Winterblaze (45 page)

“Now yours.”

Poppy accepted the next scroll. With Jones’s glare burning into her, Poppy read the contract over. “Quill?”

Jones’s nostrils flared as he took another breath and then handed Poppy the same black feather quill that he’d presented to Winston. Poppy took the quill in hand, and Win’s heart nearly slammed out of his ribs, his anticipation
was so thick. On a sharp curse, he paced away, feeling the weight of Jones’s mocking stare with every step.
Steady on. Almost there.

Poppy pricked her finger, then leaned forward to sign.

“Poppy.”

She looked up at Winston’s call. Their eyes met, and he swallowed hard. “I…”

“Get on with it,” snapped Jones.

The red fan of her lashes lowered, and with the self-same flourish as Jones, she signed. Win sagged against the stone wall as Jones repeated the action. It was done.

“Most excellent,” said Jones.

Poppy glared at him, refusing to move closer to Jones’s outstretched hand. “Why me?” she asked. “You owe me that much.”

“Now that I have you, it is an easy request to make.” Jones grinned then, a self-satisfied gesture that had Win aching to smash his face. “My kind does not fear fire, nor earth, but ice?” He chuckled low and malevolently. “Oh how my enemies fear that. With you at my side, there is no one I cannot defeat.”

Cool, calculating eyes of deep brown studied Jones. “And if I decide to turn my powers against you?”

A short laugh punctuated the air. “You are bound to me now, daughter. To do as I say.” Grinning with glee, Jones held out a hand once more. “Now, my dear, if you’d come with me.”

It was Poppy’s turn to grin. “I do believe you have been tricked.”

It took a moment for Jones to comprehend that the voice coming from Poppy’s mouth was that of a man. Jones’s white glare went to Win, his lips curling back in a feral grimace before he slowly turned back to Poppy.

The air about her stirred, and then Jack Talent stood smiling before them. “Isn’t that correct, Inspector?”

“I believe so, Mr. Talent.” Win spoke lightly, but the battle had only just begun.

Jones’s thin body swelled and grew. “Then I shall take you to hell with me, Jack Talent.”

Talent peered up at him. “Already been, thanks. Besides, you might have my blood but the name on the contract says Poppy Ellis Lane.”

“In short,”—Win gave Jones a pleasant smile—“the contract has been forged, and thus is null and void. This one, however,”—he held up the contract absolving Jones from touching him or his child—“is quite valid.”

Sharp teeth flashed before a roar of utter outrage tore from Jones’s lips. It shook the night and rattled his bones. Then Jones broke free of his mortal body in a burst of fire and smoke, knocking Win and Talent back. Talent hit the pavement hard, his head bouncing against it. He did not get back up. Smoke swirled then coalesced into the form of something that froze Win with terror. It rose to full height, all seven feet of it, as it snarled at them.

Werewolf.
Win’s mind screamed the word as he scrambled back, his body instantly in full-flight mode. It was an illusion. An illusion. The
were’s
roar and his hot, fetid breath had Win’s body thinking otherwise. Bile rushed up his throat. Win held it down and whipped out the short swords he had strapped beneath the back of his coat. Clutching them in his hands, he rose to face his nightmare.

The
were
pounced. Win leapt to the side, his sword slashing down as he moved. It met with bone, and blood sprayed his face.
Hot, wet. Get away. Run away!
He ignored the command. The
were
howled in pain and rage.
Win hadn’t time to move again before the thing lashed out, catching him on the chest. Win flew back several feet, smashing into a lamppost. Stars sparkled before his eyes and he tasted blood.

Move!

Win rolled, knife-sharp claws raking the cobbles where he’d lain. Again, Win struck, cutting and swiping with his swords. Teeth snapped before his face, claws gouged his flesh. Oh, how he remembered. His body shook, threatening to break down against his will. Grunting, he kicked the beast in the stomach, flinging it away with all his strength.

The
were
tumbled back then righted with blinding speed. “A fighter now, are you?” Jones’s voice was garbled under the guise of the
were.

Sword hilts held tight in his sweating hands, Win crouched low and ready. “Damn right. Now fight me in your true form.” The scarab lay heavy and waiting within his trouser pocket. He only needed the chance to use it. “Or are you afraid, Apep?”

“You dare?” Jones snarled. “You dare speak my sacred name!”

But even as he shouted, the
were
form faltered, becoming grey and wavering until Jones once more stood before him. No longer thin, but bulky with muscle and skin of deep crimson.

Win gripped his weapons. “We are children of Isis, no longer under your spell.”

Jones’s eyes went to Poppy’s charm dangling about Win’s neck, exposed now that his shirt was in tatters. “You think Isis will protect you? Stupid Winston Lane.”

He flew at Win, a blur of red skin and flashing eyes. The impact jolted through Win and took his breath. Fists
pummeled his face, quick, hard explosions of pain. He held onto consciousness by a thread as his shaking hand reached for the scarab in his pocket.

Above him, Apep’s eyes burned with crimson fire. “You will beg for relief, Lane, beg to be my slave.” And then he stabbed into Win with claws that had grown long and shining black.

Win bellowed, his body bowing against the pain. The claws sank deeper into his flesh, down into his chest. Convulsions hit him, blood filling his mouth as he writhed. Blinding flecks of white burst before his eyes, but not enough to block out the sight of Apep’s sharp grin. “This is only the beginning.”

No, it was the end. With a shaking hand, Win pushed the scarab toward Apep’s bare chest. The scarab vibrated against Win’s palm as if it yearned to be free. So close. Win’s vision went dim, the pain wrenching through his bones. But the moment before the stone touched Apep’s skin, the demon snarled and knocked it away.

A sob of defeat broke from Win’s lips, and then the demon twisted his claws deep. White lightning ripped through Win as he bellowed, loud enough that he almost missed the sound of his wife’s scream.

Poppy raced along the embankment, the sight of Isley’s claws stabbing into Win’s thrashing body making her scream and sending a lash of sheer rage through her drug-weakened limbs.

She didn’t think, didn’t speak. She acted, throwing the full force of her power at Isley. From behind her, the water of the Thames launched up and around her in a wave of freezing water. It knocked into Isley and Win, sending the demon tumbling and Win flopping like a fish upon the ground.

Shit. She pulled the power back as she raced forward, and without pausing, kicked Isley in the head. He skidded farther away from Win, his red limbs flying akimbo. Again, Poppy struck Isley’s torso, then his head, taking advantage of the demon’s stunned state, moving him away from Win.

She’d got him ten feet away when Isley surged upward on a roar. A meaty fist hit Poppy square upon the cheek. Black pain exploded in her skull. Ducking another hit, she fled to Win as she threw out another punch of power. A wall of thick ice barely formed around her and Win before the blast of the demon’s fire struck. The burning heat of the attack melted the wall. Wrenching her hand around, she grabbed a chakram blade from her pocket and threw it. The demon deflected the round, spinning blade with a swipe of his claws, so she sent another wave at him, encasing his upper body in thick, blue ice.

His roar blew back her hair, but she did not flinch. More and more ice surrounded him. She was lowering the Thames in an effort to keep him contained, and he was melting it just as fast. He was almost free. She reached for another blade when Win’s voice croaked. “The scarab. His name.” Blood trickled from Win’s split lip. “He is Apep.”

Apep? Understanding lit through her. Apep’s name was on the scarab. It could destroy him. She scrambled, slipping on slush, banging her knees as she rose and stumbled toward the small, stone beetle that lay a few feet from the lamppost.

Apep screamed, the sound of crackling ice filling the air. Poppy’s hand closed around the scarab. She ran toward Apep and his snarling rage. She snarled too, running at full speed with her breath burning in her throat.

Apep’s arm broke free of its icy bonds. He swung his claws as she neared, knowing that one hit would take her head.

“Poppy!” Win’s voice, strong with desperation. “Drop!”

So she did, not knowing why, but only that she trusted him. She fell back, hearing the high-pitched whine of a blade flying over the space she had just occupied. Poppy glanced up to see the gold blur of her chakram as it sliced through the trapped demon’s arm like a greedy spoon through warm pudding. The severed arm fell to the ground with a thud. Apep screeched as he thrashed, trying to free his remaining arm. Cracks grew, and the ice crumbled from the force.

Heart in her mouth, Poppy called on her remaining strength and leapt up. Apep’s arm was nearly free. On a cry borne of desperation, Poppy slammed the scarab against Apep’s red chest.

With a flash of light, the scarab came to life, burrowing into his flesh as the demon writhed and shouted. Light filled Apep’s eyes and shot from his nostrils and mouth with golden fire. He stared at Poppy, anguish etched in his face. “You were mine too. You could have been like me.”

A strange sensation of loss filled her, and then the demon exploded in a burst of smoke and fire.

The explosion sent thick chunks of ice through the air and knocked her and Win down along with it. Apep’s final roar rippled through the night. And then he was gone, so abruptly that it almost felt as though Poppy had dreamed the whole thing. Exhaustion hit her in the same instant, and she sank back with a sigh. Her heart beat a steady but hard rhythm in her chest, the strain of using her power weakening her as always.

For a moment, she simply breathed, then Win’s boots
came into view. Her eyes traveled up the long length of his lean form until she met his gaze. A greenish tint colored his skin, and beads of perspiration dotted his brow. His hands shook, though she could see his effort to keep them still.

“How did you know who he was?” Her voice was even, despite the shiver of fear that ran through her. Win could have been killed. She hadn’t allowed herself to think about that before. The knowledge ran in cold spirals down her back now.

He turned his head, giving her his scarred profile as he examined the small mountain of melting ice before them. A soft breeze lifted the ends of his hair and tossed them around his strong profile. “A little research never hurts one’s case.”

A flicker of amusement lurked in his eyes when he turned back to her. But she could see how very pale he was and the way he swayed on his feet. “Have you an entire arsenal tucked beneath your shirt, then?”

“Not an entire one,” she said, matching his light tone. “I’ve a few things in my pockets as well.”

His lips curled, but the smile was tremulous and hard won. “You’re late.”

Laughter burst from her, choked and abrupt. “I ought to be. You drugged me, you bastard.”

The very notion of his high-handedness had her seeing red. Only the greater part of her could not help but think
bravo, and well done.
For she would have done the same to him, had she thought of it. Win was a shrewd bastard when he wanted to be. That he’d thought to put the drug inside the cream buns had been particularly devious.

She’d been livid when she’d awakened. But, true to his promise not to keep anything from her again, he’d left her
a note explaining where he was and how he had to trick Isley. Like a consummate gambler, Win had left so much to chance, but he’d done it with such finesse that her heart swelled with pride.

His breath gurgled. “I thought you might… appreciate… that.” Then he fell to his knees.

“Win?” She pushed up, scrambling toward him. Her arms caught him before he hit the ground. She’d forgotten about his wounds. A crimson stain spread out across his ravaged white shirt. “Win!” She ripped the shirt farther open. Holes punctured his flesh and a thick chunk of melting ice was embedded in his right shoulder. “Oh hell.”

His lashes fluttered. “It appears that I might need a bit of assistance.”

Shaking, she leaned close, resting her hand on the wound and chilling it down. “If you die on me, Winston Lane, I shall kill you.”

His lips tilted. “Don’t worry, sweeting. I live to thwart you.” Then his eyes slid closed.

O
ne would think after months of convalescing from a werewolf attack, one would at least be accustomed to something so trivial as being impaled by a shard of ice. Well, “one” was not. Win lay on his side and tried not to breathe as he dozed. Despite his haze, a sound at the door brought him to instant attention, every sore and battered muscle screaming in protest.

Someone entered the room. He hoped it was Poppy, but the step was too heavy, and the atmosphere in the room felt off, foreign. Beneath his pillow, his hand curled around the gun he kept there. Heart pounding and his body throbbing with pain, Win remained still. He was too weak to whip about and attack so he had to rely on the element of surprise. The slow footsteps came closer. A buzzing sound filled his ears. His clammy hand held the gun firm.