“Hell.”
Precisely. And then they appeared. Two lurching, hulking men making their way down the street. Vile experiments, partially flesh, mostly metal. Red eyes gleamed in the dark as one of them advanced, a blackened thing oozing oil, with steam billowing from the open iron rib cage in which its black heart pumped. The other crawler was more gold than flesh and appeared vaguely familiar.
“Piss and shit,” Talent uttered with wide eyes.
“Be creative in your shifting, Master Talent!”
Mary leapt back as one lunged, and then let her whip fly. It snapped around the thing’s massive iron leg, and she pulled hard. Gods, but it was heavy. The crawler wobbled. A hard kick to its chest had it toppling. It crashed to the ground. But before she could free herself, it caught hold of the whip and tugged. Mary went flying into it, stopped only by a metal fist smashing into her face. White spots exploded before her eyes as her cheekbone cracked and blood poured into her mouth.
Dimly she heard a roar of fury and saw the blur of Talent launching into the golden crawler. His claws swiped, and sparks flew as he connected with raw metal. But then another hard tug dragged her roughly over the cobbles. The whip had become tangled about her wrist, and the crawler was hauling her back to him. Hands shaking from pain, she got her knife out, sliced through the whip, and fell back. A second later, fire burst hot and bright from the crawler’s mouth. Mary flung her arm up against the blistering heat, but something fell upon her, trapping her against a brick wall. Through a haze, Jack Talent’s eyes, gleaming in fury, stared down at her as flames roared behind him.
He hissed, and she saw them—thick, leathery wings of onyx arched over his head, forming a barrier between them and the crawler’s fire. Before she could say a word, the fire died, and he reared around, his fist smashing into a crawler’s jaw. It barely made an impact, and the crawler lunged forward, punching a hole through one of the strange wings that had sprouted from Talent’s back.
Talent snarled. With whippet-fast speed, he caught hold of the crawler’s arm and simply ripped it off. Metal gears and springs pinged to the ground, and fresh, hot oil splattered. It did little good. The crawlers advanced, pinning her and Talent against the wall.
Another blast of fire hit, leaving Talent barely enough time to cover Mary with his enormous wings. But it wasn’t enough to protect her from the heat and pain of fire nipping through the hole in his wing. She ground her teeth against it as she clutched Talent’s massive shoulders.
Above her he panted, sweat dripping down from his temples.
“Talent.” Blood bubbled through her lips, and agony burst through her shattered cheek. He winced as he looked over her face. With effort she kept speaking. “When I fade, rip out the hearts.” The crawlers would guard them with their lives, but if Mary was successful, they wouldn’t have a chance to. “Watch their eyes. Attack when they dim.”
Talent’s brows snapped together. “Fade?” His voice was a rasp of pain, and he appeared on the cusp of protesting.
They didn’t have time to waste. Surprising herself, she touched his cheek. The contact made them both flinch.
“Do it,” she said. Then left her body.
It was fast. And more forceful than she’d ever attempted. Mary’s spirit shot straight through Talent, and she felt the warm glow of his soul and his lurch of shock as she passed. Then she slammed straight into the golden crawler. Its body was a dense mass of misery, the soul trapped within screaming for release. Pity made her heavy. The crawler fought as she wrapped herself around it and tugged the soul free. Out of the body they went, Mary and the pitiful soul of the crawler.
Below her, Talent whirled about and tore straight into the now-empty shell of the crawler’s body. Teeth bared on a snarl, Talent yanked out the clockwork heart, and the body toppled.
As soon as the body fell, the soul in Mary’s arms eased and stretched up toward the night. Like a shooting star, it trailed across the sky then disappeared.
Bloody, buggering hell. Jack’s teeth ground as the remaining crawler leapt upon his back and its iron fingers tore through his flesh. He smashed a fist into the crawler’s gut but hit a gate of metal ribs for his efforts. Bad hit. Learn from your mistakes, mate. Nearly all of the crawler’s body was metal, a thick shell that withstood Jack’s blows. Over the grinding of gears and the whistle of steam came the ominous whoosh of fires being stoked within the thing’s lungs, and Jack braced for another blast. The massive wings on his back, the ones that had popped out as if by instinct, throbbed in pain, but they could apparently withstand fire. But if the dull ache coming from them meant anything, there was a limit to their strength. And unfortunately the crawler had him by the shoulder, leaving him no way to turn. The fire was going to come at him full on.
Shit and piss, this was going to hurt.
But then a shroud of blessed cold surrounded him, then passed through him. Chase. He’d felt her slide through him before, a second after her eyes went dim and her body fell limp. If he lived a hundred years more, he’d never grow accustomed to the sight of her simply vacating. It unnerved him to the core. But now, when the crawler’s red eyes suddenly went black and its body slackened, he might have kissed Chase in gratitude. Somehow she’d drawn the crawler’s soul out, leaving Jack free to make the kill.
He didn’t waste time. Skin ripped from his knuckles as he punched past the metal rib cage and grasped the clockwork heart. Hot oil and solid iron filled his palm before he tore the device free. The crawler didn’t even flinch as it crashed to the ground with earthshaking force.
For a long moment, Jack panted as blood dripped from various wounds. Then he turned and knelt by Chase’s prone form, close enough to feel the residual warmth of her body and bask in her cinnamon-and-spice scent. “Chase?”
Christ, but her body did not look good. A massive bruise colored her right temple and her eye was swollen shut. Blood crusted her lips. But it was her cheek that worried him. The crawler’s hit had crushed the bone, caving in the side of her face. So delicate, Mary Chase was. Illusions, for she’d heal soon enough. But the thought of someone hitting her, damaging that fragile beauty, made his breath catch.
She came back into her body with a jolt and inhaled sharply, her body stiff as starch. Her wide golden eyes shimmered with pain. And it was bad. Her body twitched, her lips pressed tight as if she held in a cry. Before he could think, he cupped her good cheek with infinite care. He’d never touched her in tenderness. And he cursed himself for doing it now. Even so, his thumb caressed the silk of her skin.
“Hold still.” With his free hand, he dipped his fingers into the open wound on his shoulder. Fingers coated in his blood, he held them up to her soft lips. Understandably, Chase drew back, not harshly, but away from him just the same, and her nostrils pinched as if discovering something foul. He held her steady. The small movement she’d taken had made her wince. Black blood bloomed along her sunken cheek.
“Can you trust me, Chase?” He said it as softly as he could.
Her eyes narrowed. It was clear that she did not want to talk. A shard of helplessness speared his chest. And he sounded gruffer than he wanted as he eased his bloody fingers past her parted lips. “Let me in.”
Her little gasp and the moist touch of her mouth lit through him. “It will heal you,” he managed. His gut tightened, and he swallowed hard. “My blood.” Shit, shit, shit, what the hell was he doing?
Shock and hesitation were clear in the gleaming depths of her eyes. But her lips parted farther, and he slipped inside. Hell’s bells, he hadn’t thought this out properly. The tentative flick of her tongue at the tip of his finger sent a lick of heat straight down to his cock. It leapt to life with a reflexive jerk, and Jack took a steadying breath.
“Suck it.”
Her eyes widened, and Jack grimaced. “Lick it—damn it.” Heat rose over his face. “I meant, the blood. Take the blood.”
Thankfully she understood and, God help him, her lips closed around his two fingers, an
d the wet, warm flat of her tongue stroked along the base of them. He barely stayed the groan that wanted to rip free or the way his body yearned to sway closer to hers. Somehow, though, his hand had cupped the back of her head, and he held her close. He didn’t have it in him to draw away. Not yet.
Her lashes lowered, as if looking at him was too much to bear. But the effects of his blood, fresh as it was from his body, were immediate. Healthy color bloomed along her skin, and the bruising around her temple and eyes faded. Her cheek, however, was still crushed, the bones knitting too slowly for his liking. Nor did he fancy the winces of pain she made with each small move.
Breathing through his nose, he pulled his fingers free of the torture that was her mouth. Chase’s plump lips opened to speak, and he laid a finger on the soft bottom curve stained crimson from his blood. “It’s not enough,” he said, and then, because he was part idiot and because he couldn’t stand seeing her like this, he eased her head up to his shoulder.
The warm puff of her breath brushed the bared skin at his shoulder. And Jack shivered. Glancing down, he saw that his wound had already knitted closed. With an impatient sound, he grew a pair of claws and tore it open once more. Pain lanced down his arm, and hot blood pumped from the wound with every hard beat of his heart, but his mind was already on the woman half in his embrace. Warm, soft, fragrant. Holding her was an alien experience with which he had no practice. He did not hold women. Nor offer them his greatest gift and secret. Yet here he was.
She stared at him, quiet and thoughtful, and looking just a bit shocked. He knew she understood what he wanted. Yet he found himself speaking, low and too urgently for his own good. “Take more, Chase.”
Mary knew she’d received a hard hit, but the pain hadn’t truly registered until the fight was over. It consumed her now. Yet the moment she’d taken his blood, relief had flooded her veins. Her cheek tingled and itched as it struggled to mend. Now his solid arm was wrapped around her back, and his hand held her head to him with surprising care. He wanted her to take his blood straight from the wound. A shocking intimacy.
Later, when the pain passed and she could think clearly, Mary could cringe at the memory. But now she stared at the rich, dark blood flowing from his shoulder and acted without thought. His body stiffened at the touch of her tongue to his flesh, and his sharp, indrawn breath had her heart speeding up.
Mary closed her eyes and ignored everything around her. Nothing but his blood. Experience told her it ought to taste metallic and flat. Instead it held the flavor of bittersweet chocolate and fortified wine. Again came the surge of well-being and the sharp tingle as her blood quickened. Her lips closed over hard muscle and warm skin. Talent grunted, his fingers gripping her hair and his heart pounding hard enough for her to hear. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and her nipples tightened. Heat flooded her limbs, swirling low in her belly as she lapped at his blood. What was she doing? She ought to be repulsed, yet the flavor of him teased her tongue, delicious, then fading away an instant later. She wanted more. Was this why they’d kept him? Taken his blood, one after the other? The thought slammed into her, cold and sharp. She froze, her lips just touching his skin.
Against her Talent shivered, his hard body tensing as his breathing increased. Agitated. Holding it back by force.
This was wrong. She should not be using him in this way. And yet he’d offered. Mary couldn’t account for it. Regardless, she eased back, her lips brushing his shoulder in a manner that was far too close to a kiss for her comfort. He resisted for a moment, as though he thought she needed more. But then he let her go.
Mary felt no pain as she sat up and lowered her gaze to her lap. No pain, but a thick, hot press of embarrassment. Silence descended between them, smothering and unnerving. Then he cleared his throat, and his deep voice swept over her. “Better?”
Yes. And no. She’d healed. But she’d been in his arms, had taken sustenance. So very intimate. And with him.
She risked a glance and found Talent stone-faced as usual. Only his eyes held any curiosity.
“I’ve never heard of blood being able to heal,” she said.
Talent blinked. “It isn’t usual.” He looked away, and the weak alleyway light cast his face in shadows. “In truth, I don’t know of another’s blood that can.”
“How long have you known?”
His massive shoulder, now healed, lifted. “Long enough.” The corner of his mouth curled a touch, a secretive sort of smile. “You’ve heard of Ian Ranulf’s salve?”
Mary had. The ointment, made by Ian’s housekeeper, had extraordinary healing properties. Daisy went on and on about how it mended serious injuries so well. They’d used it on Winston Lane after a werewolf had attacked him.
At her nod, Talent’s smile twitched. “My blood is in it. Ian thinks Tuttle makes it. But I do. Tuttle won’t say a thing because the household reveres her for the skill.”
“Why haven’t you told Ian?”
Again his shoulder lifted. “Didn’t trust him in the beginning.”
Mary remembered her first days with Lucien. She’d feared letting anyone in. Feared that her good fortune would end, simply from the act of accepting another person’s care. She didn’t know what Talent’s early life had been like, but it could not have been any better than hers.
Talent’s voice grew flat and impersonal, his eyes on the cobbles beneath them. “Later… Well, I didn’t want to explain why I’d kept it a secret.”
She knew Jack Talent hated the idea of disappointing Ian Ranulf.
“And it’s not something I want anyone to know…” Talent stiffened, his expression hardening, and Mary realized that he hadn’t meant to voice that particular thought.
“By Adam’s touch, I swear that I won’t tell a soul.” As a GIM, it was the most sacred oath she could make.
He nodded awkwardly, then his attention abruptly turned to the corpses strewn about the narrow space. Mary hadn’t forgotten about them, precisely, but was glad to study them now. On shaking limbs she stood, and was almost up when Talent hauled her the rest of the way with a firm grasp at her elbow. He let her go immediately, brusque once more as he stepped closer to a crawler.
“Looks familiar, does he not?”
She glanced down at the crawler. “It’s Mr. Pierce.”
“Mmm.” Talent peered closely. “The real one. Or what’s bloody left of him.”
Pierce’s limbs were composed of both gold and flesh. The flesh was rotting and falling away in places, giving off a horrible stench.
“I understand shifters have an exceptional rate of regeneration, Master Talent; do you not find it odd that, although he was a shifter, Mr. Pierce is in such an advanced state of decay?”
“Yes,” said Talent grimly. “Something has been done to him. A shifter’s body ought to reject the application of false limbs. We can regrow ours, after all.”
“Curious.”
Talent turned toward the other crawler. “Now this fellow I don’t know.”
His body had been mutilated. Crude metal legs, an iron-forged false fist—which was what had smashed her face—an iron clockwork heart that looked wrong when compared with the GIM’s elegant devices. His flesh was grey and decaying about the edges of his limbs.
His torso was made entirely from iron, and coals glowed dimly at the bottom of his rib cage. He’d been the one to breathe fire upon them. The memory had Mary looking Talent over again. “What happened to your… wings?” The huge wings had been leathery like a bat’s but had the graceful shape of an angel’s.
Talent gave a small start. “Went away.” He attempted a lighthearted look but it didn’t quite work. Bemusement flickered in his eyes, as if he hadn’t expected wings to sprout from his back either.
“The only beings I know of with wings,” Mary said, “are primus demons and fallens.”
Primus were said to be the first demons created, born from the collective thoughts of mankind. Fallens were angels who had chosen to live among men, and thus
were cast out of heaven. They were rare as a diamond in the sand; no one in recent memory had seen a fallen in the flesh.
Talent’s green eyes looked straight at her then, and a wry smile tugged at his mouth. “Where do you think a shifter comes from, Mistress Chase?”
He had her there. Onus, the offspring of primus and human beings, included weaker demons and shifters. Most onus were many times removed from their primus forefathers. Mary pursed her lips. And his grin grew. “Your father must have been an exceptionally strong onus.”
The light in his eyes dimmed. “My father, whoever he was, was pure primus.”
At her shocked look, he shook his head slightly. “The ignorance, really…” Talent leaned slightly into her space. “The reason there are so few shifters in the world is that we are the direct get of a primus.”
Primus themselves being rare and not inclined to mingle with others.
“You… you don’t know who your natural father is?”
His jaw hardened. “Nor do I want to. Now”—he bent down, and with impressive strength hauled one crawler over his shoulder before grabbing hold of the other—“let’s stop flapping chaps and get these back to headquarters. Grab the hearts, will you.”
Hefting both unwieldy crawlers like sacks of grain, Talent strolled out of the alleyway, leaving Mary to follow.
Chapter Eight
The devil often hid in plain sight. No one knew this better than Jack. After he dropped the shadow crawlers’ bodies off at headquarters the next morning, he headed out. Time was short—Chase would be meeting him soon—but he could not put off this particular task. Nor did he want to.
Blood boiling and teeth set, he took the stairs leading up to the honorable Mr. William Cavendish’s Belgravia town house two at a time. The black lacquered door was little impediment to his rage. One swift kick and it flew open, the sound of splintering wood and the clanging brass knocker giving him a short satisfaction.
A footman yelped, jumping to attention after his delayed shock. “Hold! Stop—”
Shadowdance: The Darkest London Series: Book 4 Page 8