“ ‘They are dead, they shall not live; they are deceased, they shall not rise: therefore hast thou visited and destroyed them, and made all their memory to perish,’ ” she read aloud.
A slow shiver ran through Jack’s body. Was it coincidence or bad timing that this had occurred after he’d given the fiend his blood? The bastard had known Mercer, and from the torture that had been inflicted on the demon, it was safe to say he might have divulged the location of this place.
“Well, the message is a bit more blunt this time,” she said.
He turned abruptly to face her, and Mary’s gaze was steady on him. “A Bible quote was found in the area where Holly Evernight disappeared.”
“Why did you not tell me?”
Her lips pressed together for a moment. “It slipped my mind.”
Jack snorted. “The demon we found at Pierce’s house had a verse on him too.” When Mary gave him a reproachful look, he smiled without humor. “Slipped my mind.”
Before she could reply, Jack moved to another victim. Blood had sprayed from this one’s wound, wild and deep red. The old violinist. He’d clawed at the wood floor trying to escape. Saliva filled Jack’s mouth, and he looked away. “When did you find them?”
“Less than an hour past.” Stone’s celadon gaze moved to the body of a woman, and his mouth tightened. “Someone will pay for this.”
“One can hope.” Plenty got away with murder and more. Not bothering to see Stone’s reaction, Jack went to the old woman hunched by the stove. Burn marks marred her forearms from her struggle with her attacker. Blackening blood pooled beneath her.
Jack straightened. “We have three human victims bled out and a roomful of GIM, cause of death unknown.”
“What do you mean?” Lucien asked.
“I mean”—he pointed at a body next to him—“their throats were cut, and their hearts torn out. But it was done after death. Look at them. They hardly bled in comparison to the others. And they didn’t fight. They’re lying where they fell. Look at the humans, they fought.”
Understanding slowly dawned on Lucien’s face. Jack wondered if, in the shock of finding so many of their kind murdered, Mary and Lucien hadn’t fully studied the crime scene. Only thought to accuse. Again, the shivering urge to go animal lit over his body.
“Do you honestly think one man could take on an entire room of supernaturals and kill them all?” He wanted to spit, it was so absurd.
“Somebody did,” Stone murmured, his expression thoughtful as he stroked a hand over a young woman’s head. The gesture struck Jack; Ian looked at his lads in the same manner. These GIM were Lucien’s responsibility. Some of the anger went out of Jack.
“Without a massive fight on his hands?” Jack shook his head slowly. “Something killed them before they even understood the danger.”
Stone cursed as he looked at one young lad. “Took their hearts with him.”
“The killer doused the fire,” Lucien observed quietly as he looked at the black scorch marks that flared up two walls.
“Because he wanted us to see what he’d done,” Jack said.
Almost idly, Stone ran a finger along the edge of a table, where one victim slumped back in his seat. Jack walked over to him. “He’s taken some victims with him.” Jack pointed to the table. “This has been set for two, yet one remains.” A quick glance around confirmed more empty table settings. “Two, three, four,” he counted, growing dread spreading through him as he did. “There were more people dining in here than there are victims.”
Stone uttered a blue curse. “I do believe you are correct.”
“Jack.” Mary’s call from the back of the tavern had him hurrying to her.
He stopped short. The body was crucified to the wall, much as he had been in those dark days. Naked and sagging against the iron spikes that held him fast was Anthony Goring, Archbishop of Canterbury. His throat had been cut, allowing blood to pour over his body in a grim wash of crimson.
“Bloody hell,” Jack whispered, coming closer.
A strange pang knocked Jack’s chest and made his breath hitch. He didn’t understand it. For most of his life, Goring had been the source of his greatest fears, and his deepest anger. But now he felt something close to sorrow.
“Jack.” Mary touched his arm, a hesitant gesture. “Are you all right?”
Was he? Jack studied his uncle’s body. So thin. The grey skin wrinkled and sagged a bit. Looking up at his uncle’s lifeless eyes now, he only saw frailty and a waste of life.
“Yes,” he said, realizing that he meant it. The memories of this man no longer had the ability to hurt him. In truth, they hadn’t had that power for quite some time. Jack no longer wanted revenge. He wanted peace. He wanted what he’d experienced in Mary’s arms before he’d gone and mucked everything up. It was all he needed.