Shadowdance (24 page)

He responded with a low groan, his tongue delving deeper, sliding and coaxing. And she ignited. Her chin bumped his in her greedy haste to kiss him. Mary twined her tongue with his, learning his taste, loving the way he trembled under her touch, and he surged against her, all desperation and heat.
I want you. How I want you
. He’d been her enemy, teased and taunted her, made her blind with rage. And he kissed her as if she were the only thing in existence. As if she
were
his existence. And it was perfect.

Her world tilted, and then she was sinking onto the cold, hard floor. His warm, dense chest pressed against her, and his hot, clever mouth fed upon hers. She was dizzy again, her whole body trembling, her breath too short. Her breasts ached, and her skin burned. She could do nothing more than hold on to him as her old world crumbled about her.

“Jack.” She needed more.

His hand was at her hip, the other one under her head, holding her to him. The lines of his face were severe, almost harsh in the blue shadows. The look in his eyes was pained. “I want you.” His lips shaped the words against her. “But I need you more.”

Blind need had her clawing at his shoulders, holding him as if he’d pull away. Her hands grasped his short, shorn locks, then lost purchase as he kissed his way along her check, down to the tender juncture of her shoulder.

Something in him must have eased a bit, for he suddenly gentled. Soft lips pressed against her skin, scattering shivers down her spine. His breath gusted warm and
humid into the well of her neck. “Slowly,” he said as if speaking to himself. “I can go slowly.”

He leaned against her, his fingers opening and closing on her hip as if he fought with the impulse to let her go. “You deserve slow care.” Another shudder wracked him. “
We
deserve it.”

Mary wound her arms about his back and held him. “Slow, fast, as long as it is with you, Jack.” She’d never given proper voice to it, but the words were out, and she knew the truth. For better or worse, Jack Talent was the only man she’d ever wanted. And she feared that he was the only man she’d ever want again.

He lifted his head, his eyes dark and glittering. He studied her for a brief moment, and then he kissed her. It was no longer frantic, but something altogether different. Something
more
. The tender claim behind it was a kick to her heart, and some small part of her feared it would stop altogether if he were to leave her just then. But he didn’t. He merely kissed her again. It was no introduction, this kiss. He was telling her something new, something she couldn’t quite understand. But she felt it.

“It was always you, Mary,” he said. “From the moment we met, it was you.”

K
issing Mary Chase. Mary Chase beneath him, soft, fragrant, and pliant. In his arms. How had it happened? Jack’s head reeled, and his thoughts scattered. It might have been a dream. But no. His dreams of her had never felt this good. Her taste was not light and sweet as he’d imagined, but dark and smoky, rich and complex. She was whisky and chocolate. Goddamn but he shook like a lad as he tucked her lithe body close and kissed her gorgeous, luscious mouth.

That she’d wanted his kiss, when she hadn’t wanted any other, lit him with joy and lust until he scarcely functioned. She had no idea what it meant to him. For the truth was, he’d only kissed one other woman in his life, and she’d been paid by Ian to do it. Ian, who had declared that all men needed to be taught how to please women, and that a good tup would set him to rights. While Jack had enjoyed his lesson, it had never felt right, knowing that his partner had been bought and paid for. Then he’d met Mary. And he hadn’t wanted any other.

Mary. She was his flavor, the only taste he wanted to indulge. His body was heavy and tender. Pleasure washed over him in a hot, rolling wave as he feasted on her mouth, slowly. So slowly that he ached. Sweat bloomed on his skin, making him shiver again. His fingertips glided along her fragile jaw as he licked her upper lip. He didn’t allow his hands to explore lower. It would be over too soon that way. He’d fought this for so long. Now he planned to drown in her and enjoy every moment.

She made a little sound of contentment every time he slid his tongue into her warm mouth. And his cock throbbed in response. He lost track of time, forgot where he was, as they lay in a languid, heated cocoon of their own making, simply kissing, as if it were the only thing in the world. Even so, his fingers soon found their way to the clasp of her cloak. The grey wool slid open, revealing a lining of shimmering bronze silk. He smiled against her mouth.

“Why are you smiling?” A whisky voice to go with her whisky mouth. Like liquor, it went straight to his head.

“Because I am happy.” Wholly, incandescently. He kissed her again, lingering. “Because you cannot resist this small luxury.” He touched the cool silk. “You crave it.”

Her wide eyes crinkled at the corners. “Just as you do.”

Yes. Because they were more alike than either of them had known. And she cared. She’d come for him on that dark day, not out of guilt or duty but because she cared. Oftentimes he’d been tempted to ask what her motives had been, but base cowardliness had stayed his tongue. Now he knew. It felled him, made him want things he had no business wanting.

He burrowed against her neck, inhaling her fragrance. “This spot,” he whispered against her skin. “I’ve dreamed
of this spot. Of kissing it”—he kissed her there, and she shuddered—“of licking it”—his tongue slid over silken skin—“sucking…” His breath came on hard and fast, his grip upon her growing tighter.

Mary moaned, arching against him. He shivered, laving that heated spot. “God, I want to bite you here, Chase.”

Her gentle laugh vibrated against his mouth. “Do you know, Jack Talent, I think I’ve wanted you to bite me there for some time.” Her voice lowered to utter softness. “I think I’ve always wanted it.”

Then she touched him, a small caress of his jaw as if he meant something to her, as if she could protect him with that simple hold. Jack lifted his head. Her eyes gleamed gold and bronze. Wide open.

His throat closed up, heat prickling behind his lids. A sharp blade of emotion scraped over his skin, down into his heart where it pierced deep. At that moment she owned him. She altered him, from blood to vein, to bone and sinew and flesh, reshaping what once had been into something new—hers. He was hers now. Irrevocably.

It did not terrify him as he’d long thought it would. It made him feel strong, larger and more infinite. He had a purpose now. And he had a home. Her. Always. Her.

He kissed her. Frantic. Deep. She knew the core of him, past all his blundering and foolishness. So bloody well. The feeling crescendoed. A perfect moment of clarity and peace. And then it crashed down around him, so painful and raw that he squeezed his eyes shut. Because she might own him, but he would never own her.

Gritting his teeth, he pulled back. His body protested, his arms moving too slowly, and his heart trying to pound free. “I can’t.” Just saying it cut into his throat. So he said it again. “I cannot do this to you.”

At first Mary thought she’d misheard Jack. She was almost certain of it. Save he rolled away from her and sat up, bending his knees and putting his head in his hands.

“I am the one, Mary.”

Instantly she went cold, her chest seizing. “You… you’re killing the shifters?”

He wrenched around to look at her over his shoulder, his brows drawn. “What?” Confusion melted, but he appeared more pained, his eyes red beneath those scowling brows. “No. Not… Hell.”

Jack stood and turned. She could only gape at his tall form looming over her. Strong. And glorious. He destroyed her concentration.

As if realizing this as well, Jack muttered a curse and stepped away, his movements graceful and lithe. He was beautiful. And he was distressed, all those lovely, dense muscles along his fine frame twitching as he moved.

Turning back to her, he stopped, his expression broken and helpless. He made a furtive gesture toward her but halted.

“Jack.” She caught hold of her skirts and stood as well. “Tell me what pains you.”

His chest lifted on a sigh. And then he turned to stone before her. Cold, distant Jack Talent was back. That more than anything else terrified her.

“Mary. The night you died. I was there.”

“What? No.” No, he wasn’t one of the men who had hurt her. She remembered each leering face. They’d been older. Good God, had he shifted into another identity? He couldn’t possibly have. She’d killed them all. She struggled to breathe.

“I killed you, Mary.” His voice was deadwood. “I was driving the gin wagon.”

Her scattered thoughts stopped. Jack’s haunted eyes stared back at her. “Me, Will, and another named Nicky. We’d stolen the wagon from a London gang. We… we worked for the Nex, Mary.”

She flinched. He’d worked for the Nex.

His mouth flattened. “I was driving the wagon, urging the horses faster. You ran out of nowhere.”

Before her lay the gaping maw of the alleyway. Her feet slapped over the cobbles, wet and cold, as she raced for it, for safety. She’d lost a shoe. Cold air hit her skin. Lamplight blinded her. The clatter of horses. She bobbled, her ankle twisting. And then the wagon racing down the lane.

Oh, but Mary didn’t want to remember that. Or what came moments later. A flash of wide, terrified eyes. A boy’s. The big, brown length of a horse’s snout. And then the hit. So hard she didn’t feel a thing at first. Just a jumble of sounds. And then the pain. Bright and blinding. She’d hoped she would feel peace. It had been so far from that. There had been nothing but regret.

“I didn’t stop,” Jack said. “Not for a half block. Couldn’t get the horses under control.” He looked away, the tendons along his neck standing at attention. “Nicky said to keep going, but you were lying there.” Jack ducked his head, and his lashes hid his eyes. “I knew what I’d done. I knew that if I left you there…” He bit his lip. “I was a liar, a thug. But I’d never killed a person.”

“How old were you?” She was surprised at the calm in her voice. Inside she was numb.

Perhaps so was he. His eyes were dry, clear, and direct when he looked up. “Fourteen.”

“And you—” She fisted her overskirt, her palms cold and clammy. “You recognized me? It was but an instant.
When, Jack? When did you realize I was the one you’d run over?”

She didn’t want to know.

“Mary.” He stopped and started again, resigned. “Lucien’s barge.”

She flinched, the blow striking her in the center of her breastbone. Slowly she gathered her cloak and wrapped it around her. Clutching it like a shield, she approached him. He stood perfectly still, his eyes on her face as she came to him.

“All this time.” She stopped before him. “From the moment you recognized me”—for she could remember that moment too, the way he’d suddenly grown cold and distant—“I thought it was because of how Lucien and I were together.” Her teeth clicked. “You made me think that,” she ground out. “Made me feel like a whore.”

His gaze was impassive, as if he were merely listening. As if he weren’t even there.

She got closer, and her voice dropped. “When it was never that.”

“Oh, I hated seeing him touch you.” His retort was a soft whip. “Never doubt that.”

So cold. So very Talent.

“But that isn’t why you recoiled,” she snapped. “No. All this time, all these years of strife. It was out of guilt! For killing me.”

“Yes.”

Her hand met his face with a ringing slap. He didn’t flinch. But she did. He broke her heart.

“I would have forgiven you, Jack.” She stepped away from him. “Isn’t that ironic? I would have done it in an instant. You were a boy. A stupid, ignorant boy. And I ran into you, really.” She laughed low and ugly before tossing
a glare over her shoulder, back at his pale, implacable face. “What I cannot forgive is that you held your own guilt over me. For
years
. You made me feel as though I were in the wrong. Deliberately.”

“Yes.” Weaker now. A ghost of a whisper. Pitiless. Hollow.

“Good God, I was so very wrong about you,” she said. “I thought you were redeemable, that there was hope for you.”

“No, there was never any hope for me,” he said. “Now you understand. There is only ugliness inside of me.”

Though her insides were shaking, she drew herself up and pretended that he hadn’t just run her over anew. “You don’t even care who you hurt.”

She got all the way to the stairs before he answered. “That is the only thing I do care about now. More than you’ll ever know.”

But it was too late. And he didn’t try to stop her.

H
olly’s new laboratory was a frigid cellar with low, arched ceilings that seemed to press down upon her. Stone and grit scuffed beneath her boots whenever she took a step, and the cold permeated her bones. She shivered once again, drawing her heavy smock-coat closer, and the shackles around her wrists rattled. Holly ignored them. If she thought about how she was chained to the wall… She took a bracing breath.
Calm. Keep your wits, girl
.

That rotter Talent had at least thought to provide ample light, by way of hundreds of candles in the three thick iron rings that hung from the ceiling.

“Quite adequate for the fifteenth century,” she muttered under her breath as she bent over the worktable and studied the infernal device she’d just created. Holly had never been accused of being ignorant. This electric prod that bastard had forced her to create, she knew exactly what the device would do to any GIM who felt the business end of the thing. And it made her ill.

Talent and Mary’s dislike of each other was well
known. Regulators were taking bets as to who would do the other in first. All in good fun, of course. As much as people tended to stay clear of Talent and his foul moods, no one truly thought he’d harm Mary.

Holly’s throat burned when she thought of him turning that weapon against Mary now. And Holly would be an accomplice. She wanted to scream, rage against the iron bars at the cellar door. Those iron bars clattered now, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

The man she knew as Jack Talent walked in, only the moment he came closer, she realized it wasn’t him at all. He had the look of Talent, true, similar eyes and build, but he’d shifted again, revealing a face pitted with decay. He wore no shirt, only rough trousers, and his torso was as ravaged as his face. The true horror, however, was the center of his chest, where, beneath the exposed bones of his sternum and ribs, a shriveled and blackened heart beat weakly.

A ringing sounded in Holly’s ears, her head going both heavy and light.

“The lovely Miss Evernight,” he said with an evil smile, making the pockets of puckered raw flesh ooze pus. “Hard at work, I see. Excellent.”

The ringing grew louder, and her limbs numbed. “Who—who are you?”

“I am pleased you asked, my dear. You may call me Master.”

Something dangled in his hand and dripped upon the floor. He moved, holding his hand up higher as if allowing her to get a better look. Holly was sorry when she did. Several clockwork hearts, still attached to arteries, dangled in his grip. Blood oozed from golden gears, and a drop landed on the ground with a splat. “I have another assignment for you.”

Jack stood before the glossy black door to Mary’s flat. The large stone of regret that lay in his chest seemed to grow, pushing against his ribs and making each breath he took a painful effort. For a long moment, he simply stared, noting the fine striations the painter’s brush had left in the lacquer and the tiny rust spots at the edge of the brass
NO.
6 that hung on the door.

For years they had tried to make him beg, to plead for forgiveness. He could all but feel those long-ago grains of rice boring once more into his knees, and the shafts of agony driving through his flesh. Jack had never begged. Not even when they’d nearly killed him.

He swallowed hard, willing himself to move, to speak. This was different. This was necessary. He could do this. Because he had to. His hand shook only a little as he lifted it and knocked on the unforgiving iron-plated door. The sound echoed in the empty hall. Nothing stirred.

Blood rushed through his ears as he waited. But silence crushed down on his shoulders, and the stone within him grew heavier still. Jack cleared his throat, the sound over-loud to his senses.

“Mary.” He cleared his throat again. “Mary, open the door.”

Sweat bloomed over his skin as sharp pricks of sensation crawled down his neck. The memory of another door, the dark chasm of a hall at his back, threatened. His childish voice haunted him. “
Mama, please
.” Rough hands grasped his upper arms, yanking him back. And the door receding as they tugged him away.
Don’t you be bothering the mistress anymore, boy
.

Jack blinked, forcing his focus on Mary’s door. “Mary.” His fist slammed into the door, shaking it now. “Let me in. I
made hash of it this morning. I should have explained.” He could smell her. He smashed his fist against the thick iron.

The empty hall pressed in upon him, his blows on the door rattling and mocking. “I know you’re there. I know…” Jack’s chest heaved as he braced his forearms on the door. “I can hear you.” Her heart ticked and whirred. So loudly it might have been right on the other side. “I can feel you, Mary.” His throat worked painfully, his mouth too dry. “I’ve always felt you…” His breath came out in a hard pant, his forehead pressing into the hard surface. “I always have. From the first.”

Still nothing. Only her scent and the feel of her vibrating around his soul. He traced a scar in the door as he spoke past the tightness in his throat. “I was a bastard. Worse than that. A despicable idiot. An ass.” He ground his forehead into the door until it hurt. “Whatever you want to call me, I agree.” His hands flattened on the cool lacquer. “I know I ought to slink away like the dog that I am. But I can’t. I… shit.” He ground his teeth and closed his eyes. It ought to be easy, saying the truth. It ought to be a balm to his soul. It wasn’t. It hurt like hell. “I need you. I don’t remotely deserve you but…”

He couldn’t say any more. No matter how much he wanted to, his mouth didn’t seem to obey. Wincing, he clenched his fists and tried again. “Mary. Please. Let me in. Let me protect you. Or provide some comfort. I know you are hurting. I can feel that too.”

She did not come. Something black, and hot, and sick welled within him. He tasted blood. His breath seared his throat. “Goddamn it! Open the bloody door, Mary!” His fists slammed into it. Again and again. The blows echoed around him. “I am not leaving, do you hear? I’m not going!”

Two dents formed beneath his fists, and the thick iron creaked ominously. But still she did not come. Jack shoved off and paced, raking his fingers against his skull. His vision blurred, and on a curse, he slumped against the wall. “I don’t know what to do to make it better,” he said to no one in particular. God knew Mary didn’t seem to be listening. “I don’t know what to do, all right?” It was a shout now, directed to the implacable door. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he looked up at the sooty hall lamp. “I’ve never known. I tried to stay away and make you hate me. Because it seemed better.” A short, bitter laugh left him. “It’s not. God, it’s not.”

He blinked down at his battered knuckles. “It’s tearing me apart,” he said quietly. “Every day, for four years, I’ve felt like half a man. Small. Unfinished.” He sighed. “No, that’s not right.” His fingers curled, digging into his knees. “The night I left you on those wet cobbles, I lost my soul. I left it with you, tarnished thing that it is.” His head was unbearably heavy, and he rested it against his forearms, drawing himself up tight. “Every time I looked at you, I knew it. That I had become what they accused me of being. Soulless.”

He ought to go. She wasn’t going to come out. Yet he had no place to go. He knew that now. There was no longer any place to hide from himself. Or the knowledge that she was his happiness, his purpose. She had cracked him open, rent him in two. And the exposure was an agony he could not live with.

“I don’t know what to do.” He wasn’t sure if he actually spoke the words that clattered about in his head. His blood and uneven breathing roared in his ears, drowning everything else out. He didn’t know how long he sat there, but a sense of emptiness eventually stole upon him,
and he realized that she was no longer in her flat. She’d slipped out some other way, leaving him behind.

The tiny ticking of Director Wilde’s pocket watch filled the silence. Mary sat with her back so straight she feared it might crack and stared at the rough surface of the meeting room wall. Someone, at some point in time, had covered the hewn stone with a thick layer of pale yellow paint. Combined with the lumpy texture of the wall, it called to mind bile.

Her hands rested, unnaturally heavy upon the folds of her drab wool skirt. She did not shake. She did not feel. It was better that way.

The chair beneath Wilde’s frame creaked as he sat up. “Where the devil is Master Talent?” he burst out.

She swallowed once. “I do not know.” Nor did she want to. The idea of facing him, hearing his voice, had her fingers going cold and her chest constricting. She was a coward, slipping out of her back exit, leaving Jack behind. His pain, so raw and exposed, had nearly destroyed her. But she hadn’t been able to face him. He’d opened up an old wound, and his secrets had torn into ones that she’d kept too. Ones she did not want to speak.

“He’s twenty minutes late,” Wilde groused before pinning a hard stare on her. “Have you any progress to report, Mistress Chase?”

“No.” Her pulse thrummed an insistent
tell him, tell him, tell him
against her throat. And what would she even say?
Jack Talent is the Bishop. He’s a killer, and a liar, and it is all I can do not to rise from this chair and go to him
.

Cold sweat trickled down her spine as Wilde’s eyes bored into her and his mouth turned down at the corners.
He broke their stare off with a
harrumph
. “You are a fount of information this morning, Mistress Chase.”

A surge of irritation and discomfort had her back trembling, but she didn’t cower.

Wilde’s chair creaked as he leaned forward. “This case is charging downhill. I’ve been informed that Lord Darby has gone missing, which means yet another shifter may be dead.”

“I—”

“The bodies of the regulators assigned to watch over him were found in the mews behind his home,” he went on in heated fervor. “Mistress Evernight is still missing. The Archbishop of bloody Canterbury has sent a complaint to the Queen, stating that Jack Talent attacked him.” At this he paused to expel a hard breath. “And I have to wonder… what the bloody hell is going on?”

Before Mary had the chance to reply, the door opened. Her entire body lurched within her skin. But it was merely Director James, who poked her head in and took a look around. The woman’s thin face grew pinched, and her words came out clipped and cold. “A word, if you please, Wilde.”

“I am conducting a meeting, James.”

“I realize, and if it weren’t urgent, I would not have interrupted.” Her dark brows rose as if to add, “now would I?”

Wilde sighed. “My apologies.” He glanced at Mary. “Give us a moment, Mistress Chase.”

“Of course.” On wooden limbs she rose and passed Director James, aware of the woman’s cool eyes upon her.

“And if Master Talent decides to grace us with his presence,” called Wilde as she left, “do let us know.”

It would be the very first thing on her mind, Mary
thought bitterly. Once out in the dim stone corridor, she paused and released a sigh. “Bloody hell.”

The end of the hall opened to the common rooms. The chatter of her coworkers echoed along the walls, a happy sound that somehow managed to depress her. Not wanting to meet another person, she moved toward the small alcove just ahead, where Wilde liked to make delinquent regulators wait before he served punishment.

She’d reached the alcove when a hand whipped out and grabbed her arm. In a blur she was against the wall, and then he was on her. For she knew it was he. His scent and the feel of his body was as familiar as instinct now. Jack. All around her. The warm press of his chest, the hard bracket of his arms on either side of her shoulders. Protest ended with his mouth fitting to hers. Not a kiss but a method of silencing. She pushed against his mouth with hers, trying to buck him off. He was a mountain of strength and will.

He sucked in a breath, and then tilted his head, adjusting the angle of his attack. Everything became soft, melting heat, his lips nuzzling, nipping, claiming, as if nothing else mattered but here and now. And she was defenseless against it, her mind spinning and her body humming. The rough tips of his fingers found the hinges of her jaw, and he coaxed open her mouth to let him in. Before she could protest, he swooped down, kissing her fiercely, not making a sound as he surged into her.

Mary shuddered. Unable to move, only to feel. They were too exposed. Laughter and conversation echoed against stone, the sound of footfalls that could be coming from any direction tightened her skin. Her fingers dug into the crisp lawn shirt on either side of his trim waist, and he grunted, a near-soundless exhalation of air. His grip upon her grew more secure.

They were chest to chest, Jack’s heartbeat matching her own heart’s mad rhythm. His hot breath mixed with hers as he drew away just enough to come at her again, plundering with soft, steady intent. And she took it, letting that slick, warm tongue invade and tangle with hers until her body grew fevered-hot and needy.

Someone beyond called out to a friend, the sound overly loud and plucking at her nerves. As if fearing her escape, Jack leaned farther into her, and the thick length of his cock bunted into the softness of her belly. Damn her black soul, she wanted to open her legs and guide him inside where he’d fill her emptiness. The very idea had her whimpering.