Mary chuffed as she skipped along, losing herself in the crowd once again before slipping into a tavern on the heels of a man doing the same. The odor of sweat, spirits, and tallow mingled. Few spoke here, and if so it was to mutter for more drink. Keeping her gaze roving, she headed for the back room. The door opened easily.
“ ’Bout time you showed,” snapped a male voice as she sat down at the small table obscured in shadows.
Mary didn’t bother with a reply. An annoyed huff followed, and the man leaned forward, moving out of the darkness. He was handsome, well formed, and well dressed. Quite lovely really. Mary scowled.
“You are foolish, Mercer, to choose that identity.” Mary didn’t know whose it was, but based on the cut of the suit Mercer wore, she gathered that the poor fellow had been wealthy. It was a tricky business for a demon to take over the life of another. Harder still when the person lived in the public sphere.
Mercer sneered. “I’ll have you know that this form gets me into more places than you’ll ever creep.” An ugly gleam lit his blue eyes. “And more beds.”
She swallowed down a shiver of disgust. How many women were lured by this false front, having no notion of what they truly bedded? “And they’ll all remember you too. Hard to miss, wearing such a fancy skin. Your vanity will see you dead one day. Which is no concern of mine.” She shrugged. “Save when you are dealing with me. You get caught, and it will be my pleasure to strip you of that skin.” The demon had been an excellent informant to her over the years, but she didn’t have to like him.
Mercer’s handsome lips twisted, and for a small moment his irises flickered mustard yellow. “Mayhaps others will be wanting the information I have. I’m thinking I might sell to the highest—” He yelped as her knife slammed into the table with a thud.
Mercer’s gaze drifted down to the sharp point lodged between his pale fingers. Mary looked only at him. “Do you know how a GIM ties a cravat, Mercer?”
He pressed his lips together.
She leaned in a bit, picking up the noxious scent of sulfur and smoke. Bloody foul raptor demons. Mary’s voice was a blade in the thick air. “We make a nice, deep cut here”—she pointed toward his throat—“so that we might pull your tongue out as far as it will go before we wrap it about your neck.”
Sweat pebbled along his noble brow but his yellow eyes glared. “You gonna flap your chaps all night? Or do you want to hear what I have to say?”
Mary sat back with a pleasant smile. “Talk.”
His large hand lifted from the table. He made a show of adjusting the lapels of his stolen coat. “I gather you know the Bishop’s been busy of late.”
The so-called Bishop of Charing Cross was making quite the reputation for himself. First appearing in London in January of 1884, he’d started a sensation by leaving victims with their hearts ripped out, spines severed, and chests branded with a small cross. Their bodies were always found on the plinth of Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square where it faced Charing Cross. A few eyewitnesses—of dubious credibility—claimed to have seen a man wearing long black robes fleeing the scene.
The newsboys, being the inventive sort, had dubbed the killer the Bishop of Charing Cross on account of the cross brand and the fact that the robes were similar to the cassocks worn by clergy.
So far he’d claimed five victims. Wealthy men, some titled, some not, all of them most thoroughly slaughtered. Only the SOS knew that the victims were, in truth, an assortment of raptor and sanguis demons. It was the duty of the SOS to both protect humans from supernatural harm and hide proof of supernatural involvement in the human world.
“We know,” she said. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
Mercer’s grin was evil and cold. “The Bishop made a wee mistake whilst doing his dirty business this last kill.”
Mary did not move, but every muscle in her body tensed. “Go on.”
Mercer paused, waiting, his expression said, for her to show a bit of good faith. Mary tapped her thigh, and the unmistakable jingle of coin rang out. Satisfied, he looked about for a moment, then leaned in close, bringing with him the scent of rotting onions and perfumed pomade. “I was there when he left his victim out in the open.”
Mary stilled. “You saw him?”
One blink.
Mary watched the demon. “Risky of you.”
“Don’t I know it, love.” He paled then. “I’m thinking if the wind were not on my side, I might not be here now to share my good fortune.”
Her heart began to whir. “He could scent you?” Most supernaturals had an elevated sense of smell, but some had a more refined sense than others.
Mercer’s long finger tapped the scarred table. “The question you ought to be asking, love, is how much does this information mean to you?”
Her smile was slow and thin. She worked it, letting him feel the menace behind it. Two years of training to be a regulator had taught her many things, especially how to wield information like a whip. “Ah, now, Mercer. I already have valuable knowledge, do I not?”
His brows lowered, and she whispered on. “Information that might slip out, carry on the wind where anyone might hear. Such as how you know the identity of the Bishop—”
“Hold your tongue!” He made to grab her hand.
Mary’s knife was under the table in an instant. She pressed the blade in deep enough for him to feel. “No, you hold. There are a lot of soft bits here that you might miss, Mercer.”
Fangs shot out as he growled. “You don’t fight fair no more, Chase.”
“More’s the pity for you.” Mary had wearied of playing it clean. It got her nowhere with the dregs she worked amongst.
“Pay me and I’ll tell you.”
She didn’t move. “If you play me false, I will find you.”
“Understood.” He raised one brow, prompting her to act. “Now hurry up, I’ve an assignation with a plump and wealthy widow.”
Mary quelled her disgust. A bag of coins hit the table.
Mercer licked his lips. “You won’t have to look far for your Bishop, love.” He grinned then, his eyes alight with cruel mischief. “He’s been right under your nose the whole time. Might even call him an SOS favorite.”
Dread pulled at Mary’s spine. “Name.”
“You know it well.” His words seemed to slow, growing more distinct, and suddenly Mary did not want to hear them. But they came regardless, ruining her evening and instantly making her life that much worse. “Mr. Jack Talent.”
Later that night, in another part of town—
The moon hung bright over Trafalgar Square, lending the vast space a dreamlike quality in which shadows danced beneath the monuments and fountain pools gleamed with silver effervescence. A soft wind ghosted low over the pavers, kicking up dust and bits of rubbish.
The hour turned and, in the distance, Big Ben chimed. Clean, resonant notes of the Westminster quarters rolled over London, a soothing lullaby, a musical constant that had heralded life, death, and all that came between. With a steady dong, dong, dong, the hours rang out. As the last note faded, the night watch strolled along Charing Cross and called the hours.
“One o’clock and all is well!”
Save all was not well.
Scurrying along the dark alleyways where only the desperate or despot dared tread was a raptor demon. A foul creature who fed on misery and pain, the demon had his pick of nourishment in London. Tonight’s clear skies and crisp weather promised that plenty of London’s populace would be out and about, just waiting to be pulled into the darkness. An excellent night for hunting.
Only he was not the sole hunter out for blood. And as he followed the night-bobby, intent upon making a small meal out of the copper, death followed.
His stalker growled low in his throat, a sound so soft that the demon remained unaware. Ironic, thought the hunter, that serving up death was the only time he truly felt alive. A rage began to boil within his veins and pull his skin tight. So tight that he barely felt the
cold November air bite at his exposed cheeks. The very stink of the demon he followed made his nostrils pinch and his insides pitch. How well he knew this one’s foul stench.
The bobby stopped, perhaps feeling a thread of danger. After looking about, his handlebar mustache quivering in the breeze, he slipped into a tavern.
Thwarted, but not for long, the raptor turned down a dark corridor, and the hunter followed him. The lively song of a fiddle danced along the cobbles and on its heels came the laughter of men. They were gathered at the very end of the lane, hunched over a fire barrel. The raptor paused and smiled as if savoring the moment. The hunter savored it too, letting the hate within him grow. And then he attacked, slamming into the unsuspecting demon and dragging him into the deepest part of an alley.
Glowing yellow eyes glared back, fangs bared in a hiss. The hunter stalked forward, letting the raptor see him, take a good look at death. And the raptor’s eyes went wide, his grey skin going sickly white beneath the moonlight.
“I see you know me.” The hunter’s voice was whisper-soft and ice-cold, even while his body grew, tearing at the seams of his coat. Fangs slid over his bottom lip, and his fingertips throbbed under the weight of his long claws. The shift was always the same, taking on the form in which death would best be delivered.
A calculating gleam lit the raptor’s eyes. “Oh, yes. I’d say I know you well. Tasty blood you have, young lad.”
Raptors never were very intelligent. Like a whip, the hunter lashed out. His claws sliced into the demon’s gut and shot up, under the ribs, to grasp the hot, beating heart within. The demon screamed, his body bowing, his eyes rolling back.
Holding his prize tight, the hunter hauled his catch up close. “Say my name.”
The raptor’s bottom lip quivered. Just once before he spoke up. “Talent.”
Jack Talent gave the foul heart a squeeze. “Again.”
“Talent! Talent!” The demon writhed in his grip, unable to fight back or get away now that Jack held his heart fast.
A cool calm settled over Jack, easing the pain within him, if only for a moment, and he smiled grimly. “Wanted it to be my name on your lips when I sent you to hell.” And then he ripped the raptor’s heart out.
Washed in blood, Jack leaned down and severed the demon’s spine, and the light died in the demon’s eyes.
Peace ebbed away before the body even cooled. But Jack knew peace would never truly be his until they all died. Throwing the body over one shoulder, he made his way to Trafalgar Square.
Not a soul stirred as he came upon Nelson’s Column. There he would leave the body, just as he had all the others. But as he moved closer, and the moonlight illuminated the spot before the plinth, his breath stopped and his blood stilled. A body already lay there.
Chapter Two
It was inevitable that Jack be called into headquarters. The Bishop of Charing Cross had struck the night before. Murder was nothing new in London. Strange ones of a public nature, however, were another matter. Jack had been the regulator in charge of this particular case for a year now, a blight on his otherwise stellar record. This time a shifter had been murdered. As one of five—make that four now—known shifters living in London, he took it personally. Having intimate knowledge of certain facts, Jack was also unnerved by this new murder. Deeply. And he wanted answers.
Cool shadows slid over him as he strode down the long, echoing corridor that led from the SOS common rooms to the main meeting area. Headquarters was full of regulators updating their intelligence before going out. He did not like being around them, or anyone. Not that he had to worry on that account. The others steered clear of him, their eyes averted and their bodies tense. Fear he could handle, hell welcome, but pity?
One younger agent lowered her lashes when he passed, and a growl rumbled in his throat. She started and hurried off. Rightly so. No telling what sort of beast would break free should he lose his temper. Not even he knew. That was the way of a shifter, not owned by a single monster but possessed by all. He was everything, and he was nothing in particular. In truth, being a regulator was the only certain and good thing in Jack’s life.
At the end of the black marble hall, a guard stood beside a massive steel door. He saw Jack coming and swiftly opened it.
“Master Talent,” said the guard, “they are waiting for you.”
He was precisely on time and the director was already waiting? And what did the guard mean by “they”? His meeting was to be with the director. Who the bloody devil would be here—
Her scent slammed into him like a punch. And what little equanimity he’d maintained flew out the door. Oh, no, no, no… they wouldn’t dare. He eyed the inner wood door that blocked him from the meeting room. She was in there.
His muscles clenched tight as he forced himself to enter.
“Ah, Master Talent,” said Director Wilde from the head of the table. “Right on time. Excellent. Let us proceed.” His clipped voice was unusually animated, as if he knew Jack’s displeasure at the unexpected third person in the room and reveled in it. Which wouldn’t be surprising. Wilde loved to keep regulators on their toes.
Jack heard every word, but his gaze moved past the director and locked on her. Mary Chase sat at Wilde’s right, serene and ethereal as ever. Her face was a perfect replica of Botticelli’s Venus, and her body… no, he wouldn’t think about that. It was one rule he refused to break. He never, ever, thought too long on Mary Chase.
Mary Chase would have liked to think that, after years of being on the receiving end of Jack Talent’s hateful glare, she’d be immune to it by now. Unfortunately it still worked through her flesh like a lure, hooking in tight and tugging at something deep within her. One look and she wanted to jump from her chair and hit him. However, knowing that he found her presence bothersome gave her some small satisfaction.
He stood in the doorway, filling it up, poised for a fight like an avenging angel of Old Testament wrath. Over the last year Talent had reached his physical prime, shooting up well past an already impressive six feet, and adding what looked like twenty pounds of hard-packed muscle to his frame. It was as if nature had given him the outer shell he needed to protect himself from all comers. The change was unnerving, as the man had been intimidating enough before, mainly due to the sheer strength of his stubborn will.
With a sullen pout, Talent dropped his large body into the chair opposite her. She suspected that he sought to convey his displeasure, but the blasted man was too naturally coordinated, and the move ended up appearing effortless. “Director Wilde.”
Talent turned back to Mary again. His rough-hewn features might have been carved from stone. “Mistress Chase.”
Oh, but the way he said her name, all oil and flame, as if it burned him to utter it.
Mary dug a fingernail into her palm and modulated her voice. “Mr. Talent.”
He paused for a moment, his brows raising a touch in reproach. She’d been childish in not giving him the proper form of address, but some things burned for her too.
His quick, irrepressible smirk said he knew as much. “Master,” he reminded her.
He loved that she had to call him master. In their first year in training, he’d taken every opportunity to make her use the official title for all male regulators. Their gazes held, and heat rose to her cheeks. Thank God she hadn’t the complexion to blush or he’d be all over her. “Master Talent,” she ground out.
His annoying smirk deepened, and her nails dug deeper into the flesh of her palms. One day…
“Now that we have our forms of address clear,” cut in Wilde, “might we proceed with the actual investigation? Or shall we continue with this little pissing contest?”
“Pray continue. If Chase can manage to refrain from straying off track, that is.” Talent adjusted his broad shoulders in the chair and crossed one leg over the other.
Never react. She turned her gaze upon the director. “I was ready to hear the facts of the case twenty minutes ago, Director.”
/> Talent bristled, and she let a small smile escape. He bristled further, but Director Wilde ploughed ahead.
“Good.” Setting his hands upon the polished mahogany table, Director Wilde proceeded to give them the facts. Mary had already memorized them, and so she let the director’s words drift over her as she studied Talent. The man was good, his strong, blunt features not revealing any hint that he might have personal knowledge of the Bishop of Charing Cross’s most recent kill.
One powerful arm rested upon the table, and the fabric of his plain black suit coat bunched along the large swell of his bicep. Talent did not so much as twitch when the director set down a photograph of the last victim.
“Mr. Keating of Park Place,” said Director Wilde. “As with the other murders, he has been branded with the Bishop’s cross. The sole difference in this victim is that, while the others were demons, this man was a shifter, and by all accounts a law-abiding citizen of London.”
Mary glanced at the photo, featuring a young man stripped naked. The cross branding his chest was a raw, ugly wound, but it was his eyes, wide and staring, that made her clockwork heart hurt. It was the expression of an innocent man pleading for mercy.
Talent looked as well. And when he did, she watched him. The ends of his brows lifted a fraction, and she was inclined to believe that he was surprised. Then again, he had always been a fine actor. In the beginning of his association with the SOS, Talent had made a name for himself by successfully tricking a powerful primus demon into believing he was Poppy Lane. Of course being able to shift to look exactly like Poppy had been part of it, but it was his mimicking of her character to the letter that had made the difference between success and catastrophe.
How could a man who had nearly died defending others be a murderer? But Mary feared she understood all too well. Although he was arrogant, obnoxious, and a general ass, he’d survived an ordeal that would break most men. Was he irrevocably broken?