Shadowdance (3 page)

Not a soul stirred as he came upon Nelson’s Column. There he would leave the body, just as he had all the others. But as he moved closer, and the moonlight illuminated the spot before the plinth, his breath stopped and his blood stilled. A body already lay there.

I
t was inevitable that Jack be called into headquarters. The Bishop of Charing Cross had struck the night before. Murder was nothing new in London. Strange ones of a public nature, however, were another matter. Jack had been the regulator in charge of this particular case for a year now, a blight on his otherwise stellar record. This time a shifter had been murdered. As one of five—make that four now—known shifters living in London, he took it personally. Having intimate knowledge of certain facts, Jack was also unnerved by this new murder. Deeply. And he wanted answers.

Cool shadows slid over him as he strode down the long, echoing corridor that led from the SOS common rooms to the main meeting area. Headquarters was full of regulators updating their intelligence before going out. He did not like being around them, or anyone. Not that he had to worry on that account. The others steered clear of him, their eyes averted and their bodies tense. Fear he could handle, hell welcome, but pity?

One younger agent lowered her lashes when he passed, and a growl rumbled in his throat. She started and hurried off. Rightly so. No telling what sort of beast would break free should he lose his temper. Not even he knew. That was the way of a shifter, not owned by a single monster but possessed by all. He was everything, and he was nothing in particular. In truth, being a regulator was the only certain and good thing in Jack’s life.

At the end of the black marble hall, a guard stood beside a massive steel door. He saw Jack coming and swiftly opened it.

“Master Talent,” said the guard, “they are waiting for you.”

He was precisely on time and the director was already waiting? And what did the guard mean by “they”? His meeting was to be with the director. Who the bloody devil would be here—

Her scent slammed into him like a punch. And what little equanimity he’d maintained flew out the door. Oh, no, no, no… they wouldn’t dare. He eyed the inner wood door that blocked him from the meeting room. She was in there.

His muscles clenched tight as he forced himself to enter.

“Ah, Master Talent,” said Director Wilde from the head of the table. “Right on time. Excellent. Let us proceed.” His clipped voice was unusually animated, as if he knew Jack’s displeasure at the unexpected third person in the room and reveled in it. Which wouldn’t be surprising. Wilde loved to keep regulators on their toes.

Jack heard every word, but his gaze moved past the director and locked on her. Mary Chase sat at Wilde’s right, serene and ethereal as ever. Her face was a perfect replica of Botticelli’s Venus, and her body… no, he
wouldn’t think about that. It was one rule he refused to break. He never, ever, thought too long on Mary Chase.

Mary Chase would have liked to think that, after years of being on the receiving end of Jack Talent’s hateful glare, she’d be immune to it by now. Unfortunately it still worked through her flesh like a lure, hooking in tight and tugging at something deep within her. One look and she wanted to jump from her chair and hit him. However, knowing that he found her presence bothersome gave her some small satisfaction.

He stood in the doorway, filling it up, poised for a fight like an avenging angel of Old Testament wrath. Over the last year Talent had reached his physical prime, shooting up well past an already impressive six feet, and adding what looked like twenty pounds of hard-packed muscle to his frame. It was as if nature had given him the outer shell he needed to protect himself from all comers. The change was unnerving, as the man had been intimidating enough before, mainly due to the sheer strength of his stubborn will.

With a sullen pout, Talent dropped his large body into the chair opposite her. She suspected that he sought to convey his displeasure, but the blasted man was too naturally coordinated, and the move ended up appearing effortless. “Director Wilde.”

Talent turned back to Mary again. His rough-hewn features might have been carved from stone. “Mistress Chase.”

Oh, but the way he said her name, all oil and flame, as if it burned him to utter it.

Mary dug a fingernail into her palm and modulated her voice. “Mr. Talent.”

He paused for a moment, his brows raising a touch in reproach. She’d been childish in not giving him the proper form of address, but some things burned for her too.

His quick, irrepressible smirk said he knew as much. “Master,” he reminded her.

He loved that she had to call him master. In their first year in training, he’d taken every opportunity to make her use the official title for all male regulators. Their gazes held, and heat rose to her cheeks. Thank God she hadn’t the complexion to blush or he’d be all over her. “Master Talent,” she ground out.

His annoying smirk deepened, and her nails dug deeper into the flesh of her palms. One day…

“Now that we have our forms of address clear,” cut in Wilde, “might we proceed with the actual investigation? Or shall we continue with this little pissing contest?”

“Pray continue. If Chase can manage to refrain from straying off track, that is.” Talent adjusted his broad shoulders in the chair and crossed one leg over the other.

Never react
. She turned her gaze upon the director. “I was ready to hear the facts of the case twenty minutes ago, Director.”

Talent bristled, and she let a small smile escape. He bristled further, but Director Wilde ploughed ahead.

“Good.” Setting his hands upon the polished mahogany table, Director Wilde proceeded to give them the facts. Mary had already memorized them, and so she let the director’s words drift over her as she studied Talent. The man was good, his strong, blunt features not revealing any hint that he might have personal knowledge of the Bishop of Charing Cross’s most recent kill.

One powerful arm rested upon the table, and the fabric of his plain black suit coat bunched along the large swell
of his bicep. Talent did not so much as twitch when the director set down a photograph of the last victim.

“Mr. Keating of Park Place,” said Director Wilde. “As with the other murders, he has been branded with the Bishop’s cross. The sole difference in this victim is that, while the others were demons, this man was a shifter, and by all accounts a law-abiding citizen of London.”

Mary glanced at the photo, featuring a young man stripped naked. The cross branding his chest was a raw, ugly wound, but it was his eyes, wide and staring, that made her clockwork heart hurt. It was the expression of an innocent man pleading for mercy.

Talent looked as well. And when he did, she watched him. The ends of his brows lifted a fraction, and she was inclined to believe that he was surprised. Then again, he had always been a fine actor. In the beginning of his association with the SOS, Talent had made a name for himself by successfully tricking a powerful primus demon into believing he was Poppy Lane. Of course being able to shift to look exactly like Poppy had been part of it, but it was his mimicking of her character to the letter that had made the difference between success and catastrophe.

How could a man who had nearly died defending others be a murderer? But Mary feared she understood all too well. Although he was arrogant, obnoxious, and a general ass, he’d survived an ordeal that would break most men. Was he irrevocably broken?

“Do you recognize the victim, Master Talent?”

Wilde’s query had Mary focusing once more.

Talent’s heavily lidded eyes lifted from the photograph. “Shifters by nature are a solitary lot. No, I did not know Mr. Keating.” His long fingers curled into a fist upon the
table. “I was under the impression that the SOS kept the identity of shifters secret.”

The director’s mouth tightened. “We do. There is no indication that the files have been breached.”

Talent made a noise that might have been construed as a snort, but it was just soft enough to get by Wilde without earning any reproach. For once, however, Mary agreed with Talent’s sentiment.

After researching long into the night, Mary had learned that, in the last hundred years, the SOS had made a concerted effort to locate and document the existence of all shifters living in Europe. A daunting task. However, when the Nex began hunting shifters for their blood—whose properties gave demons the ability to shift into anything—the SOS, realizing its mistake in outing shifters, provided as much protection as it could by offering them new identities and keeping their whereabouts hidden. But it was a constant battle, for the Nex, an organization dedicated to seeing supernaturals rule the world over humans, was resourceful and ruthless.

Talent leaned forward a fraction. “Who was Keating? Before?”

“Johannes Maxum.” Wilde pulled a paper from his file and handed it to Talent. “He’s an older shifter. Date of birth unknown, but he once worked as an alchemist for Augustus the Strong in the quest to discover the Chinese’s secret to making porcelain.”

Talent scanned the page, then set it down. Protocol dictated that he hand the paper to Mary, and she might have been insulted at his obvious slight, had she not been expecting it. No matter, she’d read about Maxum as well. Besides, Talent’s juvenile tactics would not cow her.

In any event, Director Wilde was now looking at both of them. “Research has been instructed to provide any and all assistance you might require.”

“Thank you, Director,” Mary said. “We shall keep you informed as the case proceeds.”

Talent’s jaw snapped up as if he’d been punched. “We?”

The force of his inner agitation was a maelstrom creaking against the walls. Any moment now it would break. Mary remained calm. “We are to be partners now, Master Talent. Or haven’t you been paying attention?”
And I will stick to you like a barnacle until I find out the truth
.

The small vein at his temple pulsed. “I work alone. Always have.”

Wilde laid a hand over the file. “There is a time to every purpose under the heaven, Master Talent. Which includes knowing when to receive help.” The steely look in the director’s eyes made it clear that Talent would find no leeway should he protest.

The sound of Talent’s teeth grinding filled the room. “I was under the impression Mistress Chase was here in a clerical capacity.”

“You hoped,” Mary corrected. “Otherwise, I have grave concerns regarding your propensity for jumping to conclusions.”

Talent leaned his weight on the table as his gaze bore into her. “Keep baiting me, Chase, and you’ll find out what else I have a propensity for.”

She leaned in as well, until they faced each other like dogs in a pit ring. “I am quaking in my knickers.”

“There you go, mentioning your knickers.” His mouth slanted, and his eyes gleamed dark green. “What I cannot discern is if you only do so to me, or if you want the whole of the SOS to be thinking about them.”

“Why Master Talent, are you trying to tell me that you think about my knickers?”

His lips pinched so tight that she had to bite back a grin. A low growl rumbled from the vicinity of his chest.

“Children.” Director Wilde’s expression was stern, but his eyes held a glint of amusement. “The discussion is over. You will work together on this.” His good humor fled. “And you will not fail the SOS. Now”—he motioned to the door with his chin—“take your squabble out of here. Perhaps you can pull Mistress Chase’s braids in the common room, Master Talent.”

On the outside Mary knew she appeared serene as she left the meeting room. On the inside, however, she quivered in anticipation. For years she and Talent had detested each other. He treated her as if she were some low, conniving wretch. Solely because she was a GIM.
Lousy, arrogant bounder
.

The outer hall was cool and quiet. A calm before the inevitable storm. And that storm was right on her heels. Although, in truth, Jack Talent reminded her more of a panther, all dark and brooding, his powerful body so still when at rest, yet capable of instant, violent action.

Mary headed down the corridor, knowing that, while he made no sound, Talent stalked her. The skin at the back of her neck prickled, and her heart whirred away within her breast. With his shifter’s senses, he’d hear her spinning heart, she was sure.
Oh, yes, come and get me, and we shall see how well you dance around the truth now, Jack Talent
. It was torture not to quicken her step or turn around.

By the time she reached the shadowed corner that led to another section of headquarters, her breast was rising and falling in agitation. Damn him.

And damn her too, for some small, traitorous part of her liked the chase, reveled in it. Gripping her weapon, she waited until his heavy hand fell upon her shoulder, and then she spun.

He grunted as they both hit the wall. The hard expanse of his chest barely gave under her weight as she pressed against him. For a moment they both panted, then his gaze lowered to the knife she had at his throat.

She had expected his rage, but not his grin, that wide, brilliant grin that lit up his dour features and did strange things to her equilibrium. His cheeky smile grew as he spoke. “Pulling iron on me, Chase? How bloodthirsty.” His hot breath fanned her cheeks. “I knew you had it in you.”