Her firm little chin rose a notch as she stared him down, clearly seeing this as a challenge. “Well, I only know your…” Her mouth snapped shut, and he almost grinned. Only his scent. She knew it and none other.
Chase’s eyes narrowed as if the look could stop him from reaching that conclusion. When she spoke again, her voice was snappish and resentful. “Like earth and stone.” There was an abrupt pause. And his breath caught. Her eyes grew lighter, glimmering gold as her words slowed. “Warm yet strong. Like granite baking in the hot sun.”
“Very astute, Chase.” His voice was too thick and rough for his liking. He looked away. “Now get to it.”
Thankfully, she fled the room with as much haste as Mrs. White.
Once alone he crouched down and put his head in his hands. “Shit,” he muttered.
Jack glared up at the corpse, its white foot listing at an awkward angle over the bed. Ever since he’d been freed and able, he’d been looking for those who had tormented him in the dank, iron-lined room. He remembered every fiend’s scent, so that he would know them when he killed them. Finding them was the hard part. The Nex hid their own well. And now someone had beaten Jack to this kill.
Starting to rise, Jack froze as he spied a tiny triangle of white peeking out from under the apex of the man’s arm. It was a piece of paper. Jack swallowed hard and opened the tightly folded paper. Lines of blood ink came into view: “Luke 15:29–30.”
It had been years since Jack had thought about the Bible, much less read it. But every word was burned into his memory. His parents had made certain of that. He said the words now by rote, not even pausing to think. “ ‘And he answering said to his father, Lo, these many years do I serve thee, neither transgressed I at any time thy commandment: and yet thou never gavest me a kid, that I might make merry with my friends: But as soon as this thy son was come, which hath devoured thy living with harlots, thou hast killed for him the fatted calf.’ ”
Jack rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Bloody hell but I hate riddles.”
It wasn’t until Mary closed the door to Pierce’s bedroom and walked a ways down the hall that she could take a proper breath. God, the stench. The mangled body. Mary swallowed hard, even as she cursed herself blue. It appeared that she would never get past her inability to stand death. Worse still, Talent had noticed her weakness.
Frowning, she paused by a little hall table poised beneath a gilded mirror. The woman frowning back at her through the glass appeared pale and drawn. Sweet Lord, but she looked a fright. That in itself did not bother Mary. No, what perplexed her was Talent’s reaction to her obvious distress. He’d been kind, gentle with her. When she’d expected sarcasm, sneering, ridicule. He had the perfect excuse to see her off the case. If she could not confront death, study the victims, she could not do her duties. Perhaps he’d taunt her later, but she still could not account for the way he’d helped her now.
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.