Shadowdance(9)

Raptors were scum who fed off the misery of others. Sanguis demons were not precisely hated, but as they needed the blood of others to survive, they had a certain parasitic quality that made most supernaturals wary.

Chase’s lashes swept down then, letting him take an easy breath. She glanced up again, less probing, but unnerving to him just the same. “And what of this shifter? How does he fit?”

The shock of finding the dead shifter in Trafalgar Square still unsettled him. He’d left the scene with due haste, sinking the slimy raptor he’d just killed in the Thames instead. Someone was imitating his crimes, and he wanted to know why.

Jack dug into his pocket, threw a few coins upon the scarred table, and told her the one truth he could. “That is the question of the day, Chase.”

In keeping with the mercurial nature of London weather, it was raining when they left the coffeehouse, and while Mary did not mind, Talent insisted upon taking a hack back to headquarters. A silly extravagance that had her protesting and him snarling. They sat, each stewing in silence, the hack bogged down at an intersection, when Mary felt the hum of a spirit. A moment later a familiar form drifted in through the hack window and made herself comfortable on the seat next to Talent.

Hello, Miss Mary. Though she was in spirit form, Tottie’s voice was clear as day in Mary’s head. Nor did the dingy light of the carriage dampen the bright color of her shining blond hair or the sparkle of her green eyes.

“Hello, Miss Tottie.”

Talent perked up at Mary’s response and looked as if she were cracked. “Pardon?”

“Mistress Tottie is here. I was saying hello.” Tottie, short for Charlotte, was Poppy Lane’s newest assistant, handpicked by Mary due to her exceptional memory. That she was whip-smart and irreverent was a boon. Mrs. Lane needed someone to keep her on her toes, after all.

Mmm, said Tottie. Are you going to say hello, too, you exceptionally large wall of man? She leaned into Talent, her shimmering image tiny in comparison to his, and ran her fingers along his neck.

Talent shivered and glared round, his whole frame tensing away from Tottie. “Is she sitting next to me?”

He looked as though he might start swinging, as one swats at a fly, and Mary bit her lip. “She is merely saying hello.”

Oh, I am, Tottie agreed. I’ve been wanting to say hello to Mr. Jack for an age, personal-like. Her hand glided over his chest and headed down. Such a fine cocky fella, ye are. Shall we see if it’s all just tall tales, then, me lad?

“Tottie,” Mary snapped as Talent gave a violent start.

The little Irish imp stopped, blinking back with wide, round eyes. Aye? She let her hand fall upon Talent’s lap.

“Bloody GIM,” Talent burst out. “I felt that!” He turned his ire on Mary. “What the hell is she doing?”

“Nothing.” Mary kept her expression neutral by sheer will. “Why are you here, Tot?”

The GIM sighed, her small mouth pouting as her diaphanous hand drifted off Talent. You are no fun at all, Mary Chase.

“So I’ve been told.”

Talent’s gaze snapped between her and a spot above Tottie’s head.

“She’s a few inches lower,” Mary said. “And a bit touchy.”

“Hell.” Talent practically snarled as he glowered blindly at the spot occupied by Tottie. “Just remember, I can hunt your body down, Mistress O’Brien.”

Looking forward to it, Master Talent. Tottie’s cheeks plumped before she sobered. The Bishop’s struck again.

“At Trafalgar Square?” Mary held up her hand to Talent when he made to speak.

Bit of a difference with this one. The man was found in his home, one Mr. Arthur Pierce. He’s got the brand upon his chest, an’ all the usual hallmarks of the Bishop’s work. Wilde’s directed the cozzers to secure the scene for your study.

“Lovely.” The idea of seeing that horror turned Mary’s stomach.

“Damn it, Chase—”

“There’s been another murder,” Mary said to Talent, lest he keep shouting.

The house is two blocks over, Tottie said, and Mary relayed it directly to Talent as the GIM continued. Wilde wants you two there now.





Chapter Four





Mr. Pierce had lived in the center of a respectable middle-class suburb of London. Well-clipped lawns led to smart black doors, each graced with the same simple brass door knocker. White lace hung across every shining window.

Talent was ahead of her, his brusque stride so confident that it implied the very air ought to part for him. The rakish tilt of his hat had her longing to knock it off, if only to ruffle his composure and force him to acknowledge her presence.