Mary Chase, Jack discovered, was ticklish. And they’d said no more for quite some time.
Now, resting on one elbow, Mary read the note. Sunlight shone in her hair, picking up glints of gold, bronze, and amber. “I do not like it,” she said when she’d finished.
“Nor I,” he said. “But I think I ought to go.”
“I am going to follow,” she said.
Jack smiled and leaned forward to kiss her soft lips. Happiness was a strange sensation. It filled him up until his body was tender yet strong. Fancy that. God, he’d had it so very wrong when he accused Ian of being weak with love. At this moment he felt infinite and invincible. And he felt afraid. For the world would not go away simply because they wanted it to. His hand smoothed down the satin dip of her waist before holding fast. “I did not doubt that for a moment.”
And so they went, Mary’s spirit drifting above him like a guardian angel. When they reached St. Paul’s, she disappeared, taking another route up so that he might arrive utterly alone. But he knew she’d be close. And it was a comfort he had not expected.
Trouble, Mary thought as she followed Jack up to the Golden Gallery, a viewing platform at the top of St. Paul’s dome. Though she was currently without a body, apprehension weighed her spirit down. The city sprawled out beneath her. It reminded her of a flea circus with tiny little figures darting to and fro, miniature wagons and carriages rolling here and there. There were times when Mary could watch the city for hours. Not think, not feel, just watch the world move on. Today was not one of those days.
The wind whistled, and beside her Jack hunched in his coat as he glanced about.
The air stirred again and became heavy with a presence. Whatever it was had power. Immense power.
On a snarl Jack spun around and faced whatever had arrived. Mary hovered above him, not able to help, which annoyed her greatly. More so when the strange presence showed himself.
“Who the bloody hell are you?” Jack demanded.
The man who stood before them was of a similar height and build to Jack, his features stamped with the strong lines of a Roman coin. But that was where all trace of humanity ended. His skin was silver-white, translucent yet not, as if he were made of cut crystal. Even his hair, which curled about his temples, was brilliant silver. Most unnerving of all were the shimmering white wings that made two graceful arcs from behind his broad shoulders. The man let them look their fill, then smiled. A genuine gesture that seemed almost fond. “Master Talent.” His crystalline gaze shot to Mary. “Mistress Chase.” It was a voice so rich in timber that it shivered with power. “I am Augustus.”
“Doesn’t quite help me out, mate,” Jack snapped, his fists clenching. Mary knew him well enough now to understand that his protective instincts had been roused the moment Augustus spotted her.
However, Augustus’s friendly smile grew. His form shimmered, and he became a dark-haired, dark-eyed man who might have been an Italian. “In one life,” the man went on, “I was known as Marcus Augustus, Roman soldier and reprobate.” He shrugged, looking almost sheepish. “I lost all memory of myself for a while back then. However, I believe you’d best know me as Mr. Augustus Maximus.” That strange, almost beguiling smile returned. “After all, we are both members of the same society.”
“I don’t know any regulator by that name,” Jack said with a scowl.
“No, I don’t suppose you would, as I am not a regulator.” He took a small step forward. “My dear Poppy Lane calls me Father.”
Not Poppy’s father, but Father.
Jack gave a start. “You’re Father?” The enigmatic founder and head of the SOS.
He made a neat bow. “The very one.”
“Where have you been?”
A good question. According to Poppy, he disappeared for long stretches at a time.
“Here and There,” Father said. “There are three main planes of existence for my kind. Here, There, and Nowhere, which is the place your kind calls Hell. I might further explain it to you one day, but for now I’d rather discuss you.”
“And why would you do that?” Jack asked.
“Because we are blood.”
At this Jack straightened. And Mary eased closer. Something deep within said to trust this man. But that wouldn’t stop her from keeping up her guard.
“All angels are what you might consider blood relatives. My true name is Ramiel. Though I’d rather you call me Augustus. It feels fitting somehow when I am Here,” he mused.
Jack gave Mary a quick glance. “A Watcher,” he said. “One of the fallen angels.”
“We did not fall,” said Augustus. “We arrived. To be with man.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “A rather good choice, if you ask me. But it is true that all of the so-called fallen are cursed in one manner or another.”
Though Mary was not in her flesh, a shiver seemed to run through her spirit. She’d thought angels would be something less than human, something terrifying and menacing. Wrath of God and all that. But this man, he was more human than any supernatural Mary had ever come across. Every nuance of emotion expressed itself on his face and shone brightly in his now-dark eyes.
“I know your sire,” he said to Jack in a voice laced with gentleness.
Jack tensed, and Mary knew he loathed to show any hint that he cared. But he did. The child in him would. Even if the man had accepted his past. “I’ve heard that claim before. Forgive me if I do not jump to plead for the answer.”
Augustus shook his head slightly. “From Amaros, the cursed one. He is troubled.”
“An understatement.”
Augustus leaned against the iron balustrade. “For a fallen, it is quite easy to discern who your father is. For there is only one angel who has the gift of true healing. Raphael.”
Jack laughed then, an uncomfortable and incredulous sound. “Raphael? He’s a bloody archangel, not a fallen.”
“Debatable,” said Augustus with a small smile. “Regardless, there are only two beings in existence that possess healing blood. Raphael. And you.”
Jack’s lids lowered, his lashes hiding his eyes. But his shoulders tensed, and Mary rested her hand there. He would only feel the chill of her spirit, but even so he leaned closer as if he needed that contact. “What is he like?” Jack asked softly.
“He is impetuous. Full of life. Creating you was a mistake on Raphael’s part.” Augustus noticed Jack’s scowl and smiled. “A mistake in that he lay with Angela Talent, a woman who had no notion of what he was. He never took into account how fragile her mind might be.”
Augustus looked off, the fine lines around his eyes deepening. “We’ve been around longer than you can imagine. Living so long has not deadened us, but made us susceptible to emotions. Oftentimes we react without thinking things through.” He glanced back, his eyes wry and amused. “In truth, we do not like to think about things too deeply. Not any longer. Nor do we pay attention to this world as we ought.
“At any rate,” Augustus continued, “Raphael is no longer Here—”
“But There?”
“Yes,” Augustus said with a broad smile. “We all have our crosses to bear. Raphael’s is that he can no longer travel Here. My curse is that I can only be Here for a short period of time.” A shadow of sorrow darkened his eyes. “With each passing year, that period of grace grows smaller.”
“And why are you using your moment Here to speak with me?”
“In an indirect way, I am the one who has caused the problem.”
“Forgive me,” Jack said with a politeness he clearly did not feel, “but you’re not explaining yourself very well.”
Mary wanted to be annoyed as well, but the goodwill flowing off the angel could not be denied. She liked him. Instinctively.
“Poppy often tells me the same,” Augustus murmured. “It is simply this. Two years ago, Winston Lane was attacked by Death. I intervened and brought him to Benjamin Archer.” A strange look of pride lit the angel’s features for a moment, then was gone.
Augustus’s mouth turned down. “While I do not regret saving Winston Lane’s life, I regret the unforeseen effects of that action. The least I can do is give you knowledge to defend yourself. When Amaros took your blood, he thought himself cured. Unfortunately, it was a temporary stay of execution. He needs a constant diet of your blood to remain as he is. As your healing blood is a gift, you must freely give it to him for it to have full potency.”
Deep within Mary’s soul, something stilled and then went on alert. She could see the end, a dark shadow on the horizon, and it was she who stood between Jack and that chasm.
Yes. You understand.
Augustus’s voice was clear in her mind. She glanced back at him, but he gave no indication that he’d spoken.
“He won’t get any more from me,” Jack said flatly. “Let him die.”
“Do you honestly believe that once he realizes your blood did not permanently cure him that he will not come after you?” Augustus shook his head sadly. “While his mind might be muddled by madness, he is not without intelligence. Expect him to return soon. And his rage will be great.”
“And so will mine,” Jack retorted.
Augustus’s gentle expression turned solemn. “I know what you are planning, Jack. And it is not the answer to your troubles.”
But you have the answer, do you not, Mistress Chase? A flicker of his gaze toward her.
Her spirit stretched wide, then collapsed tight. Did she? Her mind raced. No answers came.
Wholly ignorant of their exchange, Jack stood straighter, his hands at the ready. “What am I planning, then?”
If the threat in his voice bothered Augustus, it didn’t show. “That you will kill him.” He smiled slightly. “It is what I would do to anyone who threatened my beloved.”
“A good guess.” Jack rolled his tight shoulders. “And the right one.”
“It will not work.” Augustus sighed, and the air upon the platform grew warm and tinged with the scent of a summer storm. Augustus’s expression grew grim. “If I could, I’d kill Amaros myself. But a fallen is forbidden to kill his kind.”
Mary drifted closer to Augustus. A queer sort of anticipation surged through her being. As if the answer was just bumping along the edges of her mind.
“Which is why Amaros is now cursed,” Augustus said. “Long ago, in a fit of rage, he killed another fallen and has been rotting away ever since.”
Jack frowned. “I am half fallen. Can I kill him? Or will I too be cursed?”
Dark, ancient eyes held his. “You will be cursed just as he is. To destroy his soul is to destroy your own. That is our way.”
“Hell.” Jack pinched the bridge of his nose.
Can I kill him in Jack’s stead? Mary asked Augustus.
“Miss Chase has asked me if she could destroy Amaros in your stead.”
Jack lurched up from where he’d been leaning. “Absolutely not.” He glared at Mary as she glared back in defiance.
“No other immortal has ever killed a fallen,” Augustus said. “They are too physically strong to destroy. Ironically, one needs the strength of a fallen, or Nephil, to do the deed.”
The weight of Augustus’s words sank like a stone.
Then why tell me that I have the answer?
Sometimes the answer is not in the physical, but in the spirit.
Beside her Jack suddenly flinched as if a realization had come fast upon him. “But if Amaros is already cursed, then…”
“He can destroy you,” Augustus finished. “Without doing himself further damage.”
His curse is soul-deep. You understand the soul, do you not, Miss Chase?
And suddenly Mary did. She knew precisely what needed to be done. It was risky. And Jack would never agree to it.
Mary looked at Augustus. This is why you haven’t spoken of this aloud, isn’t it?
Would you rather I had? Augustus’s response was wry, yet tinged with sadness. Because he too knew the risks. She could feel his concern for her like a warm hand upon her shoulder.
“Then I shall offer him free use of my blood,” Jack said.
His freedom.
“I see no other recourse,” Augustus answered sedately.
No! It was a shout in Mary’s mind. Never. She would not let Jack become Amaros’s blood whore. She would not see him go back to that dark place of hell and despair. Offering himself to the being who’d held and tortured him.
As if hearing her very thoughts, Augustus glanced at Mary. Then you know what must be done.
Jack ran a tired hand over his face and turned away to stare out over the city. “Then I shall do what I must.”
To protect those he loved, Jack would do anything. And so would Mary.
“Two squared is four. Three squared is nine. Four squared is sixteen.” Holly hugged herself tight, rocking slightly as she continued to count. The words burned against her throat. “Five squared is five-and-twenty…” Numbers. Sensible, reliable numbers. They would not harm her.
Her accommodations had changed. No more laboratory. Only the icy, dank hole of her cell. There were others here, rows of black cells that held the damned. She could not see them, but she could hear them. Moans, curses, weeping.
She could almost bear the sounds of their misery. But not those of the demon who occupied the cell with her.
A violent wave of nausea ran through her when she glanced to his side of the space. Lying upon a hard pallet and still strapped down by chains of gold, he shook along the whole of his lean body as he stared blankly up at the ceiling. His teeth were clenched and bared, and white fangs cut into his bottom lip until blood rolled along his chin and pooled at his neck. Holly doubted that he was aware. He simply shook as if nothing would ever again warm him.
His muscled torso shone pale, nearly luminous in the dimness, an uncomfortable contrast to the purple bruises mottling his chest and the ugly, ragged scar that ran down his sternum. Thick, awkward stitches held his skin closed, puckering his once-smooth flesh and sticking up like thorns in a briar patch.
The memory of witnessing his heart being ripped from his chest to be replaced with a clockwork one would haunt Holly for the rest of her days. She couldn’t stand to look at him now. Nor could she stand to look away. If she looked away he might die. Alone. She couldn’t allow that. Not when it was her invention clicking away in his chest.
Holly pressed her knees harder into her breast and let the numbers flow through her mind. Six squared is six-and-thirty. Seven squared is nine-and-forty.
A long, agonized groan tore from her cellmate’s lips, and his body bowed off of the pallet, restrained from falling by the chain across his shoulders and thighs. As if hit, he slammed back down and began to thrash and groan.
A childish urge to cover her ears had her arms twitching. But she crawled to his side.
“It’s…” She extended a hand to touch him, then stopped when he bucked again. “It’s all right.” Feeble words. He didn’t hear them anyway. Unfocused eyes stared wide. His mouth hung open as if locked in a scream, but no sound came. Sweat rolled down his temples and pebbled on his torso.
Would he die? Was his body rejecting the heart? She could not tell. But something was changing. From the edges of his wound, little rivers of shining platinum began to creep along his skin. No, not along, but through his skin.
“Oh, no.” Her platinum heart was a failure after all. Holly watched in horror as the gleaming metal rapidly spread outward like the root system of a tree. Up over his chest and down his side it went. And all the while he thrashed, as if it was agony.
Heedless of the danger, she reached out and touched his shoulder. So cold and clammy with sweat and shaking violently. But she smoothe
d her hand down his arm in a slow, gentle caress. Strangely, the metal’s progress stopped. But not on the other side. Platinum twined and writhed down his left arm and twisted along his fingers. The demon clenched his fist and sobbed. A trickle of blood leaked from the corner of one eye.
The sight sent a ripple of disgust along her skin. She hailed from a family of logical inventors, yet some deep-seated part of them maintained a vigilant Irish suspicion of blood drinkers. Dearg-due, Abhartach. Reviled creatures who lusted for blood. Ungodly fiends. As soon as the thought entered her head, shame chased it out.
Holly touched his cheek, and he leaned into it with a whimper.
“There now, big man,” she whispered, as she covered him with her blanket. “You’re not alone.” With a hand that shook, she ran her fingers over his brow and through his damp hair. The white strands clung to her hand like spider silk but the demon calmed. No, his name was Thorne. He was not some nameless demon. But Thorne.
His eyes were closed now, long bronze lashes lying against unnaturally pale cheeks.
“You are not alone, Mr. Thorne.”
At the sound of his name, his eyes flew open. No longer simply black as onyx, a starburst pattern of luminous platinum radiated around his pupils. His head turned toward her, but not a flicker of recognition or sense lay in his strangely beautiful eyes.
Holly opened her mouth to say something, anything that might offer some comfort, but a massive bellow rang out, echoing off the stone walls.
“Evernight!”
She jumped back, her bottom hitting the floor, just as the door to the main cellar smashed open.
Master surged in on a tide of rage. Open sores and great gaping wounds once again held dominion over his flesh. Holly cowered as he strode forward, seething and growling. His wild gaze landed on her, and she knew she was dead.
While Mary went home to reconnect with her body—and Jack had no doubt she was desperate to give him a thorough tongue-lashing—Jack went to Thorne’s house. He’d put his friend at risk for selfish reasons, and though they worked on opposite sides, it did not sit well with his conscience. Thorne needed to know with what they were dealing. A mad fallen was a menace to all. The Nex was insane to think it could control Amaros.
Shadowdance: The Darkest London Series: Book 4 Page 33