Sweat bloomed over his skin as sharp pricks of sensation crawled down his neck. The memory of another door, the dark chasm of a hall at his back, threatened. His childish voice haunted him. “Mama, please.” Rough hands grasped his upper arms, yanking him back. And the door receding as they tugged him away. Don’t you be bothering the mistress anymore, boy.
Jack blinked, forcing his focus on Mary’s door. “Mary.” His fist slammed into the door, shaking it now. “Let me in. I made hash of it this morning. I should have explained.” He could smell her. He smashed his fist against the thick iron.
The empty hall pressed in upon him, his blows on the door rattling and mocking. “I know you’re there. I know…” Jack’s chest heaved as he braced his forearms on the door. “I can hear you.” Her heart ticked and whirred. So loudly it might have been right on the other side. “I can feel you, Mary.” His throat worked painfully, his mouth too dry. “I’ve always felt you…” His breath came out in a hard pant, his forehead pressing into the hard surface. “I always have. From the first.”
Still nothing. Only her scent and the feel of her vibrating around his soul. He traced a scar in the door as he spoke past the tightness in his throat. “I was a bastard. Worse than that. A despicable idiot. An ass.” He ground his forehead into the door until it hurt. “Whatever you want to call me, I agree.” His hands flattened on the cool lacquer. “I know I ought to slink away like the dog that I am. But I can’t. I… shit.” He ground his teeth and closed his eyes. It ought to be easy, saying the truth. It ought to be a balm to his soul. It wasn’t. It hurt like hell. “I need you. I don’t remotely deserve you but…”
He couldn’t say any more. No matter how much he wanted to, his mouth didn’t seem to obey. Wincing, he clenched his fists and tried again. “Mary. Please. Let me in. Let me protect you. Or provide some comfort. I know you are hurting. I can feel that too.”
She did not come. Something black, and hot, and sick welled within him. He tasted blood. His breath seared his throat. “Goddamn it! Open the bloody door, Mary!” His fists slammed into it. Again and again. The blows echoed around him. “I am not leaving, do you hear? I’m not going!”
Two dents formed beneath his fists, and the thick iron creaked ominously. But still she did not come. Jack shoved off and paced, raking his fingers against his skull. His vision blurred, and on a curse, he slumped against the wall. “I don’t know what to do to make it better,” he said to no one in particular. God knew Mary didn’t seem to be listening. “I don’t know what to do, all right?” It was a shout now, directed to the implacable door. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he looked up at the sooty hall lamp. “I’ve never known. I tried to stay away and make you hate me. Because it seemed better.” A short, bitter laugh left him. “It’s not. God, it’s not.”
He blinked down at his battered knuckles. “It’s tearing me apart,” he said quietly. “Every day, for four years, I’ve felt like half a man. Small. Unfinished.” He sighed. “No, that’s not right.” His fingers curled, digging into his knees. “The night I left you on those wet cobbles, I lost my soul. I left it with you, tarnished thing that it is.” His head was unbearably heavy, and he rested it against his forearms, drawing himself up tight. “Every time I looked at you, I knew it. That I had become what they accused me of being. Soulless.”
He ought to go. She wasn’t going to come out. Yet he had no place to go. He knew that now. There was no longer any place to hide from himself. Or the knowledge that she was his happiness, his purpose. She had cracked him open, rent him in two. And the exposure was an agony he could not live with.
“I don’t know what to do.” He wasn’t sure if he actually spoke the words that clattered about in his head. His blood and uneven breathing roared in his ears, drowning everything else out. He didn’t know how long he sat there, but a sense of emptiness eventually stole upon him, and he realized that she was no longer in her flat. She’d slipped out some other way, leaving him behind.
The tiny ticking of Director Wilde’s pocket watch filled the silence. Mary sat with her back so straight she feared it might crack and stared at the rough surface of the meeting room wall. Someone, at some point in time, had covered the hewn stone with a thick layer of pale yellow paint. Combined with the lumpy texture of the wall, it called to mind bile.
Her hands rested, unnaturally heavy upon the folds of her drab wool skirt. She did not shake. She did not feel. It was better that way.
The chair beneath Wilde’s frame creaked as he sat up. “Where the devil is Master Talent?” he burst out.
She swallowed once. “I do not know.” Nor did she want to. The idea of facing him, hearing his voice, had her fingers going cold and her chest constricting. She was a coward, slipping out of her back exit, leaving Jack behind. His pain, so raw and exposed, had nearly destroyed her. But she hadn’t been able to face him. He’d opened up an old wound, and his secrets had torn into ones that she’d kept too. Ones she did not want to speak.
“He’s twenty minutes late,” Wilde groused before pinning a hard stare on her. “Have you any progress to report, Mistress Chase?”
“No.” Her pulse thrummed an insistent tell him, tell him, tell him against her throat. And what would she even say? Jack Talent is the Bishop. He’s a killer, and a liar, and it is all I can do not to rise from this chair and go to him.
Cold sweat trickled down her spine as Wilde’s eyes bored into her and his mouth turned down at the corners. He broke their stare off with a harrumph. “You are a fount of information this morning, Mistress Chase.”
A surge of irritation and discomfort had her back trembling, but she didn’t cower.
Wilde’s chair creaked as he leaned forward. “This case is charging downhill. I’ve been informed that Lord Darby has gone missing, which means yet another shifter may be dead.”
“I—”
“The bodies of the regulators assigned to watch over him were found in the mews behind his home,” he went on in heated fervor. “Mistress Evernight is still missing. The Archbishop of bloody Canterbury has sent a complaint to the Queen, stating that Jack Talent attacked him.” At this he paused to expel a hard breath. “And I have to wonder… what the bloody hell is going on?”
Before Mary had the chance to reply, the door opened. Her entire body lurched within her skin. But it was merely Director James, who poked her head in and took a look around. The woman’s thin face grew pinched, and her words came out clipped and cold. “A word, if you please, Wilde.”
“I am conducting a meeting, James.”
“I realize, and if it weren’t urgent, I would not have interrupted.” Her dark brows rose as if to add, “now would I?”
Wilde sighed. “My apologies.” He glanced at Mary. “Give us a moment, Mistress Chase.”
“Of course.” On wooden limbs she rose and passed Director James, aware of the woman’s cool eyes upon her.
“And if Master Talent decides to grace us with his presence,” called Wilde as she left, “do let us know.”
It would be the very first thing on her mind, Mary thought bitterly. Once out in the dim stone corridor, she paused and released a sigh. “Bloody hell.”
The end of the hall opened to the common rooms. The chatter of her coworkers echoed along the walls, a happy sound that somehow managed to depress her. Not wanting to meet another person, she moved toward the small alcove just ahead, where Wilde liked to make delinquent regulators wait before he served punishment.
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 tilte
d 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 cock 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 nipples 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 fuck 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.
Shadowdance: The Darkest London Series: Book 4 Page 24