Shadowdance(8)

For Chase a smile meant a slight curving of her lips, a small twinkle of golden light in her eyes. Damn, but her smiles were more rare than his, which was saying something. He wondered what her true smile would look like. But realized he wouldn’t be the man to coax one from her.

Across from him she gazed out of the window, and the sunlight kissed the smooth curve of her cheek. Her rosy lips parted with a breath, and he almost lost his mind. His gaze drifted to the velvety swath of skin just visible above her collar, that place on a woman’s neck that was fragrant and warm, where she’d be sensitive. He wanted to sink his teeth into that spot, see if she shivered when he did it. And that was no good. But where to look? If not gazing at her neck, he’d be staring at her hair, golden brown and glimmering, or the swell of her breasts, those succulent little apple-sized breasts that begged a man to feast.

Her scent, that rich, sticky toffee scent that had captured him from the first, now filled the small space. Every day in close proximity. Scenting her. Hearing her voice. And knowing that his past made her utterly unattainable.

Hell. He wouldn’t survive it.

Since they knew him here, service was quick. Soon enough Chase sipped at her watery-looking tea and watched him with apparent fascination as he finished up his meal. Her gaze was a living thing, making his skin itch and his muscles jump about. He didn’t like her, but damn did his body react to her.

“Keep looking at me,” he said between bites, not bothering to lift his attention from his food, “and soon I’ll have a swelled head.” No need to tell her which head he was referring to.

Her honey-warm voice rolled over him like a caress. “I cannot help it. The show is fascinating. Your appetite is the stuff of legend. Even Lucien—”

His knife scraped the crockery with a sharp screech, and he stabbed another section of sausage with his fork. Yes, do us both a favor and do not speak of your dear Lucien or his particular appetites. The sausage tasted of sawdust.

When she spoke again—as he’d known she would—her voice held an air of detachment. “Have you any notion who the Bishop might be?”

He wanted to freeze, but kept eating. Her tone, so carefully light and innocent, had him wondering for a tight moment if she knew it was he. But she couldn’t know. He’d been so careful. The muscles along his neck and shoulders protested as he raised his head. He took his time finishing the mouthful of food. “His kills signify rage,” he said finally.

Her eyes held his, and there was a calm coolness lying in their bronze depths that had him tensing further. She tilted her head as if she knew of his discomfort. “Until now, rage against raptor and sanguis demons.”

Ice spread beneath his skin. He forced his hand to release the fork and knife. They clanked against the plate. Slowly he wiped his mouth with the rough linen napkin. “It appears so.”

With brisk efficiency she pulled a file out of the slim valise she wore strapped over her shoulder. “I wanted your opinion on something.” She leaned close, her voice dipping low and her scent teasing his nostrils. “About the symbols.”

“What symbols?” But he knew, and his food landed with a thud in his gut.

“Unlike the others, Keating did not have a symbol carved upon his wrist.” She pushed a photograph of a dead raptor under his nose.

When he did not answer, she pressed on. “A small symbol was carved upon the wrists of all prior victims.” Her eyes watched him. “It was in demonish. From the looks of it, either Sanguis or Raptor.”

“I’ve worked this case for over a year now, Chase. I believe I am familiar with the particulars.”

Her expression altered from engaged to flat as glass. How well he knew that look, and although it was familiar, he found himself mourning the loss of her animation.

“Do you know what the symbols mean?” Her wide brow furrowed, the merest wrinkling of her clear skin. “I confess, I am not able to read it.”

The food in his stomach grew heavy, rolling about as if it might revolt. He’d been found by her. And while he couldn’t be sure she remembered the details, the symbols carved upon his flesh had been telling. Should a person know enough about demonology, she would know that the symbols had been those of the raptors. Jack’s guts tightened as sweat beaded along his back. He swallowed hard, still held by the power of her searching gaze. He wanted to run from it, from her. Did the scene live in her memory? Haunt her, turn her dreams into nightmares?

No. That was his lot in life. Likely all she felt was pity for the sorry sod she’d rescued two years ago. He fought against the cornered feeling that had his breath stuttering and returned to his food, cutting a banger with care. “Few others bother to learn the culture of Raptors and Sanguis. It isn’t as though their kind is well liked.”