Shadowdance(14)

True to his word, Talent was now back in form and raising an imperious, bushy brow. “Well then,” he snapped to the housekeeper, “Let us proceed.”





Chapter Five





Jack’s steps were slow as the housekeeper led them into the bedroom where Mr. Pierce had been found. Sunlight brightened the room, the heavy brocade drapes having been thrown back. Thankfully the housekeeper had not thought to open the windows. Despite the rank stink of death and decay that made his stomach roll, Jack needed to inhale each scent, his shifter’s sense of smell giving him the ability to find clues within the muck. He let it flow over him, and then it hit him. He knew this victim. The knowledge turned over in his gut, and it took everything he had not to react before going to the bed in which the departed Mr. Pierce still lay.

The housekeeper’s pale lips pinched tighter than a lockbox, her thin body stiff as a post. “It isn’t decent, letting him lie there.”

He shot the woman a look. “And it isn’t decent to let the murderer get away with taking his life.”

Some days Jack hated his job. Give him a good chase, something to fight, anything but trying to cajole information out of prats. He finished the rest of his oft-said speech. “By leaving him as he was, we might find some clue as to who did it.”

The woman nodded sharply. “Aside from the drapes, nothing’s been touched, sir.”

He studied the dead man. His eyes were open wide, terrified, his mouth gaping in the way of death. He was lying on his back, and his hands were up by his head as if they’d been held there while he died. Blood matted his dark hair and soaked the bed, turning the fine linen sheets into a macabre splatter of black and crimson. In the center of his bloodied nightshirt, just over his left breast, a cross had been branded, burning through the fabric and into his flesh. The smell of char and roasted flesh was a thick note amongst the rot of death. But there again was Pierce’s natural scent, and Jack knew it well. It had permeated his skin on a long-ago day when this very bastard had sunk his teeth into Jack’s neck.

“And how did you find the drapes, Mrs. White?” He glanced at the housekeeper. “Shut tight? Slightly open?”

Her long, sharp nose wrinkled. “Shut tight.”

Which did not mean the killer hadn’t come through the window. Jack walked over to them, but found the sashes locked tight. No forced entry of any kind. Which did not mean much when dealing with the supernatural. Down below, black-topped carriages ambled by, and a pair of ladies strolled along the walkway, their blue and yellow parasols up to protect them from the rare London sunlight. Yet a few clusters of gawkers were hovering on the street corners and idling by the low, wrought-iron gate across the way.

Jack let the drape fall and turned, only to notice Chase hovering by the door. Jesus, but the woman was grey. Sweat beaded her brow, and her mouth hung slightly open. As a GIM, she ought to have seen plenty of death, but she acted as if today were her first experience with studying corpses. Something within him softened.

“If you’ll excuse us, Mrs. White,” he said to the housekeeper. Unsurprisingly, the woman fled the room. Once she was gone, he set his attention back on Mary.

“Chase.” He said it quietly but she flinched. Her brown eyes were round and glassy as she looked up, and he fought the urge to move closer. “Why don’t you question the staff?” Hell, he needed to be alone for a few minutes at any rate.

She did not like being told what to do, that was bleeding obvious. Her eyes narrowed, and he suppressed a sigh. “Look, there is nothing wrong with admitting you find a task distasteful. I bloody hate talking to witnesses, as you have pointed out my distinct lack of tact. It is quite obvious you are one breath away from vomiting.”

She stiffened. “I am not.” A shaking breath left her. “Not one breath, anyway,” she finished with a petulant mutter that made him want to smile.

He kept his voice gruff, lest she catch on. “There ought to be some benefit to having a partner. Sharing disagreeable duties tops my list.”

With lips as pinched as Mrs. White’s had been, she studied his face as if looking for some sign of foul play or sarcasm. He let her do it, knowing that he had her. When she let out another quick breath, he relaxed.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll see to the staff.” She hesitated for a moment, her gaze cutting to Mr. Pierce. “He wasn’t a shifter, was he?”

His head jerked. “How did you know?”

Chase’s soft mouth quirked. “He does not smell of shifter. And Pierce was a registered shifter.”

Jack paused. “And what does a shifter smell like?” He believed her, only his curiosity now ran rampant. How would she describe it? Did she like the scent? Did she like his scent? Bloody pathetic idiot, he was.