Shadowdance (25 page)

“Shh,” he whispered into her mouth, his fingertips tracing down her neck, an eruption of shivers breaking out in his wake. “Shh. Just once more.” He kissed her again, hot, silent, and deep. The wet glide of his tongue traced her upper lip, then licked inside her mouth. She shivered, her nipples hard and pained against her bodice. As if he felt it, he sighed into her. “Mary. You won’t talk to me, and I can’t think of any other way to show you.”

Tears prickled behind her lids. How very much she wanted to tell him that it did not matter what he’d done. She wanted him. She would always want him. At the cost of her pride. Her movements were sluggish, her body protesting her will, but she turned aside, breaking his kiss. He did not move away. Nor did she have it in her to push him off.

They leaned into each other, her fingers still tangled in his shirt, and his lips brushing against her temple with every soft exhalation he took. Warm fingertips pressed into the sensitive skin of her neck, holding there as if to
feel her pulse. His body shaking, he burrowed his nose into her hair, as though seeking comfort. “Tell me how to make amends.”

Mary swallowed, her throat moving against his touch. “You—I cannot—”

“I should have honored you from the first moment we met. I know that now.” His thumb caressed her neck, an awkward touch as though he fought against it. “Because I wanted to. So very badly. You are my world, even when I didn’t want you to be.”

His world? He’d turned her world into a dark fog. He pierced her heart and made that rusty device feel tender and soft. And sad. Unbearably so. “You have to let me go.” She did not think she could stand another moment of his regret. Not now.

His fingers tensed, biting into her skin. “You might as well ask me to cut off a limb.” His mouth touched her brow. “Honor, logic, whatever it is that good men have, is lost to me when I am with you. You’re mine, and I am yours. You kissed me and everything changed.”

Mary’s skin flushed. “You kissed
me
and—”

“Only because you didn’t know how.” Tenderness colored his words and heated his breath. Of course he would make mention of that. His lips grazed her jaw. “You’re an exceptionally quick study, however.”

She would not smile. Nor would she yield. Mary turned her head. “I cannot ignore what you’ve done.”

“And I cannot go back to pretending that you aren’t my everything. I don’t want to.”

She pushed at his chest to no avail: he held her fast. She released a breath and spoke into the warm hollow at his throat. “But I don’t want you.”

His broad chest gave an abrupt jerk as if she’d thrust a
spike into him. Ye gods, she’d become so very proficient at lying.

“I deserved that,” he muttered, still not letting go. “But I didn’t expect it to hurt so much.”

“This is merely lust talking,” she said sharply. “Leave me be and it will die down.”

A hard, bitter laugh escaped him. “Lust, is it?” He turned his head and pressed his lips against the crest of her cheek. “Mary Chase, I want to tup you. Hard and slow and all week long. I want to so badly that my cods ache and my heart hurts. But considering that I’ve felt the same way for going on four years and have managed to survive, I think it’s bloody well safe to say this isn’t about lust.”

Just down the corridor, a door opened, and Wilde’s voice drifted out. “Yes, Minerva, I understand perfectly. Did she say where Father was?”

Slowly Jack pulled back, and it felt as though he’d taken away her one support. Cold hit her chest, and she struggled to remain standing. His eyes met hers, and the devastation in his gaze slashed like a blade. She faced him head on, refusing to soften. She was not in the wrong. He’d done this to them. As if he heard her thoughts, his expression tightened, and his golden skin faded to pale cream.

Wilde’s voice came again, so normal-sounding compared to the pain that rose between Mary and Jack. “No, I’ll handle it,” he said within his office. “Please let me know when he returns.”

Jack glanced in that direction, then back to her.

“I can’t forgive and forget, Jack,” she whispered.

Dark shadows danced over his pained features. Without another word he turned from her and moved away at the blurring speed of a supernatural in his prime.

A moment later Wilde appeared, his frown concerned. “Was that Talent?”

She could only stare at the now-empty corridor, her body frozen.

Wilde shook his head as if annoyed, then cut to the chase. “There’s been an incident.”

“The Bishop?” she managed.

“I’m not certain.” His gaze dimmed, going cold. “But I think you ought to see it.”

I
t took a great deal of effort for a supernatural to become foxed, but Jack was going to give it a proper go. Hunched over a table in the coffeehouse where he’d first dined with Mary, he wrapped his hands around a flagon of cheap whisky and took another great swallow. It burned going down and tasted like hell. But the pleasant numbing sensation that followed could not be argued with.

Oblivion was welcome. He’d tried to explain, and she had ignored it. Told her that she was his world. And she hadn’t turned a hair. What else was he to do? A raw curse broke from him, and a few people turned their heads. Jack gave one fellow a good glare. But his attention was diverted as a young lady glided toward him. Her effortless walk reminded him of Mary’s, though it was not as refined. No one eased through a space quite as well as Mary. The ethereal look of the woman, with her crystalline green eyes, announced her as a GIM before he even heard the telltale clicking of her heart. Jack vaguely recognized her as one of the new SOS recruits, though the style in which she wore
her hair spoke of a generation five decades past. Odd, how some of the immortals held on to the fashions of their youth.

Her gaze settled over him with all the warmth of winter ice. “Master Talent.” Disdain tainted her low voice. “Getting fuddled, are we?”

“Hitting the benzine, if you want to be precise about it.” He took another fiery drink and ignored the chit. But she did not move on. With a sigh he slammed down his mug. “Mistress Tottie, I presume?”

She gave a little sniff of acknowledgement.

“Well,” he prompted, “what do you want? As you can see, I’m busy.”

“Lucien Stone requests your presence without delay.”

“Does he? I’d best be running along then.” Jack made no move to rise but picked at a nail. Fucking Stone. The day Jack answered his summons…

The GIM before him huffed. “Mistress Chase is already headed to him,” she said.

Jack lurched up from the table, and Tottie sneered as if she had expected his reaction. “They are at our tavern.” A quiver took hold of her mouth. Rage. He knew the emotion well. “I believe you know the place.”

“I do.”

Her nostrils flared, and accusation ran high in her eyes. Jack frowned. What was she about? It was then that he truly took note of her greying pallor and the tremor in her hands. Not just rage, but fear as well.

Jack stepped into her space and tried to ignore the increase in his heart rate, and the worry. “What the fuck happened?”

She lifted her chin. “Best you
run along
and find out, Talent.” Then she turned and flounced away without a backward glance.

It took him too long to find the damn tavern. His memory of driving to the place the last time was faulty at best, and his current agitation was high. He growled low in his throat, his vision going hazy for a moment. When he finally reached the tavern, he wrenched open the door, and the hinges screeched in protest. One step over the threshold and he halted in shock. In his building temper, he hadn’t scented death, which was saying a lot considering the overwhelming stench that slapped his senses now. Blood splattered the walls, and bodies lay strewn about like rag dolls dropped in mid-play.

Instantly Jack went on full alert. Almost as quickly he found her standing in the midst of the destruction, her glowing gaze focused on him. Despite the carnage, something deep inside him eased. She was well. And furious. Whether at him or the situation, he could not tell. Nor did he care. She was well.

They stared at each other in silence. Defiance ran through Jack’s veins. She might no longer want him, but he wasn’t going away. Oh, he’d keep his distance if that’s what she needed. But he was still her partner, whether she liked it or not.

A slight movement at her side had him tensing. Lucien Stone glared back at him.

“What happened?” Jack snapped. His breathing was too fast: the mere thought of Mary walking into this death house made him want to break things. Not much left to break.

Lucien glanced at the carnage around him, and rage flared in his eyes before he dampened it. “Did you do this?

Jack’s control broke. “The fuck I did!” He took a step in the GIM’s direction. “Do not dare accuse me of this.”

Lucien watched with cool detachment. That didn’t
mean he was unaffected. The dandy’s face was pale and drawn. “As I understand it, you were the only outsider who knew of its location.”

“And every damned GIM in London.”

One dark brow rose in cold contempt. “You think one of my kind did this to their own?”

“Worse things have happened.”

“And Mercer.” Lucien studied Jack carefully. “He knew. I believe he was your informant, Mary?”

Mary nodded shortly before turning her gaze back to the room, the corners of her eyes tight and pained.

“Mercer?” Jack’s insides cooled even as his rage threatened to ignite once more.

Lucien gave a small, humorless smile. “I believe he accused you of being this Bishop of Charing Cross.” He tossed a chin in the direction of a body. Mercer lay on the floor. Or what was left of him, which was not much.

Jack took a step closer to Mary, his flesh rippling. The urge to shift loomed high, wild, and hot. “You think I am capable of this?”

Her expression was smooth as porcelain, her eyes glowing, but then she blinked and her slim shoulders slumped. “Of course I don’t.”

Jack’s brittle spine relaxed. He gave her a curt nod.

“Nor did I, particularly,” said Lucien. “But one has to ask.” He waved a tired hand around the bloody room. “Look at them,” he said. “Tell us what you see.”

Jack drew back and glanced around. Each victim’s shirt was torn open, a cross burned into each one’s flesh, and their hearts had been ripped from their bodies. The smell underlay the lingering scent of roasting meat that had burnt down on the doused grill. Leaving the mechanical Mistress Chase behind, he went to one of the bodies.
The poor bloke stared up at him in silent accusation, and Jack’s stomach knotted. A gaping wound lay the man’s throat open to the spine. Frowning, Jack bent closer.

“The spine isn’t severed.”

Stone arrived, and Jack stepped away to let him see. A moment later Mary stood by his side. It was all Jack could do not to grab her and haul her into his arms. Where she’d be safe. But she didn’t pay him an ounce of attention. Her skirts rustled as she bent over the dead GIM and plucked a piece of paper that stuck out of his front coat pocket.

“ ‘They are dead, they shall not live; they are deceased, they shall not rise: therefore hast thou visited and destroyed them, and made all their memory to perish,’ ” she read aloud.

A slow shiver ran through Jack’s body. Was it coincidence or bad timing that this had occurred after he’d given the fiend his blood? The bastard had known Mercer, and from the torture that had been inflicted on the demon, it was safe to say he might have divulged the location of this place.

“Well, the message is a bit more blunt this time,” she said.

He turned abruptly to face her, and Mary’s gaze was steady on him. “A Bible quote was found in the area where Holly Evernight disappeared.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

Her lips pressed together for a moment. “It slipped my mind.”

Jack snorted. “The demon we found at Pierce’s house had a verse on him too.” When Mary gave him a reproachful look, he smiled without humor. “Slipped my mind.”

Before she could reply, Jack moved to another victim. Blood had sprayed from this one’s wound, wild and deep
red. The old violinist. He’d clawed at the wood floor trying to escape. Saliva filled Jack’s mouth, and he looked away. “When did you find them?”

“Less than an hour past.” Stone’s celadon gaze moved to the body of a woman, and his mouth tightened. “Someone will pay for this.”

“One can hope.” Plenty got away with murder and more. Not bothering to see Stone’s reaction, Jack went to the old woman hunched by the stove. Burn marks marred her forearms from her struggle with her attacker. Blackening blood pooled beneath her.

Jack straightened. “We have three human victims bled out and a roomful of GIM, cause of death unknown.”

“What do you mean?” Lucien asked.

“I mean”—he pointed at a body next to him—“their throats were cut, and their hearts torn out. But it was done after death. Look at them. They hardly bled in comparison to the others. And they didn’t fight. They’re lying where they fell. Look at the humans, they fought.”

Understanding slowly dawned on Lucien’s face. Jack wondered if, in the shock of finding so many of their kind murdered, Mary and Lucien hadn’t fully studied the crime scene. Only thought to accuse. Again, the shivering urge to go animal lit over his body.

“Do you honestly think one man could take on an entire room of supernaturals and kill them all?” He wanted to spit, it was so absurd.

“Somebody did,” Stone murmured, his expression thoughtful as he stroked a hand over a young woman’s head. The gesture struck Jack; Ian looked at his lads in the same manner. These GIM were Lucien’s responsibility. Some of the anger went out of Jack.

“Without a massive fight on his hands?” Jack shook
his head slowly. “Something killed them before they even understood the danger.”

Stone cursed as he looked at one young lad. “Took their hearts with him.”

“The killer doused the fire,” Lucien observed quietly as he looked at the black scorch marks that flared up two walls.

“Because he wanted us to see what he’d done,” Jack said.

Almost idly, Stone ran a finger along the edge of a table, where one victim slumped back in his seat. Jack walked over to him. “He’s taken some victims with him.” Jack pointed to the table. “This has been set for two, yet one remains.” A quick glance around confirmed more empty table settings. “Two, three, four,” he counted, growing dread spreading through him as he did. “There were more people dining in here than there are victims.”

Stone uttered a blue curse. “I do believe you are correct.”

“Jack.” Mary’s call from the back of the tavern had him hurrying to her.

He stopped short. The body was crucified to the wall, much as he had been in those dark days. Naked and sagging against the iron spikes that held him fast was Anthony Goring, Archbishop of Canterbury. His throat had been cut, allowing blood to pour over his body in a grim wash of crimson.

“Bloody hell,” Jack whispered, coming closer.

A strange pang knocked Jack’s chest and made his breath hitch. He didn’t understand it. For most of his life, Goring had been the source of his greatest fears, and his deepest anger. But now he felt something close to sorrow.

“Jack.” Mary touched his arm, a hesitant gesture. “Are you all right?”

Was he? Jack studied his uncle’s body. So thin. The grey skin wrinkled and sagged a bit. Looking up at his uncle’s lifeless eyes now, he only saw frailty and a waste of life.

“Yes,” he said, realizing that he meant it. The memories of this man no longer had the ability to hurt him. In truth, they hadn’t had that power for quite some time. Jack no longer wanted revenge. He wanted peace. He wanted what he’d experienced in Mary’s arms before he’d gone and mucked everything up. It was all he needed.

“This wasn’t just a message to the GIM,” Mary said by his side.

Turning with a grunt, Jack walked away from the body, and she followed. “He’s playing with us,” he said as he reached Stone once more.

Jack forced himself to look at Mary. It hurt to do it. Hell, being in the same room hurt. When he spoke to her, his voice was hard. “Whatever you feel about me, you aren’t safe. No GIM is right now. Let me protect you.”

Mary’s lashes lowered, her creamy cheeks pale. “I shall take proper precautions.”

Stone turned away as if to give them privacy, but not before Jack saw the satisfaction in his eyes. And Jack’s teeth met with an audible click. God, but he wanted to rip the man’s cods off and feed them to him. “With him?”

Mary’s lithe frame moved in a flash, her palms smacking into the center of his chest with enough force to capture the whole of his attention. “Don’t you dare!” she snapped, her eyes glowing pure gold. “Never again! Do you hear?” Her palms connected with his chest with another loud smack. “Never again will you sneer or imply something untoward between Lucien and me.”

“Mary—”

Jack’s outstretched hand was slapped away.

“Do not ‘Mary’ me.” She brushed a lock of her hair back from her face as she advanced on him. “You seem to be suffering under a misunderstanding. My life is not your concern. If I go back to Lucien’s barge and swive him senseless, it is none of your concern.”

Jack wanted to howl. The muscles along his back burned, and he feared those strange leathery wings would soon break through. “Stop.” It was more of a plea than anything. Fangs were growing in his mouth. Soon he would be smashing things. “Please.”

All at once her expression turned somber and tired. “You say you wanted me from the first, that I was your world. Then where were you all these years?”

Right here. Watching you. Needing you. Dying a little more every day.

“When I needed a friend,” she went on, “a kind word, a bit of support? It was Lucien who provided that. Where were you?”