Shadowdance
Page 39

“No, Mary.” Lucien lurched forward. “You are not dead. And you are loved too. I love you.” He stabbed a thumb at his chest as he glared at her.
Of course he did. Lucien had never hidden the fact. But the love of a friend, while comforting, was not enough anymore. It did not soothe the restless discomfort that pushed against her chest or quell the loneliness that seemed to grow within her each passing day.
Her smile was wobbly. “I love you too. At any rate, I merely meant that avenging the crime against Talent hurts me less than it hurts him. Moreover, it felt good to do this thing for him.”
That had been the strangest part. For the past two years, Mary had believed that the SOS would fill the dark void that held residence within her chest. And while it helped, she hadn’t felt as strong and as right as when she’d plunged the stake into Ada Moore. What did that make her?
Her voice was subdued when she spoke again. “But now I find myself wondering if I should quit the SOS. I am a regulator, Lucien. It is my duty to uphold the very rules I broke.”
Lucien’s mouth twisted. “Rules rarely take into account the stickiness of life.”
“You always were a nonconformist,” she said weakly. Instinct and logic warred within. Right now logic was screaming that she was a fool and to end this madness and let Jack Talent dig his own grave.
They fell into quiet. Outside, the weather slowly rolled in, and below, the Thames dulled to pewter. Mary took a deep bite of the apple, relishing the way her teeth sank into the flesh and the crisp snap of the fruit giving way. Tart-sweet flavor filled her mouth as she crunched.
From behind her came Lucien’s snort of disgust. “That is one thing I shall not miss.”
She turned to find him pinched-faced and glaring at the apple in her hand.
“Lord above, woman, the way you go at those things. You’re worse than a cow with her cud.” He waved a lazy hand toward the silver cutting knife resting by the fruit platter. “Has it never occurred to you to cut your fruit like a civilized person?”
She almost laughed but took the pleasure out on the apple. He winced at her exaggerated bite. And she smiled, her mouth full of fruit. “If the way I eat apples bothers you so greatly,” she said around the apple, which made Lucien sneer, “then why provide me with them all of these years?” It had been the one gift from him that she’d truly valued above all others, for it spoke to her pleasure rather than his vanity.
Lucien sighed. “My dear girl, it was all I could do not to ban them from the household.” His brilliant eyes twinkled with wry amusement. “Do you honestly believe I’d provide you with the means for your disgusting habit? I thought you placed the order for those things.”
The apple stuck in her throat, aching and burning as she forced it down with a hard swallow. It took her a moment to speak, but when she did, her voice came out rough yet weak. “You did not send gifts to my rooms? Leave fruits at my doorstep?” The week she moved out of his barge, she had received her first basket. They’d kept coming, once a week without fail. Mary had taken it as a sign of Lucien’s approval of her final step to living her own life.
A stillness settled over the room. Lucien tilted his head slightly as he studied her. Contemplation made his voice smooth and low. “No.”
The half-eaten apple grew heavy in her hand. “Nor figs in winter? Strawberries in the spring? Or plums and cherries in the summer?”
A small smile crept over his mouth. “No, no, and no.”
Mary blinked at him, unable to say a word more. A strange bitter flavor coated her tongue. Years, she’d received those gifts of fruit. She thought of the other small gifts, the ones that upon reflection did not fit with Lucien’s grand gestures. The thick mackintosh overcoat the year it rained incessantly, the fine set of steel quill nibs that showed up when she broke one of hers, a flagon of spiced wine on Christmas day. For years, at least four…
Dizzy, she leaned against the wall, her arm pressing against the cool window. “But…”
Lucien’s voice held a hint of teasing as he softly sang, “Somebody has an admirer.” He leaned farther back in his chair and laced his hands over his stomach. “Now who could it be?” His toe tapped faster now. “Oh, surely not that angry shifter who nearly tore my head off when I went searching for your key?” He tutted, but his eyes held Mary’s. “After all, he has hated you for all these years.”
The apple fell from Mary’s fingers and hit the floor with a juicy thwack. Whatever else Lucien said fell on deaf ears as she stalked out of the room.
Chapter Thirty
If the light glowing in his bedroom window was any indication, Jack was still awake. Which was preferable, for despite her turmoil, Mary hadn’t the heart to creep up on him while he slept. Jack was proud, but had not stopped the staff at Ranulf House from gossiping about his vocal nightmares. In hindsight, that more than anything was the likely reason for his decampment to a home of his own.
In cowardly fashion she hovered by the gatepost, silently cursing her unmoving feet. Everything would change if she went into his house. She knew it on a visceral level. What she did not know was if she wanted the change. Nor if she’d be welcome, after the way she’d tossed his declarations back in his face.
“Only one way to know, you ninny.” Taking a deep breath, Mary let herself in through the back door and made her way up the stairs. Darkness steeped the house in tones of blue and black, and the only sound came from the hall clock ticking and the countermeasure of her heart clicking. She did not attempt to be quiet, nor did she stomp about with her displeasure. He’d scent her coming at any rate, probably had been aware of her a block out. Even so, her breath was stilted, and her heart whirred faster as she carefully mounted each riser.
A sliver of golden light marked his door. No movement from beyond it. Only stillness and Jack Talent waiting. Even though she yearned to, she did not pause at the threshold but boldly put her hand on the doorknob and opened it.
Most people read in a chair. Not so for Jack. No, he sat, tucked up in the middle of his pasha’s bed, saffron silk pillows piled behind his head, a blue velvet duvet over his lap. Clearly he read there often, for a small table and reading lamp were set up just next to the bed. Lamplight cast his skin in honey gold.
That glorious torso of his was once more unveiled. Lovely, sculpted, built for strength and endurance. Her body tightened, and her lungs seized. It had been one thing to see him when she thought him unaware. It was quite another to face him in the flesh. And he was looking at her, as if he too knew the significance.
Her lips parted, but no sound came. It was not resentment that darkened his eyes, but a hint of fearful resignation, as though he waited for the ax to fall. Yet beneath it all, something simmered like yearning, only stronger. It was that need, so carefully tamped down and controlled, and so much like hers, that tugged at her soul. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything more than take a step farther into the room.
Talent’s body went perceptibly harder, his muscles bunching, yet his hands remained still upon the book in his lap. Her hands, however, shook as she lifted the apple from her pocket and presented it.
“I brought you a gift.” Her voice was a stranger’s, breathless and quick.
He did not look at the apple. His attention was riveted on her. Oh, but his guilt was evident in the small tic at the side of his expressive mouth. The silence between them stretched. It took everything she had within her not to move closer to him. He compelled her, made her want to… she didn’t quite know, only that she feared the feeling and craved it in equal measure.
“Why?” she asked, when he did not speak.
His throat moved on an audible swallow. “I wanted… Lucien never took proper care of your needs. Neither did you. Somebody had to.” It appeared he would say no more, but then his words came, awkward and rough. “And you said you craved apples.”
Her ears rang. One flippant remark, a small desire of hers, and he’d taken it to heart. Somehow she ended up at the side of the bed. Up close his skin appeared velvety smooth. Dark brown hairs gathered just below his navel and trailed down his tight belly, and a pale swath of bare hip, peeking out from the duvet, caught her attention before she looked away.
His pulse beat visibly against the little hollow at his throat. A silver chain dangled about his neck, glinting in the light. She’d never seen it before.
“Why?” she asked again.
“To make up for what might have been.” His hand lifted as if he’d touch hers, but then it dropped, his fingers curling in the cover. “In a different world, I might have tried to make you mine from the first.” His thick whisper lanced her clockwork heart and had her breath quickening as he continued. “In a different world, I might have deserved you.”
Then he moved. The warmth of his fingers made her flesh jump, but she did not pull away as his forest-green eyes burned into hers. “I might have met you that long-ago day in Lucien’s parlor, and instead of running away”—the rough pad of his thumb brushed over her knuckles—“I might have told you how utterly and completely you captivated me.”
Her knees gave out, and she sank to the bed, her thigh brushing against his. They were face-to-face, close enough that she might touch him. That he might touch her. Neither of them moved. But the connection of their linked hands held her in place.
Her voice, when she found it, shook. “You merely had to show your true self to me, and I might have been captivated too.”
A sad smile tipped his lips. Slowly, as if giving her every chance to move away, his hand lifted. Warm fingertips brushed her cheek, and her lids fluttered under the sensation. “Ah, Merrily, you assume this is my true self?” He traced down her jaw and lingered at her throat where her skin was the most sensitive. A tentative touch, as if he wasn’t certain how he’d be received. “Even now I hide from you.”
She leaned in, allowing herself the small pleasure of touching him, just on the corded length of his forearm. It turned to steel beneath her palm, and she applied firmer pressure, reveling in the illicit contact. “Then show me, Jack. Show me who you are.”
A challenge. He never could resist one. Even now his lips firmed, and his blunt chin lifted a touch. His fingers wrapped around her throat, not hurting, simply holding her. He studied her. A large part of her rallied to hide from him, don a mask of indifference as she’d always done. She ignored it and let him see her. And his eyes widened a touch, his lips parting.
Her voice broke the silence. “Show me who you are, Jack.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, as if cursing himself. The air about him shimmered, his form blurring. It happened in a blink, and then he reformed.
Mary’s breath hitched. He was still Jack. Save for the scars. The cross caught her attention first. No bigger than the span of her hand, the nearly faded mark was a white ghost against the gentle rise of his left pectoral muscle.
“My uncle did that one,” Jack said. “To remind me of my profane nature. Hurt like the devil.”
His lips curled on a wry smile but Mary could not return it. She thought of all the demons similarly branded, and of a young boy being cruelly tortured. Something of her thoughts must have played on her face, for his mouth turned down and his voice lowered. “They…” He cleared his throat. “They had a particular fascination with that scar. Some of them took to calling me their acolyte.” Jack’s mouth snapped shut with a click of his teeth, his high cheeks going ruddy. “I wanted there to be no doubt who was coming for them.”
Slowly she nodded, her throat thick and her eyes burning. The cross was not his only scar. Her gaze wandered over them. Not simple scars, but cruel marks blackened and carved into his flesh. Thick swirls and symbols. Demon signs. She remembered them, dripping with blood as he hung on the iron spikes.
“They rubbed ash and iron dust into them.” Jack’s voice was dispassionate, dull now. “Makes it permanent.”
Mary’s throat closed. Bastards. Jack did not move as she reached out to touch one, but she stilled at the last moment. “But the marks are different.”
“What?” It was a shocked whisper.
She met his eyes. “I remember them. Each one.” She would never forget. And the symbols were not the same.
A smothered sound left him. “Found a demon scribe. He changed the symbols. Carved new ones from the old.” His jaw clenched. “I’ll not be bound by those bastards.”
“No.” She touched him then, resting her hand against his chest where his heart thudded beneath. His skin was warm and smooth, the scars not raised but more like a tattoo.
A small furrow worked between his brows as he searched her face. She remained silent, not knowing what to say, or what he needed. When he spoke, his deep voice ended their stalemate. “I don’t like to see them.”
Mary’s chest squeezed. He thought she needed an explanation for why he hid them. She pressed her hand more securely to his firm chest. But Jack didn’t appear to notice. His scowl grew. “I don’t want to remember.” He looked at her as though he believed she’d find him lacking for such a confession.
“Does it tax you to hide them?” she asked softly.
“It’s as easy as breathing.”
“Then don’t stop. Hide them now if it eases you.” She couldn’t see him hurting.
He blinked, and beneath her hand, his chest rose on a slow breath. “No. I want you to see me.” A small shiver ran over his skin. He leaned toward her, the bedclothes rustling as he moved. “I want you to know all of me.”
And because she understood him with perfect clarity in that moment, she let her gaze move over him, learning every imperfection. His face was slightly different too. A bump along the bridge of his nose, a thick scar bisecting his left brow and another faint one on his stubborn chin. He noticed her inspection of him. “Poker to the head, age eleven. Blow to the jaw, age twelve. A few beatings in between.” His lashes swept down. “I did not heal as well when I was younger.”