Shadowdance(50)
Scrubbing, scrubbing. Not enough. The soap dissolved, and his fingers swept over his skin like a caress. Sly caresses, hard hits. He never knew how they would touch him next. A sob broke from him. He sank beneath the water, and it folded over him and burned his eyes. His world was silent and warm. Suffocating. A second later he burst from the watery womb on a snarl, his body trembling and tight.
They were out there. And Jack could not live while they did.
By the time Mary limped home, the sun was close to setting. She was bruised, battered, and exhausted. Nothing else mattered save stripping off her dirty clothes and sinking into a hot bath with a cup of tea and a good book to keep her company. Decadent. And necessary. Limbs aching, she climbed the steps that led into her building, only to stop when a cloaked figure stepped in front of her.
In an instant Mary had one knife pinned to her visitor’s throat and the other poised to sink into the person’s gut.
A breathless feminine laugh filled the cold air. “Bleeding hell, Mary,” said Tottie. “I thought you were more hospitable than this.”
Mary studied the GIM’s eyes and listened for the telltale sound of her whirring heart. Satisfied that it was truly Tottie, she slipped her knives back into their hidden wrist holsters and moved back. “One cannot afford hospitality in our line of work, Tot. Something you ought to know.”
Tottie gave a curt nod. “It was careless of me.” She scanned the area around them, taking in the shadows that grew along the stairwells and fenced front walks. “Especially now.”
Mary’s back tensed, a trickle of forewarning creeping along her spine with cold feet. “Has there been another murder?”
“Can’t be telling you what I don’t know.” Tottie gave a brusque shake of her head, her GIM eyes going cold and worried. “Director Lane wants to see you immediately.”
There were moments when Jack wondered how he got out of bed. He knew why, however. In bed, he’d sleep. With sleep came dreams. Rather, memories. Because before—and he always thought of life in terms of Before and After the torture—Jack had not had the imagination required to think up such horrors. Early on, in those dark days of raw healing, he’d tried an opiate to sleep. Instead of giving him welcome insensibility, it made his dreams more vivid: the hands holding him down felt real, as did the sick pain. He woke screaming. And couldn’t seem to stop. Best to sleep as little as possible.
Tonight, however, there was no need to sleep. The devil’s offer lay heavy on his shoulders. Tonight, lying in wait was a list of names. Not the ones who’d merely stolen his blood. But the others. The pain and rage brought forth by seeing that bastard today had only made things worse.
In the grey shades of night, Jack wove around muck-filled puddles as he made his way down Bishop’s Bridge Road. All was quiet, still in that small slice of time when the great city slept. Such a small rest London gave itself. But when it did, the world seemed to stop. The soft hiss of rain filled the echoing void around him. Raindrops pelted his face and tasted bitter as they trickled over his lips. He walked on ghost feet, keeping to the shadows like a slinking cat.
Ahead, Paddington Station sat waiting for him, its ubiquitous Greek revival architecture giving no hint of the splendor that lay within. Jack made quick work of getting there. Once inside he stopped, rubbed a hand over his wet face, and raked his fingers through his dripping hair. The enormous space soared above him, a lofty latticework of iron and glittering glass, stretching out in three great arching spans. He felt at once tiny yet infinite, comforted yet free. So still in here. So very still. The steady tap of rain upon the vaulted glass roof merely highlighted the quiet. A man could let go of his tension in such a space.
Slowly he walked, the vastness surrounding him. Jack loved rail stations. Cathedrals to transit, they offered a chance for escape. Stopping before tracks that pointed the way out of London, Jack took a deep breath, tasting the coal and the metallic bite of brake dust.
In a few hours, trains would arrive. He could go. Leave everything and everyone. He let himself imagine it, climbing into a car, the gentle rock and sway of the carriage as it sped out of the city. No one would know who he was, what had happened to him.
Heat and pressure prickled behind his lids, and he swallowed convulsively. A man could run, but he couldn’t hide from himself.
With a heavy tread, he found the advert panel, promising smooth and youthful skin. A plump, rosy-cheeked tot having a bath smiled down at him as he slid his hand along the wood frame and lifted the hidden latch. The smooth coolness of paper touched his fingertips, and he grasped it, even as his entire body recoiled at the idea. A year ago, even a few nights ago, he would not have hesitated, so great was his rage, his need. Now luminous brown eyes, the precise color of topaz backlit by the sun, hovered in his mind’s eye.