Shadowdance(2)
He pressed his lips together.
She leaned in a bit, picking up the noxious scent of sulfur and smoke. Bloody foul raptor demons. Mary’s voice was a blade in the thick air. “We make a nice, deep cut here”—she pointed toward his throat—“so that we might pull your tongue out as far as it will go before we wrap it about your neck.”
Sweat pebbled along his noble brow but his yellow eyes glared. “You gonna flap your chaps all night? Or do you want to hear what I have to say?”
Mary sat back with a pleasant smile. “Talk.”
His large hand lifted from the table. He made a show of adjusting the lapels of his stolen coat. “I gather you know the Bishop’s been busy of late.”
The so-called Bishop of Charing Cross was making quite the reputation for himself. First appearing in London in January of 1884, he’d started a sensation by leaving victims with their hearts ripped out, spines severed, and chests branded with a small cross. Their bodies were always found on the plinth of Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square where it faced Charing Cross. A few eyewitnesses—of dubious credibility—claimed to have seen a man wearing long black robes fleeing the scene.
The newsboys, being the inventive sort, had dubbed the killer the Bishop of Charing Cross on account of the cross brand and the fact that the robes were similar to the cassocks worn by clergy.
So far he’d claimed five victims. Wealthy men, some titled, some not, all of them most thoroughly slaughtered. Only the SOS knew that the victims were, in truth, an assortment of raptor and sanguis demons. It was the duty of the SOS to both protect humans from supernatural harm and hide proof of supernatural involvement in the human world.
“We know,” she said. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
Mercer’s grin was evil and cold. “The Bishop made a wee mistake whilst doing his dirty business this last kill.”
Mary did not move, but every muscle in her body tensed. “Go on.”
Mercer paused, waiting, his expression said, for her to show a bit of good faith. Mary tapped her thigh, and the unmistakable jingle of coin rang out. Satisfied, he looked about for a moment, then leaned in close, bringing with him the scent of rotting onions and perfumed pomade. “I was there when he left his victim out in the open.”
Mary stilled. “You saw him?”
One blink.
Mary watched the demon. “Risky of you.”
“Don’t I know it, love.” He paled then. “I’m thinking if the wind were not on my side, I might not be here now to share my good fortune.”
Her heart began to whir. “He could scent you?” Most supernaturals had an elevated sense of smell, but some had a more refined sense than others.
Mercer’s long finger tapped the scarred table. “The question you ought to be asking, love, is how much does this information mean to you?”
Her smile was slow and thin. She worked it, letting him feel the menace behind it. Two years of training to be a regulator had taught her many things, especially how to wield information like a whip. “Ah, now, Mercer. I already have valuable knowledge, do I not?”
His brows lowered, and she whispered on. “Information that might slip out, carry on the wind where anyone might hear. Such as how you know the identity of the Bishop—”
“Hold your tongue!” He made to grab her hand.
Mary’s knife was under the table in an instant. She pressed the blade in deep enough for him to feel. “No, you hold. There are a lot of soft bits here that you might miss, Mercer.”
Fangs shot out as he growled. “You don’t fight fair no more, Chase.”
“More’s the pity for you.” Mary had wearied of playing it clean. It got her nowhere with the dregs she worked amongst.
“Pay me and I’ll tell you.”
She didn’t move. “If you play me false, I will find you.”
“Understood.” He raised one brow, prompting her to act. “Now hurry up, I’ve an assignation with a plump and wealthy widow.”
Mary quelled her disgust. A bag of coins hit the table.
Mercer licked his lips. “You won’t have to look far for your Bishop, love.” He grinned then, his eyes alight with cruel mischief. “He’s been right under your nose the whole time. Might even call him an SOS favorite.”
Dread pulled at Mary’s spine. “Name.”
“You know it well.” His words seemed to slow, growing more distinct, and suddenly Mary did not want to hear them. But they came regardless, ruining her evening and instantly making her life that much worse. “Mr. Jack Talent.”
Later that night, in another part of town—