Shadowdance (2 page)

Vestal, was he? The remark hit a bit too close to home, and thus it was easy to give a curt “Good day” and leave.

When he was well clear of Lucien’s barge, however, Jack found a dank alleyway and vomited. But it did not purge the guilt and regret that burnt within him, or the sense that he’d lost something precious. But whatever he might do to remedy them ended when a shadow fell over him.

Lucien Stone leaned against the mouth of the alley, his eyes cold and dead as marble. “We have something to discuss, Mr. Talent.”

Four Years Later—London, November 1885

P
ulling the hood of her billowing black cloak farther over her head, Mary Chase wove through the mass of humanity that made up London. The November eve was crisp and clear, and her breath left in soft puffs of white. A vermilion-and-gold sky hovered above, a rarity here where fog usually held dominance over everything and everyone. Against the brilliant canopy of dusk, the dome of St. Paul’s was bleak and grey, flanked in silhouette by the cathedral’s smaller spires.

Traffic became a crush as she made her way along Ludgate Hill, reaching the circus. Omnibuses, carriages, pigs, cattle, and drays fought for space on the road, while hawkers, clerks, newsboys, homemakers, and pickpockets fought for space on the walkways. A perfect place to become lost. At least Mary hoped so. It was essential that she not be followed. Her position within the SOS depended upon stealth and secrecy.

A stew of excitement and anxiety thickened within her. She had a feeling that tonight she would finally get her chance to prove herself. For nearly two years she’d worked as assistant to Poppy Lane, otherwise known as Mother, leader of the Society for the Suppression of Supernaturals, or the SOS. But Mary wanted more. A chance to work on an actual case, to be out in the field with other regulators, agents of the SOS. For, as a certain obnoxious and arrogant regulator had been quick to point out, the ones in the field were at the forefront of danger. And although Mary was trained, she’d yet to be tested.

Mary sidestepped a group of boys hanging on the railing at the base of the Waithman obelisk and then passed a boardman advertising Collingworth’s Cigarillos for the Improvement of Asthmatical Ailments. A hollow whistle lowed, and the ground beneath her feet trembled as a great steamer rumbled over the causeway and into the station beyond. Right on time. For once.

Thick black smoke rolled down to the masses, and Mary’s mouth filled with the bitter taste of burnt coal. Using the cover of smoke, she rushed toward the overpass, and in the confusion of pedestrians hurrying along, she pulled her cloak off, quickly bunching it up. She emerged on the other side, no longer a young woman wearing a long cloak, but an old grandmother, white-haired and hunched, leaning on a cane for support. Traffic flowed around her as she hobbled along, her massive dress swaying about her small frame.
Slowly now
.

Just before the looming cathedral, Mary joined a cluster of vendors, the scents of meat pies, hot buns, and coffee making her mouth water. She slipped a bob into the hand of one crone selling muffins, then, quick as a cat, ducked behind the wide cart. In a flash she was a lean and
spry youth, her step light, her hair out of sight beneath her cap.

Mary chuffed as she skipped along, losing herself in the crowd once again before slipping into a tavern on the heels of a man doing the same. The odor of sweat, spirits, and tallow mingled. Few spoke here, and if so it was to mutter for more drink. Keeping her gaze roving, she headed for the back room. The door opened easily.

“ ’Bout time you showed,” snapped a male voice as she sat down at the small table obscured in shadows.

Mary didn’t bother with a reply. An annoyed huff followed, and the man leaned forward, moving out of the darkness. He was handsome, well formed, and well dressed. Quite lovely really. Mary scowled.

“You are foolish, Mercer, to choose that identity.” Mary didn’t know whose it was, but based on the cut of the suit Mercer wore, she gathered that the poor fellow had been wealthy. It was a tricky business for a demon to take over the life of another. Harder still when the person lived in the public sphere.

Mercer sneered. “I’ll have you know that this form gets me into more places than you’ll ever creep.” An ugly gleam lit his blue eyes. “And more beds.”

She swallowed down a shiver of disgust. How many women were lured by this false front, having no notion of what they truly bedded? “And they’ll all remember you too. Hard to miss, wearing such a fancy skin. Your vanity will see you dead one day. Which is no concern of mine.” She shrugged. “Save when you are dealing with me. You get caught, and it will be my pleasure to strip you of that skin.” The demon had been an excellent informant to her over the years, but she didn’t have to like him.

Mercer’s handsome lips twisted, and for a small
moment his irises flickered mustard yellow. “Mayhaps others will be wanting the information I have. I’m thinking I might sell to the highest—” He yelped as her knife slammed into the table with a thud.

Mercer’s gaze drifted down to the sharp point lodged between his pale fingers. Mary looked only at him. “Do you know how a GIM ties a cravat, Mercer?”

He pressed his lips together.

She leaned in a bit, picking up the noxious scent of sulfur and smoke.
Bloody foul raptor demons
. Mary’s voice was a blade in the thick air. “We make a nice, deep cut here”—she pointed toward his throat—“so that we might pull your tongue out as far as it will go before we wrap it about your neck.”

Sweat pebbled along his noble brow but his yellow eyes glared. “You gonna flap your chaps all night? Or do you want to hear what I have to say?”

Mary sat back with a pleasant smile. “Talk.”

His large hand lifted from the table. He made a show of adjusting the lapels of his stolen coat. “I gather you know the Bishop’s been busy of late.”

The so-called Bishop of Charing Cross was making quite the reputation for himself. First appearing in London in January of 1884, he’d started a sensation by leaving victims with their hearts ripped out, spines severed, and chests branded with a small cross. Their bodies were always found on the plinth of Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square where it faced Charing Cross. A few eyewitnesses—of dubious credibility—claimed to have seen a man wearing long black robes fleeing the scene.

The newsboys, being the inventive sort, had dubbed the killer the Bishop of Charing Cross on account of the
cross brand and the fact that the robes were similar to the cassocks worn by clergy.

So far he’d claimed five victims. Wealthy men, some titled, some not, all of them most thoroughly slaughtered. Only the SOS knew that the victims were, in truth, an assortment of raptor and sanguis demons. It was the duty of the SOS to both protect humans from supernatural harm and hide proof of supernatural involvement in the human world.

“We know,” she said. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

Mercer’s grin was evil and cold. “The Bishop made a wee mistake whilst doing his dirty business this last kill.”

Mary did not move, but every muscle in her body tensed. “Go on.”

Mercer paused, waiting, his expression said, for her to show a bit of good faith. Mary tapped her thigh, and the unmistakable jingle of coin rang out. Satisfied, he looked about for a moment, then leaned in close, bringing with him the scent of rotting onions and perfumed pomade. “I was there when he left his victim out in the open.”

Mary stilled. “You saw him?”

One blink.

Mary watched the demon. “Risky of you.”

“Don’t I know it, love.” He paled then. “I’m thinking if the wind were not on my side, I might not be here now to share my good fortune.”

Her heart began to whir. “He could scent you?” Most supernaturals had an elevated sense of smell, but some had a more refined sense than others.

Mercer’s long finger tapped the scarred table. “The question you ought to be asking, love, is how much does this information mean to you?”

Her smile was slow and thin. She worked it, letting him feel the menace behind it. Two years of training to be a regulator had taught her many things, especially how to wield information like a whip. “Ah, now, Mercer. I already have valuable knowledge, do I not?”

His brows lowered, and she whispered on. “Information that might slip out, carry on the wind where anyone might hear. Such as how you know the identity of the Bishop—”

“Hold your tongue!” He made to grab her hand.

Mary’s knife was under the table in an instant. She pressed the blade in deep enough for him to feel. “No, you hold. There are a lot of soft bits here that you might miss, Mercer.”

Fangs shot out as he growled. “You don’t fight fair no more, Chase.”

“More’s the pity for you.” Mary had wearied of playing it clean. It got her nowhere with the dregs she worked amongst.

“Pay me and I’ll tell you.”

She didn’t move. “If you play me false, I will find you.”

“Understood.” He raised one brow, prompting her to act. “Now hurry up, I’ve an assignation with a plump and wealthy widow.”

Mary quelled her disgust. A bag of coins hit the table.

Mercer licked his lips. “You won’t have to look far for your Bishop, love.” He grinned then, his eyes alight with cruel mischief. “He’s been right under your nose the whole time. Might even call him an SOS favorite.”

Dread pulled at Mary’s spine. “Name.”

“You know it well.” His words seemed to slow, growing more distinct, and suddenly Mary did not want to hear them. But they came regardless, ruining her evening
and instantly making her life that much worse. “Mr. Jack Talent.”

Later that night, in another part of town—

The moon hung bright over Trafalgar Square, lending the vast space a dreamlike quality in which shadows danced beneath the monuments and fountain pools gleamed with silver effervescence. A soft wind ghosted low over the pavers, kicking up dust and bits of rubbish.

The hour turned and, in the distance, Big Ben chimed. Clean, resonant notes of the Westminster quarters rolled over London, a soothing lullaby, a musical constant that had heralded life, death, and all that came between. With a steady
dong, dong, dong
, the hours rang out. As the last note faded, the night watch strolled along Charing Cross and called the hours.

“One o’clock and all is well!”

Save all was not well.

Scurrying along the dark alleyways where only the desperate or despot dared tread was a raptor demon. A foul creature who fed on misery and pain, the demon had his pick of nourishment in London. Tonight’s clear skies and crisp weather promised that plenty of London’s populace would be out and about, just waiting to be pulled into the darkness. An excellent night for hunting.

Only he was not the sole hunter out for blood. And as he followed the night-bobby, intent upon making a small meal out of the copper, death followed.

His stalker growled low in his throat, a sound so soft that the demon remained unaware. Ironic, thought the hunter, that serving up death was the only time he truly felt alive. A rage began to boil within his veins and pull
his skin tight. So tight that he barely felt the cold November air bite at his exposed cheeks. The very stink of the demon he followed made his nostrils pinch and his insides pitch. How well he knew this one’s foul stench.

The bobby stopped, perhaps feeling a thread of danger. After looking about, his handlebar mustache quivering in the breeze, he slipped into a tavern.

Thwarted, but not for long, the raptor turned down a dark corridor, and the hunter followed him. The lively song of a fiddle danced along the cobbles and on its heels came the laughter of men. They were gathered at the very end of the lane, hunched over a fire barrel. The raptor paused and smiled as if savoring the moment. The hunter savored it too, letting the hate within him grow. And then he attacked, slamming into the unsuspecting demon and dragging him into the deepest part of an alley.

Glowing yellow eyes glared back, fangs bared in a hiss. The hunter stalked forward, letting the raptor see him, take a good look at death. And the raptor’s eyes went wide, his grey skin going sickly white beneath the moonlight.

“I see you know me.” The hunter’s voice was whisper-soft and ice-cold, even while his body grew, tearing at the seams of his coat. Fangs slid over his bottom lip, and his fingertips throbbed under the weight of his long claws. The shift was always the same, taking on the form in which death would best be delivered.

A calculating gleam lit the raptor’s eyes. “Oh, yes. I’d say I know you well. Tasty blood you have, young lad.”

Raptors never were very intelligent. Like a whip, the hunter lashed out. His claws sliced into the demon’s gut and shot up, under the ribs, to grasp the hot, beating heart within. The demon screamed, his body bowing, his eyes rolling back.

Holding his prize tight, the hunter hauled his catch up close. “Say my name.”

The raptor’s bottom lip quivered. Just once before he spoke up. “Talent.”

Jack Talent gave the foul heart a squeeze. “Again.”

“Talent! Talent!” The demon writhed in his grip, unable to fight back or get away now that Jack held his heart fast.

A cool calm settled over Jack, easing the pain within him, if only for a moment, and he smiled grimly. “Wanted it to be my name on your lips when I sent you to hell.” And then he ripped the raptor’s heart out.

Washed in blood, Jack leaned down and severed the demon’s spine, and the light died in the demon’s eyes.

Peace ebbed away before the body even cooled. But Jack knew peace would never truly be his until they all died. Throwing the body over one shoulder, he made his way to Trafalgar Square.