Shadowdance: The Darkest London Series: Book 4

by Kristen Callihan

  She would not forgive him if she really knew what he and his friends had done.

  He could not live with her. He could not live without her. Jack knew he was being selfish, but there it was. And so he drove the wedge in deeper, reminding her of all the reasons she should go on seeing him as just a man. One she’d be better off disliking.

  He turned away from her, an abrupt cut she’d feel. When he spoke, his voice was decidedly cool. He would have congratulated himself for it, save that self-loathing got in the way. “It was foolish to come here. I know you like to think of yourself as an investigator, Chase. But you really have no notion of what you are doing.”

  He could almost feel the joy gust out of her, deflating like the last gasp of an aeronautical balloon.

  “My, but you like to flog the dead horse, Talent.” Her voice was once more that cold, crisp sliver of ice that had defined their arguments of old.

  Jack let the frost of her ire numb him further. “And you are a dog with a bone.”

  “What is it about this meeting that has you so out of sorts?”

  “Out of sorts,” he muttered. Now that he’d picked a fight with Chase, his fear returned tenfold. “I merely protest the waste of time.”

  Jack thrust his fists deep within the wells of his pockets. The shaking within him grew, his heart thrumming against his throat. He reminded himself that he’d gained a foot and a half of height and nearly five stone of weight since that black day. He’d gone from ignorant boy to bitter man. Perhaps he wouldn’t be recognized.

  Mary watched Talent’s shoulders hunch and the wall he erected against the world come back up. Her mind had gone foggy. Die? For her. Was there anyone she’d be willing to die for? When she’d fought so hard for the right to live?

  Damn him.

  No matter where she looked, where she went, Jack Talent was lurking in the shadows of her mind. There was something about him that made her want to learn more, pry open his protective casing and see what made him tick. Mary feared she would never understand him. He set her world upside down and inside out. And he made her ashamed. She’d been looking for signs of his guilt, wanting to find them at some points. The man who would die for her.

  Mary turned from the sight of him and glanced at the ornate porcelain wall clock, depicting Adam’s downfall in the Garden of Eden. The minute hand pointed between Eve’s pale breast and the golden apple resting on her outstretched palm. “Nearly a quarter hour has passed,” she murmured, annoyed at waiting. Annoyed at Talent.

  “They’ll keep us waiting for twenty minutes at the least.” Tension coiled about Talent like a snake, but his tone was subdued, almost resigned now on the heels of his former snappishness.

  “How do you know?” Mary did not want to stay in this place any longer than necessary. Gilt furnishings and silk-lined walls spoke of luxury. The rough-hewn floorboards beneath the priceless Holbein carpet spoke of humility. But past all the declaratives so carefully orchestrated throughout the room, an air of quiet menace lurked. Or perhaps she was simply being fanciful.

  Talent glanced at her, his features stark. “Standard procedure.” His lip curled in an ugly smile. “My guess would be that it forces one to think on their sins.”

  As soon as the words had left his lips the dark humor in his expression deflated, and he abruptly turned to inspect the drawn curtains. “No doubt we are to fall upon our knees and beg for forgiveness the moment he enters.”

  “I’ve yet to encounter a soul capable of casting that first stone,” she said smartly.

  He gave a snort of dry amusement, so soft she almost missed it. His fluctuating mood disturbed Mary. Strangely, she felt as though she needed to remain here for Talent’s sake, as if he needed that small protection.

  They stood apart, each lost in thoughts as time dragged along with a loud tick, tick, tick that had Mary’s neck tensing further and further.

  “How is it that you know the standard procedure for the palace?” she blurted out when she could take no more.

  Talent pivoted on one heel. His thick brows slowly lifted, as if he found her slightly daft. Or perhaps he merely searched for a reasonable response when there was none. She wouldn’t get to know, for his hand came up in the age-old gesture for silence, though she hadn’t said a word.

  “He’s coming.” Talent’s expression went utterly devoid of emotion.

  A moment later she heard the footsteps. And Talent grew even more withdrawn, his skin the color of death. The massive double doors opened, and Mr. Antony Goring, Archbishop of Canterbury, walked in.

  Mary wasn’t certain what she’d expected, but the man who entered was not it. Tall and lean, he walked with command. A thick shock of snow-white hair swept back from a high brow. There was something about his large, square jaw and strong blunt nose, and when he set his eyes on her, that sense of having seen him before grew. While his hair was white, his brows remained brown and framed dark eyes that snapped with cunning intelligence.

  It was only when he drew near and took her hand did she realize that his eyes were not brown but a deep forest green, surrounded by thick lashes. “Oh,” she exclaimed, struck by their singular hue.

  He smiled kindly. “That is not the usual response I receive when meeting guests, but quite lovely all the same.”

  Mary flushed to her toes. She hadn’t meant to say a thing. But those eyes struck a chord within her, and her instincts clamored for her to think clearly and stop fiddling about with niceties.

  The archbishop straightened, a smile still hovering about his lips. “Ah, but it is far too dark in this room, is it not?” He reached out to a small lamp resting upon a side table. With a click, bright white light illuminated the space around them. The archbishop beamed. “An incandescent lamp. Isn’t it glorious? I do so love modern advancements. It is my mission to see the whole of the palace wired for electricity within the year.”

  A surprising and extravagant expense to say the least. But Mary merely murmured her agreement and let him guide her to a seat. She glanced at Talent, who stood hovering in the shadows, his face white and his teeth bared. The archbishop noticed her attention straying and followed it.

  The archbishop’s benign expression crashed, revealing one of disgusted horror. Another second and it shifted to icy cold disdain. It happened within a blink of the eye, yet Mary took it all in and noted a similar change overcome Talent. Only his expression went from careful blankness to utter rage.

  His green eyes glowed with it, the square hinge of his jaw bulging as if he ground his teeth together.

  A terrible tension thickened the air as the two men glared at each other. Talent was bigger, pure brawn, and topped the other man by five inches, but facing off, she could see the similarities in their features, cut from the same model, only Talent’s was harder, his life experience having given him a rough edge.

  “You dare return here.” The archbishop’s tone was pure frost.

  Talent cocked his head and regarded him. It was almost indolent the way he took his time, but there was no mistaking the way he held his body in tight readiness. “I did not think you’d recognize me.”

  The archbishop’s lip curled. “You’ve the look of her.” The coldness in his eyes grew frigid. “Her male counterpart. A grotesque version of all that was good and true.”

  Talent took a hard step in his direction before halting. His fists curled, the corner of one eye twitching. “You ought to know depravity when you see it.” His voice was almost controlled, almost normal. “Having practiced it before.”

  “Enough!” The archbishop smacked an open palm against his thigh. “Get out, spawn. Go back to the darkness from which you came.”

  “Stop.” Mary could hear no more. Both men flinched as though they’d forgotten she was there. She tried for a reasonable tone. “Surely we can all calm—”

  “Miss,” interrupted the archbishop, “I am going to assume you know not with what you’ve come in contact. However, I implore you to come with me. For your safety
.”

  “Mr. Talent is not a thing,” she said incredulously.

  A growl rumbled in Talent’s chest at that moment. Mary stepped closer to him, but kept her gaze upon the archbishop, who looked at her with false patience. “Your Grace, I do not understand what lies between you and my partner, but surely—”

  “What lies between His Grace and me,” Talent cut in sharply, “is murder.”

  The archbishop went livid red. “Murder is the killing of a human. Otherwise it is simply a necessary extermination.”

  Talent sprang with a roar, tackling the elder man and crashing to the floor with him.

  “Talent!” She hurried over, her heavy, voluminous skirts hampering her progress. Any moment now guards would come. His life would be ruined.

  But Talent was past hearing. He hauled the archbishop up, and the man’s head bobbled, even as fervent prayers rattled from his pale lips. “ ‘He cast upon them the fierceness of his anger, wrath, and indignation, and trouble, by sending evil angels among them.’ ”

  “Prayer will not help you,” Talent shouted over him.

  “ ‘He made a way to his anger; he spared not their soul from death, but gave their life over to the pestilence.’ ”

  Talent bared his teeth, his fists curling into the man’s cassock. “You were supposed to help. You were supposed to save us all. You destroyed my family—” His voice broke.

  “No, you did. With your unnaturalness.” Spittle flew as the archbishop snarled up at him. “You killed your mother. Your father—”

  “Why stop there?” Talent snapped. “Perhaps you’d like to see how I exterminate?”

  Long claws began to grow from his fingertips, his teeth dropping to fangs. Mary did not know what he’d become, nor did she care. She rushed headlong to him. “Talent. Stop this.” He did not take notice of her.

  Neither did the archbishop, who glared up at Talent, defiant, but so very fragile and human when compared to Talent’s raw strength. “Do your worst. My soul is pure.”

  A bark of cold laughter rang out, and Talent’s claws grew. A shimmer wavered over his form, his control breaking into a shift. “We shall see.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Mary moved as through a fog. She was barely aware of leaving that dark, dreadful room. Talent had been ready to slice into the archbishop. It was only when she’d cupped his cheek that he’d stopped, springing backward at the contact, his eyes wild upon her and without a hint of recognition. His broad chest had heaved on a fast pant. And then his gaze had cleared, and he’d given a vicious curse and fled.

  Guards came, a commotion broke out around her, shouts and accusations abounded. She moved through them, and no one stopped her. As she left, the battered archbishop had called for silence, telling his staff to go about as they had been. Odd. But she did not care what prompted his incongruous actions. Her mind was on Jack Talent.

  Mary’s ears buzzed, and her bones hummed. One thought consumed her: he’d die for her.

  Jack Talent’s fierce declaration clamored about in Mary’s head like the ringing of bells as she rushed from the palace, still hampered by her damned skirts and too-tight corset. A fierce need welled up within her breast. To touch him, to wrap her arms about his big, strong body and give it shelter, to tell him that he too had promise; he just didn’t see it.

  She found him by the high brick wall that surrounded the palace. He faced away from her, leaning against the wall, forearms braced upon it as if to hold himself up. The broad expanse of his back heaved with each quick breath he took. She hurried forward just as he struck the wall, bits of red brick flying up from the force of his fist.

  “Talent!”

  He did not heed but kept punishing the wall, pounding brick into fine red dust. Blood sprayed from his knuckles. Mary grabbed his arm, her touch halting him so quickly that she swung forward into him.

  Talent bared his teeth, and small fangs gleamed, his eyes wild. Sweat pebbled the pale skin along his temples, and his bloodied hands shook. “Do not!”

  He stalked away, only to turn about and stride the other way. A man caged within his mind. “Leave me,” he ground out. “I cannot…”

  She took a step closer to him. He was a wild thing now, his fingers opening and closing into fists, the whites of his eyes growing redder. “Talent.”

  “Just go!”

  “No.”

  He stopped his pacing and simply stared as though he couldn’t quite understand her resistance. His stillness was an illusion, for he vibrated, his nostrils flaring as he breathed in hard pants. Mary edged closer and lowered her voice. “Talk to me.”

  He shook his head before running his hand through his hair to clutch the short ends and hold them tight, his muscles bunching and his body trembling.

  She licked her dry lips. “Like it or not, I am your partner. I will not leave you. Not like this.” She feared he’d be well and truly lost if she did. Mary knew that level of rage and fear. It took hold of a soul and shook it to its core. It sucked a person down into nightmares and blackness.

  He cursed, rocking a bit where he stood, and turned away from her as if he couldn’t bear the sight of her. Slowly, as if approaching a cornered and injured animal, she eased forward. He stiffened at her approach, his head shaking back in forth in negation. Mary ignored it. “Take my hand.” She held it out, waiting.

  He did not answer. And she came closer, enough to scent his sweat and fear. Enough to see the clenching of his jaw and the blood oozing over his knuckles.

  “Jack,” she whispered.

  The sound of his name appeared to stir him, but still he would not move.

  “Come with me.” Knowing patience was needed, she simply stood close to him, her hand out and open. Moving as if half-frozen, Talent’s hand descended from where it had been pulling at his hair. The touch of his hand against hers was such a relief that she almost closed her eyes in thanks. Careful of his wounds, she closed her fingers over his. Immediately he responded, clasping their hands together in a comfortable hold.

  Quietly she led him out of the courtyard and then into the waiting carriage. He did not try to pull away as they moved down the streets, nor did he speak. They simply sat side by side, linked by their hands.

  The coach rocked in time with Jack’s heaving innards. He stared at the filth littered upon the hack’s floor. A button lay there, cracked on one edge. His skin pricked with cold sweat, but at his side was warmth. Mary. She held on to him. She hadn’t left, damn her. As much as he wanted to let her go, jump from the coach, and run away until he could catch a normal breath, he held on to her too.

  Thankfully, she did not speak as they made their way to God knew where. But the questions would be coming. She always wanted to know more. He couldn’t give her what she wanted. Hell, he refused to think about it a second longer. Memories were acid to his insides.

  Black rage hovered at the edges of his sight. Hell’s bells, just seeing that bastard. He flinched. His soul screamed for justice. Go back. Finish him. A soft touch stayed his jerking movements, her thumb brushing over his split knuckles. Jack took a shallow breath. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should not have gone today, and bollocks to his pride.

  The coach rolled to a stop, and Mary descended before he could make himself move to assist her. They were at the end of a small, crooked lane. An older pocket of London, so very dark, with squat wooden houses leaning against each other for support. Hard-packed dirt competed with broken cobbles, and in grimy windows, shadows moved.

  Despite the gloom, Mary’s step was lively. She tugged him along, and he realized that she once again had caught up his hand in hers. The embrace felt good, as if he should settle in and stay there.

  Mary led them to an ancient, Tudor-style house, its windows comprised of dark bottle glass and heavy lead lattices. The battered wood-and-iron door swung open with ease. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dimness, the heady scent of roasting meat making his mouth water even as the smoky interior had his eyes stinging.
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  It was a tavern, though the patrons appeared to be more interested in eating than drinking. Several tables were filled, men and, surprisingly, women hunched over their meals while conversing in low tones. Heavy green bottles of wine sat on many a table, though a barmaid wove through the crowd, distributing pints of ale as she went. At the far end of the room, a large fire roared in the massive stone hearth. An older woman worked at a grill set up over the fire, and the hiss of sizzling meat grew higher as she flipped thick steaks. Jack swallowed hard at the scent it gave off. Even soul-sick, he yearned for a bite.

  A few nodded to Mary in greeting as she towed Jack along to a dark corner table. Deftly she removed her cloak and hat, hanging them upon a hook. His flesh jumped as she smoothed her hands over his chest and eased his coat away. Her touch was fleeting, perfunctory, and still his heart banged against his ribs and his body grew greedy for more, even as she turned to hang his coat, even as she guided him into a chair and then took her own.

  “What is this place?” His throat was raw, his words coming out rough yet weak. He did not like to be around others. It made him twitchy. But the feel of the place soothed. The murmur of voices—content and constant—and the scent of meat in the air settled him in small ways.

  A lamp illuminated the table and bathed Mary’s features with golden light. “Safe.” She glanced around, and he did too. There was something about the patrons. They all appeared fairly young, healthy, attractive. He sat up straighter, becoming aware of the soft whirring sound that filled the room. Hearts. Many clockwork hearts. GIM.

  Jack gave a small start of surprise. GIM did not, to his knowledge, congregate en masse. Like shifters, they were solitary creatures. And as objects of suspicion, they tended to keep to the shadows of the underworld. Jack slid his gaze away as a few men glared at him. He wouldn’t cause trouble for Mary. Not here.

  Not when she was looking at him with expectation. Her eyes gleamed like polished topaz. “Our refuge.” She signaled to the barmaid. “And home to some of the best food in the city.” She grinned, and his breath caught. “Likely because the cook is French.”