“Attracted to the blood,” murmured Talent.
Ahead, the deck narrowed as it curved toward the bow of the ship. Lifeboats creaked, and the paddle churned, but not a soul stirred.
They crept closer to the source of the scent. A grunt and a sound unnervingly like that of a man slurping soup came from the other side of the steam funnel. Winston’s hand slipped to the gun hidden within his inner coat pocket. At CID, he wasn’t allowed to carry one, as the populace of London had an aversion to police arming themselves. Even so, he’d used a gun before, when the danger was high. And only a fool would carry a weapon and not know how to wield it. He’d like to think himself not a fool, but a gun hadn’t helped him when a werewolf attacked him. Winston swallowed down the rush of bitterness that filled his mouth.
“Have you a weapon?” he whispered.
Talent spared him a glance. “I’m a shifter.”
Winston supposed that would have to do.
Together, they rushed around the corner, Winston’s gun out and cocked.
“Hell,” Talent said.
Winston stopped short as he spied the body. Male, young, wearing officer’s whites. Torn and bloody throat, his pants gaping open, sightless eyes gazing up to the heavens. Winston took in the particulars, then a shadow flickered in the periphery of his vision. Winston took off after it, with Talent at his heels.
Their feet pounded on the deck as they raced along. The sound of an iron door wrenching open had Winston increasing his pace. He skidded around the corner and tore through the open hatch. A man paused on the stair, his eyes gleaming yellow as he grinned back at them.
Bloody hell. His appearance was identical to the man who lay dead on the deck.
“Demon,” Talent said behind Winston. “Used his victim’s blood to assume his appearance.”
Winston launched forward. He couldn’t shoot in this bloody iron box of a hall, but he could tackle the thing. Unfortunately, it leapt out of range and practically flew down the next flight of stairs. Winston and Talent pounded after it. The stairs rattled and shook with their effort. Sweat stung his eyes as he ran.
The demon slammed open a lower door and disappeared through it. Winston followed an instant later. Dimly lit and barren of any fripperies, the corridor stretched in four directions. The sound of the demon’s retreating footsteps echoed throughout, coming at them from everywhere.
“Where are we?” he snapped to Talent.
“Cargo level, I’d say.”
Winston tossed his hat aside. He’d left his walking stick somewhere on deck and had only the gun for protection. “Divide and conquer. There are two main cargo holds. You take the fore, and I’ll take the aft.”
“I’ll take aft.” Talent flashed a grin. “It’s farther away and I’m faster, human.”
They both knew the demon more likely had fled aft—being as it was farther away. Thus it was more dangerous. As Win hadn’t the time to argue, he let it go.
“I’ll give you that one.” He nodded toward the dark stretch of hall. “Go then. We meet in the center.”
Talent ran off without another word. Taking a deep breath, Winston did the same, going about twenty feet before he encountered the first cargo hold entrance. The door hung wide open. A sign of entry? Or a diversion?
Inside was a cavernous space, cool and slightly damp. Far above, iron beams, painted a dull red, ran along the ceiling like the ribs of Jonah’s whale. Towers of crates, lashed down by thick hemp netting, made a tight maze ideal for hiding.
“Perfect,” he muttered, keeping his back to the wall as he entered with his gun pointed down but at the ready.
Careful to keep his step light and silent, Winston moved to the first crate. Being deep in the bowels of the ship, the hum of the engines was immense and enough to vibrate his bones. Farther in he went, on a bloody wild goose chase, he feared. Something creaked and he tensed. Puddles of yellow electric light from the overhead lamps were far and few, leaving too many corners for darkness to dwell.
The heaviness of the gun in Winston’s hand brought to mind another time. Of a foul alleyway, filled with fog and death. He’d nearly lost his life there.
Don’t think of it. But his vision blurred as his mouth filled with saliva. Hands shaking, Winston pressed himself against the wall of the ship, and cold iron bore into his shoulder blades as he fought for control. The squeak of a door hinge had him freezing. From his vantage point, he could see nothing more than the crate in front of him and darkness beyond. He cannot be destroyed. What if Poppy had been telling the truth? And here Winston was, armed with only a gun. Hell. He ought to go back. But, if he stayed and fought, it could end here. Winston swallowed hard. He had to try.
Bugger, but he couldn’t hear a thing over the roar of the blasted engines. His breath and heartbeat sounded overloud in his ears, an irritant that could get him killed. And something was coming. He could feel it by the dip in his guts.
Focusing on a spot before him, Winston let every muscle relax, going still and quiet. Exhale. Inhale. Softly. The pumping of his blood slowed too. And with this came an elevation of his senses. It was a trick he’d learned in his training days from his grizzled old partner, Nelson, when Win had come too close to getting his head knocked off by a suspect. He’d forgotten it in his recent fears. No more. Win exhaled again and concentrated on the air about him and the sounds of the engines thrumming, a steady beat that—
There! The scuff of a shoe from the left had him adjusting his grip on his pistol. Sweat trickled along his neck, tickling him. He stared at the edge of the crate until the wood grain blurred and the shadowed passage came into sharp focus. Another scrape, the shuffling of fabric. The bastard was coming closer.
Win’s heartbeat thumped against the side of his throat. His thighs quivered, and his arms burned, aching with the need to move. Steady. And then he heard it, the lightest intake of breath.
With a burst of strength and speed, Winston whipped around the corner, slammed into the body standing there, and aimed for the head. His finger was already pressing down on the trigger when a flash of shining red hair and the scent of lemons stayed his hand. A second later, he registered the sharp point of a knife digging into the underside of his jaw. For a moment, he could only stare. Bulging purple glass lenses stared back at him, giving the impression of coming nose to nose with a mechanical owl. But the delicate slope of her nose and the sharp angle of her jaw was pure Poppy.
Another moment more and he became aware of the fact that his gun was pressed hard against her temple.
“Shit!” He lurched away as if burned. “What in the bloody hell?”
Poppy wrenched the enormous brass goggles from her eyes and glared. “What are you doing here?”
Her smooth cheeks were flushed, and her red hair straggled from beneath the leather straps of the goggles, but she appeared collected and cool. Not so for him.
“What am I—” He scrubbed a damp hand over his face. “Infernal woman, you nearly gave me an apoplexy. They ought to count you among the ten plagues of Egypt!”
Her mouth puckered. Not from irritation, he realized, but from repressing a laugh. Obstinate, crazy…
“Oh, I’m much more effective than a plague. Well, more accurate at any rate.”
“I almost blew your head off!”
With a deft twirl of her fingers, she tucked her knife back into the sheath strapped around her hips. “And I almost filleted you. Had I not such fine reflexes—” He snorted, and she spoke louder, “I’d be a widow right now.”
“We’ll have to thank God for small mercies.” He grasped her elbow and towed her behind the crate. His voice lowered. “Why are you here?”
“There’s a dead man up on deck. He’s causing quite a commotion.”
“Yes, I know. Talent and I almost caught the bastard who did it in the act. It was a demon. We followed him down here.”
Damn it all, he’d almost killed her, and she talked as though they were at tea. Her sharp eyes took in their surrou
ndings. “Where is Talent now?”
“Ferreting the demon out from the other end of the ship. Hopefully he won’t run afoul of Miss Chase and nearly kill her as well.”
“She’s up inspecting the body, so that is doubtful.” Poppy kept her profile to him. “I think he got away.” Her gaze returned to him. “I came in through the east entrance. You?”
“West.” His fingers twitched at his side.
“As I thought. Either we missed him or he’s gone.”
How could she be so calm? The thrill of the chase, even the fear, had transmuted into something earthier and basic. His blood was up, and to his horror, he had a cockstand one could hang a hat on. Winston wanted nothing more than to toss up Poppy’s skirts and pound into her. Like a rutting animal. Worse, the blasted woman appeared completely unaffected and would most likely slap him should he try anything. He shook his head and took a breath.
“Go back to the cabin, and I’ll search the rest of the area.”
They’d been together long enough for him to know her “surely you jest” look quite well. He did not care a whit. The woman wasn’t facing that thing. Nor could he think with her nearby. His hand curled around Poppy’s arm, holding her secure lest she get any fanciful notions of leaving his side. “Either you go, or we both wait it out here.”
Her breath was cool on his cheek. “Listen, I’ve more experience with these matters than—”
“Forgive me, but I was under the impression that your role within your organization was of an administrative nature.”
Moss brown eyes flashed darkly. “Are you suggesting that I cannot handle myself in the field?”
“I am suggesting that one of us has greater experience in the field and that person is not you.”
“Of all the preposterous, pompous—”
Winston clamped a hand over her mouth and dropped to a crouch. The step of a boot had sounded beyond, and his blood froze. Poppy did not fight, and he let his hand slide free.
“Left corner about ten yards off.” Poppy’s voice was but a breath. Which rather amused him, given that they’d just been talking loud enough for anyone to hear them. Still, he simply nodded and held her tight against him. Christ but they’d been squabbling like infants, and now they were trapped. His muscles tensed as a deliberate step sounded just around the crate. Whoever it was wasn’t bothering with stealth. Poppy stiffened as well. Their eyes met, and her hand slipped into his pocket and wrapped around his gun. Bloody blasting hell. He held her gaze, his heart wrenching in his chest for fear for her. It ought to be him protecting her. But he gave a slight nod. Let her aim be true.
Out of the corner of his eye, a shadow loomed. Everything slowed and yet sped up as he twisted to the side, and Poppy lifted the gun and fired. Her arm bobbled at the last second. A bad shot. Winston reached out for the gun, ready to take it from her and shoot the demon down. Smoke clogged his throat and ruined his vision. His ears rang from the report of the gun. But not enough to miss Talent’s irate shout.
“What the bleeding devil?”
Gun smoke dissipated, and Talent stood, glaring pure murder down at them. “Are you trying to kill me?”
Poppy wrenched free of Winston and rose. “Had I been, you would be dead, Mr. Talent.”
Getting to his feet was far harder, for visions of Poppy being cut down before him still swirled within Winston’s head. But he straightened and adjusted his lapels if only to do something to calm himself. “You shot wide, didn’t you?” And damn if pride didn’t swell within him. Fancy that.
Poppy did not smile, but it lurked in her eyes. That, and a certain smugness that irked. “How good of you to notice, Mr. Lane.”
“Well, I didn’t,” snapped Talent. “You scared ten years off my life.”
“Mr. Lane and I were defending ourselves. You ought to have made your presence known.”
Talent snorted. “Right. ‘Excuse me, Mr. Demon, I’m walking toward you to ascertain whether or not you are my mates. Care to clarify for me?’ ”
Winston smothered a laugh with a cough. “Well then. All’s well and all of that.”
They both glared at him, so he simply led the way out.
“How did you track the thing down here?” Winston asked Poppy as they left the hold while scanning the area for lingering threats. His nerves were shot for the day and, short of drinking a restorative, he could only ask questions and hope the familiar practice would further calm him.
“Goggles.” Poppy tapped a purple lens resting on the top of her head. “Demons are born in the Underworld and thus carry a trace of it on their flesh in the form of chemical rays. The violet lens picks up those rays.” She gave a nod in the direction of the stairwell. “He left strong traces all the way down, but they trailed off here. I suspect because he calmed down once in his element.”
She handed him the goggles. “The rays are strongest when they are afraid or exerting themselves.”
They’d reached the stairwell. Torn between gaping at his wife—she of the demon hunting expertise—and the goggles, he took a moment to put them on. The world dimmed to a soft violet, not nearly light enough to see properly. Winston gnashed his teeth. Poppy had walked into that hold nearly blind.
“Here.” Poppy leaned in and fiddled with something on the side of the lens. A click and a soft whirring sounded. Win started as a series of lights flickered around the rims of the lenses.
Beside him, Talent made a sound of pleasure. “Would you look at that. Brilliant.”
Poppy’s crisp voice was at Winston’s ear. “Now you look.”
He turned his head toward the iron stairs and sucked in a breath. Footsteps of eerie, glowing violet covered the treads, and a ghostly mist of the same glowing substance hovered in the air.
“Fluorescence,” he said.
“Just so,” said Poppy. “Special lenses, designed by the SOS, capture the refrangibility of the light within the demon’s essence.”
With a resigned sigh, he took off the device. “First werewolves, now this. As a man of logic, I cannot believe I’m saying this, but there are times I think I preferred my state of ignorance.” Win handed Talent the goggles so that he might try them, then turned his attention upon Poppy. “Hell of a thing to discover that the crackpots raving in Piccadilly Circus about monsters among us aren’t all mad.”
Poppy flashed Winston a rare grin. “Don’t go picking out your corner of Piccadilly just yet. There are far greater curiosities than mere demons and werewolves.”
And wasn’t that the truth? “Do not worry, sweet; if anything is to drive me mad, it will be you.”
Mary hated death. Which was rather ironic considering that, as a GIM, she was exposed to as much death as the average grave digger. Though they had the fortune to work with death that was safely boxed up. Fresh death was a GIM’s specialty, and the corpse upon the first class promenade deck was certainly fresh. She edged farther away from the crowd of officers that hovered over their fallen comrade. Mrs. Lane had sent her to watch the proceedings and guard over the corpse, but Mary could not fathom what she could guard it from. The poor man was dead. And beginning to smell.
Discreetly as possible, she pressed a lace kerchief to her nose. It would be intolerable for Mrs. Lane to find out that Mary had a weak stomach when it came to these matters. Somebody had placed a blanket over the man’s upper half, but his legs peeked out from beneath it. Blood, blackening from exposure to the air, seeped around the white trousers of his uniform. Swallowing hard, she looked away and into the eyes of a young officer.
“Oh.” She hadn’t even heard him approaching.
His pleasant face broke into a kind smile. “You shouldn’t be here, Miss. This isn’t a sight for a lady.”
Mary had no response. She was also instructed not to break her cover. Damn but she ought to have come in her ethereal form.
The officer’s genial smile remained. “Besides, the gulls have begun to make a play for him.”
Bile rose in Mary’s throat.
<
br /> “Don’t worry, Miss. We’ll keep them away.”
She stumbled, bumping into the metal call box that jutted out from the wall. Instantly, the officer was there, grasping her arm. It wasn’t until he touched her that she felt the sting. Gasping, she pulled away. Blood smeared her arm and stained his white glove red.
“I fear you’ve scratched yourself,” he said with a frown at her arm and then to the call box.
“Bother.” Mary cursed herself for being so affected. This could not continue. She had to master death. Yet even as resolve filled her, the breeze sent the stench of decay over her, and she blanched.
Thankfully, the officer was too busy inspecting her arm.
“We can’t have our lovely guest bleeding, now can we?” His dark eyes gleamed with good humor as he stripped off his glove, and with gentle care, wiped the blood from her arm with his bare thumb.
His touch was a lovely warmth against her cold flesh, and she couldn’t find it in herself to protest. He finished by pressing his glove to her arm.
“Shall I see you back to your rooms, Miss?”
And let Poppy discover her weakness? Or, heaven forbid, Jack Talent? She’d rather stop her heart for good. Mary slipped from the officer’s grasp. “That is quite all right. I’m perfectly well, honestly.”
She backed away. There was little she could do here now anyway.
“Good day then, Miss.” The officer bowed politely before returning to the scene of the crime.
Chapter Six
The walk back to his stateroom was not enough time to calm Winston’s thoughts. Demons and Poppy danced around in his head. He’d spent so much time these past months stubbornly maintaining his ire at being lied to that he hadn’t given any thought to the danger Poppy actually placed herself in. The realization made him ill. Fighting demons? Of course she was. Why would he expect anything less from her? All these years of marriage, he’d felt a policeman’s guilt, worrying that his wife would live in fear for him. Hell, she might as well have been patting him on the head and sending him off to school.