Winterblaze (23 page)

Quite suddenly, he hurt. His heart. Everywhere. He ached with a sweet, sharp pain that made him want to groan. “Poppy…”

His hands still cupped her cheeks, and he leaned in, needing to kiss her, but on a breath, she pulled back. “Win, what do you wish for?”

Wish for? What good was wishing? Hard truth stared him in the face, and the darkness there threatened to drag him down. The words were difficult to form. “I wish to be the father I never had.”
I want my child to be born.
The lump in his throat grew until he could hardly speak. “I wish to see you safe.”

Her nose wrinkled. “I’ll never be safe. Not with the life I lead.” She didn’t flinch from it, but faced him head on when she spoke. Challenging him.

His fingers twined in the silken strands of her hair. She
wanted the truth? “And when you are also a mother?” She tried to edge away. He held her fast. “What of danger then?”

Her brows took on an aggressive slant. “It isn’t—”

“Fair?”

“Yes, damn it!” Her cheeks flushed, and she took a deep breath.

His thumb stroked over the red wash of her guilt. “Little in life is.”

Absently she nodded, and her scowl broke into something dark, more like despair. “I’ve wanted this child. So badly. Only now that it is real…” She bit her bottom lip.

“You want the SOS more.” He tried not to feel the heavy weight of disappointment. She only wanted what most men he knew wanted as well. He couldn’t fault her for not being like other women. He’d known that much about her when he met her. He’d loved her uniqueness then, so he’d have to accept it now. Only it was clear that she wanted the SOS more than she’d wanted anything. Including him.

Poppy, however, glared up at him as if he’d slapped her. “That isn’t what I—”

“Is it the responsibility you fear losing or the danger?” He knew he was being a bastard, but he found himself unable to stop. Nor could he quell the tight ball of jealousy within him.

High color flagged her cheeks. “You are oversimplifying.”

“Because it is simple. We all place a measure of importance on things in our life. I’m merely asking the order of yours.”

“And what of you? As a homicide inspector, you risk your life every day. Would it be easy to walk away, then?”

“That choice has been made for me. I am no longer an inspector.” And didn’t it slash his soul to say it? It was akin to saying, “I am a failure.”

Poppy blanched before her chin thrust up. “Bollocks. That is merely a title. But here,” she slapped a hand upon his chest, “in your heart, you are a man who needs to fight for what is right.”

“Yes,” he said, despite himself.

Eyes the color of polished oak held him in place. “You sold your soul for it.”

“And for you.” For her most of all.

“And now?” Her voice shook with emotion as she gazed into his eyes. “Had you the chance to do it over again? What would you ask for? Knowing that I was a liar and a spy.”

“You!” He grasped her slim arms as if he could keep her there, in this garden, forever. What was waiting for him at the end of this long journey weighed like an anvil upon his heart. “I choose my wife and my child.”

The light in her eyes died, as swiftly as a candle being blown out. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why. Poppy was gentle as she removed herself from his grip. He tried to move, grab her back, tried to speak, to shout that he wanted her, needed her, but his body froze. Was his choice so very distasteful to her?

Poppy’s voice was small and sad when she spoke again. “Only you did not choose me until you knew I was with child.”

“No.” No, no, no. She could not think…

Poppy shook her head. “When you look at me now, do you see only me? Or the child as well?”

How the hell could he answer that? To deny that Poppy and the child were the most important things in his life
was illogical. His silence lasted too long. Poppy stepped back, straightening her spine as she did. “This talk gets us nowhere. Let us simply focus on the task at hand.” She walked backward, fading into the shadows beneath the trellis. Leaving him. “I shall see you at dinner.”

Paris, 1869—A Bargain

W
inston sat in the crowded Parisian cafe and felt no pain. The little green fairy was taking care of that grandly. He slumped back in his seat, heedless of those around him, and simply stared. Faces swirled about him like a kaleidoscope gone mad. Eyes grew larger, rows of gleaming teeth flashing behind stretched lips. Too much laughter here. He needed to find another cafe. One where the somber chaps congregated as they drank their way toward death.

Death. He did not fear it. Why should he? He was already dead inside. No dreams left, no hope, no Poppy.

Ah, there it was, the pain. Like a marriage-minded mama with daughter in tow, pain pushed with insistent hands through the layers of alcohol-induced numbness and put itself front and center, demanding attention. He rubbed his tender chest. She’d ripped his heart out. And had been messy about it. Gaping wounds remained. He
took another deep drink, and as the viscous anise flavor slid down his throat, he grimaced and looked down at himself, wondering how it was that there wasn’t a bloody hole in him. No. Simply a slightly soiled waistcoat and rumpled evening kit.

Was it evening? Or morning? When had he arrived?

Gas lamps burned in this murky place. Heavy velvet curtains lined the windows. One could never see the passing of time here. He hunched over his glass and wished for… what?

He thought of his dream to become a detective and realized that he no longer cared. Without Poppy, and the joy she brought into his life, any happiness he might find as an inspector would be a shadow of the real thing.

“It’s hopeless,” he muttered into his glass.

Foxed as he was, it took him a while to realize that the sounds around him had stopped. Completely, as though a thick blanket had been thrown over everything. His head heavy, Win had a bit of a time getting it to lift. When he did, he gawked. The cafe had gone still. Still as in every soul inside of it had simply frozen, as if they’d turned to marble. Now that was a trick. He looked about, blinking to clear his eyes. But the woman at the table beside his remained bent forward, her mouth stretched in a silent laugh, her bosom nearly falling out of her low, green velvet bodice. The waiter’s eyes remained glued upon those white mounds as his hand hovered an inch above the tabletop, the coffee cup in his hand steaming.

Footsteps echoed in the ringing silence, and Win wrenched his gaze toward the sound.

A man strolled toward him, his gait easy as he wove between the frozen patrons. Wearing a black walking suit and a waistcoat of scarlet satin, he appeared neither young
nor old. His form was trim, his features almost indistinct. Dark hair hung unfashionably long from beneath a top hat that hid his eyes. And while Win stared, the man’s thin lips curled in a smile. The man’s chin lifted, and Win caught sight of his eyes. White. White irises that looked anything but human.

Win inhaled sharply. But the man blinked, and the eyes turned a normal hazel brown. The strange smile he wore, however, remained. The click of his boot heels stopped as he stood before Winston.

“Mr. Lane.” The man inclined his head. “So sorry to keep you waiting.”

Waiting? Perhaps absinthe wasn’t the way to go. Perhaps opium would be better. Winston tried to reply and found his voice did not quite work. Decidedly, he’d imbibed too much.

Not waiting for an invitation, the man pulled out the chair opposite Win and sat. A slim, pale hand extended toward Win. “You may call me Mr. Jones.”

Win stared at the hand, and then at the man. He could not make himself move to shake hands. Mr. Jones let his hand fall and smiled again as though Win’s rudeness amused him. “Your glass is empty, Mr. Lane.”

Was it? Win hadn’t noticed.

“Let me get you another.” Jones’s fingers snapped, and like that, the cafe buzzed with life once more.

A waiter appeared at their table as if he’d been there all along. Win tried to think but found himself unable as the waiter set down a fresh glass of absinthe. Jones tapped the marble tabletop with one long fingernail. “Nothing is hopeless, Lane. Drink up.” His hand dipped into his coat pocket, and he pulled free a rolled length of foolscap. “Then we can discuss terms.”

Win touched his throbbing head. “Pardon, sir… I am a bit… muddled.” He took a deep, clearing breath. “Do I know you?”

Again came that smile, curling and dark with promise. Again the eerie flash of white in his eyes. “No. But you will.”

C
ome with me.” Winston waited impatiently at his dressing room door as Jack Talent put aside a pair of boots he’d been polishing.

“Where are we going?” Talent asked as they traversed the long, wide upper hall.

“As Mrs. Noble proves elusive for the moment, we are going to question one of the other guests.”

“Wouldn’t you rather question the servants?” Talent asked.

Most guests were preparing for dinner, and the light of the day was fading fast. Around them, maids were lighting the lower gas lamps as tall footmen attended the upper sconces. A golden glow began to rise through the house. Drinks were being served in an hour, but Poppy refused to dress with Win in the room—another change that chafed his nerves—so he had dressed first.

“Not now. No servant likes to be questioned during the busiest hour of the day.” He’d track them down mid-morning, in that slim hour between breakfast and
luncheon. “Besides, I’ve heard tell that a Colonel Alden has just arrived.” Five bob to the lower footman had done the job.

“Don’t see what an old colonel can do for us.”

“Ah,” Win stepped lightly down the center stairs, “but he is reputed to be an art collector. As was the demon Isley.”

Talent’s nostrils pinched as though scenting something foul. “Bloody demons. I hate dealing with them.”

“You can always go back to your room.” Win fought a smile as he glanced at the library door where the footman had told him Colonel Alden was taking a solitary drink. Winston tapped a finger against his walking stick and considered how best to approach the man. He looked Talent over. “How good a dog can you be?”

The corners of Talent’s eyes creased. “You’re attempting to flush a supernatural out, Inspector?”

“I gather most supernaturals would detect a shifter in their midst as opposed to a mere dog?”

Something dark flickered over Talent’s eyes then was gone. “Not all. But a demon ought to.”

“Then we’ll be sure to pay close attention to the colonel’s reaction.”

Winston expected Talent to find some privacy to change, but the man merely glanced about and, finding the corridor they’d stopped in empty, turned back to Winston with a devilish grin. The air about Talent suddenly shimmered, or perhaps it was Talent himself that shimmered. Whatever the case, it happened in the blink of an eye, too quickly for Winston to study. One moment Talent stood before him, the next an enormous dog looked up at him, panting as if it were laughing. By its side lay a pile of clothes and Talent’s boots.

Winston eyed the grey, shaggy beast with appreciation.
“A wolfhound, eh? Cheeky.” He gathered up the clothes and stuffed them behind a potted palm. “Come along then, Felix.”

A low growl had him glancing down. “Too bad,” he said. “I’m keeping the name. Always wanted a dog named Felix.”

Winston entered a large library that looked much like any other manor library, filled with the ubiquitous leather couches and imposing portraits of ancestors past. It smelled of books and wood polish.

A man sat, half hidden by the wings of the red leather armchair he occupied. Blue coils of smoke drifted in lazy tendrils just above the chair. When the scent of tobacco hit Winston, he tensed. Jones’s cigarettes. Was it Jones?

The occupant of the chair stirred, and the firelight caught the reflection of one polished steel arm. Curious.

“Good evening, sir,” Win said as he came farther into the room.

The man gave a small start then leaned forward. Alert eyes watched Winston from beneath a set of white brows.