Shadowdance(106)

He looked at his old friend. “Will, I am asking. What the devil do you know?”

With an unsteady hand, Will raked back his long white hair. “Hell, I don’t know much.” He frowned up at Jack. “I do know that there’s been rumblings about the threat of a high-up member going rogue. Whoever he is, he’s got enough power to have the superiors very worried. And earlier this evening, one of our agents, Ada Moore, was found dead in Trafalgar Square. We thought it might have been you, but she was stabbed with a Christ’s-thorn stake.”

If Jack hadn’t been well trained, he would have sagged against the wall.

“I’ve read Ada’s file, Jack.” Will’s voice dropped. “Didn’t realize that she was one of the ones who…”

Jesus. A strange, happy ache surged into something sharp and cutting, wonderful yet at the same time terrible. Mary had killed for him. He remembered the slight wince and darkness that had clouded Mary’s eyes when she spoke of the Nex agent. Moore had been the agent who brought her to the square.

He cleared his throat, struggling to think of something to say, but all he wanted to do was return to Stone’s barge and… he didn’t know what he’d do. Jack did not deserve her. But he wanted to.

After dressing in one of her older gowns, Mary found Lucien in the dining room. Like a true pirate, Lucien liked to conduct business there while lording over his feasts. She suspected the man had been starved as a form of torture at one point, for he loved nothing better than to glut himself on food. Not that it would affect his form in the least. Perhaps that was why as well, she mused, as she found him sitting at the head of the table, his booted feet resting comfortably upon the arm of a neighboring chair. There was something quite decadent about being able to indulge as one wished without fear of consequences.

“I agree with Jack Talent’s sentiments,” Lucien said as she approached. “I am greatly pleased that you are still with us, my dear.”

“I do not believe that was Mr. Talent’s precise sentiment.” She leaned over Lucien and gave his cheek a light peck. “However, I thank you.” She straightened, and Lucien gave her hand a fond squeeze. He loved to touch, and since she knew she’d given him a scare, she allowed it.

“I think you underestimate Mr. Talent’s depth of feeling,” Lucien added.

So many offerings on the table. Rolls and loaves of bread, a platter of cold meats and cheeses, cakes and biscuits, a tureen of what appeared to be hominy grits—Lucien’s favorite. Mary shuddered and moved on.

His voice went soft. “You can always come back. I do miss you, you know.”

He’d been the one to offer her the choice, and they had been good friends for twelve years, confidants. Remembering it now brought a lump to her throat. “I miss you too.” She smiled wryly. “Some of the time.”

He scoffed. “Oh, well, flatter a man, will you?”

“That would be gilding the lily, Lucien.” She grinned, then sobered. “I don’t want to come back. Nor should I. I left for your sake as much as I did for mine.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” He looked away, petulant to the last.

“You are one hundred and twenty years old—one hundred and fifty, if you count your first life—”

“Again with the flattery,” he muttered.

She leveled him a look. “And yet you’ve hidden behind my skirts like a lad in short pants for a decade.” Mary lowered her voice, coaxing now, because she knew it was a tender spot with him. “We do not live within society, Lucien. You might have a life, not a perfect one, granted. But—”

“Hidden and subversive nonetheless, eh?” he said with a humorless laugh. “That is not how I want to live, mon amie.”

Sadness and frustration crashed within her. Lucien would never be able to live free and open. He desired men, not women. Even if the underworld did not condemn him, should any hint of improper relations reach human society, he could be imprisoned.

“Nor does it matter,” he said quietly. “That part of me is better off dead.” An old hurt Lucien never spoke of. He was silent for a moment, and she could almost see the cogs working in his mind. A rare contemplative look passed over his features, and, as though he’d reached a decision, he straightened his shoulders and looked up at her. “Your Mr. Talent believes we are lovers. He has for some time now.”

A childish parry if ever Mary heard one. She glared at Lucien sidelong. But the bastard merely smiled. “He is not my Mr. Talent.”

“Whatever you say, pet.”