Her expression altered from engaged to flat as glass. How well he knew that look, and although it was familiar, he found himself mourning the loss of her animation.
“Do you know what the symbols mean?” Her wide brow furrowed, the merest wrinkling of her clear skin. “I confess, I am not able to read it.”
The food in his stomach grew heavy, rolling about as if it might revolt. He’d been found by her. And while he couldn’t be sure she remembered the details, the symbols carved upon his flesh had been telling. Should a person know enough about demonology, she would know that the symbols had been those of the raptors. Jack’s guts tightened as sweat beaded along his back. He swallowed hard, still held by the power of her searching gaze. He wanted to run from it, from her. Did the scene live in her memory? Haunt her, turn her dreams into nightmares?
No. That was his lot in life. Likely all she felt was pity for the sorry sod she’d rescued two years ago. He fought against the cornered feeling that had his breath stuttering and returned to his food, cutting a banger with care. “Few others bother to learn the culture of Raptors and Sanguis. It isn’t as though their kind is well liked.”
Raptors were scum who fed off the misery of others. Sanguis demons were not precisely hated, but as they needed the blood of others to survive, they had a certain parasitic quality that made most supernaturals wary.
Chase’s lashes swept down then, letting him take an easy breath. She glanced up again, less probing, but unnerving to him just the same. “And what of this shifter? How does he fit?”
The shock of finding the dead shifter in Trafalgar Square still unsettled him. He’d left the scene with due haste, sinking the slimy raptor he’d just killed in the Thames instead. Someone was imitating his crimes, and he wanted to know why.
Jack dug into his pocket, threw a few coins upon the scarred table, and told her the one truth he could. “That is the question of the day, Chase.”
In keeping with the mercurial nature of London weather, it was raining when they left the coffeehouse, and while Mary did not mind, Talent insisted upon taking a hack back to headquarters. A silly extravagance that had her protesting and him snarling. They sat, each stewing in silence, the hack bogged down at an intersection, when Mary felt the hum of a spirit. A moment later a familiar form drifted in through the hack window and made herself comfortable on the seat next to Talent.
Hello, Miss Mary. Though she was in spirit form, Tottie’s voice was clear as day in Mary’s head. Nor did the dingy light of the carriage dampen the bright color of her shining blond hair or the sparkle of her green eyes.
“Hello, Miss Tottie.”
Talent perked up at Mary’s response and looked as if she were cracked. “Pardon?”
“Mistress Tottie is here. I was saying hello.” Tottie, short for Charlotte, was Poppy Lane’s newest assistant, handpicked by Mary due to her exceptional memory. That she was whip-smart and irreverent was a boon. Mrs. Lane needed someone to keep her on her toes, after all.
Mmm, said Tottie. Are you going to say hello, too, you exceptionally large wall of man? She leaned into Talent, her shimmering image tiny in comparison to his, and ran her fingers along his neck.
Talent shivered and glared round, his whole frame tensing away from Tottie. “Is she sitting next to me?”
He looked as though he might start swinging, as one swats at a fly, and Mary bit her lip. “She is merely saying hello.”
Oh, I am, Tottie agreed. I’ve been wanting to say hello to Mr. Jack for an age, personal-like. Her hand glided over his chest and headed down. Such a fine cocky fella, ye are. Shall we see if it’s all just tall tales, then, me lad?
“Tottie,” Mary snapped as Talent gave a violent start.
The little Irish imp stopped, blinking back with wide, round eyes. Aye? She let her hand fall upon Talent’s lap.
“Bloody GIM,” Talent burst out. “I felt that!” He turned his ire on Mary. “What the hell is she doing?”
“Nothing.” Mary kept her expression neutral by sheer will. “Why are you here, Tot?”
The GIM sighed, her small mouth pouting as her diaphanous hand drifted off Talent. You are no fun at all, Mary Chase.
“So I’ve been told.”
Talent’s gaze snapped between her and a spot above Tottie’s head.
“She’s a few inches lower,” Mary said. “And a bit touchy.”
“Hell.” Talent practically snarled as he glowered blindly at the spot occupied by Tottie. “Just remember, I can hunt your body down, Mistress O’Brien.”
Looking forward to it, Master Talent. Tottie’s cheeks plumped before she sobered. The Bishop’s struck again.
“At Trafalgar Square?” Mary held up her hand to Talent when he made to speak.
Bit of a difference with this one. The man was found in his home, one Mr. Arthur Pierce. He’s got the brand upon his chest, an’ all the usual hallmarks of the Bishop’s work. Wilde’s directed the cozzers to secure the scene for your study.
“Lovely.” The idea of seeing that horror turned Mary’s stomach.
“Damn it, Chase—”
“There’s been another murder,” Mary said to Talent, lest he keep shouting.
The house is two blocks over, Tottie said, and Mary relayed it directly to Talent as the GIM continued. Wilde wants you two there now.
Chapter Four
Mr. Pierce had lived in the center of a respectable middle-class suburb of London. Well-clipped lawns led to smart black doors, each graced with the same simple brass door knocker. White lace hung across every shining window.
Talent was ahead of her, his brusque stride so confident that it implied the very air ought to part for him. The rakish tilt of his hat had her longing to knock it off, if only to ruffle his composure and force him to acknowledge her presence.
As if feeling her displeasure, he stopped and turned. “Right then,” he said. “You wait here.… What the devil are you doing?”
Mary brushed a gloved hand over his lapel once more. “Clearing a disturbing number of crumbs off your coat. Is that egg?” She flicked a dried crust of his morning meal from his tie. “My, but you look a fright.”
Talent swatted her away. “Good God, woman, stop mothering me.”
She scoffed. “I am trying to maintain the dignity of our office. You’re stomping about as unkempt as a vagabond.” In truth his gold SOS pin, depicting the goddess Isis, was the only part of his attire that he appeared to care for. Pinned neatly on his overcoat lapel, it gleamed bright against the dull, unbrushed wool. “The Talent I know and detest would never let his appearance fall into such disrepair.”
He showed his teeth in a reaper’s grin. “And the Chase I know and detest would not care.”
“Of course I care. You represent the SOS, which, by extension, includes me. At the very least, do keep your hat on. Your hair looks as though you’ve let a goat have a go at it.”
Talent’s brows nearly met in the center with the ferocity of his scowl. “Are you quite finished?”
Mary looked him over and smoothed one last wrinkle along his shoulder, biting back a smile when a growl rumbled low in his throat. “There.”
His cheeks went dull red. “As I was saying, take a look around the grounds. Perhaps you can discover something useful while you wait outside for me.”
Mary drew up tight. “Now just a moment, you. I am not waiting out here. I’m your partner, not some lackey.” Nor was she letting him out of her sight while they were on this case.
Talent’s mouth tilted into a lopsided sneer. “Are you bamming me, Chase? You cannot go with me.” He leaned forward, managing to loom even though he was a few feet away. “You go into that house, and you’ll have every human there in a snit. Women are not fit to handle death, much less view a murder site. You know that as well as I.”
“Not fit to handle death?” she ground out, her arms twitching to do him violence.
But he waved an annoyed hand. “Do not start quoting Wollstonecraft on me. I’m repeating pure social fact. That is what they believe. And that is what they will do, should you”—he pointed at her for emphasis—“waltz in there and expect to be treated like a man.”
Mary barely refrained from huffing. He was right. Moreover, it was something every female regulator had to face in the field, always losing out on more interesting cases because of society’s ridiculous notions. Confined to playing the spy, the watcher, pushed to the fringes, her female brethren did what they could. It was not enough. Worse, if she waited out here now, not only would she be unsure as to his culpability in this, Talent would assume the role of lead. And he would use it to his advantage at every turn.
Mary steeled her spine and gazed back at him coolly, calmly. “I am going in.”
With a curse he dragged a hand over his face. “You are being illogical.”
She was. She didn’t care. On the other hand, Talent had apparently forgotten about one of her more potent abilities. She gave him a level look. “I’ll play the part of your assistant.” It hurt to say that, but if he was going to assume she was useless, then she wasn’t about to let him in on her plans.
“Investigators do not have female assistants, Chase.”
“Fine. I’ll be your blind sister who cannot be left on her own.” She merely needed to get in the door.
He blinked back at her for a good five seconds. Then a shocked, harsh laugh burst from him. “You object to being my lackey, but you’ll be my sister? You, madam, are barmy.”
“Lovely to know we’ve rolled around to the name-calling stage of the conversation,” she said sedately.
A string of blue curses filled the air, and then Talent took a deep breath. “Fine. Do not blame me if your stubbornness gets us nowhere in a hurry. And you shall follow my lead. Do not speak until I give you leave.”
An unladylike snort left her lips. “Tell me, Talent, do you honestly expect me to listen to the drivel that comes from your mouth? Or do you suffer bouts of delusion?”