Winterblaze (7 page)

Not one to sit about and have a servant handle things, Mrs. Lane went straight to unpacking. She did not speak a word about Inspector Lane, nor betray any emotion on her countenance, but her slim hands shook now and then when she did not keep them busy. Mary gathered that their discussion had not ended well. However, as they were not decamping, Mrs. Lane must have emerged victorious. Mary hadn’t really doubted the outcome, not after spending the last few days in Mrs. Lane’s company.

“Will you wear the pink for dinner tonight, mum?” Mary asked her, as she unpacked the gowns Lady Archer had provided. The pink satin evening gown was exquisite and a stroke of brilliance, as it would highlight Mrs. Lane’s bold coloring in an unexpected way.

Mrs. Lane’s keen gaze sought her out. “You realize that I do not truly mean to use you as my ladies maid.”

“You might as well,” Mary said without heat. “I’m quite good at it, and Lady Archer did not select evening wear that you can get into on your own.”

“Humph. I cannot think of anything more banal than picking out dinner gowns. Or striving to impress others with my clothing.” Mrs. Lane’s red brows drew together in a slash. “Blasted Miranda and Daisy. I should have known better than to entrust my wardrobe to them. I do not see why I cannot wear my current outfit.”

Mary bit the inside of her cheek. From what she knew of the Ellis sisters, there was a time when young Poppy Ellis had attended societal events. And she had been raised to be a lady, despite having lived the past decade among the middle class. Mrs. Lane turned back to her trunk, a massive blue leather one that, when she opened it, contained a veritable arsenal of weaponry. Some that Mary recognized and far more that she did not. She could not help but be awed by the efficiency and speed with which Mrs. Lane had prepared. Between Mrs. Lane assembling her weapons and her sisters selecting gowns, they had gathered everything needed for an ocean voyage in little over an hour.

“I suppose you could,” Mary said, choosing to ignore her employer’s fit of pique. “It would invoke plenty of conversation, at the very least.”

One elegant red brow rose pointedly. Mary gathered her courage and met Mrs. Lane’s piercing gaze.

Mrs. Lane’s crisp voice broke the silence. “You remind me of Mr. Lane. He too believes his cheekiness is amusing.” The small note of wistfulness in Mrs. Lane’s voice was well concealed but Mary heard it.

Mary spoke carefully as she hung up the pink to air out. “The inspector is stubborn as well?”

For a moment, Mary feared she’d overstepped her bounds irrevocably. Then Mrs. Lane answered. “He is that. But at the moment, he is angry. Justifiably, I’m afraid.”

A flurry of activity told Mary just how upset Mrs. Lane was. Mary kept her gaze averted. “Show him what he is missing.” The words hung in the air, and she could feel Mrs. Lane’s stare. Reluctantly, she turned to find that her employer appeared befuddled. Mary sighed inwardly. “When it comes to dealing with the female sex, men generally think with their smaller head. Inspector Lane has merely forgotten to listen to his.”

Mrs. Lane’s lips twitched spasmodically. “So you suggest,” she asked in even tones, “that I remind him to think with his cock?”

Mary’s cheeks heated. “Normally, I would suggest the reverse, but in a case of overabundant logical thinking, I believe a return to balance is in order.”

A strangled noise left Mrs. Lane’s throat but she maintained her poise. “You are a most unusual woman, Miss Chase.”

Rather the pot calling the kettle but… “Yes.”

Thankfully, Mrs. Lane turned back to her unpacking. “I shall take your suggestion under advisement.”

They worked in silence with Mrs. Lane sorting through her box of horrors as Mary exalted in the rainbow of silken gowns her sisters had selected, far more than Mrs. Lane would be able to wear on such a short trip.

“Here.” Mrs. Lane suddenly appeared by her side and handed her a slim box of polished ash wood. “These are for you.”

Mary hesitated. Lucien often gave her gifts. Gifts of adornment. He did it to be kind, never understanding that she did not want to be dressed up like a doll. Mrs. Lane, however, wasn’t the sort prone to frivolity.

“Me?”

“Of course. Did I not just say?” Mrs. Lane bustled back to her trunk and began rooting about in it once more, dropping a heavy scimitar knife on the dressing table with a thud.

Mary’s fingers were careful as she set the box down and opened it. Nestled in black velvet were four gleaming metal stars. Japanese throwing stars shaped more like stylized suns. Their edges glinted, sharp and wicked.

“Happo shuriken,” she murmured. “How lovely.”

“Do you know how to use them?” Mrs. Lane asked from the depths of her trunk.

“A little. There aren’t very many Japanese gentlemen about, even fewer willing to teach their weaponry.” The GIM’s knowledge was second-hand.
My, but they were beautiful.

Mrs. Lane straightened. “I want you to practice every day. Do it in here or your rooms, where no one can see. The walls are as good a target as any.”

That she had little care for the resulting state of said wall had Mary holding back a smile. “Yes, mum.”

Mrs. Lane nodded. “They don’t usually deliver a killing blow, but they’ll slow down your enemy well enough. I’ve a gun and knife for you as well. A good Regulator must be proficient in all forms of combat. As much as I wish that you had received proper training beforehand, there is little use crying over it now. We’ll get you set to rights later.”

“I am not entirely without training.” Although she
gathered that her notion of training was not in keeping with Mrs. Lane’s exacting standards.

Mrs. Lane’s expression was proof enough of that. “You’ll do for now. Which is why I let you come along.” She sighed and ran a hand along her hair, her straight nose wrinkling when she encountered her hat. She tugged it off, completely destroying her coiffure.

“If you’d like, mum, I could find a way to incorporate some weapons within your millinery and gowns.”

Mrs. Lane’s pale face lit up with almost girlish glee. “Most excellent idea, Miss Chase.” With an idle flick of the wrist, she tossed her hat to Mary and then proceeded to attack her trunk once more. “Eventually, I’ll have to inform Mr. Lane of our plans. Sooner rather than later, I’m afraid.” Her voice lost its usual confidence, and though her face was hidden behind the lid of the trunk, Mary fancied she was frowning. Then her tone became brisk once more. “At the very least, we have Mr. Talent, which is a boon. He will watch over my husband while I confront the demon.”

Mary was about to answer that she did not know how helpful Talent would be, as he usually pouted like a boy in short pants and then promptly did what he liked, when they heard a commotion coming from the hall. One word in particular cut through the rumble:
murder
.

“Blast it!” Mrs. Lane grabbed a hip holster from the trunk and strapped it on. The dark glint in her eyes was unnerving as she grabbed her knife. “God help that demon if he has harmed my husband.”

“Bad discussion with the wife, Inspector?”

Winston did not bother acknowledging Talent as he strode down yet another endless corridor on this hulking
beast of a ship. Bad discussion? It was the understatement of the year. Instead of getting anywhere with Poppy, she’d made him feel small and dishonorable, which was damned aggravating given that she was in the right; he had acted dishonorably in leaving her without asking for an explanation.

Worse was that, from the moment he’d seen her on the gangplank, his body and his soul had awakened, much like being jolted from a dream. No matter her betrayal, the anger he felt about it, or her present machinations, she made him alive. She excited him. And he wanted her still.
Perfect. Bloody perfect.

Beside him, Talent nodded sagely as if he’d responded instead of remaining tight-lipped. “You look terrible at any rate. Pinched about the mouth. Remind me to add a bit of lavender to your shaving water. Soothes the nerves.”

Winston halted. “I believe I made it clear that you are not my valet. Nor,” he added, taking a step into Talent’s space, “is it your business to speculate about my personal discourse. Good or bad. I’m not Ian Ranulf who you can goad into a temper with your insolence.”

Talent did not so much as blink. “So this isn’t you in a temper?”

Winston held that insouciant gaze. “Pray you never see me in one.”

The man grinned. “I live among wolves. You wouldn’t stand a chance against me—” Talent yelped as he was slammed to the floor, his legs flying out from under him.

With a grin of his own, Winston pressed the end of his walking stick into the man’s chest as he bent over him. “You were saying?”

Talent eyed him, clearly considering brawling in the narrow passageway, but other passengers were approaching.
Waiting until the horrified couple scrambled away from the undignified spectacle of a man sprawled upon the floor, Talent knocked aside the stick and leapt neatly to his feet. “Thought you were more of a ‘the pen is mightier than the sword’ type, Inspector.”

“Depends on the fight.” Winston set his lapels back in order. “Rest assured, I can do battle with both.”

They stepped out onto the promenade deck. Fresh sea air hit Winston, and he drew in a deep breath. They walked on a ways. “Mrs. Lane claims a demon is on the boat with the sole intent to bedevil me.” It wasn’t easy for Winston to say, much less think.

“Bloody demons.” Talent’s mouth twisted. “If you ask me, it’s safer to slice their heads off and be done with them.”

“I find your cavalier attitude toward murder somewhat disturbing, Mr. Talent.”

“Oh do you? I suspect you’d be singing a different tune should one catch you,” Talent said darkly. “They like to play with their prey, you know.”

Lovely.
“Are you saying there aren’t any demons worthy of redemption?”

“Not one who’d have Mrs. Lane rushing out to save your hide.”

It took a moment to find a calm tone. “This is all moot, as Mrs. Lane tells me this one cannot be beheaded.”

“Every supernatural can be destroyed from beheading.”

Winston did not like the speculation that resided in the younger man’s eyes, nor the itching fury that was mounting in his chest. The railing made a dull clang as he punched it with the side of his fist. “She cannot have exaggerated to—”

“Bring you to heel?” Talent supplied with a dry snort.
“Who the bloody hell knows what a woman will say or do to get her way?” His expression darkened. “Look at Miss Chase. Suddenly she’s a bleating Regulator in training. Sneaking little…” He pushed a hard breath through his nose.

Winston faced Talent, and the breeze sent his hair scattering across his ruined cheek. “Do you want to be a Regulator?”

Talent scowled at the sea. “Would do a lot better than Chase.”

Fighting a smile, Winston kept his voice neutral. “I suspect you’d make a fine Regulator.” He tilted his head, and the fluttering strands whipped back. “Why not apply?”

Hot color washed over Talent’s broad cheeks. “You can’t apply,” he muttered. “You can only be invited. Doesn’t matter, I’ve better things to do with my time.”

Ah, there was the rub. Miss Chase had been invited, and Mr. Talent had not. Winston might have believed that was where their animosity stemmed, but he knew better. It was clearly older than that.

“Daisy works with the SOS now,” Winston said. “Why not ask her to press your suit?”

Talent’s gaze snapped back to him. “Oh, I well know it. Who do you think got Mary Chase in? It takes months,
months
to process a novice, and yet Chase is in, within, what, a week? Working with your wife?” He pointed an accusatory finger at Winston as his scowl grew. “I’d be asking yourself why, Lane. I know I am.”

This time, Winston stepped near, letting the blunt tip of Talent’s finger press into his chest. “If my wife has any secrets, they are hers to keep.”
And mine to discover.

Talent’s mouth opened as if he would retort but then he froze, his nostrils flaring and his gaze growing flat. “I smell blood.”

Carried on the wind came the scent of copper. And shit and piss. Win knew the smell too well. Not just blood. “That is death.”

Moving as one, they stalked toward the scent. Winston’s hand tightened on his walking stick. Above, seagulls squabbled in mid-air, diving and swooping around the massive smokestack.

“Attracted to the blood,” murmured Talent.

Ahead, the deck narrowed as it curved toward the bow of the ship. Lifeboats creaked, and the paddle churned, but not a soul stirred.

They crept closer to the source of the scent. A grunt and a sound unnervingly like that of a man slurping soup came from the other side of the steam funnel. Winston’s hand slipped to the gun hidden within his inner coat pocket. At CID, he wasn’t allowed to carry one, as the populace of London had an aversion to police arming themselves. Even so, he’d used a gun before, when the danger was high. And only a fool would carry a weapon and not know how to wield it. He’d like to think himself not a fool, but a gun hadn’t helped him when a werewolf attacked him. Winston swallowed down the rush of bitterness that filled his mouth.

“Have you a weapon?” he whispered.

Talent spared him a glance. “I’m a shifter.”

Winston supposed that would have to do.

Together, they rushed around the corner, Winston’s gun out and cocked.

“Hell,” Talent said.

Winston stopped short as he spied the body. Male, young, wearing officer’s whites. Torn and bloody throat, his pants gaping open, sightless eyes gazing up to the heavens. Winston took in the particulars, then a shadow
flickered in the periphery of his vision. Winston took off after it, with Talent at his heels.

Their feet pounded on the deck as they raced along. The sound of an iron door wrenching open had Winston increasing his pace. He skidded around the corner and tore through the open hatch. A man paused on the stair, his eyes gleaming yellow as he grinned back at them.

Bloody hell. His appearance was identical to the man who lay dead on the deck.

“Demon,” Talent said behind Winston. “Used his victim’s blood to assume his appearance.”