Shadowdance: The Darkest London Series: Book 4

by Kristen Callihan

  A man stepped before them, his pale jade eyes gleaming in amusement. Lucien.

  “Ah, chère”—Lucien caught up Mary’s limp hand and kissed it—“you shine like the sun in the night sky of this room.” His gaze wandered over her, warm and melancholy, and guilt expanded within her belly and had her lavender silk gown feeling too tight. His smile grew. “You humble me as always, my dove.”

  Unfortunately aware of the man glowering at her side, Mary answered Lucien pleasantly nevertheless. “Hello, Lucien.” She gave each of his cheeks a buss. “And what are you doing here?” She had missed him, even if she’d rather have seen him without Talent.

  “Charming the knickers off unsuspecting ladies, one hopes.” Lucien’s grin was unrepentant until he let his attention slide to Talent, then all humor fled. “If it isn’t the happy-go-lucky Mr. Talent. You know, I could all but feel you sucking the joy out of the room from across the way.”

  Mary cringed. Lucien was well aware of Talent’s attitude toward her, and he’d often offered to “kick the young pup’s arse.” Not that she hadn’t appreciated his concern now and then. But at the moment, she would really rather kick Lucien.

  Next to Lucien, Talent’s form was so large and muscular that he appeared a dockhand. One quite ready to take a swing. His mouth drew in a tight smile. “Mr. Stone. Out prowling for new prey? Odd. I didn’t think you could catch any flies without your particular brand of honey.” The smile grew into a sneer. “Or do you carry your drugs in one of those gaudy baubles you’re wearing?”

  Ice crept over Lucien’s eyes but he answered easily. “Admire my rings, do you?” He ran a thumb over the enormous ruby he wore on his middle finger. “Play nice, and perhaps we can come to an arrangement. You know, I’m open to all sorts of experiences.”

  Mary fought not to close her eyes and wish herself elsewhere. There would be no living with Talent now.

  “I’m certain you are.” Talent did not look at her, but she felt his judgment all the same. His square jaw bunched as he glared at Lucien. “I’m tempted to offer a rejoinder about you experiencing my foot up your arse, but you aren’t worth the bother.” He walked away, never looking back.

  “Such a pleasant fellow,” Lucien mused. “I envy you working with him.”

  “Oh, yes,” Mary said lightly. “And it shall be a delight now.” She snapped open her fan and waved it hard, as if that might somehow blow him away too. “Why do you needle him so?”

  Lucien’s flawless face glowed beneath the lights. “Because I can.”

  With a flick of her wrist, she let the fan snap shut. “I knew the answer, Lucien. I merely wondered if you might think for once on how your selfishness reflects upon me.”

  High color stained his cheeks. “I do not like you partnering with that man.”

  “Lucien, I am not, nor was I ever, your property. I thought myself your friend, but perhaps I was wrong.”

  His mouth fell open, the color draining from his cheeks. “Chère—”

  “Do not bother. I am working and would appreciate it if you stayed out of my and Talent’s way.” She left, annoyed at him for starting up, at Talent for taking the bait, and at herself for feeling guilty about all of it. Men, she thought, could go bugger themselves.

  Jack hated losing his temper. Which was hilarious, really, given how often he lost it now. Piss and shit, but he ought to have kept his damn mouth shut. The last thing in the bloody world he wanted was to give Chase and Stone the satisfaction of letting them know how much it bothered him to see them together. Stone he simply wanted to kill every time he saw the man. The smug triumph that lit Stone’s eyes, and the knowledge that he’d had Jack by the bollocks all these years, made Jack want to punch something.

  Jack ground his teeth. He’d kept his word to Stone. And done a thorough job of it. Hell, Chase had detested him for the past four years. The fact that the bloody man felt the need to taunt Jack regardless was the last straw. But his anger deflated with his next breath. It was for the best. He’d been outright flirting with Chase. Shocking. And stupid. He could not get close to her. Because he’d continue to maintain his pact with Stone, and with himself. Even if it killed Jack.

  Hell, this whole night was an exercise in futility. Jack’s gut told him this wasn’t about shifters, not with the murder mirroring the Bishop’s earlier kills of demons. Whatever the motive, Jack feared he was being set up and it would lead directly back to him. But he couldn’t very well tell Poppy and Chase, “Sorry, loves, you’re both barking up the wrong tree.”

  The crowd tightened around him. Laughter flowed, raking over his skin. And the scent of ripe bodies, doused in flowery perfumes, plucked at his nostrils. Humans in silks and satins. Worm threads. The odd visual stuck until all he could see was bodies wrapped in colorful, wriggling cocoons.

  Devil take all, he needed air.

  He wasn’t going to get it, though. Not when Lord Darby stepped in front of him, the shine of his golden hair almost blinding in the light of a thousand candles. Jack repressed the urge to squint. Another bloody peacock.

  “Master Talent.” White teeth flashed. “I gathered the SOS would come crawling about soon enough.”

  “I expect Director Wilde’s note explaining the situation would have been your first clue.” It had been delivered to Darby posthaste, and an invitation to this accursed ball had arrived at headquarters soon thereafter.

  Jack gleaned some small enjoyment from watching Darby’s simper fall to irritation. With a clipped toss of his chin, the earl bade him to follow. As it was his duty to discuss certain things with Darby, Jack acquiesced.

  Darby led him to a small parlor where lamps had been lit and a merry fire crackled in the grate. The ready room, far from the ball, led Jack to believe that Darby had words for him as well.

  “I’m so glad they sent one of my kind,” Darby said as he closed the door. “It makes me feel quite protected.”

  Etiquette was a bizarre business. Supernaturals’ warren of rules was no exception. In general, one did not discuss one’s genus upon first meeting. It was akin to asking what color knickers someone wore. Or, as in this case, it was an attempt to put Jack in his place by conveying that he was unworthy of basic privacy. Unfortunately, Jack had long ago ceased to care about manners.

  “Good,” Jack deadpanned. “Then I needn’t worry about explaining how you ought not do anything foolish like running about on your own.”

  “I see you are working with Lucien’s little bird,” Darby said lightly. “Lovely creature.” The mockery in Darby’s eyes made it clear he’d aimed to hit Jack’s underbelly with that volley. And while it irked, what bothered Jack more was the way Darby spoke of Chase. She’d left Stone two years ago, and still all of London’s underworld thought of her as his property. As though she hadn’t ownership of her own life.

  “I’m working with SOS Regulator Mistress Chase,” Jack corrected patiently, as if instructing a slow-witted student. “And though we shall be shadowing you for the foreseeable future, neither of us has any intention of getting in your way.” He gave the man a magnanimous smile. “Pretend we aren’t even here.”

  Darby’s lip twitched in obvious annoyance. Though Jack had been the one to tweak Darby’s temper, Jack did not hold the sentiment against the man; he’d be damned furious if the SOS put two shadows on his arse. Not that he would admit as much, not after Darby had run Chase through the mud.

  As if he were closing a curtain, Darby’s temper ended with a pivot toward a spindly-legged drinks cart. With undue care he poured two glasses of port before turning back to hand one to Jack.

  The cool crystal stem felt as fragile as ice between Jack’s big fingers. He held it steady and watched Darby take a contemplative sip of his drink. Despite their sparring, the earl appeared relaxed. His shifter scent was light, masked by expensive cologne and a liberal application of pomade. There was no indication as to how strong a shifter Darby was. Physical size meant little; it was quick thinking and the ability to shift into
something unexpected that won battles.

  Darby studied him with equal intensity. “I heard about what they did to you.”

  Jack tensed so quickly that his skin tingled. He stared back at Darby, willing himself not to react, not to fucking blink. Only his family and one other knew the details of what had truly happened to Jack—bad enough, that—but nearly every supernatural knew he’d been held and his blood forcibly stolen. An utter humiliation. Darby’s half-smile was annoyingly sympathetic. “We shifters have never received the proper respect. The Nex and their minions disgust me.”

  Jack didn’t want sympathy. And he didn’t want a bloody friend. “Have you noticed anything unusual of late?” he tossed out, just to see how Darby would react.

  “Aside from regulators skulking about?” Darby gave a tight smile. “No.” He cocked his head, and his carefully combed and shellacked hair shone bright. “Why is it, do you theorize, that the Bishop has turned his attention to shifters? Jealousy perhaps? Hate?”

  “I couldn’t wager a guess at this time.”

  “Cannot? Or will not?”

  Jack did not know why Darby’s questions sounded like a taunt, but he didn’t like it. “Have you a theory?”

  Darby shrugged. “I’d say he was trying to send a message.” Jack’s gaze sharpened, but Darby merely took a casual sip of his drink before finishing. “But that’s your burden to discover, not mine.”

  “Hence my presence here.”

  That ugly thing, a strange emotion Jack couldn’t quite pinpoint, pushed along the edges of Darby’s fallacious smile. Yet when he spoke, it was all lightness and lordly boredom. “I’m going to take two up to my bed when this party is over. And I’m going to fuck them. Rigorously.” He quirked a golden brow, his gaze measuring. “Are you and your lovely little partner up for watching?”

  Jack set his untouched glass down. “We’ll be watching your house. If you need an audience to perform, then fuck in your ballroom for all I care.”

  Darby laughed. “An interesting idea. However, I find I rather like the idea of regulators watching. Perhaps Mistress Chase can give me a little rap on the knuckles if I fail to perform to satisfaction.” His smile grew dark, luxuriant. “Are you certain I cannot persuade you? Or perhaps you’d care to join in?”

  “Do these taunts ever work?” Jack asked idly. “For I confess, they bore me.”

  “What would it take to shock you then, Mr. Talent?”

  “I understand it chafes to be guarded. Unfortunately, you have two choices. Leave the country and go into hiding until this is over”—an option Jack would greatly prefer—“or bear the inconvenience.”

  High color blazed across Darby’s cheeks just before a snarl rent through his clenched teeth. “Unless this Bishop is the bloody Prince of Darkness himself, I will tear his head off before he gets within two feet of me.”

  “So confident. And yet he’s killed two shifters.”

  Darby waved a hand. “Weaklings who never saw him coming.” He laughed lightly. “Believe me, the bastard doesn’t stand a chance.”

  “Then I don’t have to worry about saving your arse. My partner and I will instead focus on capturing him.” Jack adjusted one of his cuffs, and the gesture, one that he hadn’t bothered with in ages, felt good. “Thank you for being our bait.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I don’t believe I’ll ever get over how tedious it is to do a watch.” Talent’s voice, though lower than a whisper, was crystal-clear in the sharp morning air. It was a quip, given the situation, and one much appreciated by Mary just then. Since he’d returned, he hadn’t spoken more than necessary, except to proclaim Darby a peacock nitwit of the first order.

  Mary, who stood scant inches away from him on the rooftop facing Darby’s open bedroom window, huddled down farther in her thick cloak. She’d changed into thick woolen trousers, a heavy tunic, and fur-lined boots, all the easier to move quickly and efficiently should the need arise. Even so, her feet were numb, her fingertips and nose too, but she wouldn’t complain. “The waiting is much more comfortable in the astral plane, I can tell you.” Though impossible now, since she needed to be prepared for a physical confrontation should the killer show. God give her the strength, for her spirits were flagging.

  The ball had lasted until three in the morning, but Talent and Mary still had watch over Darby for hours more. Regulators Honeychurch and Evans would take over the next evening.

  But until then they’d had to suffer. Just their luck that Darby had left his curtains open and proceeded to have intercourse with both a man and a woman until the sun came up and rode high in the sky. Now it was afternoon, and the bloody shifter was still going at it, with another couple. When working for Lucien, Mary had seen all manner of sexual acts, from the profane to the mundane. It meant nothing to her. In truth, the more she saw of the act, the less she was inclined to partake in it. But to watch while forced to stand next to Talent was another matter. So she did what she’d done her entire life and sank deep into herself where such things ceased to matter, where it was nothing more than moving shapes and flashes of color.

  Strangely, Talent seemed as unaffected as she. As though the whole business were no different from observing London’s street traffic on the Strand. Given Talent’s views on swiving, Mary would have assumed he’d be fairly blushing by now. But nothing about Talent or this case made sense to her. While she could readily imagine him killing raptor and sanguis demons, she could not fathom why he’d hurt shifters, or make crawlers. She’d seen his face when the shadow crawlers attacked: he’d been gobsmacked.

  He could not be the Bishop, she decided. He simply could not. Mary only wished the tense bands along her neck would ease with that thought.

  Next to her Talent stirred, and she felt his attention upon her like a touch. “How does it feel?” he asked after a moment. “To roam about as a spirit?”

  A start of surprise tugged at her chest. He’d always acted as though the very nature of a GIM was repulsive to him. The bloody man constantly set her off balance, and she wondered if he did so purposefully. She licked her dry lips before answering. “It feels… wonderful. Limitless. Freeing.” Her breath hit the high collar of her cloak before bouncing back warm against her cheeks. “You’d be surprised what burdens we carry within our flesh.”

  “No,” he said low and dark, “I wouldn’t.”

  She risked a glance and found him glaring down at Darby’s house. He caught her looking, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “I envy you the ability to escape it.” When she didn’t reply, for really she couldn’t speak just then, he asked another question. “Do you miss being with them?”

  The GIM. In many ways her job with the SOS was the same, but there was one crucial difference. Whereas once she had worked for hire, regardless of circumstance, now she worked to keep peace and order. It was a balm to the soul. “No,” she said.

  He was silent. They stood, unmoving, the cold air surrounding them, save where their shoulders nearly touched and their body heat mingled. Neither of them was foolish enough to forgo that small comfort. A long day lay ahead of them, and they needed to keep what strength they could. Mary fought the urge to move closer still. She hated that she craved his warmth. She hated touching others. Yet not him. Why? Why, when he’d been her enemy for so long?

  “Are you happy?” His abrupt question had her turning. Talent’s hands were stuffed deep into his pockets, marring the lines of his simple working overcoat. His brow furrowed. “That you became a GIM, I mean.”

  Talent had the particular knack for making the term “GIM” sound like something profane. Perhaps they were. Perhaps all supernaturals were a mistake of nature. Then again, she did not feel any different than she had when she was fully human. Perversely, she wanted to smile, but did not. “You mean, would I rather have died than become what I am?”

  The furrow of his brow deepened. “No. That is not what I meant. Nor do I care for your tone.”

  “Oh no?” She ran an idle hand
along the rough edge of the roof balustrade. “Come now, Talent. You’ve been quite vocal in your distaste for the GIM. Do not profess outrage when I come to the natural conclusion that you believe I’d be better off dead.”

  His nostrils pinched on a sharply drawn breath. In the weak light of a London sun, his features were harsh, a marble statue of an irate man. Then, as if someone had turned down a lamp, his gaze dropped. “GIM are immortal made, not immortal born. It was a choice for you. The rest of us, we’re trapped in this endless life whether we wanted it or not.” A ghost of a sigh whispered from him, and his lashes cast shadows over his skin as he tilted his head back and stared into nothingness. “I never understood why, is all. Why choose this?”

  “Because I want to know what comes next.”

  “What comes next?” Bafflement clouded his eyes, and the corners of his mouth dipped down.

  “What happens the next day, and the next. Life is not a straight road, you realize. There are all sorts of bends and forks. I like wondering what will happen should I choose one road over another.”

  He blinked, a little recoil of shock licking over his features. The gesture was so quick and small that she almost missed it. But on Talent, it was like a shout.

  Mary took a hesitant breath. “You wouldn’t choose life? Over death?”

  “With no hope of reprieve from this misery?” The wide curve of his lower lip thinned. “Despair hangs over this city like a shroud, suffocating all of us. And the monotony of facing day after day?” Slowly, he shook his head. “Are you not afraid that you’ll go mad? Most of us do.”

  She knew this. The elders, who’d seen their family and friends wither and die, had a haunted look in their eyes now and then. Ian Ranulf had carried that look until he’d met his Daisy. Lucien carried it still. Mary understood that loneliness might one day become a crippling thing. Certainly, on occasion, loneliness, bitter and sharp, would pain her. It crept closer as the years rolled on.