Shadowdance(3)

The moon hung bright over Trafalgar Square, lending the vast space a dreamlike quality in which shadows danced beneath the monuments and fountain pools gleamed with silver effervescence. A soft wind ghosted low over the pavers, kicking up dust and bits of rubbish.

The hour turned and, in the distance, Big Ben chimed. Clean, resonant notes of the Westminster quarters rolled over London, a soothing lullaby, a musical constant that had heralded life, death, and all that came between. With a steady dong, dong, dong, the hours rang out. As the last note faded, the night watch strolled along Charing Cross and called the hours.

“One o’clock and all is well!”

Save all was not well.

Scurrying along the dark alleyways where only the desperate or despot dared tread was a raptor demon. A foul creature who fed on misery and pain, the demon had his pick of nourishment in London. Tonight’s clear skies and crisp weather promised that plenty of London’s populace would be out and about, just waiting to be pulled into the darkness. An excellent night for hunting.

Only he was not the sole hunter out for blood. And as he followed the night-bobby, intent upon making a small meal out of the copper, death followed.

His stalker growled low in his throat, a sound so soft that the demon remained unaware. Ironic, thought the hunter, that serving up death was the only time he truly felt alive. A rage began to boil within his veins and pull his skin tight. So tight that he barely felt the cold November air bite at his exposed cheeks. The very stink of the demon he followed made his nostrils pinch and his insides pitch. How well he knew this one’s foul stench.

The bobby stopped, perhaps feeling a thread of danger. After looking about, his handlebar mustache quivering in the breeze, he slipped into a tavern.

Thwarted, but not for long, the raptor turned down a dark corridor, and the hunter followed him. The lively song of a fiddle danced along the cobbles and on its heels came the laughter of men. They were gathered at the very end of the lane, hunched over a fire barrel. The raptor paused and smiled as if savoring the moment. The hunter savored it too, letting the hate within him grow. And then he attacked, slamming into the unsuspecting demon and dragging him into the deepest part of an alley.

Glowing yellow eyes glared back, fangs bared in a hiss. The hunter stalked forward, letting the raptor see him, take a good look at death. And the raptor’s eyes went wide, his grey skin going sickly white beneath the moonlight.

“I see you know me.” The hunter’s voice was whisper-soft and ice-cold, even while his body grew, tearing at the seams of his coat. Fangs slid over his bottom lip, and his fingertips throbbed under the weight of his long claws. The shift was always the same, taking on the form in which death would best be delivered.

A calculating gleam lit the raptor’s eyes. “Oh, yes. I’d say I know you well. Tasty blood you have, young lad.”

Raptors never were very intelligent. Like a whip, the hunter lashed out. His claws sliced into the demon’s gut and shot up, under the ribs, to grasp the hot, beating heart within. The demon screamed, his body bowing, his eyes rolling back.

Holding his prize tight, the hunter hauled his catch up close. “Say my name.”

The raptor’s bottom lip quivered. Just once before he spoke up. “Talent.”

Jack Talent gave the foul heart a squeeze. “Again.”

“Talent! Talent!” The demon writhed in his grip, unable to fight back or get away now that Jack held his heart fast.

A cool calm settled over Jack, easing the pain within him, if only for a moment, and he smiled grimly. “Wanted it to be my name on your lips when I sent you to hell.” And then he ripped the raptor’s heart out.

Washed in blood, Jack leaned down and severed the demon’s spine, and the light died in the demon’s eyes.

Peace ebbed away before the body even cooled. But Jack knew peace would never truly be his until they all died. Throwing the body over one shoulder, he made his way to Trafalgar Square.

Not a soul stirred as he came upon Nelson’s Column. There he would leave the body, just as he had all the others. But as he moved closer, and the moonlight illuminated the spot before the plinth, his breath stopped and his blood stilled. A body already lay there.





Chapter Two





It was inevitable that Jack be called into headquarters. The Bishop of Charing Cross had struck the night before. Murder was nothing new in London. Strange ones of a public nature, however, were another matter. Jack had been the regulator in charge of this particular case for a year now, a blight on his otherwise stellar record. This time a shifter had been murdered. As one of five—make that four now—known shifters living in London, he took it personally. Having intimate knowledge of certain facts, Jack was also unnerved by this new murder. Deeply. And he wanted answers.