to fade.

“It is too bad, really,” Mary whispered against Moore’s cheek, “that you will not be able to tell them how I shall do the same to anyone else who has touched him.” And then she punched the stake straight through the woman’s brain and let the body fall. Because Jack could not live in a world where they existed, and now, neither could she.

M
ary was still shaking as she made her way across the square. The National Gallery held the closest secret entrance to SOS headquarters that her muddled brain could remember.

She’d killed. And though she’d do it again, her soul quaked from the recoil of that violent act.

The rain died, leaving only bitter cold and an icy road beneath her feet as the gallery building loomed over her. Mary trudged onward, barely feeling her limbs move. Vengeance. She understood it. She’d craved it once too. As for his? The image of him crucified to the wall of that hellish room, his blood running in crimson rivers down his body to be collected and used. His broken and bruised body. She been the one to hold him up, desperate to relieve the strain on those iron spikes they’d driven through his flesh. She’d been the one to see his eyes, haunted and agonized, when he’d roused, when he’d realized someone was there with him. In that moment she’d known what they’d done to him, for his eyes reflected the same fear
and horror that she’d felt one dark summer night when her innocence was robbed.

Her blood curdled when she remembered what Jack Talent had endured.

A choked sound of defeat and dark humor tore from her breast. He’d die for her, but she would kill for him. For Jack Talent, a bloody bounder, rude, mercurial, amusing, loyal, and hers, whether she wanted him or not.

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

Mary gave a start as the very man she’d been thinking of appeared in front of her, as if materializing from the ether.

“Jack.”

He stared down at her, his eyes as cold as the wind, and a shiver of trepidation ran down her spine. His words had finally sunk in. She’d been watching him. He knew. And he was not happy. None of that was responsible for the fear creeping over her skin. It was menace and hate frosting over his expression. She’d never seen hate in Jack’s eyes. Nor heard it flat and lifeless in his voice.

“Jack, I realize this—”

His backhanded blow smashed into her cheek, and she tumbled to the ground, her knees slamming into the rough pavers. Her mouth worked soundlessly, bitter, thick blood welling up over her tongue and between her teeth. Black spots danced before her gaze, her gloved hands trembling as she tried to rise. He’d hit her. He’d hit her.

“Jack.” It was a whisper between blood and despair.

Pain exploded through her as his booted foot connected with her stomach. Mary flew back. Her brain jostled within her skull when she landed. A sob broke from her. She needed to get up. He’d kill her. Yet she could hardly think past the unbearable hurt of his betrayal.

And then he was there, grabbing her roughly by the front of her bodice, his long fingers digging into the flesh of her breasts. He grinned then, a horrible version of his usual one. “Say good night, Miss Mary.”

He held something in his hand, a baton or club. She could not get a good look. White-hot lightning tore through her, and her body bucked in agony. She screamed just before everything went black.

Think of nothing. Think of nothing
. It did not work. Jack’s body convulsed as he remembered the feel of Amaros’s arms wrapped tighter around him, pulling him closer. God, God. But Jack no longer believed in God. Or anything. Not when Amaros’s wet mouth had attached to his neck, sucking out great gulps of Jack’s blood. Not when he had smelled the rot of Amaros’s body and felt the bones along the man’s flank and arm.

Above him the grey rain fell over his cold skin to blend with the tears that leaked out of his burning eyes. He wanted to die.

But he would not. Because she needed to live.
Mary
. Just thinking her name sent a balm through him. Her gentle smile, that reluctant gesture that needed to be coaxed out to play. And when he saw it, it felt as though he’d received a rare gift. The way she never backed down, not from him, not from anything. Steel and silk, glowing eyes and fragrant hair. Mary. Even if she was never to be his, she was worth the sacrifice.

Amaros’s parting volley haunted him. “It was a pleasure, Jack. If ever you want another go, I’m more than happy to entertain you.”

Jack’s stomach pitched.
Mary. Think of Mary
. Amaros had what he wanted: Jack’s blood had healed him. It was
over now. But even as the square faded from sight, Jack knew it was never going to be over.

The thought had barely registered when a scream crackled through the night. He halted, his skin icing over. He didn’t understand how—he’d never even heard her scream before—but he knew it was Mary.

Terror made him clumsy as he spun around and raced back. At the foot of the fountains Mary convulsed upon the ground, whips of lightning sparking over her as she flopped about. And the form of a man, holding her down.

“No!” Jack shouted.

The devil hovering over Mary lifted his head. Jack froze. The face that stared back at him was his own. A deep voice, smooth with a slight hitch to it, floated over to him. His own voice. Taunting. “Not very careful of you,” Amaros said, “letting her follow. And who do you suppose she believed killed her?”

A roar ripped out of Jack, tearing at his throat with its intensity. “You promised to leave her alone.”

“I lied.” Amaros, now healed and strong on Jack’s blood, took his true form and a pair of black feathered wings sprouted from his back. “Come and get me then.”

Jack flew over the pavers, his feet pounding hard as Amaros simply waited. White teeth gleamed in a ghoulish grin that had Jack leaping the last few feet. He slammed into the fiend with everything he had.

The impact reverberated through his bones and rattled his skull. Both men smashed into the base of the fountain, and then Jack smashed his fist into that grinning face. Amaros laughed, blood running between his teeth, and then he attacked.

Blows rained down. White pain took hold of Jack. Blood blurred his vision. Jack’s counterattack was just as
vicious. The bones in his hand snapped from the force of his punches.

The devil got his foot under Jack and kicked him off. Jack flew back before landing on his feet. Claws extended as he snarled. He didn’t know what he’d become, only that it equaled his rage. Muscles stretched and swelled, white fur erupted over his skin. The change healing him, giving him strength.

Amaros was changing too. His body morphed into a wolf. A
were
.

Jack glanced at Mary’s prone form. She wasn’t moving. Her heart wasn’t pumping. Terror lit through him like a fuse. This needed to end now. Jack did not fully shift. Not yet. He charged as a man. Claws raked his side. Amaros grinned in victory. Bollocks to that. He grunted and then shifted in a burst of anger.

Amaros’s eyes widened as Jack loomed over him in the form of a polar bear. Good enough for Jack. His roar echoed through the square. One swat of his massive paw had Amaros flying through the air and landing with a splash in the fountain. Jack followed, his bulk fine with the wet. His massive jaws clamped onto Amaros’s neck, ready to shake the life from him. But he met with air. Growling, he swung his head, searching for his prey, but Amaros had become shadows and fog, escaping on the wind.

Jack took one lumbering step to follow, but halted. Mary. In an instant he was himself again, naked and scrambling out of the fountain.

She lay as pale as death, and so bloody still. He bit his trembling lips hard as his shaking hands traveled over her body. Nothing. Aside from the bruises on her face, there was no grievous injury, no massive blood loss. Cursing, he pressed an ear to her chest. Not a sound.

Water dripped from his hair and splattered onto her face. Viciously he tore at his skin, and when the blood welled, he pressed his gaping wrist against her mouth. She did not move. Whatever had been done to her, his blood could not fix it. She’d left him.

“Merrily.” It was a sob. He sucked in a breath, touched her hair. No, he was not bloody losing her. He hauled her up and held on tight. He needed help. And there was only one man who could provide it.