Winterblaze

by Kristen Callihan

  Her grip tightened on the crossbow. With her other hand, she slipped the gold throwing knife from her pocket and held it close.

  “Poppy,” Win said as they walked up to her, “you have news?”

  “Yes.” She flew into motion. The knife hissed through the air just as she raised the crossbow and shot. Talent barely had time to blink before both projectiles slammed into his shoulders, taking him down to the grass and pinning him there. Win’s start of surprise was lost as Talent roared. Not at all the roar of a shifter.

  “Poppy,” Win shouted, “you haven’t given him a chance to defend himself.”

  She did not take her eyes off the thing writhing on the grass, trying to free itself from the gold weapons holding it down. “It won’t do permanent damage,” she said to Win before addressing the demon. “Rise then, Jack Talent, if you can.” A shifter could be held fast by iron, but not gold. A demon, on the other hand, detested gold. What she did not know was whether this was Talent’s body or an illusion of it.

  Talent’s eyes flashed with an inner fire before turning deep yellow. Demon eyes. She advanced on him, snapping another golden arrow into place. It whizzed and thumped into his thigh, and he screamed. Win stepped closer, horror etched on his face. Talent’s body arched, straining against the shafts.

  Poppy stood over him. “Who are you and where is Jack Talent?”

  Caught, the demon let his glamour go. Human in appearance except for his pale grey skin, he glared up at her with his yellow eyes. “Fetch my mettle, you bunter bitch.”

  Win snarled at the foul words, and his foot slammed into the demon’s side. “Address the lady properly or I’ll have your tongue.”

  The demon sneered as blood streamed down his lip. The gold was affecting his system now, turning the network of veins a deep black against his grey skin. “Get me out of these bonds, and I’ll make a capon out of you. Stuff your lobcock down your gullet, I will.”

  Win moved to strike him again, and Poppy placed a staying hand upon his arm. “Do not bother. He’s merely a weak and pathetic raptor demon. They feed off the pain and misery of others and are notoriously foul-mouthed.” She glanced down at the demon. “And quite stupid.”

  The demon on the ground showed his sharp teeth. “Go bugger yourself, you bleeding three-penny upright.”

  Win looked capable of murder. Poppy tightened her grip on him, and giving the demon a pleasant smile, aimed her last arrow at its crotch. “If anyone is in danger of being a capon, it is you. Now talk before you spend the rest of your short, miserable life as a eunuch.”

  A bloody grin worked over the demon’s face. “Can’t.” He craned his neck to reveal the image of a chain tattooed upon his skin. “Am bound by Master.”

  “Which means he is physically incapable of divulging any information,” Poppy explained to Winston. “No matter what we do to him. That tattoo will literally choke the life out of him if he says anything against his master’s wishes.”

  “Aye,” said the demon with a gurgling laugh. “But can tell you Mr. Jack is having good fun with my mates.” His dark tongue ran over his teeth. “Tasty is Mr. Jack. Been having fun with him since the boat.” At that, the demon shifted his appearance to the murdered ship’s officer, then to Mary Chase, before going back to his ugly, demonic self.

  Something cold and dark passed over Winston’s eyes as he looked down at the demon. “If you have nothing to tell us, then you are of little use.” Tight-lipped, Win turned his attention back to Poppy. “Decapitation works with this one, yes?”

  Below them, the demon began to writhe against his bonds, snarling and spitting like an enraged dog. “Shanker covered, whore pipe, pig-fucking—”

  “Are you sure you want to do the deed?” Poppy asked. SOS law gave her the right to execute any demon guilty of body theft and torture, which this demon clearly had done to poor Jack Talent. However foul the criminal may be, executing one still ate at the soul. She felt the weight of every life she took and did not like to think of Winston carrying that same burden.

  But Win’s expression was set as he pulled his sword free from his walking stick. “Quite.” Dispassion etched his expression in harsh lines as he stared down at the demon, who still cursed a blue streak. Win raised his sword. “For Jack.” He struck true and clean.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  They searched the Noble house from the dank cellars to the roof rafters, but found no sign of Jack Talent. And so they headed for London and Ranulf House to let Mary off there. She would alert Ian Ranulf to the problem, and the lycans would begin the search for Talent.

  “It will soothe The Ranulf to search,” Mary said. “But they will not find him before I do.” Though she and Talent had never got along, fierce determination heated her voice and shone in her eyes. But her fervor quickly died.

  Mary’s lids lowered as she grimaced. “I ought to have realized that one stole my blood aboard the Ignitus.”

  Poppy rested a hand upon Mary’s. “None of this is your fault.”

  No, it was his. Winston ought to have at least noticed Talent was not himself. He clutched the handle of his walking stick harder so that he would not smash something. “What is to say that Talent is still alive? Do you not suppose that he might have been dispatched when we discovered the demon? Or perhaps drained dry like poor Mrs. Noble?”

  “Mr. Talent is a shifter.” Poppy glared out the window as if she too were overcome with distaste. “His blood is extremely valuable, as it allows a demon to change appearance with the ease of a shifter. As Mr. Talent is one of only five known shifters in Europe, he is very rare.”

  “Gods. I had no idea. I simply assumed he was one of many.”

  Poppy’s eyes went cold with anger. “Talent took risks flaunting his nature. There are always those who would hunt down a shifter and use them. Which is why there are so few left alive.”

  “No one deserves to be used against their will,” said Mary with sudden anger. She ducked her head, and the brim of her bonnet hid her expression but her gloves stretched tight against the knuckles of her clenched fist. “There are no better trackers than a GIM, Inspector Lane. I will not fail.”

  After leaving Mary and their baggage at Ranulf House, Poppy gave the coachman directions to Fleet Street market, of all places. “One of the entrances to the SOS headquarters is there,” she explained to Winston. “There are others close by, but this one will garner less attention.”

  The coach let them off at the market. A light breeze caught the pervasive stench of moldering water, garbage, and cooking and carried it off. People crowded the sidewalks, creating a general din of laughter and conversation. St. Paul’s dome shone against the grey sky. He hefted the satchel they’d brought along more securely over his shoulder and then offered Poppy his arm.

  Daylight dimmed as they turned a corner and came alongside the Fleet river canal bridge. There the River Fleet slipped beneath London on its subterranean course. Poppy stopped by a service door and, blocking the door with her body, quickly pushed a series of numbers into the punch lock. Despite the worn and rusted appearance of the door, the lock clicked with well-oiled ease. She glanced over her shoulder as she pushed the door open. “This way.”

  The scent of mildew and fetid air washed over them as they stepped inside the dark space. Winston blinked, waiting for his sight to adjust to the dimness, since the only light came from behind them and the small pinholes from the sewer grates. Foul didn’t begin to describe the smell. The rumble of street traffic and the dripping of water echoed in the underground tunnel. Without further ado, Poppy nudged him inside.

  “It isn’t the most pleasant of entrances, I’ll grant you.” She pulled a slim cylinder from one of her many hidden pockets, and with the flick of a knob, yellow light shot from its end. It was an electric torch. He’d heard of them; hell, he’d even seen a rendering of one, but nothing as elegant as the model she held.

  “Hold a moment.” He took the torch from her and studied it. The thing was heavy, an eff
ective weapon if need be. The light it exuded was strong enough. Certainly better than nothing. “It’s brilliant.”

  Poppy allowed a quick smile. “The SOS is privy to technological advancement that the public doesn’t see. We have a team of inventors who are quite clever. Our top inventor built several prototypes this year. I’ve been testing this one.” She moved them forward, and Win duly pointed the torch toward the ground before them to light the way. “It doesn’t last long, unfortunately, so we’ll have to be quick.”

  She guided them along a narrow walkway that hugged the underground section of the river. Now that they had a bit of light, he could see that the tunnel was about twenty feet in diameter and lined with bricks. It extended in both directions, allowing the river to flow beneath London proper. A small craft was moored at a bend in the tunnel. “We are going on that, I presume?”

  “Yes.” Her steps were quicker now, her countenance an eerie green in the weak light. “This tunnel leads directly to our headquarters.”

  They were silent as she stepped into the craft and lit the lantern hanging off the prow, and he untied the mooring rope. The boat rocked precipitously as he stepped in, and she pushed off, using the long pole provided. Win widened his stance and, taking the pole from her, acted the part of gondolier.

  “Something about that encounter with the demon bothered you. What was it?” He had questions on top of questions but he knew peppering her with them now wouldn’t get him answers. Tension held reign over her slim shoulders and long neck. Her fists gleamed white among the dark folds of her skirt.

  Beneath the straight slash of her brows, her eyes were pained and withdrawn. “It is nonsensical, really.”

  “Emotions often are. But tell me anyway.”

  They were silent for a moment, with only the trickle of water and the distant clatter of the life above making noise.

  “Knowing that a demon hid among us, seeing you slay it…” Her fists clenched tighter. “I don’t know, Win.” Dark eyes lifted to find his. “I am used to danger following me. I am not used to it following us.”

  “Do you think it different for me?” He put his back into the next push, and they surged forward. “The lot I usually deal with might not be undead or, Christ, turn into spiders”—That still had his nerves dancing—“but the danger of being gutted is still there.”

  Her gaze steadied on his scars and went darker still. Win did not let her comment but continued. “I rather liked that danger, if we are telling truths. But it is another thing entirely to see you in the thick of it. Especially now.”

  Ducking her head, Poppy’s voice grew unusually soft. “We’ve already lost too much in Talent.”

  Win’s fingers tightened on the pole. “You believe Miss Chase will succeed?”

  She smiled thinly. “Do you know it took Daisy one day of being a GIM to weed out the fact that I was Mother? The little brat followed me to work, and not once did I notice. GIMs find what others cannot. They are the best spies we have. Which is why goodwill between them and the SOS is so important.”

  Her good humor faded, and the air grew chillier still as she glared pure murder into the dark, foul waters. “Regardless of whether or not we find Talent, the ones who took him will pay.”

  Apprehension tightened Win’s gut. “Poppy Ann,” he said, “do not even consider haring off on your own.” Which he was certain she was.

  The eloquent lift of her red brow confirmed it. “I’m not going to sit in a bunker and twiddle my thumbs while you and our child are in danger.”

  Win gritted his teeth as he shoved the boat farther along. “I swear to all that is holy, if you do not stop mollycoddling me, Poppy, I shall take you over my knee.”

  Her brow rose higher. “I should like to see you try.”

  “Shall we have a go later?” The notion inflamed him in more ways than one.

  “I’d freeze your arse before you got started.”

  “Play dirty, do you?”

  “Always.”

  True anger rose to the surface. It ought to be bloody degrading to know his wife could take him down without mussing her hair, but what really bothered him were the risks she took. How close had death been to her over the years? And he hadn’t even known to comfort her.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Mary settled herself upon the worn armchair in Jack Talent’s bedroom. The door was locked. Even so, Ian Ranulf had given orders that this section of the house not be disturbed while she was here. Which was good, as a GIM’s method of tracking a soul was one of their closest kept secrets. Relaxing, she stared up at the dark, coffered ceiling. All was in order here—quiet, still, waiting. It smelled of him, that faint, almost illusive combination of sandalwood soap, fine linen, and the earthy scent of shifter.

  Talent liked quality; that was clear. His was a small room, a little jewel box tucked away in a quiet corridor of Ranulf House. Everything in his room was expensive, yet understated, as if he did not want to acknowledge his lust for luxury. But it was obvious in the soft leather chairs, the thick nap of the velvet throw lying upon the ottoman, and the smooth indigo silk counterpane covering the bed. Plump, down-filled pillows were piled high against the impressive mahogany headboard and practically invited a person to lie down. The man lived like a pasha behind closed doors. And a monk in the public eye. Which was the real him?

  The rosewood Vulliamy clock on the mantel ticked away, no doubt keeping perfect time. She stirred with the unnerving need to look over her shoulder.

  As a professional voyeur, she was accustomed to invading the private places of others. It never truly affected her. And yet distinct edginess plucked at her skin here in Talent’s inner sanctum, as if he would barge in at any moment, brassed off and shouting about her shady ways. The thought almost had her rising up and walking out of the room. She resisted the urge. Whatever he was to her, he deserved to be found. The others were fond of him, though lord knew why; the man was a braggart and a hypocrite.

  Even so, she settled back and let her fingers stroke the smooth leather. Such a comfortable chair. One could drift off to sleep in its arms without even realizing. His essence lingered here—a dark, complex mix, like aged Scotch, smoky and rich yet with a sharp bite. It disturbed, pulling one down into a confused mire. Mary took a quick breath and willed herself to sink deep. Deeper into the unwelcoming feel of Jack Talent.

  “You will owe me,” she muttered, not liking the task one bit. But it was working. Some essential part of Jack Talent grabbed hold of her neck as if he’d like to shake it. Most certainly this was Talent. She let it pull her along, and on the next breath, she was drifting. The heavy shroud of her body fell away, and she was lightness and air. A spirit, free to go where she pleased. Only at the moment, Talent had a hold of her. The connection was thin, no more than a thread of light. She concentrated on it. Talent’s light was a base mix of blue and grey, a survivor of life yet conflicted and one of dark thoughts. What concerned her more was the muddy, mustard fog that coated his light. It spoke of pain. Great pain, if one considered how very weak his light glowed.

  Up she went, over the smoking chimneys, pitched roofs, and sharp spires of London. Skimming over crowded avenues and the heads of strolling pedestrians. Life teemed, swelled, and extinguished before her. It was, as always, beautiful, mesmerizing, and haunting.

  She focused on Jack Talent. She thought of his voice, always hard and unforgiving, thought of his eyes, bottle green and full of distrust. Gods, but it was an exercise in tolerance and a test of her will to keep going. When she reached Victoria Docks, the thread of light flickered, then failed. Below her, a large iron boat was docked. Iron, to keep a shifter contained. Iron, to keep a spirit out. Jack Talent was there.

  The tunnel opened up into a massive underground cistern. Win counted at least forty columns, lined with yellowed bricks and topped with Egyptian-style lotus blossom carvings, laid out in a grid pattern and holding up the vaulted ceiling. Torches flickered on either side of each column, providing enough li
ght to turn the dank, fetid water into a golden sea. The place appeared empty, but when they reached the end of the stone dock, Win spied a man sitting upon an ebony chair beside a large door. The bloke appeared to be reading.

  The reader did not look up, nor move, as they docked their craft. Poppy’s heels echoed in the hollow place as she led them toward the man, a brute whose burly hands dwarfed the thick book he read.

  “Mum,” he said as he turned a page. Win glanced down at the book. Candide. Well then.

  “Clive.” Poppy nodded just as the massive door unlocked with apparently no help from anyone. Gears and levers along the front of the door groaned as they released, and the door slowly swung open.

  “Who is the fellow reading Voltaire?” Win asked as they went through the door and it creaked shut behind them.

  “Clive is our guard.”

  “He did not so much as look up.”

  “He doesn’t need to. He can read your thoughts from about fifty yards off. He knew we were approaching and who we were long before he saw us. We would not have reached the cistern were we unwanted. The outer doors would have closed on us.”

  “A little warning in that regard would not have been remiss, Poppy.” He tried to remember what he’d been thinking of fifty yards off. None of it was anything he wanted old Clive to know about.

  Poppy’s lips curled. “You sound quite guilty, you realize.”

  “My thoughts are the purest snow.”

  As neither of them could quite swallow that, they remained silent as they walked down a white-tiled corridor.

  “It looks like the London Underground,” he said after a moment.

  “Yes.” She turned a corner. They did not encounter a soul as they went. “We’ve our own train system as well. There are stops beneath a few palaces and Westminster.” She paused before a pair of massive coffered doors. Each panel featured a frieze depicting the burning of a witch. “To remember,” Poppy said, “what happens when the people start to believe in the supernatural.”