Shadowdance(43)
Strangely, Talent seemed as unaffected as she. As though the whole business were no different from observing London’s street traffic on the Strand. Given Talent’s views on swiving, Mary would have assumed he’d be fairly blushing by now. But nothing about Talent or this case made sense to her. While she could readily imagine him killing raptor and sanguis demons, she could not fathom why he’d hurt shifters, or make crawlers. She’d seen his face when the shadow crawlers attacked: he’d been gobsmacked.
He could not be the Bishop, she decided. He simply could not. Mary only wished the tense bands along her neck would ease with that thought.
Next to her Talent stirred, and she felt his attention upon her like a touch. “How does it feel?” he asked after a moment. “To roam about as a spirit?”
A start of surprise tugged at her chest. He’d always acted as though the very nature of a GIM was repulsive to him. The bloody man constantly set her off balance, and she wondered if he did so purposefully. She licked her dry lips before answering. “It feels… wonderful. Limitless. Freeing.” Her breath hit the high collar of her cloak before bouncing back warm against her cheeks. “You’d be surprised what burdens we carry within our flesh.”
“No,” he said low and dark, “I wouldn’t.”
She risked a glance and found him glaring down at Darby’s house. He caught her looking, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “I envy you the ability to escape it.” When she didn’t reply, for really she couldn’t speak just then, he asked another question. “Do you miss being with them?”
The GIM. In many ways her job with the SOS was the same, but there was one crucial difference. Whereas once she had worked for hire, regardless of circumstance, now she worked to keep peace and order. It was a balm to the soul. “No,” she said.
He was silent. They stood, unmoving, the cold air surrounding them, save where their shoulders nearly touched and their body heat mingled. Neither of them was foolish enough to forgo that small comfort. A long day lay ahead of them, and they needed to keep what strength they could. Mary fought the urge to move closer still. She hated that she craved his warmth. She hated touching others. Yet not him. Why? Why, when he’d been her enemy for so long?
“Are you happy?” His abrupt question had her turning. Talent’s hands were stuffed deep into his pockets, marring the lines of his simple working overcoat. His brow furrowed. “That you became a GIM, I mean.”
Talent had the particular knack for making the term “GIM” sound like something profane. Perhaps they were. Perhaps all supernaturals were a mistake of nature. Then again, she did not feel any different than she had when she was fully human. Perversely, she wanted to smile, but did not. “You mean, would I rather have died than become what I am?”
The furrow of his brow deepened. “No. That is not what I meant. Nor do I care for your tone.”
“Oh no?” She ran an idle hand along the rough edge of the roof balustrade. “Come now, Talent. You’ve been quite vocal in your distaste for the GIM. Do not profess outrage when I come to the natural conclusion that you believe I’d be better off dead.”
His nostrils pinched on a sharply drawn breath. In the weak light of a London sun, his features were harsh, a marble statue of an irate man. Then, as if someone had turned down a lamp, his gaze dropped. “GIM are immortal made, not immortal born. It was a choice for you. The rest of us, we’re trapped in this endless life whether we wanted it or not.” A ghost of a sigh whispered from him, and his lashes cast shadows over his skin as he tilted his head back and stared into nothingness. “I never understood why, is all. Why choose this?”
“Because I want to know what comes next.”
“What comes next?” Bafflement clouded his eyes, and the corners of his mouth dipped down.
“What happens the next day, and the next. Life is not a straight road, you realize. There are all sorts of bends and forks. I like wondering what will happen should I choose one road over another.”
He blinked, a little recoil of shock licking over his features. The gesture was so quick and small that she almost missed it. But on Talent, it was like a shout.
Mary took a hesitant breath. “You wouldn’t choose life? Over death?”
“With no hope of reprieve from this misery?” The wide curve of his lower lip thinned. “Despair hangs over this city like a shroud, suffocating all of us. And the monotony of facing day after day?” Slowly, he shook his head. “Are you not afraid that you’ll go mad? Most of us do.”