When he stared into her eyes, he saw not just his wife, but the warrior goddess that so beguiled him from the start. “Be that as it may, Boadicea. But from now on, this is what I do too.” He smiled with just enough teeth to show his determination. “Consider me your new partner.”
Poppy waited by the lake. As much as it was her duty to dispatch any rogue demons, she did not want to do so in the middle of a house filled with innocent bystanders. She knew in her heart Win would not fail her. He’d claimed himself her partner, growling the words as if she might protest. In truth, he’d unknowingly granted her deepest wish.
A breeze slid over the wide lawn, rippling the grass before it toyed with the edges of her skirt. She hadn’t dared to waste time changing and instead gathered her weapons, but now she regretted it. The chocolate wool day-gown, while elegant and slender, was also cumbersome. Damned if she could figure out why she stuck with wearing women’s clothes when she could just as well be done with all society and don lighter and more practical men’s clothing as the demon Mrs. Noble had done. She kept her eyes on the distant house terrace and cleared her mind. In her hand, the crossbow was a comfortable weight, smooth and cool against her skin.
She did not have to wait long. Two silhouettes appeared on the horizon, their shapes outlined in the morning sun. It struck her how similar Winston and Talent’s forms appeared, both broad of shoulder and lean of waist. The similarity ended there, however. Win’s walk was even, sedate, as if no one or nothing would rush him. Talent’s stride held impatience; it always had, so she could not be sure if it was truly him or an impostor. Besides, any proper demon would mimic Talent’s movements with precision.
They came abreast of each other, and their heights aligned. A few months ago, Talent had been perhaps an inch shorter than Win. Now he was the same height. A year from now, she knew Talent would be taller. He was entering his prime, and as a shifter, he’d bulk up and grow a few inches more, most likely ending up on par with her brute of a brother-in-law Archer. Sadness filled her breast at the thought. If this was not Talent coming toward her, then he might truly be lost, never to become the man nature had planned to make him.
Her grip tightened on the crossbow. With her other hand, she slipped the gold throwing knife from her pocket and held it close.
“Poppy,” Win said as they walked up to her, “you have news?”
“Yes.” She flew into motion. The knife hissed through the air just as she raised the crossbow and shot. Talent barely had time to blink before both projectiles slammed into his shoulders, taking him down to the grass and pinning him there. Win’s start of surprise was lost as Talent roared. Not at all the roar of a shifter.
“Poppy,” Win shouted, “you haven’t given him a chance to defend himself.”
She did not take her eyes off the thing writhing on the grass, trying to free itself from the gold weapons holding it down. “It won’t do permanent damage,” she said to Win before addressing the demon. “Rise then, Jack Talent, if you can.” A shifter could be held fast by iron, but not gold. A demon, on the other hand, detested gold. What she did not know was whether this was Talent’s body or an illusion of it.
Talent’s eyes flashed with an inner fire before turning deep yellow. Demon eyes. She advanced on him, snapping another golden arrow into place. It whizzed and thumped into his thigh, and he screamed. Win stepped closer, horror etched on his face. Talent’s body arched, straining against the shafts.
Poppy stood over him. “Who are you and where is Jack Talent?”
Caught, the demon let his glamour go. Human in appearance except for his pale grey skin, he glared up at her with his yellow eyes. “Fetch my mettle, you bunter bitch.”
Win snarled at the foul words, and his foot slammed into the demon’s side. “Address the lady properly or I’ll have your tongue.”
The demon sneered as blood streamed down his lip. The gold was affecting his system now, turning the network of veins a deep black against his grey skin. “Get me out of these bonds, and I’ll make a capon out of you. Stuff your lobcock down your gullet, I will.”
Win moved to strike him again, and Poppy placed a staying hand upon his arm. “Do not bother. He’s merely a weak and pathetic raptor demon. They feed off the pain and misery of others and are notoriously foul-mouthed.” She glanced down at the demon. “And quite stupid.”
The demon on the ground showed his sharp teeth. “Go bugger yourself, you bleeding three-penny upright.”
Win looked capable of murder. Poppy tightened her grip on him, and giving the demon a pleasant smile, aimed her last arrow at its crotch. “If anyone is in danger of being a capon, it is you. Now talk before you spend the rest of your short, miserable life as a eunuch.”
A bloody grin worked over the demon’s face. “Can’t.” He craned his neck to reveal the image of a chain tattooed upon his skin. “Am bound by Master.”
“Which means he is physically incapable of divulging any information,” Poppy explained to Winston. “No matter what we do to him. That tattoo will literally choke the life out of him if he says anything against his master’s wishes.”
“Aye,” said the demon with a gurgling laugh. “But can tell you Mr. Jack is having good fun with my mates.” His dark tongue ran over his teeth. “Tasty is Mr. Jack. Been having fun with him since the boat.” At that, the demon shifted his appearance to the murdered ship’s officer, then to Mary Chase, before going back to his ugly, demonic self.
Something cold and dark passed over Winston’s eyes as he looked down at the demon. “If you have nothing to tell us, then you are of little use.” Tight-lipped, Win turned his attention back to Poppy. “Decapitation works with this one, yes?”
Below them, the demon began to writhe against his bonds, snarling and spitting like an enraged dog. “Shanker covered, whore pipe, pig-fucking—”
“Are you sure you want to do the deed?” Poppy asked. SOS law gave her the right to execute any demon guilty of body theft and torture, which this demon clearly had done to poor Jack Talent. However foul the criminal may be, executing one still ate at the soul. She felt the weight of every life she took and did not like to think of Winston carrying that same burden.
But Win’s expression was set as he pulled his sword free from his walking stick. “Quite.” Dispassion etched his expression in harsh lines as he stared down at the demon, who still cursed a blue streak. Win raised his sword. “For Jack.” He struck true and clean.
Chapter Twenty-eight
They searched the Noble house from the dank cellars to the roof rafters, but found no sign of Jack Talent. And so they headed for London and Ranulf House to let Mary off there. She would alert Ian Ranulf to the problem, and the lycans would begin the search for Talent.
“It will soothe The Ranulf to search,” Mary said. “But they will not find him before I do.” Though she and Talent had never got along, fierce determination heated her voice and shone in her eyes. But her fervor quickly died.
Mary’s lids lowered as she grimaced. “I ought to have realized that one stole my blood aboard the Ignitus.”
Poppy rested a hand upon Mary’s. “None of this is your fault.”
No, it was his. Winston ought to have at least noticed Talent was not himself. He clutched the handle of his walking stick harder so that he would not smash something. “What is to say that Talent is still alive? Do you not suppose that he might have been dispatched when we discovered the demon? Or perhaps drained dry like poor Mrs. Noble?”
“Mr. Talent is a shifter.” Poppy glared out the window as if she too were overcome with distaste. “His blood is extremely valuable, as it allows a demon to change appearance with the ease of a shifter. As Mr. Talent is one of only five known shifters in Europe, he is very rare.”
“Gods. I had no idea. I simply assumed he was one of many.”
Poppy’s eyes went cold with anger. “Talent took risks flaunting his nature. There are always those who would hunt down a shifter and use them. Which is why there are so few left alive.”
“No one deserves to be used against their will,” said Mary with sudden anger. She ducked her head, and the brim of her bonnet hid her expression but her gloves stretched tight against the knuckles of her clenched fist. “There are no better trackers than a GIM, Inspector Lane. I will not fail.”
After leaving Mary and their baggage at Ranulf House, Poppy gave the coachman directions to Fleet Street market, of all places. “One of the entrances to the SOS headquarters is there,” she explained to Winston. “There are others close by, but this one will garner less attention.”
The coach let them off at the market. A light breeze caught the pervasive stench of moldering water, garbage, and cooking and carried it off. People crowded the sidewalks, creating a general din of laughter and conversation. St. Paul’s dome shone against the grey sky. He hefted the satchel they’d brought along more securely over his shoulder and then offered Poppy his arm.
Daylight dimmed as they turned a corner and came alongside the Fleet river canal bridge. There the River Fleet slipped beneath London on its subterranean course. Poppy stopped by a service door and, blocking the door with her body, quickly pushed a series of numbers into the punch lock. Despite the worn and rusted appearance of the door, the lock clicked with well-oiled ease. She glanced over her shoulder as she pushed the door open. “This way.”
The scent of mildew and fetid air washed over them as they stepped inside the dark space. Winston blinked, waiting for his sight to adjust to the dimness, since the only light came from behind them and the small pinholes from the sewer grates. Foul didn’t begin to describe the smell. The rumble of street traffic and the dripping of water echoed in the underground tunnel. Without further ado, Poppy nudged him inside.
“It isn’t the most pleasant of entrances, I’ll grant you.” She pulled a slim cylinder from one of her many hidden pockets, and with the flick of a knob, yellow light shot from its end. It was an electric torch. He’d heard of them; hell, he’d even seen a rendering of one, but nothing as elegant as the model she held.