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Shadowdance(38)

By:Kristen Callihan


“I gather not,” she agreed. “However, as my current specialty is electrical devices, I may be asked to give my opinion regardless.” She motioned to the body. “If I could take a look.”

The man bristled but Kane lifted back the pall. The sight was gruesome. Melted flesh, black singed clothes, and a gaping hole where the fellow’s chest ought to be. Most definitely death by electrical shock. Holly swallowed sharply, then leaned closer. There in that bloody, gory cavity were the remnants of metal. “He was a GIM,” she said, peering at the network of finely wrought valves that were attached to the various arteries and veins.

The sheet flicked back over the body, and Holly gave a start. Coal-black eyes met hers. “As you say, miss,” Kane murmured before pushing off without so much as a by-your-leave. Holly stared after the silent pair, the squeaking wheels of the trolley echoing in the dim space. With a suppressed sigh, she left for the tunnels.

Outside, the air was icy and sharp, and she sucked in a good lungful, trying to refresh her sluggish brain. To her right lay the Palace of Westminster, looming so high and proud that it blocked the moon. Coaches rattled by, and the sounds of the city filled the void. Holly moved toward the hack stand where an SOS guard stood in disguise, his job to keep watch over all comings and goings from this particularly busy entrance. But before she could take another step, something slammed into her, and a hard hand clamped over her mouth.

Holly had no time to swing a fist before she was dragged back into the shadows. She thought she heard someone shout her name, but the sound was muffled. From the periphery came a glimpse of pale hair and the flashing of green eyes. The hand pressed so hard that tears prickled her eyes, just as a pinch at her neck sent a jolt of pain and the welcoming oblivion of darkness.





Chapter Eleven





How is it that an earl is a shifter?” Mary asked as she and Talent danced around the earl’s elegant ballroom. Conversation was necessary. Having been dispatched to watch over the Earl of Darby, the last remaining shifter in London—aside from Talent—they’d been obliged to dance, as the activity brought them closer to their mark. It also brought them into close contact with each other. A notion that had glared like scorching sunlight upon Mary when Talent gruffly took her hand and led her out to the dance floor.

The first touch of his hand upon her waist had brought her into stiff resistance. And for the first few notes of the waltz, they’d stumbled around the floor in awkward, mutual reluctance, any sense of grace destroyed by their attempts to remain at a distance.

But now Talent leaned in a touch, and his warmth enveloped her. “It runs in his family. He is one of the few who chose not to hide himself in another life.”

“I suppose the fact that he holds a title is a good motive to remain as he is,” Mary murmured.

In the golden, hazy candlelight of the ballroom, Talent’s eyes glinted as he scanned the crowd, his features arranged in a scowl of concentration and vague disapproval. Dressed in fine evening kit, his hair tamed for once and his cheeks clean-shaven, Talent certainly appeared the part of an entitled gentleman, if one overlooked the frenetic strength emanating from him. He stood a head taller than she, his large body buffering her from the writhing sea of people who ebbed and flowed in the swirling turns of the dance.

“You being the other shifter who lives out in the open.” Mary spoke her mind without forethought, but instantly cursed herself for her words.

His perusal of the room halted, and he lowered his gaze to her. “And me.” Darkness flickered in his eyes, and she knew that he was thinking the same thing she was, of the demons who had held him because of his blood. And because Jack Talent had never hidden who he was, they’d known to take him.

Cursing inwardly once more, Mary resumed studying their mark. Lord Darby was a well-made piece, glossy and fine-featured, save for the bump along the thin blade of his nose. A flaw that only served to enhance his devil-may-care facade. Brightly handsome in the way of Lucien Stone, he seemed to reflect the light about him, drawing ladies and gentlemen toward him to flutter like moths about his luminescence. The man turned to greet yet another coyly smiling lady, and the candlelight caught the bronze highlights in his hair.

In some ways the Earl of Darby made an ideal mark. Wealthy and known for his libidinous ways, he was constantly in the public eye and was thus easy to follow without drawing much notice. Should he be cut down, however, it would cause an uproar in London.

Without warning, Talent’s low voice was at her ear, a pleasant, flinty vibration along her bones. “Do you find him pretty, Chase? Perhaps we ought to consider a close-contact assignment.” She needn’t look to know he studied Darby as she did. His voice grew colder, harder. “A willing bed partner who could watch him day and night.”