“Why stop there?” Talent snapped. “Perhaps you’d like to see how I exterminate?”
Long claws began to grow from his fingertips, his teeth dropping to fangs. Mary did not know what he’d become, nor did she care. She rushed headlong to him. “Talent. Stop this.” He did not take notice of her.
Neither did the archbishop, who glared up at Talent, defiant, but so very fragile and human when compared to Talent’s raw strength. “Do your worst. My soul is pure.”
A bark of cold laughter rang out, and Talent’s claws grew. A shimmer wavered over his form, his control breaking into a shift. “We shall see.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Mary moved as through a fog. She was barely aware of leaving that dark, dreadful room. Talent had been ready to slice into the archbishop. It was only when she’d cupped his cheek that he’d stopped, springing backward at the contact, his eyes wild upon her and without a hint of recognition. His broad chest had heaved on a fast pant. And then his gaze had cleared, and he’d given a vicious curse and fled.
Guards came, a commotion broke out around her, shouts and accusations abounded. She moved through them, and no one stopped her. As she left, the battered archbishop had called for silence, telling his staff to go about as they had been. Odd. But she did not care what prompted his incongruous actions. Her mind was on Jack Talent.
Mary’s ears buzzed, and her bones hummed. One thought consumed her: he’d die for her.
Jack Talent’s fierce declaration clamored about in Mary’s head like the ringing of bells as she rushed from the palace, still hampered by her damned skirts and too-tight corset. A fierce need welled up within her breast. To touch him, to wrap her arms about his big, strong body and give it shelter, to tell him that he too had promise; he just didn’t see it.
She found him by the high brick wall that surrounded the palace. He faced away from her, leaning against the wall, forearms braced upon it as if to hold himself up. The broad expanse of his back heaved with each quick breath he took. She hurried forward just as he struck the wall, bits of red brick flying up from the force of his fist.
“Talent!”
He did not heed but kept punishing the wall, pounding brick into fine red dust. Blood sprayed from his knuckles. Mary grabbed his arm, her touch halting him so quickly that she swung forward into him.
Talent bared his teeth, and small fangs gleamed, his eyes wild. Sweat pebbled the pale skin along his temples, and his bloodied hands shook. “Do not!”
He stalked away, only to turn about and stride the other way. A man caged within his mind. “Leave me,” he ground out. “I cannot…”
She took a step closer to him. He was a wild thing now, his fingers opening and closing into fists, the whites of his eyes growing redder. “Talent.”
“Just go!”
“No.”
He stopped his pacing and simply stared as though he couldn’t quite understand her resistance. His stillness was an illusion, for he vibrated, his nostrils flaring as he breathed in hard pants. Mary edged closer and lowered her voice. “Talk to me.”
He shook his head before running his hand through his hair to clutch the short ends and hold them tight, his muscles bunching and his body trembling.
She licked her dry lips. “Like it or not, I am your partner. I will not leave you. Not like this.” She feared he’d be well and truly lost if she did. Mary knew that level of rage and fear. It took hold of a soul and shook it to its core. It sucked a person down into nightmares and blackness.
He cursed, rocking a bit where he stood, and turned away from her as if he couldn’t bear the sight of her. Slowly, as if approaching a cornered and injured animal, she eased forward. He stiffened at her approach, his head shaking back in forth in negation. Mary ignored it. “Take my hand.” She held it out, waiting.
He did not answer. And she came closer, enough to scent his sweat and fear. Enough to see the clenching of his jaw and the blood oozing over his knuckles.
“Jack,” she whispered.
The sound of his name appeared to stir him, but still he would not move.
“Come with me.” Knowing patience was needed, she simply stood close to him, her hand out and open. Moving as if half-frozen, Talent’s hand descended from where it had been pulling at his hair. The touch of his hand against hers was such a relief that she almost closed her eyes in thanks. Careful of his wounds, she closed her fingers over his. Immediately he responded, clasping their hands together in a comfortable hold.
Quietly she led him out of the courtyard and then into the waiting carriage. He did not try to pull away as they moved down the streets, nor did he speak. They simply sat side by side, linked by their hands.