Mary ignored Jack and concentrated on the moonlight glimmering off the fountain pools and the rush of falling water mingling with the sounds of light traffic passing around Charing Cross. Calmed by the gentle rain of falling water, Mary turned to the business at hand. “Why did he leave his victims here?”
Energy radiated from Talent, a violent vortex, one that felt as though it might crash into her, but it didn’t. Talent’s answer was flat, controlled. “Because it’s public.”
“There are many public places in London. Why this place? What does it mean to him?” She kept her gaze away from him. His voice and the tone he used would tell her more, at any rate.
Again came the surge of aggression, anger, and control. Always that tight rein on his temper. Many of her colleagues believed Jack Talent didn’t feel a thing. She had never thought that to be true. Talent had always been a seething cauldron of emotion, ready to overflow. His capture and torture by the demons had merely served to draw that rage inward, pulling him into deeper darkness. After his torture, she’d feared he would do himself harm. She’d been wrong. The SOS gave direction to his rage. Or so she had thought. Now she worried that he’d turned to murder instead.
The scuff of his boot told Mary he’d taken a step closer, and she tensed, but he sounded quite calm. “The square is considered the official center of London, from which the distance of all roads leading in are measured.”
“It is also the preferred location for political protests and national celebrations,” Mary said thoughtfully. “Perhaps you are correct in stating that the square does make for a rather public spectacle.” Standing at the base of Nelson’s Column, where the victims had been left, they faced Whitehall, which sloped down toward the Palace of Westminster. From over the treetops in the foreground, the great eye of Big Ben’s clock tower peered down at them.
“So then,” she said, “the question is, what public statement is the Bishop trying to make?”
Before Talent could answer, she spied a glimmer of black on the relief depicting the death of Nelson at Trafalgar. A soft breeze kicked up, and the object broke free and drifted down to the ground. It was a large, glossy black feather. Reaching out with caution, she picked it up.
“A raven’s feather,” Talent said. “Must have fallen from the sky.”
“And landed perfectly arranged in this fellow’s hat?” She gave a pointed look at the figure of a man holding up the felled Nelson. “Besides which, there are no wild ravens in London. And the Tower ravens cannot fly.” Gently she ran a finger along the feather’s edge.
A shock of sensation bolted down her arm and straight into her heart, causing her to catch her breath. Power—strong, clean, yet tainted with a malevolent darkness—resided in the feather. Power that burned. So much so that Mary looked at her finger to see if it was cut.
“What is it?” Talent made a move to snatch the feather away from her, but a set of footfalls sounded.
They turned as one and faced the man walking toward them. Talent stood with his shoulder nearly touching hers, so close that she felt him stiffen and heard the small, surprised intake of his breath when the man came into view. He was a tall man, lean and rangy. He was dressed as they were, in a long, fitted overcoat and heavy boots. But his coat and top hat were of an uncommon blood-red hue. Silky white hair flowed to his shoulders, and Mary expected him to be old, but he came closer and revealed the firm, smooth skin of a young man. A smile played over his lips, and a glimmer of fangs flashed in the moonlight. He’d let her see those fangs, a warning perhaps.
The male was a Western sanguis demon, if Mary had to guess. With that white hair and those fangs. Aside from elementals, all supernaturals had the ability to grow fangs, and often did when roused, but the sanguis’s were longer and thinner, designed to puncture, not tear.
“Hello, Jack,” he said. “I thought I recognized your sullen hunch from across the Square.”
No menace there, only familiarity. It did not stop Mary from wanting to grip Talent’s elbow, though she wasn’t certain if the desire was to hold him back or provide support.
Talent’s expression remained unmoved. “Will. I thought you were dead.” He didn’t sound as if he had been particularly put out by the notion.
Will’s lips curled further. “Close enough to it.” He lifted his chin a touch, and his eyes appeared beneath his hat brim. Cold, beautiful, haunted. Ice-blue surrounded by an outer ring of deeper blue. “I’ve not been as obvious about my activities as you, my friend.” His icy gaze slid over Mary, and she fought a shiver. “Nor do I keep as lovely company.”