Shadowdance (Darkest London 4)

His growl seemed to vibrate through her, but Mary ignored it and the way the hairs lifted along the back of her neck. “What gave you reason to believe that it would remain yours alone after all this time, when you have nothing to show for your efforts?”

With an unfortunately easy move, he shrugged free. She let him; bodily contact was not a situation she wanted to prolong, as it was far too unsettling. He loomed over her. “Toss out what insults you will, Mistress Merrily.” He poked her shoulder with a hard finger. “But do not for a moment try to undermine me. You think I’m a bastard now, try handling me in a temper.”

He turned to storm off when she grabbed his lapel and hauled him back. Taking pleasure in the shock that parted his lips, she smiled. “I’ve seen your temper, Master Talent. You haven’t been privy to mine.” With lazy perusal, her gaze took in his heightened color and narrowed eyes. “While you’ll be shouting about like a tot who’s lost his lolly, I’ll be the lash you never saw coming.”

It was quite satisfactory to leave him open-mouthed and silent—for once.

Chapter Three

Piss and shit and bloody buggering hell. Ignoring the patrons of the coffeehouse, Jack hunched over his meal of rashers, bangers, eggs, and toast, and shoveled in a bite, even though it tasted like dust at the moment. His mind was a mess. If he thought too long on the fact that Mary Chase, of all people, was now his partner, he’d kick a hole through the floor.

Instead he ran a hand through his shorn hair, knowing the thick, short hanks would now stick up at odd angles. Before, he’d taken care to pomade and comb his hair into an elegant style. Now he just wanted it off his face. He hated anything touching his skin. Fucking demons had taken away his sense of safety. And now Mary bloody Chase was taking away the one refuge found in his work.

Two years earlier Jack had been guarding Inspector Winston Lane due to a threat upon the man’s life, when he’d been taken in by a raptor demon disguised as Mary Chase. The humiliating truth was that he’d been so shocked by the notion of Mary Chase, dressed in next to nothing and lounging in his bedroom, that he’d never considered the danger until it was too late. He’d woken up in a cell of a room, na**d and crucified to a wall by iron spikes. The hellish days, hours, and minutes that he’d been captive, used and abused to many a demon’s delight, was the stuff of his nightmares.

And she’d found him. When he’d been out of his mind with pain and degradation, when he’d wanted to die so he did not have to experience another moment of that hell, Mary Chase had somehow appeared before him, placing her smooth, cool hands upon his fevered skin. She had tracked him down, saved him. And the knowledge burned. Because she knew what had happened to him; there was no explaining away some bruises.

It was bad enough he’d have to hide certain facts from her while trying to figure out just what the bloody hell was going on. But for these many years, he’d had a plan when it came to Mary Chase. Carefully constructed and thoroughly executed. Evade, avoid, and retreat. And, in the event of the rare prolonged interaction, be the biggest rotter possible, so that she never attempted to purposely seek him out.

A lump of food caught in his throat. His plan was now shot to shit. He could not evade, avoid, or retreat. True, he could still act the bugger, but he didn’t want to. It hurt to hurt Chase. But over the years, he’d come to realize that it would hurt both Chase and others far more were she to find out why he did it.

“Sod all,” he muttered, tossing his fork down and pressing the heel of his hand against his eye.

“You cannot avoid me forever, you know,” said a musical voice.

Jack nearly jumped out of his skin. Standing beside his table with an imperious tilt to her chin was Mary Chase, his golden and glorious nemesis. He did not want to know how she’d found him.

“Christ,” he snapped, “I hate the way you GIM slink about.” But he loved the way she moved, all flowing grace, silently beckoning a man to follow. Even when she was walking away from him. She wasn’t doing so now.

Her gloved fists curled tighter. “And I think you are a rude bastard. So we shall both have to grow accustomed to tolerating annoyances.” Her gaze slid over him and cooled. “Not hide away in the hopes that the situation will change.”

“I am not ‘hiding away,’ ” he lied. “I’m hungry.”

Chase’s pink lips parted. “It is only half past ten. Why not wait for luncheon?”

“I’m a shifter. Food is energy. And it’s bloody good too.” He gestured to the chair opposite him. “Sit down, Chase. A proper meal ought to improve your humor.”

“Or purge it altogether,” she muttered under her breath as she glanced at his half-eaten meal. “I think just tea for me.”

The coffeehouse was warm and relatively clean. It was filled with patrons, mainly workers, cabbies, a few students intent on idealistic slumming, and a host of others who wanted a small respite from the cold. In their drab regulators’ garb, Jack and Chase blended in. As with most coffeehouses, there were few women, but no one seemed to mind Chase, apart from noticing her lovely features with interest. Jack gave them all a warning glare as Chase settled in her seat. Chase, who’d no doubt seen the whole thing, gave him one of her small smiles.

For Chase a smile meant a slight curving of her lips, a small twinkle of golden light in her eyes. Damn, but her smiles were more rare than his, which was saying something. He wondered what her true smile would look like. But realized he wouldn’t be the man to coax one from her.

Across from him she gazed out of the window, and the sunlight kissed the smooth curve of her cheek. Her rosy lips parted with a breath, and he almost lost his mind. His gaze drifted to the velvety swath of skin just visible above her collar, that place on a woman’s neck that was fragrant and warm, where she’d be sensitive. He wanted to sink his teeth into that spot, see if she shivered when he did it. And that was no good. But where to look? If not gazing at her neck, he’d be staring at her hair, golden brown and glimmering, or the swell of her br**sts, those succulent little apple-sized br**sts that begged a man to feast.

Her scent, that rich, sticky toffee scent that had captured him from the first, now filled the small space. Every day in close proximity. Scenting her. Hearing her voice. And knowing that his past made her utterly unattainable.

Hell. He wouldn’t survive it.

Since they knew him here, service was quick. Soon enough Chase sipped at her watery-looking tea and watched him with apparent fascination as he finished up his meal. Her gaze was a living thing, making his skin itch and his muscles jump about. He didn’t like her, but damn did his body react to her.

“Keep looking at me,” he said between bites, not bothering to lift his attention from his food, “and soon I’ll have a swelled head.” No need to tell her which head he was referring to.

Her honey-warm voice rolled over him like a caress. “I cannot help it. The show is fascinating. Your appetite is the stuff of legend. Even Lucien—”

His knife scraped the crockery with a sharp screech, and he stabbed another section of sausage with his fork. Yes, do us both a favor and do not speak of your dear Lucien or his particular appetites. The sausage tasted of sawdust.

When she spoke again—as he’d known she would—her voice held an air of detachment. “Have you any notion who the Bishop might be?”

He wanted to freeze, but kept eating. Her tone, so carefully light and innocent, had him wondering for a tight moment if she knew it was he. But she couldn’t know. He’d been so careful. The muscles along his neck and shoulders protested as he raised his head. He took his time finishing the mouthful of food. “His kills signify rage,” he said finally.

Her eyes held his, and there was a calm coolness lying in their bronze depths that had him tensing further. She tilted her head as if she knew of his discomfort. “Until now, rage against raptor and sanguis demons.”

Ice spread beneath his skin. He forced his hand to release the fork and knife. They clanked against the plate. Slowly he wiped his mouth with the rough linen napkin. “It appears so.”

With brisk efficiency she pulled a file out of the slim valise she wore strapped over her shoulder. “I wanted your opinion on something.” She leaned close, her voice dipping low and her scent teasing his nostrils. “About the symbols.”

“What symbols?” But he knew, and his food landed with a thud in his gut.

“Unlike the others, Keating did not have a symbol carved upon his wrist.” She pushed a photograph of a dead raptor under his nose.

When he did not answer, she pressed on. “A small symbol was carved upon the wrists of all prior victims.” Her eyes watched him. “It was in demonish. From the looks of it, either Sanguis or Raptor.”

“I’ve worked this case for over a year now, Chase. I believe I am familiar with the particulars.”

Her expression altered from engaged to flat as glass. How well he knew that look, and although it was familiar, he found himself mourning the loss of her animation.

“Do you know what the symbols mean?” Her wide brow furrowed, the merest wrinkling of her clear skin. “I confess, I am not able to read it.”

The food in his stomach grew heavy, rolling about as if it might revolt. He’d been found by her. And while he couldn’t be sure she remembered the details, the symbols carved upon his flesh had been telling. Should a person know enough about demonology, she would know that the symbols had been those of the raptors. Jack’s guts tightened as sweat beaded along his back. He swallowed hard, still held by the power of her searching gaze. He wanted to run from it, from her. Did the scene live in her memory? Haunt her, turn her dreams into nightmares?

No. That was his lot in life. Likely all she felt was pity for the sorry sod she’d rescued two years ago. He fought against the cornered feeling that had his breath stuttering and returned to his food, cutting a banger with care. “Few others bother to learn the culture of Raptors and Sanguis. It isn’t as though their kind is well liked.”

Raptors were scum who fed off the misery of others. Sanguis demons were not precisely hated, but as they needed the blood of others to survive, they had a certain parasitic quality that made most supernaturals wary.

Chase’s lashes swept down then, letting him take an easy breath. She glanced up again, less probing, but unnerving to him just the same. “And what of this shifter? How does he fit?”

The shock of finding the dead shifter in Trafalgar Square still unsettled him. He’d left the scene with due haste, sinking the slimy raptor he’d just killed in the Thames instead. Someone was imitating his crimes, and he wanted to know why.

Jack dug into his pocket, threw a few coins upon the scarred table, and told her the one truth he could. “That is the question of the day, Chase.”

In keeping with the mercurial nature of London weather, it was raining when they left the coffeehouse, and while Mary did not mind, Talent insisted upon taking a hack back to headquarters. A silly extravagance that had her protesting and him snarling. They sat, each stewing in silence, the hack bogged down at an intersection, when Mary felt the hum of a spirit. A moment later a familiar form drifted in through the hack window and made herself comfortable on the seat next to Talent.

Hello, Miss Mary. Though she was in spirit form, Tottie’s voice was clear as day in Mary’s head. Nor did the dingy light of the carriage dampen the bright color of her shining blond hair or the sparkle of her green eyes.

“Hello, Miss Tottie.”

Talent perked up at Mary’s response and looked as if she were cracked. “Pardon?”

“Mistress Tottie is here. I was saying hello.” Tottie, short for Charlotte, was Poppy Lane’s newest assistant, handpicked by Mary due to her exceptional memory. That she was whip-smart and irreverent was a boon. Mrs. Lane needed someone to keep her on her toes, after all.

Mmm, said Tottie. Are you going to say hello, too, you exceptionally large wall of man? She leaned into Talent, her shimmering image tiny in comparison to his, and ran her fingers along his neck.

Talent shivered and glared round, his whole frame tensing away from Tottie. “Is she sitting next to me?”

He looked as though he might start swinging, as one swats at a fly, and Mary bit her lip. “She is merely saying hello.”

Oh, I am, Tottie agreed. I’ve been wanting to say hello to Mr. Jack for an age, personal-like. Her hand glided over his chest and headed down. Such a fine cocky fella, ye are. Shall we see if it’s all just tall tales, then, me lad?

“Tottie,” Mary snapped as Talent gave a violent start.

The little Irish imp stopped, blinking back with wide, round eyes. Aye? She let her hand fall upon Talent’s lap.

“Bloody GIM,” Talent burst out. “I felt that!” He turned his ire on Mary. “What the hell is she doing?”

“Nothing.” Mary kept her expression neutral by sheer will. “Why are you here, Tot?”

The GIM sighed, her small mouth pouting as her diaphanous hand drifted off Talent. You are no fun at all, Mary Chase.

“So I’ve been told.”

Talent’s gaze snapped between her and a spot above Tottie’s head.

“She’s a few inches lower,” Mary said. “And a bit touchy.”

“Hell.” Talent practically snarled as he glowered blindly at the spot occupied by Tottie. “Just remember, I can hunt your body down, Mistress O’Brien.”

Looking forward to it, Master Talent. Tottie’s cheeks plumped before she sobered. The Bishop’s struck again.

“At Trafalgar Square?” Mary held up her hand to Talent when he made to speak.