Winterblaze (44 page)

T
alent sat in a worn-down leather armchair the color of dried tobacco. He did not greet Winston as he walked into the room, nor did he appear to even notice. Winston knew better. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he strolled near. Talent stared out of the tall window, and the grey London light fell hard on his face, highlighting the lines of fatigue, and the tributaries of pain recently wrought upon him. The only movement in him at all was the quick motion of his hand as he flipped an object over and under each finger before repeating the action.

Win stepped closer. The object was a cross. A crude thing made of iron, it was no more than three inches long. Whether Talent noted Win’s study of the cross, or he’d simply grown tired of fiddling with it, was unclear, but he stopped and covered the thing with his hand.

“I might wonder if you’ve come to gape.” Talent turned then, and the coldness in his gaze chilled. “Only I suspect you’ve been on the other side of that coin too long to do so.”

Win leaned against the footboard of the bed. Being
a shifter, the external damage Talent had sustained had healed without scars, but emotional trauma was far crueler. “I’ve a job for you.”

A flicker of interest entered Talent’s eyes. “Go on.”

“I have to ask it. Are you able?”

In the blink of an eye, Winston found himself staring at himself. The sensation was off-putting, to say the least, but he nodded in satisfaction as Talent shifted back. “It will be dangerous. You may not come out of it.”

“Wouldn’t be interested if it wasn’t.”

“Mmm. And are you, then, willing to perform the lowest sort of skullduggery?”

Talent’s gaze narrowed, his body growing taut and poised to act. “I’m listening.”

Poppy emerged from a bath clean yet worn out. The warm water had soothed her tired muscles and made her crave sleep. But she was hungry. Again. Glancing about, she tentatively settled a hand on her belly. “You are turning me into a glutton.”

Tender feeling fluttered across her heart. She hadn’t spoken to the little barnacle before now. A smile tugged at her lips. Barnacle. That’s what he was, attached to her insides and attached to her. And she would not let him go.

Her hand hovered before drifting down. Later, she could feel this. Later, she could say it, when Isley was captured, and Win… Her vision wavered. He’d asked her to trust in him. She did, but giving up control ate at her. As did the fear. The idea of losing him or her child made her insides heave. A knock on her room door cut through her racing thoughts, and she moved to answer it.

To her surprise, Jack Talent stood at her threshold.

“Mr. Talent. It is good to see you.”

He looked well. Healed at least and dressed in a fine linen suit very similar to Winston’s. His eyes, however, held shadows and pain. But he offered a tight smile. “Mrs. Lane. I’ve brought tea.”

It was then she noticed the tray he carried.

“I saw the inspector,” Talent said as she stepped aside to let him in. “He’s downstairs sparring with Ian and Archer.”

No doubt to alleviate his tension. Had she any energy, she would be inclined to join them. As it was, however, the sweet, yeasty scent of bread held the greater allure.

“However, he thought that you might be hungry and asked me to look in on you.”

She followed Talent to the small sitting area by the hearth and sat as he set out a meal for two.

He caught her looking and hesitated. “May I take tea with you?” The corners of his eyes tensed. “If you’d rather—”

Poppy touched his arm, then drew away when he flinched. “I would enjoy the company, Mr. Talent.”

He did not wait for her to pour but did the honors himself, his movements precise and assured. “How do you take it?”

“Right now? With milk and lots of sugar.”

“The babe?” he asked with gentle amusement.

“I believe so.” Poppy accepted her tea but looked around him. “Are those cream buns?”

Thankfully, Talent did not say a word as he filled her plate with not one but two buns. Bless the man. Poppy gave the offered treats the attention they deserved. Bliss. Utter bliss. She did not care what Talent thought of her; she was going to eat every bun that he did not.

Talent sat on the chair next to hers and quietly sipped his tea as she devoured her food. The silence between them,
while not quite awkward, was not entirely peaceful either. They both were too aware of what had happened to Talent.

Licking a bit of cream from the corner of her mouth, Poppy finally spoke. “Mr. Lane tells me you want to be a regulator.” It was one of the many things she and Win had discussed before he had slipped out to consult with Archer and Ian, about what he wouldn’t yet tell her. But she had to trust him.

Talent’s gaze slid away. “I thought to be, yes.”

Poppy set down her plate. It was empty anyway. “I think you shall make an excellent Regulator, Mr. Talent.”

When he lifted his head in quiet surprise, she spoke on. “Accept the offer and you shall start training Monday morning.”

Ye gods but his concealed joy made her flush. She did not know why that would be so, but the room grew decidedly hot. Or perhaps consuming four cream buns in three minutes was not advisable. Her stomach turned, the room swaying a bit.

Oblivious, Talent leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees. “You honor me, ma’am.” His visage blurred before her eyes, the words he spoke a buzz in her ears. “I can only hope,” he said with strangely drawn-out diction, “that you will feel the same come Monday morning.”

Ice ran along her skin, and she gripped the arm of her chair. “What have you done?”

He stood, looming, his eyes holding regret. “Nothing I’m proud of.” Then he guided her heavy body down to lie upon the couch and slipped a small square of paper into her limp hand. “Do not worry, Mrs. Lane. The chemist assures this won’t hurt the baby.”

The baby. Their baby. Win. She needed to save them. But her world went black and she could think no more.

L
ate as it was, the Victoria Embankment appeared abandoned, peaceful even. Winston’s footfall was little more than scuffs along the wide, flat pavers. A warm breeze rustled the leaves of the trees so carefully planted along the path. Before him, the many spires and towers of Westminster Palace pierced the grey sky, and the glowing face of Big Ben stared back like a yellowed, unblinking eye.

He walked past the electric lampposts that ran along the curved wall of the embankment. Their strange, unwavering white light made him see the world clearly. The rippling waters of the Thames reflected those harsh lights and the ones coming from the gaslights upon the distant Westminster Bridge. Above the bridge, the moon hung bright in the mottled sky, the edges of it indistinct beneath the moving clouds.

Though he had many things to worry over, Win took it all in. This was his city, and he loved it well. Dark and strangely beautiful, London was his home. And he might never see it again. He shoved his shaking hands into his
pockets and took a deep breath of acrid air. One last and proper taste of the city before he fought for his child’s soul, and for his.

The air stirred again, a swirling gust that did not appear to come from any one direction, and then Jones was simply there, standing beneath the garish light of an electric lamp. “I almost wondered if I’d have to hunt you down,” he said.

Winston took a step closer. Tonight, Jones wore his own skin, or rather the skin Winston knew him in. His white eyes followed Win’s movements in a twitchy sort of way, and Win fought the urge to laugh. Jones was nervous.

“I gave my word that I would be here,” Win said. “I do not go back on my word.”

Jones leaned one elbow on the high embankment wall. “And yet you have not brought me my son.”

“We shall get to that in a moment.”

Jones bared his teeth on a growl. “We get to it now!” Before Win’s eyes, he seemed to grow taller, broader, less human. “Mary Margaret Ellis kept him from me, and I’ll be damned if my daughter continues to do the same.”

Winston returned the stare, ignoring the sweat trickling down his collar and the tremor in his back. Part of him wanted to look over his shoulder for fear of seeing Poppy appear before he could get this business done. Instead, he leaned against the embankment wall as Jones had done. “All right,” he said. “I’ll tell you where he is.”

“You most certainly will not!” Poppy said.

They both stood at attention upon hearing Poppy’s irate shout. She walked out of the shadows, her dark eyes snapping with fury, her long legs eating up the ground as she advanced. And still dressed as a man.

Win watched her, not daring to look at Jones.

“What on earth have you done to yourself, Poppy Ann?” Jones said with a shocked laugh. Oddly, Jones almost sounded affectionate.

Her straight brows nearly touched. “None of your bloody business.” Her gaze swung around to Winston and went ice cold. “You unmitigated bastard. That you would drug me and betray my trust—”

“For our child!” Win snapped. Inside his heart raced with nervous fear, but he could not let it show. “Did you honestly expect me to give up our child for anything on this earth?”

She winced, her face crumbling. “I cannot… I promised not to let my brother come to harm.”

Win threw up his hands and made a noise of disgust.

“Be reasonable, Poppy.” Jones took a step in her direction. “He is my son.”

“So say you.”

Jones took another abrupt step closer, and she stiffened, her hand drifting to her side, where no doubt several weapons were stored. Jones paused. “Moira said so too. Do not doubt that.”

Winston heard the sorrow in Jones’s voice and, for a brief moment, he felt sympathy for the devil. Poppy, however, seemed to suffer no such sentimentality.

“Tragic for you,” she snapped.

Flames erupted over Jones’s face as he growled. “Then it shall be your child and husband, and I will gladly take them to see you suffer.”

“No!” Winston shouted. “I will tell you.”

Poppy pulled a blade free. “Another word and I will kill you.”

Win’s fists bunched, but he didn’t move. He dared not overplay his hand now.

Poppy looked away first, her white skin glowing in the moonlight as she studied Jones. “Let us get to the heart of this. Do not pretend that you did not hunt down Win that night fourteen years ago in order to arrange this very moment.”

“Of course I did.” Jones sneered. “You and yours stole from me, hunted me down as if I were at fault.” He stabbed his thumb against his chest. “You imprisoned me.”

“Yes.” Poppy did not so much as blink, yet she appeared to look down her nose at the demon. Such a perfect Poppy gesture. “And you hate me for it.”

Jones flinched as if slapped, but then stood taller. “I want you to suffer.”

“Then take me.”

“Poppy, no.” In two steps, Win was at her side. “Do not do this.” He had to make a good show of it, make it appear that he did not want her to suggest this very offer. He grabbed her arm and gave it a small, imploring squeeze.

“You no longer have a say.” She shook him off, her strength almost too much. He shot her a look but let go, stepping back. Poppy lifted her brow as she looked at Jones. “Well? Take me and leave Win and my child alone. They aren’t what you really want at any rate.”

Jones cocked his head. “And my son? I will see him.”

She crossed her arms in front of her. “When he is of age, I will give him the option of being introduced to you.”

Seconds ticked past. Time in which Winston felt as though his life was ebbing out of him. Everything ached; his muscles were tight with fear and helpless rage. Almost finished now.

“It is a good bargain,” Poppy said in a low voice.

Jones’s smile was smug. “Yes. It is.” His eyes turned white as snow. “Terms.”

“My child will not be snuffed out of existence. Win’s
soul goes free. In return, you get what you see.” She spread her arms wide and willing, before cocking a brow. “I’ll need that in writing.”

Fire and ice flared in Jones’s eyes but he simply drew out another rolled foolscap. “Here. Does that meet with your approval?”

Poppy hesitated, and it seemed that Jones leered over her. Thoughtfully, she rested her knuckles against her chin. “One contract should be to free Win and the child. The other should be for me.”

Everything stilled as Jones studied her. Poppy stared back. “I do not trust you.”

Jones’s teeth flashed in the light. “Nor I you.” Watching her, he reached into his pocket and pulled free another contract. “Winston Lane’s blood will be needed for this.”

Poppy’s eyes narrowed. “As I thought.” She glanced at Win, and he steeled himself not to react. “Sign it.”

“And if I don’t?” His voice nearly broke.

“Then our child will be destroyed.”

Not looking at either of them, he pricked himself and signed in blood. His eyes burned as he watched the crimson stain of his name spread across the paper. Jones’s pale hand came into view. With an elaborate flourish, he pricked his finger and made a sign in black blood. Hieroglyphics. Win glanced at the demon but Jones was already stepping away, his attention on Poppy.