The very idea of Talent being the Bishop made her ill to the core. Was he a killer? Who was it they’d chased earlier? It occurred to Mary, rather belatedly, that Talent had been alone with the strange man for enough time to converse, and yet he hadn’t made mention of any revelations. Perhaps Talent was working with this man.
Mary did not know what to think. She had, however, seen the worry in Talent’s dark-green eyes when he had realized that she’d be working alongside him. Just a flash of it before he’d smothered it away. And Mary now wondered, was it because he had intended to sabotage the case from the inside? Had he taken Holly because she’d discovered something about the clockwork hearts?
Damn it, but this was Jack Talent, the man utterly loyal to Ian Ranulf, the man who had risked his life to help Poppy and Winston Lane. Talent lived and breathed the SOS. Since he’d joined up, no other regulator had solved more cases than he. She ought to know, as she’d been the one tasked to record every regulator victory.
Divergent thoughts muddled Mary’s mind as she trudged back to her flat. Once there, she hid her body within the secret compartment specifically designed for the task, and went on the hunt.
Outside, Mary spread her spirit wide, losing all sense of shape. In spirit form she could be vast. It was a strange experience, to let go of one’s physical form. Even as a spirit, one tended to need that connection to life. Letting go took great faith in the knowledge that, no matter what the form, the essence of oneself was not in the physical but in the spiritual. And so Mary dissipated, melding with the fog that hung in the night air. Odd as it felt, odder still was the lingering feeling of having a heart, having lungs. Those organs she’d left behind, and yet it seemed as though her breath came on fast and her heart whirred within her breast. Mind was not matter, but will. And it did not easily give up the sensation of being flesh.
In the blue of twilight, the city’s souls were a map of stars laid out over London, so profuse that it took effort to sort out each individual. Oh, but it was the worst sort of invasion, looking at the light of a person’s soul. As a GIM, Mary could see every soul’s light, but she’d been trained to turn that power off until necessary, for it was too personal a thing. Necessity trumped manners tonight. It was the light of Talent’s soul that Mary sought. Having connected to him before, she need only relax and let the link join them once more. Talent, she thought. Jack.
A recognizable vibration brushed up against her, the touch of his soul to hers. Far below, a gleaming, silver-blue light emanated from his form. Gone was the sickly mustard-yellow of pain that had tainted it when she’d tracked him down years ago. His physical pain might be gone, but his inner turmoil was strong, a brilliant flame fragmenting like sunlight hitting the edge of a diamond.
Like a bird of prey, she swooped down low, following the glow of his soul toward Portman Square, then onto Baker Street. Once there she stopped and gazed up at the town house in which Talent’s soul lay. The house was quite lovely, a stately Georgian, with a front colonnade, black brick facade, and cream trim. Almost all the windows were dark, save for a lonely light coming from the third floor.
Mary drifted close to the house, where the sharp scent of coal smoke mingled with the crisp cold night. Was this his home? Another victim’s? What was Talent doing now? To go inside was a must. Even so, the urge to stay outside was strong. Cursing inwardly, Mary went through the keyhole, as unnerving an experience as any.
She did not linger in the dark halls—nothing alive was on the ground floor. What she did see, however, were fine furnishings, if somewhat sparse. The house felt unused and forlorn. Beneath the emptiness, however, a glimmer of Jack Talent hummed. Faint echoes of his essence ran from the door and up the stairs, as if he frequently took this path, never lingering in the public rooms but always going into the private areas of the house. Mary followed the trail. Too soon, the door from which the sole light shone was before her.
Had she a heart, it would have been working at top speed. She had to enter, had to believe that he would not see her. Had to believe that he was innocent. Only one way to find out.
The room was a bedroom. A sense of familiarity struck her, as if she’d been here before. Then she realized that it was filled with Talent’s furniture from his old room at Ranulf House. The sound of water tinkling caught her attention. Rising into the upper reaches of the ceiling, Mary drifted with caution. Most people never looked up. Certainly not in their own homes. But then, Jack Talent was not most people.
All thought ended as she entered the bathing room and found him. Happy Christmas, but he was a sight. One that had her spirit swelling, then tightening, with a surge of emotion. Hunched before the washbasin, Talent’s bare back was to her. She’d never given much thought to the aesthetic qualities of the male back. Perhaps because she hadn’t seen a truly beautiful one in the flesh until now, and thus hadn’t had a chance to appreciate how elegant the lines could be.