“Hold a moment.” He took the torch from her and studied it. The thing was heavy, an effective weapon if need be. The light it exuded was strong enough. Certainly better than nothing. “It’s brilliant.”
Poppy allowed a quick smile. “The SOS is privy to technological advancement that the public doesn’t see. We have a team of inventors who are quite clever. Our top inventor built several prototypes this year. I’ve been testing this one.” She moved them forward, and Win duly pointed the torch toward the ground before them to light the way. “It doesn’t last long, unfortunately, so we’ll have to be quick.”
She guided them along a narrow walkway that hugged the underground section of the river. Now that they had a bit of light, he could see that the tunnel was about twenty feet in diameter and lined with bricks. It extended in both directions, allowing the river to flow beneath London proper. A small craft was moored at a bend in the tunnel. “We are going on that, I presume?”
“Yes.” Her steps were quicker now, her countenance an eerie green in the weak light. “This tunnel leads directly to our headquarters.”
They were silent as she stepped into the craft and lit the lantern hanging off the prow, and he untied the mooring rope. The boat rocked precipitously as he stepped in, and she pushed off, using the long pole provided. Win widened his stance and, taking the pole from her, acted the part of gondolier.
“Something about that encounter with the demon bothered you. What was it?” He had questions on top of questions but he knew peppering her with them now wouldn’t get him answers. Tension held reign over her slim shoulders and long neck. Her fists gleamed white among the dark folds of her skirt.
Beneath the straight slash of her brows, her eyes were pained and withdrawn. “It is nonsensical, really.”
“Emotions often are. But tell me anyway.”
They were silent for a moment, with only the trickle of water and the distant clatter of the life above making noise.
“Knowing that a demon hid among us, seeing you slay it…” Her fists clenched tighter. “I don’t know, Win.” Dark eyes lifted to find his. “I am used to danger following me. I am not used to it following us.”
“Do you think it different for me?” He put his back into the next push, and they surged forward. “The lot I usually deal with might not be undead or, Christ, turn into spiders”—That still had his nerves dancing—“but the danger of being gutted is still there.”
Her gaze steadied on his scars and went darker still. Win did not let her comment but continued. “I rather liked that danger, if we are telling truths. But it is another thing entirely to see you in the thick of it. Especially now.”
Ducking her head, Poppy’s voice grew unusually soft. “We’ve already lost too much in Talent.”
Win’s fingers tightened on the pole. “You believe Miss Chase will succeed?”
She smiled thinly. “Do you know it took Daisy one day of being a GIM to weed out the fact that I was Mother? The little brat followed me to work, and not once did I notice. GIMs find what others cannot. They are the best spies we have. Which is why goodwill between them and the SOS is so important.”
Her good humor faded, and the air grew chillier still as she glared pure murder into the dark, foul waters. “Regardless of whether or not we find Talent, the ones who took him will pay.”
Apprehension tightened Win’s gut. “Poppy Ann,” he said, “do not even consider haring off on your own.” Which he was certain she was.
The eloquent lift of her red brow confirmed it. “I’m not going to sit in a bunker and twiddle my thumbs while you and our child are in danger.”
Win gritted his teeth as he shoved the boat farther along. “I swear to all that is holy, if you do not stop mollycoddling me, Poppy, I shall take you over my knee.”
Her brow rose higher. “I should like to see you try.”
“Shall we have a go later?” The notion inflamed him in more ways than one.
“I’d freeze your arse before you got started.”
“Play dirty, do you?”
“Always.”
True anger rose to the surface. It ought to be bloody degrading to know his wife could take him down without mussing her hair, but what really bothered him were the risks she took. How close had death been to her over the years? And he hadn’t even known to comfort her.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Mary settled herself upon the worn armchair in Jack Talent’s bedroom. The door was locked. Even so, Ian Ranulf had given orders that this section of the house not be disturbed while she was here. Which was good, as a GIM’s method of tracking a soul was one of their closest kept secrets. Relaxing, she stared up at the dark, coffered ceiling. All was in order here—quiet, still, waiting. It smelled of him, that faint, almost illusive combination of sandalwood soap, fine linen, and the earthy scent of shifter.
Talent liked quality; that was clear. His was a small room, a little jewel box tucked away in a quiet corridor of Ranulf House. Everything in his room was expensive, yet understated, as if he did not want to acknowledge his lust for luxury. But it was obvious in the soft leather chairs, the thick nap of the velvet throw lying upon the ottoman, and the smooth indigo silk counterpane covering the bed. Plump, down-filled pillows were piled high against the impressive mahogany headboard and practically invited a person to lie down. The man lived like a pasha behind closed doors. And a monk in the public eye. Which was the real him?
The rosewood Vulliamy clock on the mantel ticked away, no doubt keeping perfect time. She stirred with the unnerving need to look over her shoulder.
As a professional voyeur, she was accustomed to invading the private places of others. It never truly affected her. And yet distinct edginess plucked at her skin here in Talent’s inner sanctum, as if he would barge in at any moment, brassed off and shouting about her shady ways. The thought almost had her rising up and walking out of the room. She resisted the urge. Whatever he was to her, he deserved to be found. The others were fond of him, though lord knew why; the man was a braggart and a hypocrite.
Even so, she settled back and let her fingers stroke the smooth leather. Such a comfortable chair. One could drift off to sleep in its arms without even realizing. His essence lingered here—a dark, complex mix, like aged Scotch, smoky and rich yet with a sharp bite. It disturbed, pulling one down into a confused mire. Mary took a quick breath and willed herself to sink deep. Deeper into the unwelcoming feel of Jack Talent.
“You will owe me,” she muttered, not liking the task one bit. But it was working. Some essential part of Jack Talent grabbed hold of her neck as if he’d like to shake it. Most certainly this was Talent. She let it pull her along, and on the next breath, she was drifting. The heavy shroud of her body fell away, and she was lightness and air. A spirit, free to go where she pleased. Only at the moment, Talent had a hold of her. The connection was thin, no more than a thread of light. She concentrated on it. Talent’s light was a base mix of blue and grey, a survivor of life yet conflicted and one of dark thoughts. What concerned her more was the muddy, mustard fog that coated his light. It spoke of pain. Great pain, if one considered how very weak his light glowed.
Up she went, over the smoking chimneys, pitched roofs, and sharp spires of London. Skimming over crowded avenues and the heads of strolling pedestrians. Life teemed, swelled, and extinguished before her. It was, as always, beautiful, mesmerizing, and haunting.
She focused on Jack Talent. She thought of his voice, always hard and unforgiving, thought of his eyes, bottle green and full of distrust. Gods, but it was an exercise in tolerance and a test of her will to keep going. When she reached Victoria Docks, the thread of light flickered, then failed. Below her, a large iron boat was docked. Iron, to keep a shifter contained. Iron, to keep a spirit out. Jack Talent was there.
The tunnel opened up into a massive underground cistern. Win counted at least forty columns, lined with yellowed bricks and topped with Egyptian-style lotus blossom carvings, laid out in a grid pattern and holding up the vaulted ceiling. Torches flickered on either side of each column, providing enough light to turn the dank, fetid water into a golden sea. The place appeared empty, but when they reached the end of the stone dock, Win spied a man sitting upon an ebony chair beside a large door. The bloke appeared to be reading.
The reader did not look up, nor move, as they docked their craft. Poppy’s heels echoed in the hollow place as she led them toward the man, a brute whose burly hands dwarfed the thick book he read.
“Mum,” he said as he turned a page. Win glanced down at the book. Candide. Well then.
“Clive.” Poppy nodded just as the massive door unlocked with apparently no help from anyone. Gears and levers along the front of the door groaned as they released, and the door slowly swung open.
“Who is the fellow reading Voltaire?” Win asked as they went through the door and it creaked shut behind them.
“Clive is our guard.”
“He did not so much as look up.”
“He doesn’t need to. He can read your thoughts from about fifty yards off. He knew we were approaching and who we were long before he saw us. We would not have reached the cistern were we unwanted. The outer doors would have closed on us.”
“A little warning in that regard would not have been remiss, Poppy.” He tried to remember what he’d been thinking of fifty yards off. None of it was anything he wanted old Clive to know about.
Poppy’s lips curled. “You sound quite guilty, you realize.”
“My thoughts are the purest snow.”
As neither of them could quite swallow that, they remained silent as they walked down a white-tiled corridor.
“It looks like the London Underground,” he said after a moment.
“Yes.” She turned a corner. They did not encounter a soul as they went. “We’ve our own train system as well. There are stops beneath a few palaces and Westminster.” She paused before a pair of massive coffered doors. Each panel featured a frieze depicting the burning of a witch. “To remember,” Poppy said, “what happens when the people start to believe in the supernatural.”