“The only beings I know of with wings,” Mary said, “are primus demons and fallens.”
Primus were said to be the first demons created, born from the collective thoughts of mankind. Fallens were angels who had chosen to live among men, and thus were cast out of heaven. They were rare as a diamond in the sand; no one in recent memory had seen a fallen in the flesh.
Talent’s green eyes looked straight at her then, and a wry smile tugged at his mouth. “Where do you think a shifter comes from, Mistress Chase?”
He had her there. Onus, the offspring of primus and human beings, included weaker demons and shifters. Most onus were many times removed from their primus forefathers. Mary pursed her lips. And his grin grew. “Your father must have been an exceptionally strong onus.”
The light in his eyes dimmed. “My father, whoever he was, was pure primus.”
At her shocked look, he shook his head slightly. “The ignorance, really…” Talent leaned slightly into her space. “The reason there are so few shifters in the world is that we are the direct get of a primus.”
Primus themselves being rare and not inclined to mingle with others.
“You… you don’t know who your natural father is?”
His jaw hardened. “Nor do I want to. Now”—he bent down, and with impressive strength hauled one crawler over his shoulder before grabbing hold of the other—“let’s stop flapping chaps and get these back to headquarters. Grab the hearts, will you.”
Hefting both unwieldy crawlers like sacks of grain, Talent strolled out of the alleyway, leaving Mary to follow.
Chapter Eight
The devil often hid in plain sight. No one knew this better than Jack. After he dropped the shadow crawlers’ bodies off at headquarters the next morning, he headed out. Time was short—Chase would be meeting him soon—but he could not put off this particular task. Nor did he want to.
Blood boiling and teeth set, he took the stairs leading up to the honorable Mr. William Cavendish’s Belgravia town house two at a time. The black lacquered door was little impediment to his rage. One swift kick and it flew open, the sound of splintering wood and the clanging brass knocker giving him a short satisfaction.
A footman yelped, jumping to attention after his delayed shock. “Hold! Stop—”
One punch to the man’s jaw and he fell like a sack. Jack shook out his hand and kept going, heading past the vivid display of red hothouse roses and toward the sound of titters. Female and slightly alarmed. Behind him other servants scurried, the hushed plea of “Ring for the constable” coming from one of them. They needn’t bother. He would not be here by the time the bobbies arrived.
Wrenching open the tall double doors that led to the parlor, Jack took in the sight. A gaggle of women, feathered in silk ruffles and plumes of satin bustles. They scattered upon his entrance, squawking and flapping their arms in fright. One proper miss swooned. But the eldest stayed seated, her eyes alight with impotent rage. He grinned at her, showing his teeth, a promise that fangs would soon descend. Her iron-grey curls and the soft wattle of flesh at her neck trembled.
She tilted her chin when he bent over her. “Mrs. Cavendish.” His hand clasped her neck, claws digging in enough to hurt, if not draw blood, and a chorus of feminine screams erupted once more. Jack leaned in and spoke against her ear. “Take me to him now or I’ll snap your neck and smear your fetid blood over this white silk davenport.”
Their eyes met, and a flash of yellow sparked across her irises. He’d expected that, but not the powdery scent of gardenias that choked his nose. That particular cloying scent, mixed with stale demon, was familiar. His insides went ice-cold before raging to hot. Over the years many demons had pretended to be the elder Mrs. Cavendish. Most of them had been harmless. But not this one. It was all he could do to refrain from acting on his threat. He gave a squeeze to convey the direction of his thoughts, and she gurgled before wrenching away with a strength no human would ever possess.
“Ladies, do be calm.” The old hen clapped her hands like a governess calling for order. “This is a simple misunderstanding. Go on with your tea. I shall only be a moment.”
None of the women believed her, but, for the English, order was more important than logic, and so they quieted as Jack and Mrs. Cavendish left the room.
Out in the hall, scurrying servants halted when they spied their mistress walking with Jack. “Close that door,” she snapped at a gaping footman. “And go about your business.”
“Mum,” began the butler.
“It is nothing,” she hissed through yellowed teeth. “Do you understand?”