She straightened, refusing to hug herself or acknowledge the thickness in her throat. “Well then, I suppose we ought to go.”
A rare break in the cloud cover sent a few rays of brilliant light down upon them, and Win’s eyes fell into shadow under the brim of his bowler. “Yes,” he said in his husky voice, then shifted his weight, sending more of his features into darkness.
She looked at him and set her jaw firm. Do not make me ask it. Do not make me.
The line of his shoulders became stiff and unyielding. “Look here, I do not think we should separate. It isn’t safe.”
Sternness tempered his tone, as if he thought she’d argue. It took her a moment to clear her throat. “If you think it best.”
“I do.” He gave her a sharp nod then turned to Talent. “Take our trunks to Ranulf House.”
Talent frowned. “I ought to go with you.”
Win gave a tight, quick smile. “I believe we can all agree that I am no longer in imminent danger of being attacked by the demon.” Because of their loyalty, Poppy and Win had given both Talent and Mary a basic explanation of the situation.
Win, obviously seeing the disappointment etched on Talent’s face, added, “Should further developments arise, I shall not hesitate to solicit your help, Mr. Talent.”
Talent appeared somewhat mollified. “And where do I put Miss Chase here?” he asked with a bored flick of his thumb in Mary’s direction.
Mary bristled. “You do not ‘put’ me anywhere, Mr. Talent.”
Win cleared his throat. “Find Miss Chase proper accommodations in Ranulf House.” His visage grew stern. “And behave.”
Talent muttered under his breath but complied with a sweeping bow. Poppy bit back a smile as the pair began to bicker about who would hail a porter and who would find the cab.
Sighing, Win left them to it and his assessing gaze swept over her once more. “Have you a need to rest now?”
“No.” She might go mad if she were to be cooped up in another room so soon, and the day promised to be fresh and bright for once. She fell in step beside Winston.
“Win, why Ranulf House?”
“It is where I’ve been staying.”
“You’ve been staying with the lycans?” Shock colored her words. Lycans, while not werewolves, could turn into them, and they had the ability to unleash claws and fangs. They were more than capable of hurting Win in the exact fashion he’d been hurt before. And he’d set up house with them.
His expression turned wry. “A man might as well face his fears, or let them rule him.”
She wanted to wrap her arms about him so badly that her limbs twitched. She knew he did not think of himself as brave. But he was. More so than she.
Win shifted his weight as though uncomfortable with her silence. “The place is a veritable fortress.”
“It is at that.” No demon in its right mind would try to infiltrate a den of lycans.
Chapter Sixteen
Winston guided Poppy to the hack stands but she stopped short. He followed the direction of her gaze. A smart town coach painted glossy, ox-blood red and trimmed in gold stood at the curb. No crest graced the doors, but the coachman and two outriders were dressed in fine black livery. As if sensing her notice, one of the toms jumped down and bowed.
“A friend of yours?” Win asked.
“Yes.” She appeared both pleased and yet put out. Before he could ask another question, Poppy started forward, and Win followed.
The coach’s window curtains were drawn tight, and Win blinked in the dim interior as he climbed inside.
“Forgive the darkness, Mr. Lane,” said a woman.
His sight adjusted and settled on a diminutive woman tucked up against the black velvet squabs. Raven hair surrounded the pale moon of her face. Her red lips lifted in a ghost of a smile. “I’ve a skin ailment which erupts upon exposure to sunlight.” Her words came out clipped with a deep roll in the middle. Russian perhaps, but she’d been in England long enough for it to have faded.
Her gown, however, was purely Asiatic. Made of crimson silk and embroidered with silver dragons, it was exotic and strange, yet seemed to suit her in some way that he suspected proper English gowns would not.
He took the seat on the opposite bench next to Poppy, who appeared perfectly at ease. “I’ve heard of such ailments,” he said. “Any small bit of sunlight exposure results in rapid skin burns.”
The smile grew a shade more. “Precisely.”
“Winston,” Poppy said. “This is Lena. She is my lieutenant, for lack of a better word.”
“Madam.” Poppy hadn’t offered a last name, but Win’s upbringing protested against using the woman’s given name.
Lena inclined her head, and the beaded hair sticks that speared her coiffure clattered. “Mr. Lane.” She turned her dark eyes back to Poppy. “What news?”
Poppy informed Lena with clipped tones then leaned back with a small sigh, and for once, she appeared utterly exhausted. Win let his hand fall to the seat, and their pinkies touched.
“Do you know who this Moira Darling could be?” Poppy asked Lena. The tip of her pinky moved against his. The light touch sent a lightning bolt of lust down the pathways of his nerves. Crossing one leg over the other, he watched Lena carefully.
The woman’s slim shoulders swayed gently with the rhythm of the coach as she stared back at Poppy. “No.”
For the life of him, Win could not tell if she was lying. Quite the feat since he ferreted out the best of liars. Save one. Poppy studied Lena as well, but seemed to be satisfied with the answer.
Again Poppy’s little finger stroked him. He stroked back, trailing his pinky along her slimmer one. A shiver of sensation lit over his heated skin. Win cleared his throat. “She stole something from him. We do not know what.”
At this, Lena gave a brittle smile. “Sounds like Isley, having a fit of pique over losing some nonsensical object.”
Win felt along the delicate edge of Poppy’s nail but he paused. “How well do you know Isley?”
Lena did not blink, and in the shadows of the coach, her dark irises glittered like bits of jet. “Enough to know that he always wants something from someone.” Her lashes swept down for a moment before she focused on Poppy. “I shall put out inquiries about this Darling woman.”
Poppy’s hand slipped away as she sat up straight. “Keep it quiet.”
Lena’s thin brows furrowed. “I always do.” Her mouth opened but she hesitated before finally answering. “You well know the dangers of interacting with Isley. It would be my honor to take over this investigation, should you wish it.”
Poppy scowled. “You think that because I am with child, I cannot defend myself?”
Lena shrugged. “Hardly. It was merely a suggestion.”
The look on Poppy’s face made it quite clear what she thought of that, but she answered calmly enough. “This fight is Win’s and mine.” Her hand fell back to the squabs and rested next to his thigh. Win did not take it, but showed his support by facing Lena’s burning gaze unflinchingly.
Apparently satisfied, Lena nodded, then studied Poppy in the ensuing silence. A look passed between them, and Winston understood that Lena wanted to discuss business.
Poppy held the other woman’s gaze. “Report.”
“Isley’s appearance is already stirring up trouble,” Lena said. “We’ve had five murders in the last two days. Lower level demons cutting down humans for fun. They’ve been dealt with, but the Nex are using Isley to incite protests within the underground.”
“The Nex?” Winston looked from Lena to Poppy. “As in the Latin term for slaughter?”
“To signify both the slaughter of ignorant humans and the metaphorical destruction of supernaturals’ basic rights. Pithy, isn’t it?” Poppy’s mouth pinched. “They are a resistance group who seeks to expose supernaturals to the world and are a bloody thorn in the SOS’s side.”
Lena made a sound of annoyance. “They are using Isley as a figurehead because he has escaped from Hell. Not many have done so, and no demon wants to return.” Black humor filled her eyes. “Hell is a most uncomfortable place to be.”
“I gather,” Win muttered. “But are not all demons from Hell?”
“No.” Lena crossed one leg over the other, causing her silk gown to hiss. “Demons are born in another plane of existence. There are many names for this place: Duat, the underworld, the shadowlands,” she lifted a shoulder as if to say names were meaningless, “but it is not hell. It is simply another place. Hell is a prison, designed for those who do evil and seek to bedevil this world.”
Poppy’s naturally ivory skin turned wan, and shadows dwelled beneath her eyes. “Send word to Michael Scott. Have him run the usual story.”
Win jolted up. “Michael Scott, the bleeding shock journalist with The Cryer?” When Winston had been on the Ranulf case, that bloody man had run wild with sordid tales of werewolves and liver-eating madmen. Of course now Win knew they were true. At the time, it had been one more nuisance to drive him to distraction.
“The very one,” Poppy said, unrepentant. “We constantly leak stories. You know tales of vampires, werewolves, ghosts that haunt St. Giles and such.”
Win’s mouth fell open before he snapped it shut. “You willingly let Londoners know about such things? Wouldn’t it be safer to quash all evidence?” He wasn’t for lying to the public but he understood working for the greater good.
“That would in actuality be harder to do.” Poppy gave him a small, pained smile. “You understand better than anyone that people always know deep down when they’re being lied to.” It was bold of Poppy to say so, but he kept his expression neutral. Discomfort spread over her features but she pushed on. “So we give them an enticing version of the truth. Give them a bit of a thrill, then they are satisfied.”
It was quite clever.