Despite her having been outmaneuvered, a smile pulled at her cheeks. Talent’s gaze went to her mouth, and he drew an audible breath, leaving Mary feeling a bit breathless herself. “Point to you, Talent.”
His grin was quick, devastating, then gone. But he did not crow over his victory. Instead silence fell between them again. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but certainly a truce. “I wish the rest of your sex felt similarly,” she said after a time.
“Do not hold your breath, Mistress Chase.”
She made a noise of agreement. But her curiosity would not let go. “So, then, if not with prostitutes…” Shut up, you imbecile. “That is, there are certainly other means.…” Gads, but she couldn’t say the words and survive the humiliation. She bit down on her lip to stop.
He peered down at her. “My, my, Mistress Chase, you do have quite the interest in my sexual activities.”
She picked up her pace, heading for Nelson’s Column. “Do not give yourself airs. I merely asked out of banal curiosity. I’ve never met a man who eschews casual exchanges, and I wanted to understand more.”
His laughter reached her just before he did, easily catching up to her with his long legs. Without warning he grabbed her, the quick move forcing her to swing round and face him. “Little liar.” Talent’s eyes danced with annoying glee, the brackets along his mouth deepening with his amusement. “Ask it,” he demanded in a husky voice. “How many women have I had?”
Impishness ought not be so beguiling. Nor should he smell so good, nor the heat of his body be so compelling. His lips, when he wasn’t pressing them together in his angry way, were well-formed and appeared surprisingly soft just then. Mary edged back. Those lips had spewed forth far too much verbal vitriol for her to be admiring them.
She focused on a point over his shoulder. “I don’t care.”
He dipped his head, and his lips came close enough to steal her air. “I’ll tell you my number if you tell me yours.”
Mary ignored Jack and concentrated on the moonlight glimmering off the fountain pools and the rush of falling water mingling with the sounds of light traffic passing around Charing Cross. Calmed by the gentle rain of falling water, Mary turned to the business at hand. “Why did he leave his victims here?”
Energy radiated from Talent, a violent vortex, one that felt as though it might crash into her, but it didn’t. Talent’s answer was flat, controlled. “Because it’s public.”
“There are many public places in London. Why this place? What does it mean to him?” She kept her gaze away from him. His voice and the tone he used would tell her more, at any rate.
Again came the surge of aggression, anger, and control. Always that tight rein on his temper. Many of her colleagues believed Jack Talent didn’t feel a thing. She had never thought that to be true. Talent had always been a seething cauldron of emotion, ready to overflow. His capture and torture by the demons had merely served to draw that rage inward, pulling him into deeper darkness. After his torture, she’d feared he would do himself harm. She’d been wrong. The SOS gave direction to his rage. Or so she had thought. Now she worried that he’d turned to murder instead.
The scuff of his boot told Mary he’d taken a step closer, and she tensed, but he sounded quite calm. “The square is considered the official center of London, from which the distance of all roads leading in are measured.”
“It is also the preferred location for political protests and national celebrations,” Mary said thoughtfully. “Perhaps you are correct in stating that the square does make for a rather public spectacle.” Standing at the base of Nelson’s Column, where the victims had been left, they faced Whitehall, which sloped down toward the Palace of Westminster. From over the treetops in the foreground, the great eye of Big Ben’s clock tower peered down at them.
“So then,” she said, “the question is, what public statement is the Bishop trying to make?”
Before Talent could answer, she spied a glimmer of black on the relief depicting the death of Nelson at Trafalgar. A soft breeze kicked up, and the object broke free and drifted down to the ground. It was a large, glossy black feather. Reaching out with caution, she picked it up.
“A raven’s feather,” Talent said. “Must have fallen from the sky.”
“And landed perfectly arranged in this fellow’s hat?” She gave a pointed look at the figure of a man holding up the felled Nelson. “Besides which, there are no wild ravens in London. And the Tower ravens cannot fly.” Gently she ran a finger along the feather’s edge.
A shock of sensation bolted down her arm and straight into her heart, causing her to catch her breath. Power—strong, clean, yet tainted with a malevolent darkness—resided in the feather. Power that burned. So much so that Mary looked at her finger to see if it was cut.
“What is it?” Talent made a move to snatch the feather away from her, but a set of footfalls sounded.
They turned as one and faced the man walking toward them. Talent stood with his shoulder nearly touching hers, so close that she felt him stiffen and heard the small, surprised intake of his breath when the man came into view. He was a tall man, lean and rangy. He was dressed as they were, in a long, fitted overcoat and heavy boots. But his coat and top hat were of an uncommon blood-red hue. Silky white hair flowed to his shoulders, and Mary expected him to be old, but he came closer and revealed the firm, smooth skin of a young man. A smile played over his lips, and a glimmer of fangs flashed in the moonlight. He’d let her see those fangs, a warning perhaps.
The male was a Western sanguis demon, if Mary had to guess. With that white hair and those fangs. Aside from elementals, all supernaturals had the ability to grow fangs, and often did when roused, but the sanguis’s were longer and thinner, designed to puncture, not tear.
“Hello, Jack,” he said. “I thought I recognized your sullen hunch from across the Square.”
No menace there, only familiarity. It did not stop Mary from wanting to grip Talent’s elbow, though she wasn’t certain if the desire was to hold him back or provide support.
Talent’s expression remained unmoved. “Will. I thought you were dead.” He didn’t sound as if he had been particularly put out by the notion.
Will’s lips curled further. “Close enough to it.” He lifted his chin a touch, and his eyes appeared beneath his hat brim. Cold, beautiful, haunted. Ice-blue surrounded by an outer ring of deeper blue. “I’ve not been as obvious about my activities as you, my friend.” His icy gaze slid over Mary, and she fought a shiver. “Nor do I keep as lovely company.”
Talent didn’t move but it suddenly felt as though he’d separated himself from her. “Appearances can be deceiving. There is nothing lovely about Miss Chase. She’d just as soon gut you as look at you, mate.”
If she hadn’t been used to his insults, the pain would have cut. As it was, it merely landed with a dull thud upon her chest.
Sympathy filled Will’s eyes, which irked further. “Jack never did appreciate women as he should.” He tossed a quick grin toward Talent. A true smile returned as he looked back to Mary. “As I doubt my old friend here will perform introductions, allow me.” He touched his hat and bowed. The man’s manner and accent spoke of good breeding, but there was a bit of street rat about him, just as with Talent. He might have been raised in a proper home, but it was doubtful that he still lived a proper life. “Mr. William Thorne at your service, Miss…?”
“Mary Chase,” was all she got out before Talent cut in with a brusque “What do you want, Will?”
Thorne frowned. “You injure me, Jack. Fifteen years since we last spoke and this is the reception I receive?”
Talent’s brows lowered. “What do you want?”
His words were a thick fog in the air. For a moment Mary wondered if Thorne would speak at all, he’d gone so stiff, but then she realized that he was restraining himself, just as Talent was.
Thorne’s sudden response cut through the night like a whip. “Perhaps I am not here for you, Jack.” Eerie blue eyes sought Mary out. “Do you know, Miss Chase, that a shifter doesn’t have a particular scent? But one of many?”
Beside her, Talent went rigid, his shoulder touching her arm as he moved perceptibly closer.
“I’m not sure I follow, Mr. Thorne.” Despite herself, Mary wanted to know more about Talent’s breed. Shifters were rare, and if they were anything like other supernaturals, they must have kept a few secrets close to the bone. “I fear my sense of smell is not developed enough to note a difference in scents.” Talent had always smelled the same to her, and familiar enough now that she’d recognize him in a crowd.
Thorne’s weight shifted, bringing him an inch closer. It was enough to send a low rumble through Talent’s chest, and he glared at Thorne as though he was imagining ripping his throat out. As for Thorne, he appeared relaxed, his long body loose of limb, even as his eyes twinkled with evil intent.
“Perhaps you fail to notice a change because Jack here always feels the same emotion when in your presence. You see, Miss Chase, deep emotion changes a shifter’s basic scent.” His smile was a taunt he lobbed at Talent. “Very subtly, mind you, but each emotion gives it a different taint, hate, fear”—Thorne eyed Mary again—“love—”
“Enough.” Talent took one step in Thorne’s direction, putting his shoulder in front of Mary’s so that she was partially blocked. “Enough games. Talk or we are going.”
Mary did not particularly like the way Talent lumped them together, but she agreed that Thorne was merely baiting him at her expense.
“Games amuse me,” Thorne complained before his demeanor grew serious. “I am here to offer a partnership. Between my organization and yours.”
“The Nex?” Mary snapped.
A touch on her hand stilled Mary. She’d had her baton out and had taken a step in Thorne’s direction without realizing it. Only Talent’s hand upon hers had stopped her.