Shadowdance(79)

“Will you tell me now?”

Her voice cut through their shared silence. He took his time finishing his bite. It did not ease the hard thump of his heart against his ribs, or the way his fingers suddenly went cold. Nor could he avoid her indefinitely. Nastiness might have put her off, but she’d stayed with him, had given him comfort.

Gripping his cutlery as though it were a lifeline, Jack finally lifted his head to face her.

Talent slowly chewed his food, as if considering how to answer without giving too much away. In perfect honesty, she’d expected him to snap at her, divert her somehow, but he simply took a sip of wine and then set his glass down. “Not here.” He glanced at the crowd around them, and the flickering lamplight played with his rough-hewn features, making them loom larger than life one moment and then shrink away the next.

His gaze snapped back to hers. “Will you come somewhere with me?”

“Anywhere you want.” How frightening to realize that despite her fears, and their old history, she’d spoken the absolute truth: she would follow him anywhere.

They did not speak as he led them to St. Paul’s. Deep below the cathedral was a hidden door beneath the crypts that led to SOS headquarters; thus regulators had access to St. Paul’s at all hours. Not that the Church knew of this, but it proved useful on occasion.

In the blue twilight, the cathedral rose up around them, the space at once reverent yet haunting. They’d learned the art of walking without being detected, and thus only the soft pattern of her breath made a sound. He guided her to the north tower and the Geometric Staircase. A work of genius, the stone staircase hugged the cylindrical limestone tower’s wall, suspended without visible supports. It was a thing of beauty, swirling above like a nautilus. Their steps chuffed as they ascended, the black latticed handrail cold beneath Mary’s hand.

At her elbow Talent’s agitation was palpable, a twitching, buzzing energy that affected her heart rate. She’d seen the capitulation in his eyes. He would tell her his truth, and she found herself fearing the answers.

They exited onto the triforium, an elegant balcony that overlooked the cathedral’s main chapel.

“I come here sometimes,” he said after a moment, his voice a soft echo off the limestone. As if it choked him, he wrenched off his cravat and collar and tossed them to the side before taking a big breath. Then he leaned his forearms against the rail and stared at the floor below. “No matter how I have avoided it, my upbringing has infected me.” He frowned down at his clenched hands. “And I find this place soothing.”

A lump rose in her throat. “It is a good place to think. And my mother never brought us to church.”

He made a sound of dry amusement. Then his body tightened even further. “He is my uncle.”

“The archbishop?” It was only due to years of training that she kept her voice modulated, yet she had seen the resemblance between them. And the man had called Talent “spawn.”

His upper lip twitched with a sneer. “The very one.” He gave her a measured look. “You understand that shifters start the change at the end of their first decade?”

“Yes.”

He glanced back at her, his eyes nearly black and glittering with rage. “You’ve no idea. One moment you are a normal child. And then comes the pain. So intense that you scream and writhe on the floor. You don’t understand. You’ve never felt this sort of agony.” His nostrils flared. “The next moment you’re running on four legs, not knowing how you got that way, or what you even are. You think perhaps it’s a dream.

“A child doesn’t think about such things in terms of madness or possession. He simply wants help. For his mother and father to comfort him. Wake him from the dream.”

The corner of his lip curled as he studied the cathedral floor below. “My father almost killed me the first time. I’d turned into a panther. One moment I was studying a picture book about the exotic animals of the Orient. The next I’m crashing about the house, running from my father’s shotgun.” The bitter smile upon his face grew. “He winged me. Here.” He pointed to his left shoulder. “And then, when I was bleeding on the ground, I turned back. It was not… pleasant, my parents’ reaction.”

All sound faded down to the pumping of her heart and the low rumble of his voice. “They thought I was possessed.” A choked snort broke from him. “I do not blame them. I would too.”

Perhaps, Mary thought, clutching her hands together beneath the shelter of her cloak. But she understood the pain in his voice. Logic was very well and good, but it meant nothing in the face of a parent’s betrayal. When those who ought to protect turned against you, the wound left behind did not easily heal. For years she had bled from such wounds.