Shadowdance(41)
Jack ground his teeth. He’d kept his word to Stone. And done a thorough job of it. Hell, Chase had detested him for the past four years. The fact that the bloody man felt the need to taunt Jack regardless was the last straw. But his anger deflated with his next breath. It was for the best. He’d been outright flirting with Chase. Shocking. And stupid. He could not get close to her. Because he’d continue to maintain his pact with Stone, and with himself. Even if it killed Jack.
Hell, this whole night was an exercise in futility. Jack’s gut told him this wasn’t about shifters, not with the murder mirroring the Bishop’s earlier kills of demons. Whatever the motive, Jack feared he was being set up and it would lead directly back to him. But he couldn’t very well tell Poppy and Chase, “Sorry, loves, you’re both barking up the wrong tree.”
The crowd tightened around him. Laughter flowed, raking over his skin. And the scent of ripe bodies, doused in flowery perfumes, plucked at his nostrils. Humans in silks and satins. Worm threads. The odd visual stuck until all he could see was bodies wrapped in colorful, wriggling cocoons.
Devil take all, he needed air.
He wasn’t going to get it, though. Not when Lord Darby stepped in front of him, the shine of his golden hair almost blinding in the light of a thousand candles. Jack repressed the urge to squint. Another bloody peacock.
“Master Talent.” White teeth flashed. “I gathered the SOS would come crawling about soon enough.”
“I expect Director Wilde’s note explaining the situation would have been your first clue.” It had been delivered to Darby posthaste, and an invitation to this accursed ball had arrived at headquarters soon thereafter.
Jack gleaned some small enjoyment from watching Darby’s simper fall to irritation. With a clipped toss of his chin, the earl bade him to follow. As it was his duty to discuss certain things with Darby, Jack acquiesced.
Darby led him to a small parlor where lamps had been lit and a merry fire crackled in the grate. The ready room, far from the ball, led Jack to believe that Darby had words for him as well.
“I’m so glad they sent one of my kind,” Darby said as he closed the door. “It makes me feel quite protected.”
Etiquette was a bizarre business. Supernaturals’ warren of rules was no exception. In general, one did not discuss one’s genus upon first meeting. It was akin to asking what color knickers someone wore. Or, as in this case, it was an attempt to put Jack in his place by conveying that he was unworthy of basic privacy. Unfortunately, Jack had long ago ceased to care about manners.
“Good,” Jack deadpanned. “Then I needn’t worry about explaining how you ought not do anything foolish like running about on your own.”
“I see you are working with Lucien’s little bird,” Darby said lightly. “Lovely creature.” The mockery in Darby’s eyes made it clear he’d aimed to hit Jack’s underbelly with that volley. And while it irked, what bothered Jack more was the way Darby spoke of Chase. She’d left Stone two years ago, and still all of London’s underworld thought of her as his property. As though she hadn’t ownership of her own life.
“I’m working with SOS Regulator Mistress Chase,” Jack corrected patiently, as if instructing a slow-witted student. “And though we shall be shadowing you for the foreseeable future, neither of us has any intention of getting in your way.” He gave the man a magnanimous smile. “Pretend we aren’t even here.”
Darby’s lip twitched in obvious annoyance. Though Jack had been the one to tweak Darby’s temper, Jack did not hold the sentiment against the man; he’d be damned furious if the SOS put two shadows on his arse. Not that he would admit as much, not after Darby had run Chase through the mud.
As if he were closing a curtain, Darby’s temper ended with a pivot toward a spindly-legged drinks cart. With undue care he poured two glasses of port before turning back to hand one to Jack.
The cool crystal stem felt as fragile as ice between Jack’s big fingers. He held it steady and watched Darby take a contemplative sip of his drink. Despite their sparring, the earl appeared relaxed. His shifter scent was light, masked by expensive cologne and a liberal application of pomade. There was no indication as to how strong a shifter Darby was. Physical size meant little; it was quick thinking and the ability to shift into something unexpected that won battles.
Darby studied him with equal intensity. “I heard about what they did to you.”
Jack tensed so quickly that his skin tingled. He stared back at Darby, willing himself not to react, not to fucking blink. Only his family and one other knew the details of what had truly happened to Jack—bad enough, that—but nearly every supernatural knew he’d been held and his blood forcibly stolen. An utter humiliation. Darby’s half-smile was annoyingly sympathetic. “We shifters have never received the proper respect. The Nex and their minions disgust me.”