Shadowdance
Page 32
She’d reached the alcove when a hand whipped out and grabbed her arm. In a blur she was against the wall, and then he was on her. For she knew it was he. His scent and the feel of his body was as familiar as instinct now. Jack. All around her. The warm press of his chest, the hard bracket of his arms on either side of her shoulders. Protest ended with his mouth fitting to hers. Not a kiss but a method of silencing. She pushed against his mouth with hers, trying to buck him off. He was a mountain of strength and will.
He sucked in a breath, and then tilted his head, adjusting the angle of his attack. Everything became soft, melting heat, his lips nuzzling, nipping, claiming, as if nothing else mattered but here and now. And she was defenseless against it, her mind spinning and her body humming. The rough tips of his fingers found the hinges of her jaw, and he coaxed open her mouth to let him in. Before she could protest, he swooped down, kissing her fiercely, not making a sound as he surged into her.
Mary shuddered. Unable to move, only to feel. They were too exposed. Laughter and conversation echoed against stone, the sound of footfalls that could be coming from any direction tightened her skin. Her fingers dug into the crisp lawn shirt on either side of his trim waist, and he grunted, a near-soundless exhalation of air. His grip upon her grew more secure.
They were chest to chest, Jack’s heartbeat matching her own heart’s mad rhythm. His hot breath mixed with hers as he drew away just enough to come at her again, plundering with soft, steady intent. And she took it, letting that slick, warm tongue invade and tangle with hers until her body grew fevered-hot and needy.
Someone beyond called out to a friend, the sound overly loud and plucking at her nerves. As if fearing her escape, Jack leaned farther into her, and the thick length of his c**k bunted into the softness of her belly. Damn her black soul, she wanted to open her legs and guide him inside where he’d fill her emptiness. The very idea had her whimpering.
“Shh,” he whispered into her mouth, his fingertips tracing down her neck, an eruption of shivers breaking out in his wake. “Shh. Just once more.” He kissed her again, hot, silent, and deep. The wet glide of his tongue traced her upper lip, then licked inside her mouth. She shivered, her ni**les hard and pained against her bodice. As if he felt it, he sighed into her. “Mary. You won’t talk to me, and I can’t think of any other way to show you.”
Tears prickled behind her lids. How very much she wanted to tell him that it did not matter what he’d done. She wanted him. She would always want him. At the cost of her pride. Her movements were sluggish, her body protesting her will, but she turned aside, breaking his kiss. He did not move away. Nor did she have it in her to push him off.
They leaned into each other, her fingers still tangled in his shirt, and his lips brushing against her temple with every soft exhalation he took. Warm fingertips pressed into the sensitive skin of her neck, holding there as if to feel her pulse. His body shaking, he burrowed his nose into her hair, as though seeking comfort. “Tell me how to make amends.”
Mary swallowed, her throat moving against his touch. “You—I cannot—”
“I should have honored you from the first moment we met. I know that now.” His thumb caressed her neck, an awkward touch as though he fought against it. “Because I wanted to. So very badly. You are my world, even when I didn’t want you to be.”
His world? He’d turned her world into a dark fog. He pierced her heart and made that rusty device feel tender and soft. And sad. Unbearably so. “You have to let me go.” She did not think she could stand another moment of his regret. Not now.
His fingers tensed, biting into her skin. “You might as well ask me to cut off a limb.” His mouth touched her brow. “Honor, logic, whatever it is that good men have, is lost to me when I am with you. You’re mine, and I am yours. You kissed me and everything changed.”
Mary’s skin flushed. “You kissed me and—”
“Only because you didn’t know how.” Tenderness colored his words and heated his breath. Of course he would make mention of that. His lips grazed her jaw. “You’re an exceptionally quick study, however.”
She would not smile. Nor would she yield. Mary turned her head. “I cannot ignore what you’ve done.”
“And I cannot go back to pretending that you aren’t my everything. I don’t want to.”
She pushed at his chest to no avail: he held her fast. She released a breath and spoke into the warm hollow at his throat. “But I don’t want you.”
His broad chest gave an abrupt jerk as if she’d thrust a spike into him. Ye gods, she’d become so very proficient at lying.
“I deserved that,” he muttered, still not letting go. “But I didn’t expect it to hurt so much.”
“This is merely lust talking,” she said sharply. “Leave me be and it will die down.”
A hard, bitter laugh escaped him. “Lust, is it?” He turned his head and pressed his lips against the crest of her cheek. “Mary Chase, I want to tup you. Hard and slow and all week long. I want to so badly that my cods ache and my heart hurts. But considering that I’ve felt the same way for going on four years and have managed to survive, I think it’s bloody well safe to say this isn’t about lust.”
Just down the corridor, a door opened, and Wilde’s voice drifted out. “Yes, Minerva, I understand perfectly. Did she say where Father was?”
Slowly Jack pulled back, and it felt as though he’d taken away her one support. Cold hit her chest, and she struggled to remain standing. His eyes met hers, and the devastation in his gaze slashed like a blade. She faced him head on, refusing to soften. She was not in the wrong. He’d done this to them. As if he heard her thoughts, his expression tightened, and his golden skin faded to pale cream.
Wilde’s voice came again, so normal-sounding compared to the pain that rose between Mary and Jack. “No, I’ll handle it,” he said within his office. “Please let me know when he returns.”
Jack glanced in that direction, then back to her.
“I can’t forgive and forget, Jack,” she whispered.
Dark shadows danced over his pained features. Without another word he turned from her and moved away at the blurring speed of a supernatural in his prime.
A moment later Wilde appeared, his frown concerned. “Was that Talent?”
She could only stare at the now-empty corridor, her body frozen.
Wilde shook his head as if annoyed, then cut to the chase. “There’s been an incident.”
“The Bishop?” she managed.
“I’m not certain.” His gaze dimmed, going cold. “But I think you ought to see it.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
It took a great deal of effort for a supernatural to become foxed, but Jack was going to give it a proper go. Hunched over a table in the coffeehouse where he’d first dined with Mary, he wrapped his hands around a flagon of cheap whisky and took another great swallow. It burned going down and tasted like hell. But the pleasant numbing sensation that followed could not be argued with.
Oblivion was welcome. He’d tried to explain, and she had ignored it. Told her that she was his world. And she hadn’t turned a hair. What else was he to do? A raw curse broke from him, and a few people turned their heads. Jack gave one fellow a good glare. But his attention was diverted as a young lady glided toward him. Her effortless walk reminded him of Mary’s, though it was not as refined. No one eased through a space quite as well as Mary. The ethereal look of the woman, with her crystalline green eyes, announced her as a GIM before he even heard the telltale clicking of her heart. Jack vaguely recognized her as one of the new SOS recruits, though the style in which she wore her hair spoke of a generation five decades past. Odd, how some of the immortals held on to the fashions of their youth.
Her gaze settled over him with all the warmth of winter ice. “Master Talent.” Disdain tainted her low voice. “Getting fuddled, are we?”
“Hitting the benzine, if you want to be precise about it.” He took another fiery drink and ignored the chit. But she did not move on. With a sigh he slammed down his mug. “Mistress Tottie, I presume?”
She gave a little sniff of acknowledgement.
“Well,” he prompted, “what do you want? As you can see, I’m busy.”
“Lucien Stone requests your presence without delay.”
“Does he? I’d best be running along then.” Jack made no move to rise but picked at a nail. Fucking Stone. The day Jack answered his summons…
The GIM before him huffed. “Mistress Chase is already headed to him,” she said.
Jack lurched up from the table, and Tottie sneered as if she had expected his reaction. “They are at our tavern.” A quiver took hold of her mouth. Rage. He knew the emotion well. “I believe you know the place.”
“I do.”
Her nostrils flared, and accusation ran high in her eyes. Jack frowned. What was she about? It was then that he truly took note of her greying pallor and the tremor in her hands. Not just rage, but fear as well.
Jack stepped into her space and tried to ignore the increase in his heart rate, and the worry. “What the f**k happened?”
She lifted her chin. “Best you run along and find out, Talent.” Then she turned and flounced away without a backward glance.
It took him too long to find the damn tavern. His memory of driving to the place the last time was faulty at best, and his current agitation was high. He growled low in his throat, his vision going hazy for a moment. When he finally reached the tavern, he wrenched open the door, and the hinges screeched in protest. One step over the threshold and he halted in shock. In his building temper, he hadn’t scented death, which was saying a lot considering the overwhelming stench that slapped his senses now. Blood splattered the walls, and bodies lay strewn about like rag dolls dropped in mid-play.
Instantly Jack went on full alert. Almost as quickly he found her standing in the midst of the destruction, her glowing gaze focused on him. Despite the carnage, something deep inside him eased. She was well. And furious. Whether at him or the situation, he could not tell. Nor did he care. She was well.
They stared at each other in silence. Defiance ran through Jack’s veins. She might no longer want him, but he wasn’t going away. Oh, he’d keep his distance if that’s what she needed. But he was still her partner, whether she liked it or not.
A slight movement at her side had him tensing. Lucien Stone glared back at him.
“What happened?” Jack snapped. His breathing was too fast: the mere thought of Mary walking into this death house made him want to break things. Not much left to break.
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 f**k 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.
He sucked in a breath, and then tilted his head, adjusting the angle of his attack. Everything became soft, melting heat, his lips nuzzling, nipping, claiming, as if nothing else mattered but here and now. And she was defenseless against it, her mind spinning and her body humming. The rough tips of his fingers found the hinges of her jaw, and he coaxed open her mouth to let him in. Before she could protest, he swooped down, kissing her fiercely, not making a sound as he surged into her.
Mary shuddered. Unable to move, only to feel. They were too exposed. Laughter and conversation echoed against stone, the sound of footfalls that could be coming from any direction tightened her skin. Her fingers dug into the crisp lawn shirt on either side of his trim waist, and he grunted, a near-soundless exhalation of air. His grip upon her grew more secure.
They were chest to chest, Jack’s heartbeat matching her own heart’s mad rhythm. His hot breath mixed with hers as he drew away just enough to come at her again, plundering with soft, steady intent. And she took it, letting that slick, warm tongue invade and tangle with hers until her body grew fevered-hot and needy.
Someone beyond called out to a friend, the sound overly loud and plucking at her nerves. As if fearing her escape, Jack leaned farther into her, and the thick length of his c**k bunted into the softness of her belly. Damn her black soul, she wanted to open her legs and guide him inside where he’d fill her emptiness. The very idea had her whimpering.
“Shh,” he whispered into her mouth, his fingertips tracing down her neck, an eruption of shivers breaking out in his wake. “Shh. Just once more.” He kissed her again, hot, silent, and deep. The wet glide of his tongue traced her upper lip, then licked inside her mouth. She shivered, her ni**les hard and pained against her bodice. As if he felt it, he sighed into her. “Mary. You won’t talk to me, and I can’t think of any other way to show you.”
Tears prickled behind her lids. How very much she wanted to tell him that it did not matter what he’d done. She wanted him. She would always want him. At the cost of her pride. Her movements were sluggish, her body protesting her will, but she turned aside, breaking his kiss. He did not move away. Nor did she have it in her to push him off.
They leaned into each other, her fingers still tangled in his shirt, and his lips brushing against her temple with every soft exhalation he took. Warm fingertips pressed into the sensitive skin of her neck, holding there as if to feel her pulse. His body shaking, he burrowed his nose into her hair, as though seeking comfort. “Tell me how to make amends.”
Mary swallowed, her throat moving against his touch. “You—I cannot—”
“I should have honored you from the first moment we met. I know that now.” His thumb caressed her neck, an awkward touch as though he fought against it. “Because I wanted to. So very badly. You are my world, even when I didn’t want you to be.”
His world? He’d turned her world into a dark fog. He pierced her heart and made that rusty device feel tender and soft. And sad. Unbearably so. “You have to let me go.” She did not think she could stand another moment of his regret. Not now.
His fingers tensed, biting into her skin. “You might as well ask me to cut off a limb.” His mouth touched her brow. “Honor, logic, whatever it is that good men have, is lost to me when I am with you. You’re mine, and I am yours. You kissed me and everything changed.”
Mary’s skin flushed. “You kissed me and—”
“Only because you didn’t know how.” Tenderness colored his words and heated his breath. Of course he would make mention of that. His lips grazed her jaw. “You’re an exceptionally quick study, however.”
She would not smile. Nor would she yield. Mary turned her head. “I cannot ignore what you’ve done.”
“And I cannot go back to pretending that you aren’t my everything. I don’t want to.”
She pushed at his chest to no avail: he held her fast. She released a breath and spoke into the warm hollow at his throat. “But I don’t want you.”
His broad chest gave an abrupt jerk as if she’d thrust a spike into him. Ye gods, she’d become so very proficient at lying.
“I deserved that,” he muttered, still not letting go. “But I didn’t expect it to hurt so much.”
“This is merely lust talking,” she said sharply. “Leave me be and it will die down.”
A hard, bitter laugh escaped him. “Lust, is it?” He turned his head and pressed his lips against the crest of her cheek. “Mary Chase, I want to tup you. Hard and slow and all week long. I want to so badly that my cods ache and my heart hurts. But considering that I’ve felt the same way for going on four years and have managed to survive, I think it’s bloody well safe to say this isn’t about lust.”
Just down the corridor, a door opened, and Wilde’s voice drifted out. “Yes, Minerva, I understand perfectly. Did she say where Father was?”
Slowly Jack pulled back, and it felt as though he’d taken away her one support. Cold hit her chest, and she struggled to remain standing. His eyes met hers, and the devastation in his gaze slashed like a blade. She faced him head on, refusing to soften. She was not in the wrong. He’d done this to them. As if he heard her thoughts, his expression tightened, and his golden skin faded to pale cream.
Wilde’s voice came again, so normal-sounding compared to the pain that rose between Mary and Jack. “No, I’ll handle it,” he said within his office. “Please let me know when he returns.”
Jack glanced in that direction, then back to her.
“I can’t forgive and forget, Jack,” she whispered.
Dark shadows danced over his pained features. Without another word he turned from her and moved away at the blurring speed of a supernatural in his prime.
A moment later Wilde appeared, his frown concerned. “Was that Talent?”
She could only stare at the now-empty corridor, her body frozen.
Wilde shook his head as if annoyed, then cut to the chase. “There’s been an incident.”
“The Bishop?” she managed.
“I’m not certain.” His gaze dimmed, going cold. “But I think you ought to see it.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
It took a great deal of effort for a supernatural to become foxed, but Jack was going to give it a proper go. Hunched over a table in the coffeehouse where he’d first dined with Mary, he wrapped his hands around a flagon of cheap whisky and took another great swallow. It burned going down and tasted like hell. But the pleasant numbing sensation that followed could not be argued with.
Oblivion was welcome. He’d tried to explain, and she had ignored it. Told her that she was his world. And she hadn’t turned a hair. What else was he to do? A raw curse broke from him, and a few people turned their heads. Jack gave one fellow a good glare. But his attention was diverted as a young lady glided toward him. Her effortless walk reminded him of Mary’s, though it was not as refined. No one eased through a space quite as well as Mary. The ethereal look of the woman, with her crystalline green eyes, announced her as a GIM before he even heard the telltale clicking of her heart. Jack vaguely recognized her as one of the new SOS recruits, though the style in which she wore her hair spoke of a generation five decades past. Odd, how some of the immortals held on to the fashions of their youth.
Her gaze settled over him with all the warmth of winter ice. “Master Talent.” Disdain tainted her low voice. “Getting fuddled, are we?”
“Hitting the benzine, if you want to be precise about it.” He took another fiery drink and ignored the chit. But she did not move on. With a sigh he slammed down his mug. “Mistress Tottie, I presume?”
She gave a little sniff of acknowledgement.
“Well,” he prompted, “what do you want? As you can see, I’m busy.”
“Lucien Stone requests your presence without delay.”
“Does he? I’d best be running along then.” Jack made no move to rise but picked at a nail. Fucking Stone. The day Jack answered his summons…
The GIM before him huffed. “Mistress Chase is already headed to him,” she said.
Jack lurched up from the table, and Tottie sneered as if she had expected his reaction. “They are at our tavern.” A quiver took hold of her mouth. Rage. He knew the emotion well. “I believe you know the place.”
“I do.”
Her nostrils flared, and accusation ran high in her eyes. Jack frowned. What was she about? It was then that he truly took note of her greying pallor and the tremor in her hands. Not just rage, but fear as well.
Jack stepped into her space and tried to ignore the increase in his heart rate, and the worry. “What the f**k happened?”
She lifted her chin. “Best you run along and find out, Talent.” Then she turned and flounced away without a backward glance.
It took him too long to find the damn tavern. His memory of driving to the place the last time was faulty at best, and his current agitation was high. He growled low in his throat, his vision going hazy for a moment. When he finally reached the tavern, he wrenched open the door, and the hinges screeched in protest. One step over the threshold and he halted in shock. In his building temper, he hadn’t scented death, which was saying a lot considering the overwhelming stench that slapped his senses now. Blood splattered the walls, and bodies lay strewn about like rag dolls dropped in mid-play.
Instantly Jack went on full alert. Almost as quickly he found her standing in the midst of the destruction, her glowing gaze focused on him. Despite the carnage, something deep inside him eased. She was well. And furious. Whether at him or the situation, he could not tell. Nor did he care. She was well.
They stared at each other in silence. Defiance ran through Jack’s veins. She might no longer want him, but he wasn’t going away. Oh, he’d keep his distance if that’s what she needed. But he was still her partner, whether she liked it or not.
A slight movement at her side had him tensing. Lucien Stone glared back at him.
“What happened?” Jack snapped. His breathing was too fast: the mere thought of Mary walking into this death house made him want to break things. Not much left to break.
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 f**k 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.
