Shadowdance
Page 7

The jangle of the housekeeper’s keys, accompanied by the starchy march of crinolines, pulled Mary’s attention away from the mirror and the quagmire of her thoughts.
“Mrs. White,” she said as the woman drew near, “I should like to ask you a—” She sucked in a sharp breath, for Mrs. White had moved into the shadows and Mary caught a glimmer of spirit about her physical form. It was a flicker of light but enough, and quite distinctive. She hadn’t paid proper attention to the housekeeper. She did now and heard the steady click and whir of a clockwork heart.
As for Mrs. White, she halted, her frame tensing. Her dull blue eyes began to glow as her gaze darted about for an exit.
“Why didn’t you identify yourself as a GIM?” Mary asked, slipping the baton strapped to her forearm down into her grasp.
“None of your business, is it?” Mrs. White snapped.
“I am SOS,” Mary said. “Any supernatural lingering around the scene of a crime is my business.”
A bead of sweat trickled down the woman’s temple, and the sound of her working heart grew louder.
“Why are you nervous?” Mary did not move, but she was ready, her body poised for a fight. She considered calling for Talent, but rejected the idea. The woman might bolt, and Mary could manage one GIM.
“What do you want with me?” Mrs. White’s fingers clenched and unclenched. Fight or flight. Which one would the GIM pick?
“Tell me about the body in Pierce’s room,” Mary said. “You had to know he was a demon. Where is the real Pierce?”
At that moment the door to Mr. Pierce’s bedroom opened, and Talent came into the hall. He took one look at Mary and Mrs. White facing off. In an instant his demeanor moved from an investigator’s to a predator’s, and the very air seemed to crackle about him.
Like an animal cornered, Mrs. White launched forward, her arm raised. Talent leapt toward them, trying to intervene, but Mary was closer, and the GIM was coming at her. She sidestepped the woman and swung her baton deftly against Mrs. White’s wrist. The bone snapped, and Mrs. White screeched but she didn’t stop and fight as Mary had expected; she ran.
Narrowly missing Talent’s grasping hand, Mrs. White threw a potted palm at them as she darted into the servant’s stairwell, slamming the door behind her. Talent was a beat behind. With a mighty kick he smashed the door inward and stepped through the wreckage.
Mary was on his heels. The stairwell was empty. A GIM could move on silent feet if needed, and not a sound came from the dark corridor.
A wild light lit Talent’s eyes, and small fangs grew in his mouth. “Up or down?”
“You go up, I’ll go down,” Mary said.
His heavy tread boomed up the stairs as Mary flew down them. A glimpse of black skirts on the ground floor landing had her shouting, “Talent! She went down!”
Not waiting for her partner, Mary picked up her skirts and ran faster, her feet barely touching the treads as she descended into the humid air of the subterranean kitchens.
Startled cries and the crash of dishes rang out as Mrs. White scattered servants in her wake.
Mary leapt over a toppled breakfast tray and burst into the kitchen. In the next instant a shadow flickered in the periphery of her vision, and she ducked as something whizzed by her cheek. Baton in hand, Mary straightened and found Mrs. White poised between the stoves and the massive butcher-block table in the center of the kitchen. A side of beef lay upon the table and, before it, a row of gleaming knives.
Bloody hell.
Mrs. White’s eyes lit with evil intent. And then she reached for the next knife.
One, two, three, the knives hissed through the air in a blur. Mary swung, using her baton like a bat. With a clink, clank, clunk, she knocked the knives down. Her arm vibrated, her hand sore from the force of the hits. When the last knife clattered to the kitchen floor, she glared at the irate GIM. “Finished?”
Mrs. White snarled, the cry echoing against the stone. She grabbed the remaining cleaver and rushed forward. Mary braced, baton at the ready. But from out of nowhere Talent smashed into the GIM, blindsiding her and taking her down with a grunt. They tumbled in a twist of legs and crinoline, Talent landing on top and the cleaver skidding across the stone floor.
Nose to nose, Talent grasped the woman’s bodice with a massive fist, and that wild light in his eyes grew more unhinged. “You dare pull a knife on her?”
The GIM merely laughed. “Aye. An’ I’d have sunk it into her pretty neck too. What shall you do about that, Regulator?” Her eyes began to glow. “Rip my heart out? I hear you like the kill better than the hunt.”
Fangs snapped down with an audible click, and Talent grew an alarming shade of red.
“Talent, I had it in hand.” Mary moved close, touching his arm, but he ignored her.
“Did you kill Pierce?” he demanded.
Inches from Talent’s fangs, the GIM glared back in defiance. “The Bishop did that, didn’t he? Or don’t you know?”
Talent gave her a hard shake. “Who do you work for?”
Mrs. White did not answer. She went grey, her eyes rolling back in her head. And then Mary heard it, Mrs. White’s clockwork heart grinding to a halt. The GIM began to convulse, spit foaming at the sides of her mouth.
“Hell. Talent, let her go.” Mary tugged on his arm and tried to wrench the woman free. “She’s stopping her heart.”
On a curse, Talent dropped the woman to the floor. “She can do that?”
“Yes. It is a closely held secret, however. For if someone has control over her soul, it is the simplest way to destroy a GIM.” Helpless to do anything other than watch, Mary knelt next to the cold GIM. “It isn’t Adam or Lucien. They do not allow suicide, nor do they kill in that manner.” Adam created every GIM, but Lucien managed all those who lived in London. Unless the GIM had earned her freedom, she would be under their control.
“Piss and shit.” Talent briskly slapped the woman’s cheek. But she was gone. Dull blue eyes stared up at the yellowed ceiling. “Who the bloody hell would have control over a GIM if not Adam or Lucien?”
A glimmer of grey about the woman’s neck caught Mary’s eye. She leaned in close and pulled down the edge of Mrs. White’s collar. Tattooed into the dead woman’s skin was a chain collar. A slave. At some point Mrs. White had given her free will to another. Mary met Talent’s annoyed gaze. “Her new master, apparently.”
Few things could dissuade Jack from working. But tonight was Daisy Ranulf’s birthday ball. Daisy was the only woman of his acquaintance who would demand a ball to celebrate. As if knowing he would find a way to back out of going, his boss Poppy Lane had cornered him early this morning and told him to get his “dodgy arse” to the ball tonight or she’d tack him to the common room wall by his cods. Lovely woman. Truly.
So he’d gone, and was now surrounded by his adopted kith and kin in the Ranulf House ballroom, which had been festooned with so many candles that the air had turned hot and hazy, smelling of melting wax and hothouse flowers. Despite the slaps on the shoulder and shouts of welcome he received as he made his way through the room, he felt as he always did, alone, apart. Because a part of him never eased, never shed the feeling that any good fortune to fall into his life could just as quickly be snatched away.
Leaning against one of the onyx pillars that held up the gilded ceiling, Jack watched the dancers. Most were familiar, but there was no one with whom he wanted to engage. The lines of the Bible verse repeated in Jack’s head as they had all day. The story of the Prodigal Son. Was the killer sending a message to Jack? Or referring to himself?
Across the way was Ian Ranulf, decked out in the Ranulf kilt, a fine black dress coat, and a white lace jabot at his neck. Antiquated attire, but expected of the lycan king, and certainly put together well enough, though his shoes could do with a bit more glossing.
There were days when Jack missed being Ian’s valet, and the simplicity of it. He knew most people wouldn’t understand, but the work had been soothing. By happenstance or fate, Jack—a half-starved lad, battered and beaten to within an inch of his life for daring to defy his crime bosses—had fallen on Ian Ranulf’s doorstep, unable to go any farther. And Ian had taken him in. It had been Jack’s pleasure to take care of the man who’d given him a home, and it had been the only way he could think of to properly repay Ian.
But Ian understood Jack better than he realized and had set him free; rather, he had ejected him from the nest. A blessing, really, for whether or not Jack had wanted to admit it, he had grown restless and bored. His adventure with Inspector Lane had been the start of something that fired his blood and gave him true purpose. Then it had all gone to shit.
Jack’s throat closed, the smoky air smothering him. He stretched his neck, and a series of small pops cracked along his spine.
“You came,” said a feminine voice at his side.
Daisy. He hadn’t even noticed her approach. Jack straightened. “It was either that or become an exhibit in headquarters’ main hall.” He leaned down and gave Daisy a light kiss upon her smooth cheek. “Happy birthday, Madam Ranulf.”
Her cheek plumped. “Poppy got to you, did she?” Daisy’s eyes scanned the dancers and paused upon the woman in question, who was presently dancing with her husband Inspector Lane.
Dressed in grass-green taffeta, Poppy did not appear to be the warrior woman capable of leading an entire organization, but a goddess sprung from the earth. The married couple executed a turn, and Poppy’s sharp gaze clashed with his. She gave Jack a short nod of acknowledgement.
“I believe her words were,” he murmured, returning the nod, “ ‘If I have to suffer, then so do you.’ ”
Beside him Daisy snorted. “I am overwhelmed by the love and affection bestowed upon me by my family.” She sounded more amused than put out.
Jack turned to look down at her. She was lovely tonight, resplendent in a primrose gown and little white hothouse daisies tucked into her golden curls. Her blue eyes glowed with the power of a GIM and the light of a woman content.
His tone softened. “I’d say our grievances are with parties in general, not you.”
“Pish. You and Poppy are peas in a pod, reticent homebodies I have to goad into doing anything remotely carefree.” She glanced at him askance. “Though you are rude to boot. At least my sister has retained a modicum of tact.”
“Speak your mind, why don’t you?”
Her mouth pursed. “My apologies. But I am cross with you.”
“What have I done?” But Jack had a fairly good idea. And he had it coming. His face burned with the truth.
Daisy’s gaze went back to the ballroom, and to her husband. “He misses you.”
The burning rose up to his ears as guilt loomed to the fore. Jack crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the pillar once more. His heart thudded against the cage of his ribs. “I haven’t gone anywhere.”
Her skirts hissed over the black marble floor as she turned to fully face him. “Do not play that game with me. You’ve shut him out, all of us out, and…” She drew herself up with a deep breath and, when she spoke again, it was with a forced lightness as if she were trying to spare him pain, despite her ire, which made Jack feel all the worse. Her words skipped over him like stones across a frozen lake. “Do what you must. I will not crowd you. Ian says we mustn’t.”
Perfect. He might as well have been two inches tall then.
“But know that we are here for you, Jack.”
Jack grunted. She ignored him, a wicked and irate gleam turning her eyes crystal blue. “And I had better not hear that you are being rude to Miss Chase. I love that girl, quiet thing though she is.”
Jack wouldn’t have defined Chase as quiet. Though, in retrospect, she was not particularly animated; unless, of course, she was goading him.
Where was Chase anyway? Daisy would have sent her an invitation.
“I have not been rude to her,” he muttered, trying not to chafe at the lie he’d just told.
Daisy harrumphed. “Are you behaving in your usual manner?”
“Don’t see how else I’d behave.” God save him from loose-lipped, well-meaning females.
She made the noise again. “Then you are being rude.”
Jack glared, and she had the temerity to buss his cheek. “Well, of course, we love you as you are.”
“Who loves whom?” Ian strolled up and wrapped himself around his wife like ivy, but his attention locked onto Jack. His expression was wary, as if he expected Jack to bolt and sought a way to prevent it.
Jack cursed. God save him from his whole family. Being near Ian set Jack’s nerves on end. He hated the disconnect between them but nothing seemed to ease it. Jack watched the dancers instead of meeting Ian’s eyes. Piss and shit.
“We are discussing why Jack feels the need to be rude—pardon,” she gave Jack an exaggerated nod of deference, “excessively rude to Miss Chase.”
Ian’s grin was all teeth, and most of them sharp. “That is simple. Because he wants to tup her.”
“Bloody hell,” Jack snapped, “is there a moment in which you do not think of tupping?”
Ian laughed. “And Jack the Prude returns. It might do you well to think of tupping now and then, mo mhac.” He’d spoken with lightness, a typical Ian jest, but the moment the words were out, he paled. Jack froze too, ugly, thick feelings sliding like sludge through his chest. There was too much knowledge in Ian’s eyes.
Jack whipped about, needing to get away, but not before seeing Ian’s expression fall.