Shadowdance(93)

Silky words slid through the dark. “Join me.”

Jack shook his head. He’d had the world in his hands. For one shining moment. And then he’d ruined it. “Not interested. I’m not playing that game. Not with you. I gave you blood. I won’t give any more.”

“Tell me, what did you think of my latest work?”

Jack lunged, lashing out. His claws scraped against unyielding stone. On the other side of the room now, the man danced back, laughing. His smile glittered with white fangs. Holding his gaze, the man lifted his arm, and his hand caught the light of the moon, the gun he held glinting. “Predictable, Jack.”

Jack laughed. “A bloody gun? You think that will stop me?”

“Iron bullets are fairly painful, are they not?”

“They will hurt like the devil,” he admitted. “And so will my claws going through your neck, for I won’t stop until it’s torn from your head.”

The gun did not waver. “Have you not considered that I might have associates?”

Steps sounded, and two figures dressed in hooded cassocks appeared.

Regardless, Jack’s arms twitched. Everything in him said to finish this, tear the bastard’s head off. But he might fail, leaving Mary unprotected. Whatever the fiend was, he had speed and agility. His companions were not particularly large, nor could he see their faces, but when dealing with the supernatural, he could be up against unlimited power and not know until it was too late.

“I see reason has finally drifted into your thick skull.” He grinned at Jack and suddenly, with a shimmer, he was Jack.

Fuck. Jack snarled, stepping forward. The man laughed. “Don’t like that face much, do you?”

He stared at Jack with something akin to mad pride. A strange look that had Jack’s blood running cold. “You don’t even know how perfect you are,” the bastard said. “I need more blood.”

“No.”

Jack’s own face scowled back at him, but the man didn’t say a word. And then understanding cleared Jack’s mind. “You can’t take it,” he said in wonder. “You cannot take my blood without my permission.”

Before Jack could question or protest, the man flew forward and smashed into him. The hit crushed the bones of his shoulder and cracked his ribs. Sharp pain exploded through Jack’s body as he slumped down the wall. The power behind the hit was like nothing he’d ever felt. He hadn’t time to defend himself before hands hauled him up and iron was punching into his chest.

Jack roared, his back bowing from the pain. Another stake slammed into his shoulder, pinning him against the limestone wall of the church. Maddened, he strained against the stakes holding him, not caring if it tore him in half. He would not be imprisoned again. A stake speared his gut. Jack retched, vomit and blood spilling over his front. Teeth chattering, he slumped. There was too much iron in him now, sapping his strength.

Dimly he heard a chuckle and forced his head up. A cold finger touched his face. “I might not be able to take your blood. But there are other things I can take from you,” said the man. “Make no mistake.” His face twisted into a frown. “But I rather think you’ll want to hear what I have to say before you decide to deny me.”

Before him, his tormentor shimmered again, and when he reformed, Jack convulsed against the iron spikes. His uncle, Anthony Goring, the Archbishop of Canterbury, reached out and gently stroked his cheek.

“Hello again, John Michael.”

“You mad fuck—”

“That really ought to be ‘Your Grace, you mad fuck,’ ” the man interrupted with a shrug. “However, since we’re family, I’ll allow it.” He grinned again. Though he wore the face of Jack’s uncle, open sores ravaged his face. His skin was sunken and rotting, giving off a putrid stink. “What? No kind words for your uncle?”

When Jack sneered, he laughed. “There’s gratitude for you. I was under the impression that you hated your uncle. Now he is gone.”

“Forgive me if don’t believe that was your motive in killing him,” Jack ground out.

“Ah, well, you are correct there. For it occurred to me that your uncle held a position of extreme power. It would be a waste not to use it.” A gleam lit the bastard’s eyes, and Jack strained against the iron. Not a chance in hell was he letting this madman assume the identity of the archbishop. His influence would be too great, for he would have the ear of the Queen, and the people.

“Bit stupid of you,” Jack said past the pain in his gut, “to spill Goring’s blood, demon. That glamour won’t last for long without it.”