Winterblaze

by Kristen Callihan

  Poppy crossed her arms over her chest and huffed. “You act as if I am offering a choice.”

  “And you act as if I’m offering you one! You have a duty to protect our child.”

  A blast of cold hit him so hard that the looking glass behind him shattered.

  “My life is rot!” Poppy shouted. “Utter rot, because of duty.” Tears filled her eyes, and she dashed them away. “I almost lost my sisters, lost you, because of bloody, fucking duty.”

  He tried to touch her, but she swatted at him. “I will not lose you, Win. I cannot see you dragged to hell when I can do something about it.”

  “You can, sweet,” he said, softly now because her pain lanced him through the heart. “You can let me fight him.”

  Through her tears, she laughed. “Win, you know it won’t matter if you destroy him. He will bring you to hell regardless.”

  “And were you thinking clearly, you’d realize that he’ll do the same whether it is you who delivers the blow or me.”

  She recoiled as if struck. The words he’d thrown back at her hovered between them, taking her hope, and his heart broke for her. Her gaze darted away as if she couldn’t bear the sight of him.

  “Poppy,” he said softly.

  But she drew herself up and faced him. The resolve in her expression chilled his blood. “I’ll offer myself in your stead.”

  “No!” He grabbed her. “Do not even think it.” Give me Poppy…

  “Why? He wants me. You know it.” Her dark eyes searched his face. “You’ve known it for some time, haven’t you?”

  “I know nothing of the sort.” But it was a lie, and they both knew it. His fingers dug into her flesh as if the action could somehow stay time. “And what of our child?”

  The warrior look he knew so well stole over her features. “I will make a deal with him to keep the child safe.”

  He gave her a small shake. “No.” It was all slipping away from him, his control, his choices. They were playing right into Jones’s hand as if he’d planned it from the start. And perhaps he had. Win ground his teeth. “No, Poppy, no.”

  Glaring, Poppy pushed him back. “Yes, Win.”

  He didn’t remember moving, but in the space of a breath, her back met with the wall. “Christ, you never listen!”

  “It is you who does not listen,” she shouted back.

  On a curse, he dropped his head to her shoulder and punched the wall. The plaster rattled as he leaned against her and silently raged, his chest lifting and falling in rapid fire.

  “I will not let him divide us in anger,” he said into her shirt. Her hands grasped his shoulders then, and he snaked an arm about her waist to hold her.

  Her lithe body bowed with tension for the space of a heartbeat and then she sagged against him, her hands holding his collar. “Win.” She sobbed his name, a plea, a prayer, and a curse. “God, you’re right. I don’t want that. I don’t…”

  For a long moment, they stood, panting in the resounding silence, then he sank to the floor, pulled her onto his lap and simply held her. His throat ached when he finally spoke. “I didn’t know what I had in you. Not truly.” Admitting it hurt, but he wondered if anyone really appreciated their life until they faced the end of it. “I loved you. So much. But we drifted apart, didn’t we?” And that hurt too.

  Her gaze lowered, yet her tight nod confirmed it.

  He held her closer, needing to say this, to explain. “You hid what you were—” Poppy stiffened, but he stopped her protest with a brush of his lips to hers. “I’m not laying blame anymore, sweet.”

  He kissed her again, with reverence, and though she eased, her eyes were glossy with regret as they searched his face. “I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop,” she admitted in a ravaged voice. “Waiting for you to find out and never relaxing because of it.”

  “I know.” He sighed and let his forehead rest against hers. “I think I was too, deep down. I never felt everything was completely safe. I think part of me knew I’d gained you through false means.”

  Her arms came around his neck then, her fingers threading through his hair with such gentleness that he shivered. “Win,” she whispered against his mouth, “my heart was always yours, never think otherwise.”

  They sat, breathing each other in. The feel of her in his arms was a precious thing, and his heart ached at the idea that he could ever let her go. Slowly he opened his eyes and looked at her. God, she was everything to him. His morning, his day, the dreams in which he dwelled at night. His voice threatened to break when he spoke. “Are we in this together, Boadicea?”

  A harsh breath left her. The rustle of her coat sounded in the silence as she moved to touch his face. “Always, Win.”

  He cupped her cheeks and held her fast. “Then be my partner in all things, Poppy. Now, until however long we have.” Her skin was silk against his thumbs as he stroked her. “Trust me to find a solution.” When she moved to speak, he leaned in, coming nose to nose with her. “Just as I will trust you to look into that Machiavellian mind of yours and make the proper choice between bad and worse.”

  Her expression was implacable as she looked back at him, and he thought she might protest, but then she reached up and unfastened the chain around her neck. The tiny Isis pendant winked in the light as she moved to wrap it around his neck.

  “Poppy,” he protested. “I cannot take this.”

  “Isley cannot stand the symbol,” she said, putting it on him despite his objections. “I don’t know why, nor will I question it now.”

  “All the more reason for you to wear it,” Winston countered, trying to take it off.

  She stayed his hand with a touch. “Please, Win. You ask that we work together. Well, this will make me rest easy.”

  Damn if he could object to that. Though he tried one last time. “It is a woman’s necklace, Pop.”

  But she only smiled. “And it looks well around your manly neck.” He grinned back but her smile suddenly fell. On a ragged sigh, she burrowed against the crook of his neck. “I’m afraid, Win.”

  He knew what it cost her to admit it. And so he held her secure and let his cheek rest on the silken crown of her head. “I am too, sweeting. But if we can survive this, we can survive anything.”

  She kissed him then, a tender touch on his neck that cut into his heart with the precision of a sword. “I love you, Winston Hamon Belenus Lane.”

  A simple declaration. And enough to make the whole of his life worth it. Should he die today, should everything fall apart, he had Poppy’s love. A better gift he did not know.

  As soon as Poppy slipped into her bath, Win left her. The fragments of a plan had begun to take shape in his mind. But he needed help.

  “I assume you’ve come up with a solution?” Archer said twenty minutes later, after he’d let both Winston and Ian into his personal library.

  Winston looked up from the rolls of papyrus he’d laid out on the high examining table. His insides were in knots, and his muscles bunched with tension. It took all he had to focus on the present and not give in to the rage rolling within. Win gripped the back of his neck, and his aching muscles cried out in protest. “Not quite. Let us call it a start.”

  He pulled out the item he’d hidden in his pocket and set it before the men.

  “Poppy’s scarab.” Archer looked at the thing as if it might bite him.

  Ian, however, laughed. “You nicked it from your wife? And here I thought you were a lawman.”

  “That was your first mistake, Ranulf,” Win replied, “you thought.”

  Archer snorted.

  “Hilarious.” Ian folded his arms over his chest.

  Win let his tight smile slip. “The truth is, I had to steal it. Isley watches Poppy. He’s admitted to it.”

  “Christ.” Archer shook his head.

  Win eyed them both. “Poppy cannot know my plans because he’ll know them. Which means whatever it is I do, I’ll have to keep her in the dark.” Knowing his wife as he did, the after
math would not be pretty. By the looks on his friends’ faces, they understood that just as well. “Look,” he said to Archer, “you are the best reader of hieroglyphics I know. The only one, actually.”

  “Which puts me in a prime position to help you.” Archer stopped alongside Winston and bent his head to survey the scrolls.

  Ian strolled over to the table as well. “Good thinking, Lane. Archer adores compliments.”

  Archer ignored them both in favor of the scroll. “Let us see…” His brow furrowed as he read. “This text refers to Apep.”

  “Yes.” Winston moved closer. “He is said to be a demon of darkness and chaos.”

  “Not a god, precisely,” said Archer, “as none worship him. He is more the thing to be feared, the great evil that good must smite.”

  Win moved to stroke his mustache, only to remember that it was gone. Instead he ran a finger along the scar at his jawbone. It was smooth now, thanks to Archer’s neat stitching. “According to this text, Apep can hypnotize a person with his gaze. He is associated with serpents, thunderstorms, and earthquakes and is also known as the soul—”

  Archer’s head snapped up, and his gaze narrowed on Win. “The eater of souls.”

  The air grew still between them. Win leaned his hip against the table and watched Archer. “I know you are thinking of what you were becoming.” He glanced back at Archer and found him staring back. “Not all soul eaters are evil. I believe you know that too.”

  With a scowl that said he’d rather not comment, Archer straightened and tapped a finger on the scrolls. “What is all this leading to, Lane?”

  God, Win wanted his pipe. If only to have something to do with the restless energy that came over him when he was on the chase. “It’s like this. Jones can hypnotize a person with his eyes in some capacity. If his jewelry is anything to go on, he is fond of serpents. And he escaped his prison during an earthquake. All of which are in keeping with Apep’s talents.”

  He pushed his hands into his pockets, excitement making him edgy. “He has the arrogance of a god, not a demon. Jones said the SOS ought to revere him. That gods have tried to defeat him and have failed. I think he yearns to announce who and what he is, but he fears it as well. Because he believes in the power of his name. And I wonder…”

  “If he is Apep?” Archer’s mouth twisted. “It is rather far-fetched.”

  “It is. He could be any number of demons.” But he knew he was correct; the knowledge hummed in his bones. More so, he knew there was a way to prove it if only he could figure out how. He turned and studied the drawing of Ra and Apep, depicted as a cat and a snake doing battle.

  He glanced down at the scrolls once more as a memory hit him. “Is Apep’s name here?” Quickly he scanned the symbols, his heart racing ahead of him. “There.” He pointed to a familiar grouping. “Is that it?”

  Archer peered down. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Son of a bitch.” Win grasped the back of his neck with both hands. “He wore his bloody name on his lapel. In the painting.” He pictured Jones’s smug grin immortalized in oils and laughed.

  Archer grinned too. “I’ll put the name on the scarab.”

  “I’m grasping at straws, and we all know it,” Win said. “There is still the matter of the bargain. But any small thing can help.”

  “Since you have that under control, Lane,” Ian interrupted, “I’ve a favor to ask of you.”

  “Is this what you came to talk to me about before?” Irritation at the interruption still rode high and colored Win’s tone.

  Ian coughed, not meeting Win’s eyes. “Yes. It’s about Talent.” Ian’s voice was only moderately under control when he spoke again. “Put him to use on this case again. As soon as you can.”

  “You think he’s ready?”

  “He has to be.” Ian raked a hand through his overlong hair. “If he does not find a way to vent his rage, he will be lost.”

  Just as Win had been lost before coming back to Poppy. Wincing, he squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I wish I could be of better help to him, but I don’t know—” His hand fell to his side, and he stared at the papyrus before him. “They all have a weakness.”

  “Bloody hell, Lane,” said Ian. “What are you going on about now?”

  Something surged within Win’s chest. He did not want to examine the emotion for fear of chasing the fragile feeling away, but it felt much like hope. Fighting a grin, he turned to Ian. “Where is Talent now?”

  Ian’s eyes narrowed as he searched Winston’s face. “In his room at Ranulf House. Why?”

  Win could not answer. Instead he clasped Ian in a hard hug, pounding the lycan’s back with one fist. “You’re bloody brilliant, Ranulf.”

  “Well, yes,” Ian said as Win let him go and headed toward the door. “But would you mind telling me what brilliance I imparted this go round?”

  Chapter Forty

  Talent sat in a worn-down leather armchair the color of dried tobacco. He did not greet Winston as he walked into the room, nor did he appear to even notice. Winston knew better. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he strolled near. Talent stared out of the tall window, and the grey London light fell hard on his face, highlighting the lines of fatigue, and the tributaries of pain recently wrought upon him. The only movement in him at all was the quick motion of his hand as he flipped an object over and under each finger before repeating the action.

  Win stepped closer. The object was a cross. A crude thing made of iron, it was no more than three inches long. Whether Talent noted Win’s study of the cross, or he’d simply grown tired of fiddling with it, was unclear, but he stopped and covered the thing with his hand.

  “I might wonder if you’ve come to gape.” Talent turned then, and the coldness in his gaze chilled. “Only I suspect you’ve been on the other side of that coin too long to do so.”

  Win leaned against the footboard of the bed. Being a shifter, the external damage Talent had sustained had healed without scars, but emotional trauma was far crueler. “I’ve a job for you.”

  A flicker of interest entered Talent’s eyes. “Go on.”

  “I have to ask it. Are you able?”

  In the blink of an eye, Winston found himself staring at himself. The sensation was off-putting, to say the least, but he nodded in satisfaction as Talent shifted back. “It will be dangerous. You may not come out of it.”

  “Wouldn’t be interested if it wasn’t.”

  “Mmm. And are you, then, willing to perform the lowest sort of skullduggery?”

  Talent’s gaze narrowed, his body growing taut and poised to act. “I’m listening.”

  Poppy emerged from a bath clean yet worn out. The warm water had soothed her tired muscles and made her crave sleep. But she was hungry. Again. Glancing about, she tentatively settled a hand on her belly. “You are turning me into a glutton.”

  Tender feeling fluttered across her heart. She hadn’t spoken to the little barnacle before now. A smile tugged at her lips. Barnacle. That’s what he was, attached to her insides and attached to her. And she would not let him go.

  Her hand hovered before drifting down. Later, she could feel this. Later, she could say it, when Isley was captured, and Win… Her vision wavered. He’d asked her to trust in him. She did, but giving up control ate at her. As did the fear. The idea of losing him or her child made her insides heave. A knock on her room door cut through her racing thoughts, and she moved to answer it.

  To her surprise, Jack Talent stood at her threshold.

  “Mr. Talent. It is good to see you.”

  He looked well. Healed at least and dressed in a fine linen suit very similar to Winston’s. His eyes, however, held shadows and pain. But he offered a tight smile. “Mrs. Lane. I’ve brought tea.”

  It was then she noticed the tray he carried.

  “I saw the inspector,” Talent said as she stepped aside to let him in. “He’s downstairs sparring with Ian and Archer.”

  No doubt to alleviate his tension. Had she
any energy, she would be inclined to join them. As it was, however, the sweet, yeasty scent of bread held the greater allure.

  “However, he thought that you might be hungry and asked me to look in on you.”

  She followed Talent to the small sitting area by the hearth and sat as he set out a meal for two.

  He caught her looking and hesitated. “May I take tea with you?” The corners of his eyes tensed. “If you’d rather—”

  Poppy touched his arm, then drew away when he flinched. “I would enjoy the company, Mr. Talent.”

  He did not wait for her to pour but did the honors himself, his movements precise and assured. “How do you take it?”

  “Right now? With milk and lots of sugar.”

  “The babe?” he asked with gentle amusement.

  “I believe so.” Poppy accepted her tea but looked around him. “Are those cream buns?”

  Thankfully, Talent did not say a word as he filled her plate with not one but two buns. Bless the man. Poppy gave the offered treats the attention they deserved. Bliss. Utter bliss. She did not care what Talent thought of her; she was going to eat every bun that he did not.

  Talent sat on the chair next to hers and quietly sipped his tea as she devoured her food. The silence between them, while not quite awkward, was not entirely peaceful either. They both were too aware of what had happened to Talent.

  Licking a bit of cream from the corner of her mouth, Poppy finally spoke. “Mr. Lane tells me you want to be a regulator.” It was one of the many things she and Win had discussed before he had slipped out to consult with Archer and Ian, about what he wouldn’t yet tell her. But she had to trust him.

  Talent’s gaze slid away. “I thought to be, yes.”

  Poppy set down her plate. It was empty anyway. “I think you shall make an excellent Regulator, Mr. Talent.”

  When he lifted his head in quiet surprise, she spoke on. “Accept the offer and you shall start training Monday morning.”

  Ye gods but his concealed joy made her flush. She did not know why that would be so, but the room grew decidedly hot. Or perhaps consuming four cream buns in three minutes was not advisable. Her stomach turned, the room swaying a bit.