Shadowdance (8 page)

“First off, I’m not talking about love, merely mutual respect and desire.”

“What is to say that the prostitute and the procurer do not mutually respect their arrangement?” She was half goading, but enjoying it nonetheless. “How very shortsighted of you, Talent.”

Again his mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a happy smile he fought, not if the annoyance in his eyes was anything to go by. “Secondly,” he went on in an imperious manner, “I don’t know why I’m bothering to discuss this with you, as women are notoriously weak of will and flesh, especially when it comes to carnal matters. You are far too innocent to be hearing such things.” A sneering laugh drifted into his tone. “By rights you shall be soon swooning.”

Blood rushed through her veins. “Why you arrogant, ignorant bast—” She stopped short, catching his pointed and eloquent look. Inwardly she winced.

Talent’s voice was smooth silk, tinged with the smallest hint of censure. “Do not pigeonhole me, Chase, and I won’t do so with you.”

Despite her having been outmaneuvered, a smile pulled at her cheeks. Talent’s gaze went to her mouth, and he drew an audible breath, leaving Mary feeling a bit breathless herself. “Point to you, Talent.”

His grin was quick, devastating, then gone. But he did not crow over his victory. Instead silence fell between them again. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but certainly a truce. “I wish the rest of your sex felt similarly,” she said after a time.

“Do not hold your breath, Mistress Chase.”

She made a noise of agreement. But her curiosity would not let go. “So, then, if not with prostitutes…”
Shut up, you imbecile
. “That is, there are certainly other means.…” Gads, but she couldn’t say the words and survive the humiliation. She bit down on her lip to stop.

He peered down at her. “My, my, Mistress Chase, you do have quite the interest in my sexual activities.”

She picked up her pace, heading for Nelson’s Column. “Do not give yourself airs. I merely asked out of banal curiosity. I’ve never met a man who eschews casual exchanges, and I wanted to understand more.”

His laughter reached her just before he did, easily catching up to her with his long legs. Without warning he grabbed her, the quick move forcing her to swing round and face him. “Little liar.” Talent’s eyes danced with annoying glee, the brackets along his mouth deepening with his amusement. “Ask it,” he demanded in a husky voice. “How many women have I had?”

Impishness ought not be so beguiling. Nor should he smell so good, nor the heat of his body be so compelling. His lips, when he wasn’t pressing them together in his angry way, were well-formed and appeared surprisingly soft just then. Mary edged back. Those lips had spewed forth far too much verbal vitriol for her to be admiring them.

She focused on a point over his shoulder. “I don’t care.”

He dipped his head, and his lips came close enough
to steal her air. “I’ll tell you my number if you tell me yours.”

Mary ignored Jack and concentrated on the moonlight glimmering off the fountain pools and the rush of falling water mingling with the sounds of light traffic passing around Charing Cross. Calmed by the gentle rain of falling water, Mary turned to the business at hand. “Why did he leave his victims here?”

Energy radiated from Talent, a violent vortex, one that felt as though it might crash into her, but it didn’t. Talent’s answer was flat, controlled. “Because it’s public.”

“There are many public places in London. Why this place? What does it mean to him?” She kept her gaze away from him. His voice and the tone he used would tell her more, at any rate.

Again came the surge of aggression, anger, and control. Always that tight rein on his temper. Many of her colleagues believed Jack Talent didn’t feel a thing. She had never thought that to be true. Talent had always been a seething cauldron of emotion, ready to overflow. His capture and torture by the demons had merely served to draw that rage inward, pulling him into deeper darkness. After his torture, she’d feared he would do himself harm. She’d been wrong. The SOS gave direction to his rage. Or so she had thought. Now she worried that he’d turned to murder instead.

The scuff of his boot told Mary he’d taken a step closer, and she tensed, but he sounded quite calm. “The square is considered the official center of London, from which the distance of all roads leading in are measured.”

“It is also the preferred location for political protests and national celebrations,” Mary said thoughtfully. “Perhaps
you are correct in stating that the square does make for a rather public spectacle.” Standing at the base of Nelson’s Column, where the victims had been left, they faced Whitehall, which sloped down toward the Palace of Westminster. From over the treetops in the foreground, the great eye of Big Ben’s clock tower peered down at them.

“So then,” she said, “the question is, what public statement is the Bishop trying to make?”

Before Talent could answer, she spied a glimmer of black on the relief depicting the death of Nelson at Trafalgar. A soft breeze kicked up, and the object broke free and drifted down to the ground. It was a large, glossy black feather. Reaching out with caution, she picked it up.

“A raven’s feather,” Talent said. “Must have fallen from the sky.”

“And landed perfectly arranged in this fellow’s hat?” She gave a pointed look at the figure of a man holding up the felled Nelson. “Besides which, there are no wild ravens in London. And the Tower ravens cannot fly.” Gently she ran a finger along the feather’s edge.

A shock of sensation bolted down her arm and straight into her heart, causing her to catch her breath. Power—strong, clean, yet tainted with a malevolent darkness—resided in the feather. Power that burned. So much so that Mary looked at her finger to see if it was cut.

“What is it?” Talent made a move to snatch the feather away from her, but a set of footfalls sounded.

They turned as one and faced the man walking toward them. Talent stood with his shoulder nearly touching hers, so close that she felt him stiffen and heard the small, surprised intake of his breath when the man came into view. He was a tall man, lean and rangy. He was dressed as they were, in a long, fitted overcoat and heavy boots.
But his coat and top hat were of an uncommon blood-red hue. Silky white hair flowed to his shoulders, and Mary expected him to be old, but he came closer and revealed the firm, smooth skin of a young man. A smile played over his lips, and a glimmer of fangs flashed in the moonlight. He’d let her see those fangs, a warning perhaps.

The male was a Western sanguis demon, if Mary had to guess. With that white hair and those fangs. Aside from elementals, all supernaturals had the ability to grow fangs, and often did when roused, but the sanguis’s were longer and thinner, designed to puncture, not tear.

“Hello, Jack,” he said. “I thought I recognized your sullen hunch from across the Square.”

No menace there, only familiarity. It did not stop Mary from wanting to grip Talent’s elbow, though she wasn’t certain if the desire was to hold him back or provide support.

Talent’s expression remained unmoved. “Will. I thought you were dead.” He didn’t sound as if he had been particularly put out by the notion.

Will’s lips curled further. “Close enough to it.” He lifted his chin a touch, and his eyes appeared beneath his hat brim. Cold, beautiful, haunted. Ice-blue surrounded by an outer ring of deeper blue. “I’ve not been as obvious about my activities as you, my friend.” His icy gaze slid over Mary, and she fought a shiver. “Nor do I keep as lovely company.”

Talent didn’t move but it suddenly felt as though he’d separated himself from her. “Appearances can be deceiving. There is nothing lovely about Miss Chase. She’d just as soon gut you as look at you, mate.”

If she hadn’t been used to his insults, the pain would have cut. As it was, it merely landed with a dull thud upon her chest.

Sympathy filled Will’s eyes, which irked further. “Jack never did appreciate women as he should.” He tossed a quick grin toward Talent. A true smile returned as he looked back to Mary. “As I doubt my old friend here will perform introductions, allow me.” He touched his hat and bowed. The man’s manner and accent spoke of good breeding, but there was a bit of street rat about him, just as with Talent. He might have been raised in a proper home, but it was doubtful that he still lived a proper life. “Mr. William Thorne at your service, Miss…?”

“Mary Chase,” was all she got out before Talent cut in with a brusque “What do you want, Will?”

Thorne frowned. “You injure me, Jack. Fifteen years since we last spoke and this is the reception I receive?”

Talent’s brows lowered. “What do you want?”

His words were a thick fog in the air. For a moment Mary wondered if Thorne would speak at all, he’d gone so stiff, but then she realized that he was restraining himself, just as Talent was.

Thorne’s sudden response cut through the night like a whip. “Perhaps I am not here for you, Jack.” Eerie blue eyes sought Mary out. “Do you know, Miss Chase, that a shifter doesn’t have a particular scent? But one of many?”

Beside her, Talent went rigid, his shoulder touching her arm as he moved perceptibly closer.

“I’m not sure I follow, Mr. Thorne.” Despite herself, Mary wanted to know more about Talent’s breed. Shifters were rare, and if they were anything like other supernaturals, they must have kept a few secrets close to the bone. “I fear my sense of smell is not developed enough to note a difference in scents.” Talent had always smelled the same to her, and familiar enough now that she’d recognize him in a crowd.

Thorne’s weight shifted, bringing him an inch closer. It was enough to send a low rumble through Talent’s chest, and he glared at Thorne as though he was imagining ripping his throat out. As for Thorne, he appeared relaxed, his long body loose of limb, even as his eyes twinkled with evil intent.

“Perhaps you fail to notice a change because Jack here always feels the same emotion when in your presence. You see, Miss Chase, deep emotion changes a shifter’s basic scent.” His smile was a taunt he lobbed at Talent. “Very subtly, mind you, but each emotion gives it a different taint, hate, fear”—Thorne eyed Mary again—“love—”

“Enough.” Talent took one step in Thorne’s direction, putting his shoulder in front of Mary’s so that she was partially blocked. “Enough games. Talk or we are going.”

Mary did not particularly like the way Talent lumped them together, but she agreed that Thorne was merely baiting him at her expense.

“Games amuse me,” Thorne complained before his demeanor grew serious. “I am here to offer a partnership. Between my organization and yours.”

“The Nex?” Mary snapped.

A touch on her hand stilled Mary. She’d had her baton out and had taken a step in Thorne’s direction without realizing it. Only Talent’s hand upon hers had stopped her.

Thorne’s gaze focused on their hands when he answered. “The very one. But we are not at odds here.” His jaw clenched. “Someone has killed our own.”

Mary let her hand fall away from Talent’s. “The shifters?”

“No. The demons.” Thorne’s gaze moved from Mary to Talent. “They were slaughtered first, were they not? Or has the SOS chosen to forget about them?”

Talent hadn’t spoken in so long that his sharp reply made Mary’s skin twitch. “The SOS forgets little,” he said. “Nor do I.”

“What do you propose, Mr. Thorne?” Mary asked.

“It does not matter,” said Talent, his ire gathering like a storm. “We have nothing to say to the Nex.”

“Call me Will, Miss Chase,” Thorne offered as though Talent hadn’t spoken. “And I merely suggest a mutual exchange of information.”

“No.” Talent was more emphatic now. He grabbed Mary’s elbow as if to pull her away. “We do not work with the Nex.” When Mary hesitated, he turned his wrath on her, leaning down so that they were nose to nose. “Ever.”

It was in her to protest and raise a holy ruckus against his high-handedness. Save for one thing—he was in the right. It was an implacable SOS rule. Wrenching her gaze away from Talent’s, she addressed Thorne, not missing that he’d followed their exchange with ill-concealed delight. “My partner is correct, Mr. Thorne. We do not negotiate with the Nex.”

Thorne did not appear crestfallen. He merely smiled and tipped his hat to her. “Should you change your mind, I will find you.”

T
alent insisted on walking Mary back home. Unnecessary, but the stubborn man would not be dissuaded. And so they traversed the lonely streets in a strained silence.

“You and Mr. Thorne appeared quite familiar with one another,” Mary said after a time.

“I don’t care to discuss Thorne.”

What a shock
. Mary decided to refrain from speaking at all.

The sound of their footsteps echoed off the cobbles and the brick buildings leaning in on them. A vortex of yellow-green fog obscured their surroundings, and the hissing gas lamps did little more than brighten the fog and make it appear thicker. Talent’s gaze roamed and remained vigilant. Mary knew his eyesight was better than hers, but the fog was hindering him too, for he edged closer to her side and tensed as if preparing to spring into action.

“Something smells off,” he murmured.

“Could you be more specific, Mr. Talent? Everything smells off in London.”

He glanced at her, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Don’t be daft,
Mistress
Chase.” Reminding her yet again that she ought to be calling him
Master
. “There are familiar foul scents, and there are odd ones.”

“Well then, let us say that my sense of smell is not as developed as yours. Fortunately.” He snorted wryly, and she went on. “What is it that you smell?”

His nose lifted slightly, and his mouth opened to the night. “Don’t precisely know. It smells a bit like oil. Not lamp oil, but the sort you scent down by the factories. Sharp, sulfuric.”

His description tickled the edges of her memory, but she couldn’t catch a hold of the proper recollection. They were silent. Both of them searching the night.
Click, click
went Mary’s heels. Her breath sounded over-loud in her ears. And then she realized. There were no other sounds. No city sounds, no scurrying of little rodent feet.

Convulsively, she clutched Talent’s arm. “Oil.” A discordant grating sounded in the night.

Talent stopped short. “What the bleeding hell?” Around them shadows darkened, becoming thicker, taking on shapes.

Mary backed up, and her shoulder met his. “It can’t be…” But she rather feared it might. “Shadow crawlers,” Mary whispered, her hand slipping underneath her cloak to her hip, where her weapons belt lay. She grabbed the small bullwhip.

“What?” Talent glanced wildly around. He could see the shadows, that was certain. He just didn’t know what they were.

The grinding of gears, a hiss of steam, and a clank, clank, clank rang out.

Bother
. “Mechanical men.” She braced her feet as the
shadows surrounded them. “They live in the shadows and draw power from them. I’ve never seen one, but have heard stories. They’re called Adam’s first experiment. A nightmare version of the GIM.”

“Hell.”

Precisely. And then they appeared. Two lurching, hulking men making their way down the street. Vile experiments, partially flesh, mostly metal. Red eyes gleamed in the dark as one of them advanced, a blackened thing oozing oil, with steam billowing from the open iron rib cage in which its black heart pumped. The other crawler was more gold than flesh and appeared vaguely familiar.

“Piss and shit,” Talent uttered with wide eyes.

“Be creative in your shifting, Master Talent!”

Mary leapt back as one lunged, and then let her whip fly. It snapped around the thing’s massive iron leg, and she pulled hard. Gods, but it was heavy. The crawler wobbled. A hard kick to its chest had it toppling. It crashed to the ground. But before she could free herself, it caught hold of the whip and tugged. Mary went flying into it, stopped only by a metal fist smashing into her face. White spots exploded before her eyes as her cheekbone cracked and blood poured into her mouth.

Dimly she heard a roar of fury and saw the blur of Talent launching into the golden crawler. His claws swiped, and sparks flew as he connected with raw metal. But then another hard tug dragged her roughly over the cobbles. The whip had become tangled about her wrist, and the crawler was hauling her back to him. Hands shaking from pain, she got her knife out, sliced through the whip, and fell back. A second later, fire burst hot and bright from the crawler’s mouth. Mary flung her arm up against the blistering heat, but something fell upon her, trapping her against
a brick wall. Through a haze, Jack Talent’s eyes, gleaming in fury, stared down at her as flames roared behind him.

He hissed, and she saw them—thick, leathery wings of onyx arched over his head, forming a barrier between them and the crawler’s fire. Before she could say a word, the fire died, and he reared around, his fist smashing into a crawler’s jaw. It barely made an impact, and the crawler lunged forward, punching a hole through one of the strange wings that had sprouted from Talent’s back.

Talent snarled. With whippet-fast speed, he caught hold of the crawler’s arm and simply ripped it off. Metal gears and springs pinged to the ground, and fresh, hot oil splattered. It did little good. The crawlers advanced, pinning her and Talent against the wall.

Another blast of fire hit, leaving Talent barely enough time to cover Mary with his enormous wings. But it wasn’t enough to protect her from the heat and pain of fire nipping through the hole in his wing. She ground her teeth against it as she clutched Talent’s massive shoulders.

Above her he panted, sweat dripping down from his temples.

“Talent.” Blood bubbled through her lips, and agony burst through her shattered cheek. He winced as he looked over her face. With effort she kept speaking. “When I fade, rip out the hearts.” The crawlers would guard them with their lives, but if Mary was successful, they wouldn’t have a chance to. “Watch their eyes. Attack when they dim.”

Talent’s brows snapped together. “Fade?” His voice was a rasp of pain, and he appeared on the cusp of protesting.

They didn’t have time to waste. Surprising herself, she touched his cheek. The contact made them both flinch.

“Do it,” she said. Then left her body.

It was fast. And more forceful than she’d ever attempted. Mary’s spirit shot straight through Talent, and she felt the warm glow of his soul and his lurch of shock as she passed. Then she slammed straight into the golden crawler. Its body was a dense mass of misery, the soul trapped within screaming for release. Pity made her heavy. The crawler fought as she wrapped herself around it and tugged the soul free. Out of the body they went, Mary and the pitiful soul of the crawler.

Below her, Talent whirled about and tore straight into the now-empty shell of the crawler’s body. Teeth bared on a snarl, Talent yanked out the clockwork heart, and the body toppled.

As soon as the body fell, the soul in Mary’s arms eased and stretched up toward the night. Like a shooting star, it trailed across the sky then disappeared.

Bloody, buggering hell. Jack’s teeth ground as the remaining crawler leapt upon his back and its iron fingers tore through his flesh. He smashed a fist into the crawler’s gut but hit a gate of metal ribs for his efforts.
Bad hit. Learn from your mistakes, mate
. Nearly all of the crawler’s body was metal, a thick shell that withstood Jack’s blows. Over the grinding of gears and the whistle of steam came the ominous whoosh of fires being stoked within the thing’s lungs, and Jack braced for another blast. The massive wings on his back, the ones that had popped out as if by instinct, throbbed in pain, but they could apparently withstand fire. But if the dull ache coming from them meant anything, there was a limit to their strength. And unfortunately the crawler had him by the shoulder, leaving him no way to turn. The fire was going to come at him full on.

Shit and piss, this was going to hurt.

But then a shroud of blessed cold surrounded him, then passed through him.
Chase
. He’d felt her slide through him before, a second after her eyes went dim and her body fell limp. If he lived a hundred years more, he’d never grow accustomed to the sight of her simply vacating. It unnerved him to the core. But now, when the crawler’s red eyes suddenly went black and its body slackened, he might have kissed Chase in gratitude. Somehow she’d drawn the crawler’s soul out, leaving Jack free to make the kill.

He didn’t waste time. Skin ripped from his knuckles as he punched past the metal rib cage and grasped the clockwork heart. Hot oil and solid iron filled his palm before he tore the device free. The crawler didn’t even flinch as it crashed to the ground with earthshaking force.

For a long moment, Jack panted as blood dripped from various wounds. Then he turned and knelt by Chase’s prone form, close enough to feel the residual warmth of her body and bask in her cinnamon-and-spice scent. “Chase?”

Christ, but her body did not look good. A massive bruise colored her right temple and her eye was swollen shut. Blood crusted her lips. But it was her cheek that worried him. The crawler’s hit had crushed the bone, caving in the side of her face. So delicate, Mary Chase was. Illusions, for she’d heal soon enough. But the thought of someone hitting her, damaging that fragile beauty, made his breath catch.

She came back into her body with a jolt and inhaled sharply, her body stiff as starch. Her wide golden eyes shimmered with pain. And it was bad. Her body twitched, her lips pressed tight as if she held in a cry. Before he
could think, he cupped her good cheek with infinite care. He’d never touched her in tenderness. And he cursed himself for doing it now. Even so, his thumb caressed the silk of her skin.

“Hold still.” With his free hand, he dipped his fingers into the open wound on his shoulder. Fingers coated in his blood, he held them up to her soft lips. Understandably, Chase drew back, not harshly, but away from him just the same, and her nostrils pinched as if discovering something foul. He held her steady. The small movement she’d taken had made her wince. Black blood bloomed along her sunken cheek.

“Can you trust me, Chase?” He said it as softly as he could.

Her eyes narrowed. It was clear that she did not want to talk. A shard of helplessness speared his chest. And he sounded gruffer than he wanted as he eased his bloody fingers past her parted lips. “Let me in.”

Her little gasp and the moist touch of her mouth lit through him. “It will heal you,” he managed. His gut tightened, and he swallowed hard. “My blood.” Shit, shit, shit, what the hell was he doing?

Shock and hesitation were clear in the gleaming depths of her eyes. But her lips parted farther, and he slipped inside. Hell’s bells, he hadn’t thought this out properly. The tentative flick of her tongue at the tip of his finger sent a lick of heat straight down to his cock. It leapt to life with a reflexive jerk, and Jack took a steadying breath.

“Suck it.”

Her eyes widened, and Jack grimaced. “Lick it—damn it.” Heat rose over his face. “I meant, the blood. Take the blood.”

Thankfully she understood and, God help him, her
lips closed around his two fingers, and the wet, warm flat of her tongue stroked along the base of them. He barely stayed the groan that wanted to rip free or the way his body yearned to sway closer to hers. Somehow, though, his hand had cupped the back of her head, and he held her close. He didn’t have it in him to draw away. Not yet.

Her lashes lowered, as if looking at him was too much to bear. But the effects of his blood, fresh as it was from his body, were immediate. Healthy color bloomed along her skin, and the bruising around her temple and eyes faded. Her cheek, however, was still crushed, the bones knitting too slowly for his liking. Nor did he fancy the winces of pain she made with each small move.

Breathing through his nose, he pulled his fingers free of the torture that was her mouth. Chase’s plump lips opened to speak, and he laid a finger on the soft bottom curve stained crimson from his blood. “It’s not enough,” he said, and then, because he was part idiot and because he couldn’t stand seeing her like this, he eased her head up to his shoulder.

The warm puff of her breath brushed the bared skin at his shoulder. And Jack shivered. Glancing down, he saw that his wound had already knitted closed. With an impatient sound, he grew a pair of claws and tore it open once more. Pain lanced down his arm, and hot blood pumped from the wound with every hard beat of his heart, but his mind was already on the woman half in his embrace. Warm, soft, fragrant. Holding her was an alien experience with which he had no practice. He did not hold women. Nor offer them his greatest gift and secret. Yet here he was.

She stared at him, quiet and thoughtful, and looking just a bit shocked. He knew she understood what
he wanted. Yet he found himself speaking, low and too urgently for his own good. “Take more, Chase.”

Mary knew she’d received a hard hit, but the pain hadn’t truly registered until the fight was over. It consumed her now. Yet the moment she’d taken his blood, relief had flooded her veins. Her cheek tingled and itched as it struggled to mend. Now his solid arm was wrapped around her back, and his hand held her head to him with surprising care. He wanted her to take his blood straight from the wound. A shocking intimacy.

Later, when the pain passed and she could think clearly, Mary could cringe at the memory. But now she stared at the rich, dark blood flowing from his shoulder and acted without thought. His body stiffened at the touch of her tongue to his flesh, and his sharp, indrawn breath had her heart speeding up.