Winterblaze (Darkest London 3)

Mary was about to answer that she did not know how helpful Talent would be, as he usually pouted like a boy in short pants and then promptly did what he liked, when they heard a commotion coming from the hall. One word in particular cut through the rumble: murder.

“Blast it!” Mrs. Lane grabbed a hip holster from the trunk and strapped it on. The dark glint in her eyes was unnerving as she grabbed her knife. “God help that demon if he has harmed my husband.”

“Bad discussion with the wife, Inspector?”

Winston did not bother acknowledging Talent as he strode down yet another endless corridor on this hulking beast of a ship. Bad discussion? It was the understatement of the year. Instead of getting anywhere with Poppy, she’d made him feel small and dishonorable, which was damned aggravating given that she was in the right; he had acted dishonorably in leaving her without asking for an explanation.

Worse was that, from the moment he’d seen her on the gangplank, his body and his soul had awakened, much like being jolted from a dream. No matter her betrayal, the anger he felt about it, or her present machinations, she made him alive. She excited him. And he wanted her still. Perfect. Bloody perfect.

Beside him, Talent nodded sagely as if he’d responded instead of remaining tight-lipped. “You look terrible at any rate. Pinched about the mouth. Remind me to add a bit of lavender to your shaving water. Soothes the nerves.”

Winston halted. “I believe I made it clear that you are not my valet. Nor,” he added, taking a step into Talent’s space, “is it your business to speculate about my personal discourse. Good or bad. I’m not Ian Ranulf who you can goad into a temper with your insolence.”

Talent did not so much as blink. “So this isn’t you in a temper?”

Winston held that insouciant gaze. “Pray you never see me in one.”

The man grinned. “I live among wolves. You wouldn’t stand a chance against me—” Talent yelped as he was slammed to the floor, his legs flying out from under him.

With a grin of his own, Winston pressed the end of his walking stick into the man’s chest as he bent over him. “You were saying?”

Talent eyed him, clearly considering brawling in the narrow passageway, but other passengers were approaching. Waiting until the horrified couple scrambled away from the undignified spectacle of a man sprawled upon the floor, Talent knocked aside the stick and leapt neatly to his feet. “Thought you were more of a ‘the pen is mightier than the sword’ type, Inspector.”

“Depends on the fight.” Winston set his lapels back in order. “Rest assured, I can do battle with both.”

They stepped out onto the promenade deck. Fresh sea air hit Winston, and he drew in a deep breath. They walked on a ways. “Mrs. Lane claims a demon is on the boat with the sole intent to bedevil me.” It wasn’t easy for Winston to say, much less think.

“Bloody demons.” Talent’s mouth twisted. “If you ask me, it’s safer to slice their heads off and be done with them.”

“I find your cavalier attitude toward murder somewhat disturbing, Mr. Talent.”

“Oh do you? I suspect you’d be singing a different tune should one catch you,” Talent said darkly. “They like to play with their prey, you know.”

Lovely. “Are you saying there aren’t any demons worthy of redemption?”

“Not one who’d have Mrs. Lane rushing out to save your hide.”

It took a moment to find a calm tone. “This is all moot, as Mrs. Lane tells me this one cannot be beheaded.”

“Every supernatural can be destroyed from beheading.”

Winston did not like the speculation that resided in the younger man’s eyes, nor the itching fury that was mounting in his chest. The railing made a dull clang as he punched it with the side of his fist. “She cannot have exaggerated to—”

“Bring you to heel?” Talent supplied with a dry snort. “Who the bloody hell knows what a woman will say or do to get her way?” His expression darkened. “Look at Miss Chase. Suddenly she’s a bleating Regulator in training. Sneaking little…” He pushed a hard breath through his nose.

Winston faced Talent, and the breeze sent his hair scattering across his ruined cheek. “Do you want to be a Regulator?”

Talent scowled at the sea. “Would do a lot better than Chase.”

Fighting a smile, Winston kept his voice neutral. “I suspect you’d make a fine Regulator.” He tilted his head, and the fluttering strands whipped back. “Why not apply?”

Hot color washed over Talent’s broad cheeks. “You can’t apply,” he muttered. “You can only be invited. Doesn’t matter, I’ve better things to do with my time.”

Ah, there was the rub. Miss Chase had been invited, and Mr. Talent had not. Winston might have believed that was where their animosity stemmed, but he knew better. It was clearly older than that.

“Daisy works with the SOS now,” Winston said. “Why not ask her to press your suit?”

Talent’s gaze snapped back to him. “Oh, I well know it. Who do you think got Mary Chase in? It takes months, months to process a novice, and yet Chase is in, within, what, a week? Working with your wife?” He pointed an accusatory finger at Winston as his scowl grew. “I’d be asking yourself why, Lane. I know I am.”

This time, Winston stepped near, letting the blunt tip of Talent’s finger press into his chest. “If my wife has any secrets, they are hers to keep.” And mine to discover.

Talent’s mouth opened as if he would retort but then he froze, his nostrils flaring and his gaze growing flat. “I smell blood.”

Carried on the wind came the scent of copper. And shit and piss. Win knew the smell too well. Not just blood. “That is death.”

Moving as one, they stalked toward the scent. Winston’s hand tightened on his walking stick. Above, seagulls squabbled in mid-air, diving and swooping around the massive smokestack.

“Attracted to the blood,” murmured Talent.

Ahead, the deck narrowed as it curved toward the bow of the ship. Lifeboats creaked, and the paddle churned, but not a soul stirred.

They crept closer to the source of the scent. A grunt and a sound unnervingly like that of a man slurping soup came from the other side of the steam funnel. Winston’s hand slipped to the gun hidden within his inner coat pocket. At CID, he wasn’t allowed to carry one, as the populace of London had an aversion to police arming themselves. Even so, he’d used a gun before, when the danger was high. And only a fool would carry a weapon and not know how to wield it. He’d like to think himself not a fool, but a gun hadn’t helped him when a werewolf attacked him. Winston swallowed down the rush of bitterness that filled his mouth.

“Have you a weapon?” he whispered.

Talent spared him a glance. “I’m a shifter.”

Winston supposed that would have to do.

Together, they rushed around the corner, Winston’s gun out and cocked.

“Hell,” Talent said.

Winston stopped short as he spied the body. Male, young, wearing officer’s whites. Torn and bloody throat, his pants gaping open, sightless eyes gazing up to the heavens. Winston took in the particulars, then a shadow flickered in the periphery of his vision. Winston took off after it, with Talent at his heels.

Their feet pounded on the deck as they raced along. The sound of an iron door wrenching open had Winston increasing his pace. He skidded around the corner and tore through the open hatch. A man paused on the stair, his eyes gleaming yellow as he grinned back at them.

Bloody hell. His appearance was identical to the man who lay dead on the deck.

“Demon,” Talent said behind Winston. “Used his victim’s blood to assume his appearance.”

Winston launched forward. He couldn’t shoot in this bloody iron box of a hall, but he could tackle the thing. Unfortunately, it leapt out of range and practically flew down the next flight of stairs. Winston and Talent pounded after it. The stairs rattled and shook with their effort. Sweat stung his eyes as he ran.

The demon slammed open a lower door and disappeared through it. Winston followed an instant later. Dimly lit and barren of any fripperies, the corridor stretched in four directions. The sound of the demon’s retreating footsteps echoed throughout, coming at them from everywhere.

“Where are we?” he snapped to Talent.

“Cargo level, I’d say.”

Winston tossed his hat aside. He’d left his walking stick somewhere on deck and had only the gun for protection. “Divide and conquer. There are two main cargo holds. You take the fore, and I’ll take the aft.”

“I’ll take aft.” Talent flashed a grin. “It’s farther away and I’m faster, human.”

They both knew the demon more likely had fled aft—being as it was farther away. Thus it was more dangerous. As Win hadn’t the time to argue, he let it go.

“I’ll give you that one.” He nodded toward the dark stretch of hall. “Go then. We meet in the center.”

Talent ran off without another word. Taking a deep breath, Winston did the same, going about twenty feet before he encountered the first cargo hold entrance. The door hung wide open. A sign of entry? Or a diversion?

Inside was a cavernous space, cool and slightly damp. Far above, iron beams, painted a dull red, ran along the ceiling like the ribs of Jonah’s whale. Towers of crates, lashed down by thick hemp netting, made a tight maze ideal for hiding.

“Perfect,” he muttered, keeping his back to the wall as he entered with his gun pointed down but at the ready.

Careful to keep his step light and silent, Winston moved to the first crate. Being deep in the bowels of the ship, the hum of the engines was immense and enough to vibrate his bones. Farther in he went, on a bloody wild goose chase, he feared. Something creaked and he tensed. Puddles of yellow electric light from the overhead lamps were far and few, leaving too many corners for darkness to dwell.

The heaviness of the gun in Winston’s hand brought to mind another time. Of a foul alleyway, filled with fog and death. He’d nearly lost his life there.

Don’t think of it. But his vision blurred as his mouth filled with saliva. Hands shaking, Winston pressed himself against the wall of the ship, and cold iron bore into his shoulder blades as he fought for control. The squeak of a door hinge had him freezing. From his vantage point, he could see nothing more than the crate in front of him and darkness beyond. He cannot be destroyed. What if Poppy had been telling the truth? And here Winston was, armed with only a gun. Hell. He ought to go back. But, if he stayed and fought, it could end here. Winston swallowed hard. He had to try.

Bugger, but he couldn’t hear a thing over the roar of the blasted engines. His breath and heartbeat sounded overloud in his ears, an irritant that could get him killed. And something was coming. He could feel it by the dip in his guts.

Focusing on a spot before him, Winston let every muscle relax, going still and quiet. Exhale. Inhale. Softly. The pumping of his blood slowed too. And with this came an elevation of his senses. It was a trick he’d learned in his training days from his grizzled old partner, Nelson, when Win had come too close to getting his head knocked off by a suspect. He’d forgotten it in his recent fears. No more. Win exhaled again and concentrated on the air about him and the sounds of the engines thrumming, a steady beat that—

There! The scuff of a shoe from the left had him adjusting his grip on his pistol. Sweat trickled along his neck, tickling him. He stared at the edge of the crate until the wood grain blurred and the shadowed passage came into sharp focus. Another scrape, the shuffling of fabric. The bastard was coming closer.

Win’s heartbeat thumped against the side of his throat. His thighs quivered, and his arms burned, aching with the need to move. Steady. And then he heard it, the lightest intake of breath.

With a burst of strength and speed, Winston whipped around the corner, slammed into the body standing there, and aimed for the head. His finger was already pressing down on the trigger when a flash of shining red hair and the scent of lemons stayed his hand. A second later, he registered the sharp point of a knife digging into the underside of his jaw. For a moment, he could only stare. Bulging purple glass lenses stared back at him, giving the impression of coming nose to nose with a mechanical owl. But the delicate slope of her nose and the sharp angle of her jaw was pure Poppy.

Another moment more and he became aware of the fact that his gun was pressed hard against her temple.

“Shit!” He lurched away as if burned. “What in the bloody hell?”

Poppy wrenched the enormous brass goggles from her eyes and glared. “What are you doing here?”

Her smooth cheeks were flushed, and her red hair straggled from beneath the leather straps of the goggles, but she appeared collected and cool. Not so for him.

“What am I—” He scrubbed a damp hand over his face. “Infernal woman, you nearly gave me an apoplexy. They ought to count you among the ten plagues of Egypt!”

Her mouth puckered. Not from irritation, he realized, but from repressing a laugh. Obstinate, crazy…

“Oh, I’m much more effective than a plague. Well, more accurate at any rate.”

“I almost blew your head off!”

With a deft twirl of her fingers, she tucked her knife back into the sheath strapped around her hips. “And I almost filleted you. Had I not such fine reflexes—” He snorted, and she spoke louder, “I’d be a widow right now.”

“We’ll have to thank God for small mercies.” He grasped her elbow and towed her behind the crate. His voice lowered. “Why are you here?”