The GIM before him huffed. “Mistress Chase is already headed to him,” she said.
Jack lurched up from the table, and Tottie sneered as if she had expected his reaction. “They are at our tavern.” A quiver took hold of her mouth. Rage. He knew the emotion well. “I believe you know the place.”
“I do.”
Her nostrils flared, and accusation ran high in her eyes. Jack frowned. What was she about? It was then that he truly took note of her greying pallor and the tremor in her hands. Not just rage, but fear as well.
Jack stepped into her space and tried to ignore the increase in his heart rate, and the worry. “What the fuck happened?”
She lifted her chin. “Best you run along and find out, Talent.” Then she turned and flounced away without a backward glance.
It took him too long to find the damn tavern. His memory of driving to the place the last time was faulty at best, and his current agitation was high. He growled low in his throat, his vision going hazy for a moment. When he finally reached the tavern, he wrenched open the door, and the hinges screeched in protest. One step over the threshold and he halted in shock. In his building temper, he hadn’t scented death, which was saying a lot considering the overwhelming stench that slapped his senses now. Blood splattered the walls, and bodies lay strewn about like rag dolls dropped in mid-play.
Instantly Jack went on full alert. Almost as quickly he found her standing in the midst of the destruction, her glowing gaze focused on him. Despite the carnage, something deep inside him eased. She was well. And furious. Whether at him or the situation, he could not tell. Nor did he care. She was well.
They stared at each other in silence. Defiance ran through Jack’s veins. She might no longer want him, but he wasn’t going away. Oh, he’d keep his distance if that’s what she needed. But he was still her partner, whether she liked it or not.
A slight movement at her side had him tensing. Lucien Stone glared back at him.
“What happened?” Jack snapped. His breathing was too fast: the mere thought of Mary walking into this death house made him want to break things. Not much left to break.
Lucien glanced at the carnage around him, and rage flared in his eyes before he dampened it. “Did you do this?
Jack’s control broke. “The fuck I did!” He took a step in the GIM’s direction. “Do not dare accuse me of this.”
Lucien watched with cool detachment. That didn’t mean he was unaffected. The dandy’s face was pale and drawn. “As I understand it, you were the only outsider who knew of its location.”
“And every damned GIM in London.”
One dark brow rose in cold contempt. “You think one of my kind did this to their own?”
“Worse things have happened.”
“And Mercer.” Lucien studied Jack carefully. “He knew. I believe he was your informant, Mary?”
Mary nodded shortly before turning her gaze back to the room, the corners of her eyes tight and pained.
“Mercer?” Jack’s insides cooled even as his rage threatened to ignite once more.
Lucien gave a small, humorless smile. “I believe he accused you of being this Bishop of Charing Cross.” He tossed a chin in the direction of a body. Mercer lay on the floor. Or what was left of him, which was not much.
Jack took a step closer to Mary, his flesh rippling. The urge to shift loomed high, wild, and hot. “You think I am capable of this?”
Her expression was smooth as porcelain, her eyes glowing, but then she blinked and her slim shoulders slumped. “Of course I don’t.”
Jack’s brittle spine relaxed. He gave her a curt nod.
“Nor did I, particularly,” said Lucien. “But one has to ask.” He waved a tired hand around the bloody room. “Look at them,” he said. “Tell us what you see.”
Jack drew back and glanced around. Each victim’s shirt was torn open, a cross burned into each one’s flesh, and their hearts had been ripped from their bodies. The smell underlay the lingering scent of roasting meat that had burnt down on the doused grill. Leaving the mechanical Mistress Chase behind, he went to one of the bodies. The poor bloke stared up at him in silent accusation, and Jack’s stomach knotted. A gaping wound lay the man’s throat open to the spine. Frowning, Jack bent closer.
“The spine isn’t severed.”
Stone arrived, and Jack stepped away to let him see. A moment later Mary stood by his side. It was all Jack could do not to grab her and haul her into his arms. Where she’d be safe. But she didn’t pay him an ounce of attention. Her skirts rustled as she bent over the dead GIM and plucked a piece of paper that stuck out of his front coat pocket.