“Do you recognize the victim, Master Talent?”
Wilde’s query had Mary focusing once more.
Talent’s heavily lidded eyes lifted from the photograph. “Shifters by nature are a solitary lot. No, I did not know Mr. Keating.” His long fingers curled into a fist upon the table. “I was under the impression that the SOS kept the identity of shifters secret.”
The director’s mouth tightened. “We do. There is no indication that the files have been breached.”
Talent made a noise that might have been construed as a snort, but it was just soft enough to get by Wilde without earning any reproach. For once, however, Mary agreed with Talent’s sentiment.
After researching long into the night, Mary had learned that, in the last hundred years, the SOS had made a concerted effort to locate and document the existence of all shifters living in Europe. A daunting task. However, when the Nex began hunting shifters for their blood—whose properties gave demons the ability to shift into anything—the SOS, realizing its mistake in outing shifters, provided as much protection as it could by offering them new identities and keeping their whereabouts hidden. But it was a constant battle, for the Nex, an organization dedicated to seeing supernaturals rule the world over humans, was resourceful and ruthless.
Talent leaned forward a fraction. “Who was Keating? Before?”
“Johannes Maxum.” Wilde pulled a paper from his file and handed it to Talent. “He’s an older shifter. Date of birth unknown, but he once worked as an alchemist for Augustus the Strong in the quest to discover the Chinese’s secret to making porcelain.”
Talent scanned the page, then set it down. Protocol dictated that he hand the paper to Mary, and she might have been insulted at his obvious slight, had she not been expecting it. No matter, she’d read about Maxum as well. Besides, Talent’s juvenile tactics would not cow her.
In any event, Director Wilde was now looking at both of them. “Research has been instructed to provide any and all assistance you might require.”
“Thank you, Director,” Mary said. “We shall keep you informed as the case proceeds.”
Talent’s jaw snapped up as if he’d been punched. “We?”
The force of his inner agitation was a maelstrom creaking against the walls. Any moment now it would break. Mary remained calm. “We are to be partners now, Master Talent. Or haven’t you been paying attention?” And I will stick to you like a barnacle until I find out the truth.
The small vein at his temple pulsed. “I work alone. Always have.”
Wilde laid a hand over the file. “There is a time to every purpose under the heaven, Master Talent. Which includes knowing when to receive help.” The steely look in the director’s eyes made it clear that Talent would find no leeway should he protest.
The sound of Talent’s teeth grinding filled the room. “I was under the impression Mistress Chase was here in a clerical capacity.”
“You hoped,” Mary corrected. “Otherwise, I have grave concerns regarding your propensity for jumping to conclusions.”
Talent leaned his weight on the table as his gaze bore into her. “Keep baiting me, Chase, and you’ll find out what else I have a propensity for.”
She leaned in as well, until they faced each other like dogs in a pit ring. “I am quaking in my knickers.”
“There you go, mentioning your knickers.” His mouth slanted, and his eyes gleamed dark green. “What I cannot discern is if you only do so to me, or if you want the whole of the SOS to be thinking about them.”
“Why Master Talent, are you trying to tell me that you think about my knickers?”
His lips pinched so tight that she had to bite back a grin. A low growl rumbled from the vicinity of his chest.
“Children.” Director Wilde’s expression was stern, but his eyes held a glint of amusement. “The discussion is over. You will work together on this.” His good humor fled. “And you will not fail the SOS. Now”—he motioned to the door with his chin—“take your squabble out of here. Perhaps you can pull Mistress Chase’s braids in the common room, Master Talent.”
On the outside Mary knew she appeared serene as she left the meeting room. On the inside, however, she quivered in anticipation. For years she and Talent had detested each other. He treated her as if she were some low, conniving wretch. Solely because she was a GIM. Lousy, arrogant bounder.
The outer hall was cool and quiet. A calm before the inevitable storm. And that storm was right on her heels. Although, in truth, Jack Talent reminded her more of a panther, all dark and brooding, his powerful body so still when at rest, yet capable of instant, violent action.
Mary headed down the corridor, knowing that, while he made no sound, Talent stalked her. The skin at the back of her neck prickled, and her heart whirred away within her breast. With his shifter’s senses, he’d hear her spinning heart, she was sure. Oh, yes, come and get me, and we shall see how well you dance around the truth now, Jack Talent. It was torture not to quicken her step or turn around.
By the time she reached the shadowed corner that led to another section of headquarters, her breast was rising and falling in agitation. Damn him.
And damn her too, for some small, traitorous part of her liked the chase, reveled in it. Gripping her weapon, she waited until his heavy hand fell upon her shoulder, and then she spun.
He grunted as they both hit the wall. The hard expanse of his chest barely gave under her weight as she pressed against him. For a moment they both panted, then his gaze lowered to the knife she had at his throat.
She had expected his rage, but not his grin, that wide, brilliant grin that lit up his dour features and did strange things to her equilibrium. His cheeky smile grew as he spoke. “Pulling iron on me, Chase? How bloodthirsty.” His hot breath fanned her cheeks. “I knew you had it in you.”
She did not ease her grip. Training with Mrs. Lane had honed her skills. The slightest move from him and he would be tasting that iron. “Trying to intimidate me, Talent?”
His body tightened, but he kept his hands at his sides. “What the devil are you playing at? You aren’t a field agent. You’ve been hanging on to Mrs. Lane like a limpet, and now you want to partner.” He leaned in, not flinching when the tip of her iron blade cut into his skin. “With me.”
A rivulet of crimson blood trickled down his throat. She tore her gaze away from it. “This is the most important case the SOS has seen all year. Any regulator would be mad to pass up the opportunity to take it.” When he snorted, she gave him a pretty smile. “Who my partner is makes little difference.”
His lips pressed into a flat line. “This is my investigation. It always has been.”
From the moment she’d asked Poppy to be assigned to the case, she’d known she’d face his rage. But she’d told Talent the truth: Having the opportunity to move away from her assistant’s role into fieldwork was not to be missed. And if he was guilty of murder, she would be the one to take him down. Keeping that little personal victory in mind, it was easy to give him a bland look. “Oh yes, and you’ve done a bang-up job with the case so far.”
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 shouti
ng 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, naked 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 breasts, those succulent little apple-sized breasts 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 th
at 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.”