Shadowdance (Darkest London 4)

“Enough!” The archbishop smacked an open palm against his thigh. “Get out, spawn. Go back to the darkness from which you came.”

“Stop.” Mary could hear no more. Both men flinched as though they’d forgotten she was there. She tried for a reasonable tone. “Surely we can all calm—”

“Miss,” interrupted the archbishop, “I am going to assume you know not with what you’ve come in contact. However, I implore you to come with me. For your safety.”

“Mr. Talent is not a thing,” she said incredulously.

A growl rumbled in Talent’s chest at that moment. Mary stepped closer to him, but kept her gaze upon the archbishop, who looked at her with false patience. “Your Grace, I do not understand what lies between you and my partner, but surely—”

“What lies between His Grace and me,” Talent cut in sharply, “is murder.”

The archbishop went livid red. “Murder is the killing of a human. Otherwise it is simply a necessary extermination.”

Talent sprang with a roar, tackling the elder man and crashing to the floor with him.

“Talent!” She hurried over, her heavy, voluminous skirts hampering her progress. Any moment now guards would come. His life would be ruined.

But Talent was past hearing. He hauled the archbishop up, and the man’s head bobbled, even as fervent prayers rattled from his pale lips. “ ‘He cast upon them the fierceness of his anger, wrath, and indignation, and trouble, by sending evil angels among them.’ ”

“Prayer will not help you,” Talent shouted over him.

“ ‘He made a way to his anger; he spared not their soul from death, but gave their life over to the pestilence.’ ”

Talent bared his teeth, his fists curling into the man’s cassock. “You were supposed to help. You were supposed to save us all. You destroyed my family—” His voice broke.

“No, you did. With your unnaturalness.” Spittle flew as the archbishop snarled up at him. “You killed your mother. Your father—”

“Why stop there?” Talent snapped. “Perhaps you’d like to see how I exterminate?”

Long claws began to grow from his fingertips, his teeth dropping to fangs. Mary did not know what he’d become, nor did she care. She rushed headlong to him. “Talent. Stop this.” He did not take notice of her.

Neither did the archbishop, who glared up at Talent, defiant, but so very fragile and human when compared to Talent’s raw strength. “Do your worst. My soul is pure.”

A bark of cold laughter rang out, and Talent’s claws grew. A shimmer wavered over his form, his control breaking into a shift. “We shall see.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Mary moved as through a fog. She was barely aware of leaving that dark, dreadful room. Talent had been ready to slice into the archbishop. It was only when she’d cupped his cheek that he’d stopped, springing backward at the contact, his eyes wild upon her and without a hint of recognition. His broad chest had heaved on a fast pant. And then his gaze had cleared, and he’d given a vicious curse and fled.

Guards came, a commotion broke out around her, shouts and accusations abounded. She moved through them, and no one stopped her. As she left, the battered archbishop had called for silence, telling his staff to go about as they had been. Odd. But she did not care what prompted his incongruous actions. Her mind was on Jack Talent.

Mary’s ears buzzed, and her bones hummed. One thought consumed her: he’d die for her.

Jack Talent’s fierce declaration clamored about in Mary’s head like the ringing of bells as she rushed from the palace, still hampered by her damned skirts and too-tight corset. A fierce need welled up within her breast. To touch him, to wrap her arms about his big, strong body and give it shelter, to tell him that he too had promise; he just didn’t see it.

She found him by the high brick wall that surrounded the palace. He faced away from her, leaning against the wall, forearms braced upon it as if to hold himself up. The broad expanse of his back heaved with each quick breath he took. She hurried forward just as he struck the wall, bits of red brick flying up from the force of his fist.

“Talent!”

He did not heed but kept punishing the wall, pounding brick into fine red dust. Blood sprayed from his knuckles. Mary grabbed his arm, her touch halting him so quickly that she swung forward into him.

Talent bared his teeth, and small fangs gleamed, his eyes wild. Sweat pebbled the pale skin along his temples, and his bloodied hands shook. “Do not!”

He stalked away, only to turn about and stride the other way. A man caged within his mind. “Leave me,” he ground out. “I cannot…”

She took a step closer to him. He was a wild thing now, his fingers opening and closing into fists, the whites of his eyes growing redder. “Talent.”

“Just go!”

“No.”

He stopped his pacing and simply stared as though he couldn’t quite understand her resistance. His stillness was an illusion, for he vibrated, his nostrils flaring as he breathed in hard pants. Mary edged closer and lowered her voice. “Talk to me.”

He shook his head before running his hand through his hair to clutch the short ends and hold them tight, his muscles bunching and his body trembling.

She licked her dry lips. “Like it or not, I am your partner. I will not leave you. Not like this.” She feared he’d be well and truly lost if she did. Mary knew that level of rage and fear. It took hold of a soul and shook it to its core. It sucked a person down into nightmares and blackness.

He cursed, rocking a bit where he stood, and turned away from her as if he couldn’t bear the sight of her. Slowly, as if approaching a cornered and injured animal, she eased forward. He stiffened at her approach, his head shaking back in forth in negation. Mary ignored it. “Take my hand.” She held it out, waiting.

He did not answer. And she came closer, enough to scent his sweat and fear. Enough to see the clenching of his jaw and the blood oozing over his knuckles.

“Jack,” she whispered.

The sound of his name appeared to stir him, but still he would not move.

“Come with me.” Knowing patience was needed, she simply stood close to him, her hand out and open. Moving as if half-frozen, Talent’s hand descended from where it had been pulling at his hair. The touch of his hand against hers was such a relief that she almost closed her eyes in thanks. Careful of his wounds, she closed her fingers over his. Immediately he responded, clasping their hands together in a comfortable hold.

Quietly she led him out of the courtyard and then into the waiting carriage. He did not try to pull away as they moved down the streets, nor did he speak. They simply sat side by side, linked by their hands.

The coach rocked in time with Jack’s heaving innards. He stared at the filth littered upon the hack’s floor. A button lay there, cracked on one edge. His skin pricked with cold sweat, but at his side was warmth. Mary. She held on to him. She hadn’t left, damn her. As much as he wanted to let her go, jump from the coach, and run away until he could catch a normal breath, he held on to her too.

Thankfully, she did not speak as they made their way to God knew where. But the questions would be coming. She always wanted to know more. He couldn’t give her what she wanted. Hell, he refused to think about it a second longer. Memories were acid to his insides.

Black rage hovered at the edges of his sight. Hell’s bells, just seeing that bastard. He flinched. His soul screamed for justice. Go back. Finish him. A soft touch stayed his jerking movements, her thumb brushing over his split knuckles. Jack took a shallow breath. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should not have gone today, and bollocks to his pride.

The coach rolled to a stop, and Mary descended before he could make himself move to assist her. They were at the end of a small, crooked lane. An older pocket of London, so very dark, with squat wooden houses leaning against each other for support. Hard-packed dirt competed with broken cobbles, and in grimy windows, shadows moved.

Despite the gloom, Mary’s step was lively. She tugged him along, and he realized that she once again had caught up his hand in hers. The embrace felt good, as if he should settle in and stay there.

Mary led them to an ancient, Tudor-style house, its windows comprised of dark bottle glass and heavy lead lattices. The battered wood-and-iron door swung open with ease. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dimness, the heady scent of roasting meat making his mouth water even as the smoky interior had his eyes stinging.

It was a tavern, though the patrons appeared to be more interested in eating than drinking. Several tables were filled, men and, surprisingly, women hunched over their meals while conversing in low tones. Heavy green bottles of wine sat on many a table, though a barmaid wove through the crowd, distributing pints of ale as she went. At the far end of the room, a large fire roared in the massive stone hearth. An older woman worked at a grill set up over the fire, and the hiss of sizzling meat grew higher as she flipped thick steaks. Jack swallowed hard at the scent it gave off. Even soul-sick, he yearned for a bite.

A few nodded to Mary in greeting as she towed Jack along to a dark corner table. Deftly she removed her cloak and hat, hanging them upon a hook. His flesh jumped as she smoothed her hands over his chest and eased his coat away. Her touch was fleeting, perfunctory, and still his heart banged against his ribs and his body grew greedy for more, even as she turned to hang his coat, even as she guided him into a chair and then took her own.

“What is this place?” His throat was raw, his words coming out rough yet weak. He did not like to be around others. It made him twitchy. But the feel of the place soothed. The murmur of voices—content and constant—and the scent of meat in the air settled him in small ways.

A lamp illuminated the table and bathed Mary’s features with golden light. “Safe.” She glanced around, and he did too. There was something about the patrons. They all appeared fairly young, healthy, attractive. He sat up straighter, becoming aware of the soft whirring sound that filled the room. Hearts. Many clockwork hearts. GIM.

Jack gave a small start of surprise. GIM did not, to his knowledge, congregate en masse. Like shifters, they were solitary creatures. And as objects of suspicion, they tended to keep to the shadows of the underworld. Jack slid his gaze away as a few men glared at him. He wouldn’t cause trouble for Mary. Not here.

Not when she was looking at him with expectation. Her eyes gleamed like polished topaz. “Our refuge.” She signaled to the barmaid. “And home to some of the best food in the city.” She grinned, and his breath caught. “Likely because the cook is French.”

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered.

She treated that as the lie it was and ordered them supper when the barmaid arrived. Jack took the opportunity to watch the two men sitting at the opposite wall as they tuned their fiddles. The gentle strains of the instruments relaxed him further.

They did not speak, and when the barmaid set down two platters of sizzling beefsteaks, they ate their meals. Oddly, the silence was not uncomfortable. Mary appeared in no hurry and seemed to enjoy her food. As for Jack, with each bite of the juicy grilled meat, a bit more warmth spread through him. A flagon of wine appeared before him, and he poured for Chase before helping himself. Slowly his shoulders eased, and the jitters that wracked his body quieted.

“Will you tell me now?”

Her voice cut through their shared silence. He took his time finishing his bite. It did not ease the hard thump of his heart against his ribs, or the way his fingers suddenly went cold. Nor could he avoid her indefinitely. Nastiness might have put her off, but she’d stayed with him, had given him comfort.

Gripping his cutlery as though it were a lifeline, Jack finally lifted his head to face her.

Talent slowly chewed his food, as if considering how to answer without giving too much away. In perfect honesty, she’d expected him to snap at her, divert her somehow, but he simply took a sip of wine and then set his glass down. “Not here.” He glanced at the crowd around them, and the flickering lamplight played with his rough-hewn features, making them loom larger than life one moment and then shrink away the next.

His gaze snapped back to hers. “Will you come somewhere with me?”

“Anywhere you want.” How frightening to realize that despite her fears, and their old history, she’d spoken the absolute truth: she would follow him anywhere.

They did not speak as he led them to St. Paul’s. Deep below the cathedral was a hidden door beneath the crypts that led to SOS headquarters; thus regulators had access to St. Paul’s at all hours. Not that the Church knew of this, but it proved useful on occasion.

In the blue twilight, the cathedral rose up around them, the space at once reverent yet haunting. They’d learned the art of walking without being detected, and thus only the soft pattern of her breath made a sound. He guided her to the north tower and the Geometric Staircase. A work of genius, the stone staircase hugged the cylindrical limestone tower’s wall, suspended without visible supports. It was a thing of beauty, swirling above like a nautilus. Their steps chuffed as they ascended, the black latticed handrail cold beneath Mary’s hand.

At her elbow Talent’s agitation was palpable, a twitching, buzzing energy that affected her heart rate. She’d seen the capitulation in his eyes. He would tell her his truth, and she found herself fearing the answers.

They exited onto the triforium, an elegant balcony that overlooked the cathedral’s main chapel.

“I come here sometimes,” he said after a moment, his voice a soft echo off the limestone. As if it choked him, he wrenched off his cravat and collar and tossed them to the side before taking a big breath. Then he leaned his forearms against the rail and stared at the floor below. “No matter how I have avoided it, my upbringing has infected me.” He frowned down at his clenched hands. “And I find this place soothing.”