Winterblaze (47 page)

SOS Headquarters, London 1885

A
shifter had been murdered. Thus, it was inevitable that Jack be called into headquarters. As he was one of five—make that four now—known shifters living in London, his expertise on the subject made him the smart choice to head the investigation. He was glad of it. The closer he was to this, the better. No one would suspect when facts were covered up, because he would be the one collecting them. And as he always worked alone, there was no chance of anyone questioning him.

Cool shadows slid over him as he strode down the long, echoing corridor that led from the SOS common rooms to the main meeting area. Evening had fallen, and headquarters was full of regulators updating their intelligence before going out for the night. He did not like being around them,
anyone
, but the others steered clear of him, their eyes averted, and their
bodies tense. Fear, he could handle, hell welcome, but pity?

One younger agent lowered her lashes when he passed, and a growl rumbled in his throat. She started and hurried off. Rightly so. No telling what sort of beast would break free should he lose his temper. Not even he knew. That was the way of a shifter, not owned by a singular monster but possessed by all. He was everything, and he was nothing in particular.

At the end of the black marble hall, a guard stood beside a massive steel door. He saw Jack coming and swiftly opened it.

“Master Talent,” said the guard, “they are waiting for you.”

This irked him. He was precisely on time and the director was already waiting? And what did the guard mean “they”? It ought to be solely him and the director. Who the bloody devil else would—

Her scent slammed into him like a punch. And what little equanimity he’d maintained flew out the door. Oh, no, no, no… They wouldn’t dare. He eyed the inner wood door that blocked him from the meeting room.
She
was in there.

His muscles clenched tight as he forced himself to enter.

“Ah, Master Talent,” said Director Wilde from the head of the table. “Right on time. Excellent. Let us proceed.” His clipped voice was unusually animated, as if he knew Jack’s displeasure at the unexpected third person in the room and reveled in it. Which wouldn’t be surprising. Wilde loved to unsettle Regulators.

Jack heard every word, but his gaze moved past the director and locked on
her.
She sat at Wilde’s right, serene
and ethereal as ever. Her face was a perfect replica of Botticelli’s
Venus,
and her body… No, he wouldn’t think about that. It was one rule he refused to break.

Her golden gaze met his with cool assessment, as if nothing he said or did affected her in the least, as if he was as interesting to her as wallpaper. And that irked him even more.

Mary Chase would like to think that, after years of being on the receiving end of Jack Talent’s hateful glare, she’d be immune to it by now. Unfortunately, it still worked through her flesh like a lure, hooking in tight and tugging at something deep within her. One look and she wanted to jump from her chair and hit him. However, knowing that he too found her presence bothersome gave her some small satisfaction.

Talent dropped his large body into the chair opposite her. She suspected that he sought to do so gracelessly in order to convey his displeasure, but the blasted man was too naturally coordinated, and the move ended up appearing effortless. “Director Wilde.”

Talent turned back to Mary again. His rough-hewn features might have been carved from stone. “Mistress Chase.”

Oh, but the way he said her name, all oil and flame, as if it burned him to utter it.

Mary dug a fingernail into her palm and modulated her voice. “Mr. Talent.”

He paused for a moment, his brows rising a touch in reproach. She’d been childish in not giving him the proper address, but some things burned for her too.

His quick, irrepressible smirk said he knew as much. “Master,” he reminded.

He loved that she had to call him master. Their first year as allocates, he’d taken every opportunity to make her use the official title for all Regulators. Their gazes held, and heat rose to her cheeks. Thank God she hadn’t the complexion to blush, or he’d be all over her. “Master Talent,” she ground out.

That annoying smirk deepened, and her nails dug deeper into the flesh of her palms.
One day
…

“Now that we have our names clear,” cut in Wilde, “might we proceed with the actual investigation?” His slanting brows lowered. “Or shall we continue with this little pissing contest?”

“It was no contest.” Talent adjusted his broad shoulders in the chair and crossed one leg over the other.

Never react.
She turned her gaze upon the director. “I was ready to hear the facts of the case twenty minutes ago, Director.”

Talent bristled, and she let a small smile escape. He bristled further, but Director Wilde ploughed past it.

“Good.” Setting his hands upon the polished mahogany table, Director Wilde proceeded to give them the facts. Mary had memorized them, and so she let the director’s words drift over her as she studied Talent. The man was good, his strong features not revealing any hint that he too knew every fact or that he had intimate knowledge of the Bishop of Charing Cross’s kills.

One powerful arm rested upon the table, and though the fabric of his plain black suit coat bunched along the large swell of his bicep, Talent did not so much as twitch when the director set down a photograph of the victim.

“Mr. Keating of Park Place,” said Director Wilde. “As with the other murders, he has been branded with the Bishop’s cross. After which, his spine was severed and
his heart shredded. The sole difference in this victim,” he continued, “is that, while the others were demons, this man was a shifter, and by all accounts, a law-abiding citizen of London.”

Mary glanced at the photo, featuring an older man, stripped naked. The cross branding his chest was a raw, ugly wound, but it was his eyes, wide and staring, that made her clockwork heart hurt. It was the expression of an innocent man pleading for mercy.

Talent looked as well. And when he did, she watched him. The ends of his brows lifted a fraction, and if she weren’t certain of his guilt, she’d be inclined to believe that he was surprised.

“Do you know him, Master Talent?”

Wilde’s query had Mary focusing once more.

Talent’s heavily-lidded eyes lifted from the photograph. “Shifters by nature are a solitary lot. No, I did not know Mr. Keating.” His long, scarred fingers curled into a fist upon the table. “I was under the impression that the SOS kept the identity of shifters secret.”

The director’s mouth tightened. “We do. There is no indication that the files have been breached.”

Talent made a noise that might have been construed as a snort, but it was just soft enough to get by Wilde without earning any reproach. For once, however, Mary agreed with Talent’s sentiment.

After researching long into the night, Mary had learned that, in the last hundred years, the SOS had made a concerted effort to locate and document the existence of all shifters living in Europe. A daunting task. However, when the Nex began hunting shifters for their blood—whose properties gave demons the ability to shift into anything—the SOS, realizing their mistake in outing shifters, provided
as much protection as they could by offering the shifters new identities and keeping their whereabouts hidden.

Talent leaned forward a fraction. “Who was Keating? Before?”

“Johannes Maxum.” Wilde pulled a paper from his file and handed it to Talent. “He’s an older shifter. Date of birth unknown, but he once worked as an alchemist for Augustus the Strong in the quest to discover the Chinese’s secret to making porcelain.”

Talent scanned the page, then set it down. Protocol dictated that he hand the paper to Mary, and she might have been insulted at his obvious slight, had she not been expecting it. No matter, she’d read about Maxum as well. Besides, she would not be cowed by Talent’s juvenile tactics.

In any event, Director Wilde was now looking at both of them. “You two will lead the investigation. Research has been instructed to provide any and all assistance you might require.” He ordered the file as he spoke. “We need to be quick about this one. I needn’t tell you how important it is to keep shifter blood out of the Nex’s hands.” He stopped and a flashed a quick smile that made him appear younger than a man in his late thirties. “But I will.”

Mary rather liked Wilde’s dry sense of humor and smiled. Talent, however sneered as if he’d been punched. “I work alone. Always have.”

“Not this time, Master Talent.” Wilde set the file down. “Any more questions?” He pulled a gold watch from his pocket and frowned. “I’m needed elsewhere in about five minutes.”

The sound of Talent’s teeth grinding filled the room. “I was under the impression Mistress Chase was here in a clerical capacity.”

“You hoped,” Mary corrected. “Otherwise, I have grave concerns regarding your propensity for jumping to conclusions.”

Talent leaned his weight on the table as his gaze bore into her. “Keep baiting me, Chase, and you’ll find out what else I have a propensity for.”

She leaned in as well, until they faced each other like dogs in a pit ring. “I am quaking in my knickers.”

“There you go again, mentioning your knickers.” His mouth slanted, and his eyes gleamed. “What I cannot discern is if you only do so to me, or if you want the whole of the SOS to be thinking about them.”

“Why Master Talent, are you trying to tell me that you think about my knickers?”

His lips pinched so tight that she had to bite back a grin. A low growl rumbled from the vicinity of his chest.

“Children.” Director Wilde’s expression was stern, but his eyes held a glint of amusement. “The discussion is over. You will work together on this.” His good humor fled. “And you will not fail the SOS. Now,” he motioned to the door with his chin, “take your squabble out of here. Perhaps you can pull Mistress Chase’s braids in the common room, Master Talent.”

Mary might have laughed at the way Talent’s high-cut cheeks flushed with irritation, but she stood and gave Wilde a graceful curtsey. “No need, Director. I am done here as well.” She wanted out of this room. Lord knew she needed a head start. For one thing was certain, Talent was far from done with her.

On the outside, Mary knew she appeared serene as she left the meeting room. On the inside, however, she quivered in anticipation. A calm before the inevitable storm. And that storm was right on her heels.

Although, in truth, Jack Talent reminded her more of a panther, all dark and brooding, his powerful body so still when at rest, yet capable of instant, violent action.

Mary headed down the corridor, knowing that, while he made no sound, he stalked her. The skin at the back of her neck prickled, and her heart whirred away within her breast. With his shifter’s senses, he’d hear her spinning heart, she was sure. It was torture not to quicken her step or turn around.

By the time she reached the shadowed corner that led to another section of headquarters, her breast rose and fell in agitation. Damn him.

And damn her too, for some small, traitorous part of her liked the chase, reveled in it. Gripping her weapon, she waited until his heavy hand fell upon her shoulder, and then she spun.

He grunted as they both hit the wall. The hard expanse of his chest barely gave under her weight as she pressed against him. For a moment, they both panted, then his gaze lowered to the knife she had at his throat.

She expected his rage, but not his grin, that wide, brilliant grin that lit up his dour features and did strange things to her equilibrium. His cheeky smile grew as he spoke. “Pulling iron on me, Chase? How bloodthirsty.” His hot breath fanned her cheeks. “I knew you had it in you.”

But he had no idea.