Shadowdance (Darkest London 4)

“Bit stupid of you,” Jack said past the pain in his gut, “to spill Goring’s blood, demon. That glamour won’t last for long without it.”

“I don’t need blood to shift, ignorant boy. Nor am I a demon. I’m something more.” The man let his robes fall open. Blackening flesh hung on his bones. And in the center of his chest, a massive hole gaped, a raw and ugly wound. Beyond the bone, gristle, and muscle, a pathetic and shriveled heart barely pumped. “I am fallen. I am Amaros.”

A fallen angel. Bloody perfect.

Amaros closed his robe. “I am decaying. But you are going to help me fix that.”

“Don’t see how.” Jack gave a wry look down at his gut, where a thick shaft of iron stuck out of him. It was agony, but he was damned if he’d let that show. “I’m a bit hung up at the moment.”

The sores along Amaros’s neck gaped as he tilted his head and looked Jack over as though he were a piece of prime meat on a hook. “I’m rotting away. Unable to die, only to live in agony. For a millennium I’ve wasted away. And then I tasted you, Jack.” Cold fingers raked Jack’s cheek, and he flinched, much to Amaros’s delight. “Slowly I began to heal. Imagine my happiness when I thought that the blood of a shifter could heal me. But it was only you. Your gloriously rich blood. It can heal me.”

Through his pain Jack choked out a laugh. “Right. It’s done a bang-up job.”

A blow set Jack’s teeth rattling and blood pooling in his mouth. With an exaggerated sigh, Amaros leaned against the spike in Jack’s gut. Jack gnashed his teeth to hold in a scream. Amaros didn’t miss the reaction, however, and sighed. “It doesn’t have to be like this. We can help each other.”

“Your idea of help,” Jack ground out through shallow breaths, “is a little lacking, mate.”

“But I have been helping. I was the one, you realize. Who took you.”

The fact that this putrid thing had been his main tormentor made Jack’s skin crawl.

“And yet when I might have tormented you further,” Amaros went on, “I set you free from your captivity.”

“Set me free?” Jack laughed. “I was saved, you deluded prat.”

Slowly Amaros shook his head, as if Jack were daft. “I suppose it never occurred to you just why Mary Chase was able to waltz into that barge and rescue you? Without a fight? Without one guard left to watch over you?”

Jack swallowed against the thick lump in his throat. Bloody hell, but it made sense. “Why let me go?”

“Because your blood was weakened by the iron needed to hold you captive. I needed you to heal, to grow strong.” He grinned his off-kilter grin again. “But then I discovered what you are.”

“Oh?” Jack coughed, a loose and rattling sound deep within his chest. Christ, that spike hurt. “And what am I?”

“You are one of the Nephilim. The offspring of an angel and a human.”

Jack stilled. “You’re bamming me.”

“I do not know what that means.” Amaros’s eyes gleamed darkly. “Have you not paused to wonder why it is that you sprout wings when roused?”

“I am a shifter.” Jack knew he was being stubborn. Even so, he suddenly felt overset.

Amaros uttered an annoyed snort. “Shifters, angels, and Nephilim can change appearance at will and are weakened by iron. And Nephilim do not show their true selves until they reach full maturity, which, by the look of you, did not happen until this year.”

Jack was twenty-six, but it was true, he had only just grown into his full strength. And he’d never sprouted wings until now. “I don’t believe it,” Jack said.

“Neither did I at first. Your kind is rare. Before you, one had not been born in two millennia.” Amaros’s expression turned earnest, save for the mad light in his eyes. “Shrouded in myth. Even for the supernaturals. Only the fallen truly know your kind.”

“My kind.” Jack sneered. “And you’ve decided to tell me this out of the goodness of your heart.”

“No. To whet your appetite. I can give you something that you’ve always wanted. Your heritage. The name of your true family.”

Jack’s heartbeat thundered in his ears, but he remained silent.

“You think I don’t see the hunger in your eyes?” Amaros whispered. “You, the lost boy that no one wanted. You want to know, want to belong somewhere. Even if you deny it with every breath.”

There was a part of Jack that thirsted for what Amaros was offering. For too long he’d wandered, not belonging anywhere.

The fallen’s gaze grew soft, inviting trust. “I gave you the names of your tormentors, did I not? Give me what I want, and I will give you that knowledge.”

Jack looked into the fallen’s eyes and saw an abyss. It would never end. The bargaining. The bartering of his pride.

That the fallen seemed to believe his offer would negate all that had been done to Jack caused a bone-deep rage to rise to the surface. He bit down hard on his battered lip, and blood filled his mouth with a metallic flavor. And though a small, cold part of him shouted not to do it, Jack spit the blood into the fallen’s face. “That’s all you’ll get from me.”

It pebbled over Amaros’s raw cheeks and dripped off the tip of his nose. Far from being annoyed, he closed his eyes and inhaled, his nostrils flaring. “Then we are at an impasse. Or perhaps not.” Amaros’s teeth flashed in a sick grin. “Mary Chase.”

Jack did not let a single muscle on his face move. Amaros would make him pay for Mary. And it would hurt. Jack’s heart thundered hard enough to feel in his throat. “You can’t touch her, and I’ll cut my own throat and bleed out before I let you get one drop.” His chest heaved, the movement tearing his flesh, and warm blood trickled over his skin. An all-too-familiar sensation.

The fallen was silent, watching him with cool eyes. “You saw what I did to those GIM.” He glanced at his cohorts. Jack had forgotten they were there. The two robed figures stepped closer. “It took only a moment to kill every last one of them.”

Jack strained against the spikes, wanting to lash out, but they held fast and he sagged.

“Let him down,” Amaros said.

Being pulled off the iron was as bad as being impaled. Jack slumped to the floor, his blood pumping out of him even as his flesh closed. Amaros stood over him. “Choose, John Michael. Your blood, or the safety of every GIM in London.” The GIM, not only Mary but Daisy, and by extension everyone Jack loved.

With a swirl of his black cloak, Amaros turned to go. “Trafalgar Square. One hour. Otherwise I’ll start with Mary Chase.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Dread. It had been his companion for years. Constancy did not diminish its power. No, it merely made it grow. How strange then, that on the eve of seeing all his fears come to fruition, dread had lost its power over him. Jack was numb—no, not numb—he merely ached so badly that it blocked all other feeling out and made his limbs thick and heavy.

Mary. Her name bloomed in his mind without his permission. And a thick twist of discomfort went through his chest. He’d never believed in love. Never allowed himself to truly feel it. Not for his family—though he cared for them with a protectiveness that was fierce. And to have someone to call his own? Someone who claimed him as hers? Never had he believed in that. Because if he couldn’t love himself, how could he expect another to love him in return?

Ah, but the folly in trying to curb one’s emotions. It couldn’t be done. It was a joke, a lesson in futility. No matter how many mind games one played, emotion, need, love had an insidious way of seeping in. And while Jack did not know how to love, he knew with painful clarity how it felt to be in love. Agonizing.

He did not know what to do about that, but knew where he had to go.

The butler let Jack into the library and closed the door. Jack stopped at the threshold as the two men within turned in unison to look at him. What a sight they made, each man occupying a deep leather armchair set up before the cheery fire. The light set an orange-gold cast to everything, turning one set of eyes aqua blue and the other to pale ice. And sprawling upon the chest of the blond man, like a lumpy sack of potatoes, lay the youngest male in the room, his tuft of baby hair a lick of flame against his father’s fine tweed coat, now covered in drool.

“Don’t you two make the cozy couple,” Jack murmured.

Ian Ranulf grinned, his canines gleaming bright. But his voice came out whisper-soft. “If you wake this child, Jack Talent, I shall have your hide.”

Jack moved on quiet feet to claim a spot on the ottoman just between the two men. “I wouldn’t dare,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I’ve heard the little pisser screech too many times.” Ellis Lane was as vocal, if not more so, as his mum and aunts. A right charming devil, he was.

Winston Lane let out a small sigh as his head rested against the high back of his chair. “I do not even remember what an entire night’s sleep feels like anymore.”

With infinite care Jack reached out and laid his fingers on the curve of Ellis’s nappy-padded bum.

You want to know, want to belong somewhere.

Something inside him warmed and eased. Not enough, but it felt all right. “I take it Poppy is resting now?” Slowly he gave Ellis a tender stroke, all the while aware of Ian’s attention and the hopefulness of it. Jack’s iced-over heart gave a kick of regret.

“Mmm,” agreed Lane. “I shall shortly join her, now that my little songbird here is truly sleeping.” His keen gaze darted between Jack and Ian, who sat quiet in his chair. The awkward heaviness of the room increased significantly. “In fact,” Lane said, standing in one graceful move, “I think I shall do so now.” Holding a big hand against his child’s small body, he glanced down at Jack. “Good to see you, Jack.”

Lane left them, and though it was his house, he never questioned Jack’s visit. As if he knew perfectly well that Jack wasn’t here to see him.

Jack rested his arms upon his knees and stared at the dancing flames, Ian’s silent presence like a heavy hand upon his back. He wanted to speak but found his voice had fled.

“How did you know I was here?” Ian’s soft query cracked out like a whip between them.

Jack straightened. “Daisy said you and Lane like to play chess at this hour.” The board lay in play just beside Jack. And it looked as if Ian was losing.

Noting the direction of Jack’s gaze, Ian made a snort of annoyance. “It’s a bloody nightmare in the making. The ignominy of it. I have to defend my honor. But I swear, young Ellis is giving the bastard tips. I think it might be in the form of baby babble code.”

Jack’s mouth twitched, but the dull, heavy ache returned. “I’ve made mistakes.”

At his side Ian stirred, coming forward. “We all do.”

“No. Not like this.” Staring into the fire, he told Ian everything, of his ties with Will and the Nex, of trading blood for information, and of what he’d done to Mary. Just saying it was like regurgitating shredded glass.

Jack’s confession ended in ringing silence. The fire snapped as a log broke, and then Ian sighed. “Fuck me.” A soft curse for the damned. But no condemnation, no mention of his idiocy, just “I take it Miss Chase was rather—”

“As she ought to be,” Jack finished dully. He stared down at his clenched fists. “Deep down I knew that if I treated her badly enough, I’d ruin any hope of her forgiveness. I pushed her away.” Jack closed his eyes. Hell, he excelled at pushing people away. “It wasn’t fear that she’d find out. I knew I didn’t deserve her.”

Ian snorted, a wry sound. “I’ve yet to meet a man head over heels in love who believes himself worthy of his lady.”

Jack tried to smile but couldn’t. “I deserved what I’ve got. And Chase has made it quite clear that she wants nothing more to do with me.” His knuckles turned white. “At any rate, I’m not here for advice. I will fix what I can, however I can.” The image of submitting to Amaros loomed to the fore, and it took a moment to master his voice. “I’m here because… I needed someone to talk to. And you are that person.” Jack shut his mouth and blinked.

Ian cleared his throat, a brusque, sharp sound. “Well. Good.” He cleared it again. “I am glad. That you did, I mean.” He eyed Jack and then spoke just as gruffly. “You’re a man now.”

“And I wasn’t before?” Jack quipped.

“No, you were a pup trying to snarl his way past fear. Now you know better. And I’m bloody proud of you, ye wee bugger.”

Hell. Jack lurched up, his heart throbbing in his throat and his eyes far too hot. He made to go but halted and looked down at Ian, who sat frozen in his chair. Neither man looked directly at the other, each choosing some point in the vicinity of the other’s chin or shoulder. Jack had been an ass. He’d known it. And Ian had never censured him, because he knew exactly why. Suddenly it wasn’t humiliating. It was a gift.

Jack reached out and clamped a hand upon Ian’s shoulder, an ungainly move but necessary. Then he bent down and placed a kiss upon the top of his head. “Tha gaol agam ort, Athair.” I love you, Father.

Ian sucked in a sharp breath, and his hand whipped up to grasp Jack’s wrist in a grip so tight Jack’s bones bent. They both stayed like that, Jack’s hand wound into the fabric of Ian’s shirt, and Ian with a death grip on Jack’s wrist. Then, as if by silent agreement, they both let go.