Shadowdance: The Darkest London Series: Book 4

by Kristen Callihan

  Lucien glanced at the carnage around him, and rage flared in his eyes before he dampened it. “Did you do this?

  Jack’s control broke. “The fuck I did!” He took a step in the GIM’s direction. “Do not dare accuse me of this.”

  Lucien watched with cool detachment. That didn’t mean he was unaffected. The dandy’s face was pale and drawn. “As I understand it, you were the only outsider who knew of its location.”

  “And every damned GIM in London.”

  One dark brow rose in cold contempt. “You think one of my kind did this to their own?”

  “Worse things have happened.”

  “And Mercer.” Lucien studied Jack carefully. “He knew. I believe he was your informant, Mary?”

  Mary nodded shortly before turning her gaze back to the room, the corners of her eyes tight and pained.

  “Mercer?” Jack’s insides cooled even as his rage threatened to ignite once more.

  Lucien gave a small, humorless smile. “I believe he accused you of being this Bishop of Charing Cross.” He tossed a chin in the direction of a body. Mercer lay on the floor. Or what was left of him, which was not much.

  Jack took a step closer to Mary, his flesh rippling. The urge to shift loomed high, wild, and hot. “You think I am capable of this?”

  Her expression was smooth as porcelain, her eyes glowing, but then she blinked and her slim shoulders slumped. “Of course I don’t.”

  Jack’s brittle spine relaxed. He gave her a curt nod.

  “Nor did I, particularly,” said Lucien. “But one has to ask.” He waved a tired hand around the bloody room. “Look at them,” he said. “Tell us what you see.”

  Jack drew back and glanced around. Each victim’s shirt was torn open, a cross burned into each one’s flesh, and their hearts had been ripped from their bodies. The smell underlay the lingering scent of roasting meat that had burnt down on the doused grill. Leaving the mechanical Mistress Chase behind, he went to one of the bodies. The poor bloke stared up at him in silent accusation, and Jack’s stomach knotted. A gaping wound lay the man’s throat open to the spine. Frowning, Jack bent closer.

  “The spine isn’t severed.”

  Stone arrived, and Jack stepped away to let him see. A moment later Mary stood by his side. It was all Jack could do not to grab her and haul her into his arms. Where she’d be safe. But she didn’t pay him an ounce of attention. Her skirts rustled as she bent over the dead GIM and plucked a piece of paper that stuck out of his front coat pocket.

  “ ‘They are dead, they shall not live; they are deceased, they shall not rise: therefore hast thou visited and destroyed them, and made all their memory to perish,’ ” she read aloud.

  A slow shiver ran through Jack’s body. Was it coincidence or bad timing that this had occurred after he’d given the fiend his blood? The bastard had known Mercer, and from the torture that had been inflicted on the demon, it was safe to say he might have divulged the location of this place.

  “Well, the message is a bit more blunt this time,” she said.

  He turned abruptly to face her, and Mary’s gaze was steady on him. “A Bible quote was found in the area where Holly Evernight disappeared.”

  “Why did you not tell me?”

  Her lips pressed together for a moment. “It slipped my mind.”

  Jack snorted. “The demon we found at Pierce’s house had a verse on him too.” When Mary gave him a reproachful look, he smiled without humor. “Slipped my mind.”

  Before she could reply, Jack moved to another victim. Blood had sprayed from this one’s wound, wild and deep red. The old violinist. He’d clawed at the wood floor trying to escape. Saliva filled Jack’s mouth, and he looked away. “When did you find them?”

  “Less than an hour past.” Stone’s celadon gaze moved to the body of a woman, and his mouth tightened. “Someone will pay for this.”

  “One can hope.” Plenty got away with murder and more. Not bothering to see Stone’s reaction, Jack went to the old woman hunched by the stove. Burn marks marred her forearms from her struggle with her attacker. Blackening blood pooled beneath her.

  Jack straightened. “We have three human victims bled out and a roomful of GIM, cause of death unknown.”

  “What do you mean?” Lucien asked.

  “I mean”—he pointed at a body next to him—“their throats were cut, and their hearts torn out. But it was done after death. Look at them. They hardly bled in comparison to the others. And they didn’t fight. They’re lying where they fell. Look at the humans, they fought.”

  Understanding slowly dawned on Lucien’s face. Jack wondered if, in the shock of finding so many of their kind murdered, Mary and Lucien hadn’t fully studied the crime scene. Only thought to accuse. Again, the shivering urge to go animal lit over his body.

  “Do you honestly think one man could take on an entire room of supernaturals and kill them all?” He wanted to spit, it was so absurd.

  “Somebody did,” Stone murmured, his expression thoughtful as he stroked a hand over a young woman’s head. The gesture struck Jack; Ian looked at his lads in the same manner. These GIM were Lucien’s responsibility. Some of the anger went out of Jack.

  “Without a massive fight on his hands?” Jack shook his head slowly. “Something killed them before they even understood the danger.”

  Stone cursed as he looked at one young lad. “Took their hearts with him.”

  “The killer doused the fire,” Lucien observed quietly as he looked at the black scorch marks that flared up two walls.

  “Because he wanted us to see what he’d done,” Jack said.

  Almost idly, Stone ran a finger along the edge of a table, where one victim slumped back in his seat. Jack walked over to him. “He’s taken some victims with him.” Jack pointed to the table. “This has been set for two, yet one remains.” A quick glance around confirmed more empty table settings. “Two, three, four,” he counted, growing dread spreading through him as he did. “There were more people dining in here than there are victims.”

  Stone uttered a blue curse. “I do believe you are correct.”

  “Jack.” Mary’s call from the back of the tavern had him hurrying to her.

  He stopped short. The body was crucified to the wall, much as he had been in those dark days. Naked and sagging against the iron spikes that held him fast was Anthony Goring, Archbishop of Canterbury. His throat had been cut, allowing blood to pour over his body in a grim wash of crimson.

  “Bloody hell,” Jack whispered, coming closer.

  A strange pang knocked Jack’s chest and made his breath hitch. He didn’t understand it. For most of his life, Goring had been the source of his greatest fears, and his deepest anger. But now he felt something close to sorrow.

  “Jack.” Mary touched his arm, a hesitant gesture. “Are you all right?”

  Was he? Jack studied his uncle’s body. So thin. The grey skin wrinkled and sagged a bit. Looking up at his uncle’s lifeless eyes now, he only saw frailty and a waste of life.

  “Yes,” he said, realizing that he meant it. The memories of this man no longer had the ability to hurt him. In truth, they hadn’t had that power for quite some time. Jack no longer wanted revenge. He wanted peace. He wanted what he’d experienced in Mary’s arms before he’d gone and mucked everything up. It was all he needed.

  “This wasn’t just a message to the GIM,” Mary said by his side.

  Turning with a grunt, Jack walked away from the body, and she followed. “He’s playing with us,” he said as he reached Stone once more.

  Jack forced himself to look at Mary. It hurt to do it. Hell, being in the same room hurt. When he spoke to her, his voice was hard. “Whatever you feel about me, you aren’t safe. No GIM is right now. Let me protect you.”

  Mary’s lashes lowered, her creamy cheeks pale. “I shall take proper precautions.”

  Stone turned away as if to give them privacy, but not before Jack saw the satisfaction in his eyes. And Jack’s teeth
met with an audible click. God, but he wanted to rip the man’s cods off and feed them to him. “With him?”

  Mary’s lithe frame moved in a flash, her palms smacking into the center of his chest with enough force to capture the whole of his attention. “Don’t you dare!” she snapped, her eyes glowing pure gold. “Never again! Do you hear?” Her palms connected with his chest with another loud smack. “Never again will you sneer or imply something untoward between Lucien and me.”

  “Mary—”

  Jack’s outstretched hand was slapped away.

  “Do not ‘Mary’ me.” She brushed a lock of her hair back from her face as she advanced on him. “You seem to be suffering under a misunderstanding. My life is not your concern. If I go back to Lucien’s barge and swive him senseless, it is none of your concern.”

  Jack wanted to howl. The muscles along his back burned, and he feared those strange leathery wings would soon break through. “Stop.” It was more of a plea than anything. Fangs were growing in his mouth. Soon he would be smashing things. “Please.”

  All at once her expression turned somber and tired. “You say you wanted me from the first, that I was your world. Then where were you all these years?”

  Right here. Watching you. Needing you. Dying a little more every day.

  “When I needed a friend,” she went on, “a kind word, a bit of support? It was Lucien who provided that. Where were you?”

  Blood pooled in Jack’s mouth, and he forced his fangs to recede. It took all he had not to look at Lucien, not to point his finger and shout the truth of her dear Lucien’s culpability in this. That bloody blackmailing bastard might have spoken up, but he didn’t.

  Mary glared up at Jack, hurt and anger twisting her lovely features. And it twisted his heart. He couldn’t do it. He would not hurt her further. If she believed Lucien was the only good and trustworthy man in her world, then he’d leave her that comfort. Even if it tore him apart.

  When he did not answer, she made a soft, scoffing noise. “As I thought. You say you are sorry. But that isn’t a cure-all.” Her lip trembled. “Actions count too.”

  The ground beneath him seemed to sway. He held steady by will alone.

  She took a deep breath, as if bracing herself. “It is finished, Jack. Just… go.”

  Humiliating heat swept over him. Stone’s presence, Mary’s disappointment in him. The heat flared to pain. It was over, then. And he’d lost. “As you wish.”

  Jack sat in a darkened corner of the cathedral. A slow ache washed over him, as though he’d been in battle.

  “I’d have thought this would be the last place you’d go to hide.”

  Jack nearly bolted out of his skin. In the dark calm of the cathedral, he ought to have heard anyone approach. Steeling himself, he turned toward the sound and found the same bastard who’d toppled the freight car on Mary. His hands fisted tight. “I ought to rip your head off where you stand.”

  The man laughed. “And yet you took what I offered. You went after Mercer.”

  Ugly memories slid through Jack. “I did not finish him.”

  “Weak.”

  Slowly Jack stood. “You are the one who came after me, begging.”

  A low snarl snapped through the darkness, and a set of red eyes gleamed. “You wish to play the game of begging?”

  That was one thing Jack had never done. Not even when he had wanted to die with every breath he took. He wasn’t about to start now.

  The man’s bootheels clicked against the marble as he took two steps closer. Again came the cold bunting of an unnatural fog. It drifted from the man’s long, bulky cloak, seeping out from his sleeves and collar, billowing down around his legs. Jack had never seen the like. The faint scent of cold stone and rot rode on that fog, so like that of their surroundings that it wasn’t any wonder Jack hadn’t noticed his arrival.

  “You could be free from this quest for vengeance, by ending it.” He cocked his head, those cold, slightly off eyes gliding over Jack in a way that made his blood congeal within his veins. “You could have the world in your hands.”

  Silky words slid through the dark. “Join me.”

  Jack shook his head. He’d had the world in his hands. For one shining moment. And then he’d ruined it. “Not interested. I’m not playing that game. Not with you. I gave you blood. I won’t give any more.”

  “Tell me, what did you think of my latest work?”

  Jack lunged, lashing out. His claws scraped against unyielding stone. On the other side of the room now, the man danced back, laughing. His smile glittered with white fangs. Holding his gaze, the man lifted his arm, and his hand caught the light of the moon, the gun he held glinting. “Predictable, Jack.”

  Jack laughed. “A bloody gun? You think that will stop me?”

  “Iron bullets are fairly painful, are they not?”

  “They will hurt like the devil,” he admitted. “And so will my claws going through your neck, for I won’t stop until it’s torn from your head.”

  The gun did not waver. “Have you not considered that I might have associates?”

  Steps sounded, and two figures dressed in hooded cassocks appeared.

  Regardless, Jack’s arms twitched. Everything in him said to finish this, tear the bastard’s head off. But he might fail, leaving Mary unprotected. Whatever the fiend was, he had speed and agility. His companions were not particularly large, nor could he see their faces, but when dealing with the supernatural, he could be up against unlimited power and not know until it was too late.

  “I see reason has finally drifted into your thick skull.” He grinned at Jack and suddenly, with a shimmer, he was Jack.

  Fuck. Jack snarled, stepping forward. The man laughed. “Don’t like that face much, do you?”

  He stared at Jack with something akin to mad pride. A strange look that had Jack’s blood running cold. “You don’t even know how perfect you are,” the bastard said. “I need more blood.”

  “No.”

  Jack’s own face scowled back at him, but the man didn’t say a word. And then understanding cleared Jack’s mind. “You can’t take it,” he said in wonder. “You cannot take my blood without my permission.”

  Before Jack could question or protest, the man flew forward and smashed into him. The hit crushed the bones of his shoulder and cracked his ribs. Sharp pain exploded through Jack’s body as he slumped down the wall. The power behind the hit was like nothing he’d ever felt. He hadn’t time to defend himself before hands hauled him up and iron was punching into his chest.

  Jack roared, his back bowing from the pain. Another stake slammed into his shoulder, pinning him against the limestone wall of the church. Maddened, he strained against the stakes holding him, not caring if it tore him in half. He would not be imprisoned again. A stake speared his gut. Jack retched, vomit and blood spilling over his front. Teeth chattering, he slumped. There was too much iron in him now, sapping his strength.

  Dimly he heard a chuckle and forced his head up. A cold finger touched his face. “I might not be able to take your blood. But there are other things I can take from you,” said the man. “Make no mistake.” His face twisted into a frown. “But I rather think you’ll want to hear what I have to say before you decide to deny me.”

  Before him, his tormentor shimmered again, and when he reformed, Jack convulsed against the iron spikes. His uncle, Anthony Goring, the Archbishop of Canterbury, reached out and gently stroked his cheek.

  “Hello again, John Michael.”

  “You mad fuck—”

  “That really ought to be ‘Your Grace, you mad fuck,’ ” the man interrupted with a shrug. “However, since we’re family, I’ll allow it.” He grinned again. Though he wore the face of Jack’s uncle, open sores ravaged his face. His skin was sunken and rotting, giving off a putrid stink. “What? No kind words for your uncle?”

  When Jack sneered, he laughed. “There’s gratitude for you. I was under the impression that you hated your uncle. Now he is gone.”


  “Forgive me if don’t believe that was your motive in killing him,” Jack ground out.

  “Ah, well, you are correct there. For it occurred to me that your uncle held a position of extreme power. It would be a waste not to use it.” A gleam lit the bastard’s eyes, and Jack strained against the iron. Not a chance in hell was he letting this madman assume the identity of the archbishop. His influence would be too great, for he would have the ear of the Queen, and the people.

  “Bit stupid of you,” Jack said past the pain in his gut, “to spill Goring’s blood, demon. That glamour won’t last for long without it.”

  “I don’t need blood to shift, ignorant boy. Nor am I a demon. I’m something more.” The man let his robes fall open. Blackening flesh hung on his bones. And in the center of his chest, a massive hole gaped, a raw and ugly wound. Beyond the bone, gristle, and muscle, a pathetic and shriveled heart barely pumped. “I am fallen. I am Amaros.”

  A fallen angel. Bloody perfect.

  Amaros closed his robe. “I am decaying. But you are going to help me fix that.”

  “Don’t see how.” Jack gave a wry look down at his gut, where a thick shaft of iron stuck out of him. It was agony, but he was damned if he’d let that show. “I’m a bit hung up at the moment.”

  The sores along Amaros’s neck gaped as he tilted his head and looked Jack over as though he were a piece of prime meat on a hook. “I’m rotting away. Unable to die, only to live in agony. For a millennium I’ve wasted away. And then I tasted you, Jack.” Cold fingers raked Jack’s cheek, and he flinched, much to Amaros’s delight. “Slowly I began to heal. Imagine my happiness when I thought that the blood of a shifter could heal me. But it was only you. Your gloriously rich blood. It can heal me.”

  Through his pain Jack choked out a laugh. “Right. It’s done a bang-up job.”

  A blow set Jack’s teeth rattling and blood pooling in his mouth. With an exaggerated sigh, Amaros leaned against the spike in Jack’s gut. Jack gnashed his teeth to hold in a scream. Amaros didn’t miss the reaction, however, and sighed. “It doesn’t have to be like this. We can help each other.”