Cold metal touched Mary’s clenched fingers, and she flinched before she realized that Moore was trying to hand her something. A small pair of binoculars. Moore’s voice was but a breath at her ear. “Watch.”
Heart cranking so slowly that her veins hurt, Mary eased the binoculars to her eyes. Talent’s face loomed large and clear. Pain and weariness lined his features. His once bright eyes were dead hollows.
Another figure moved out of the shadows and headed toward Talent. Talent’s entire frame stiffened, his expression wiped clean. The man stopped too close, his body leaning in.
Mary’s stomach clenched, her grip on the binoculars bruising. No words were exchanged, the man merely waited, the whole of his attention on Talent. Talent hesitated, his shoulders lifting on a deep breath; then he pulled back his undone collar, exposing the tender column of his throat.
A dizzying wave of nausea hit Mary so hard that she swallowed convulsively. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He’d die before giving up his blood. But he stood still, his gaze burning into the other man. A low laugh rolled over the square, evil and smug all at once, and then the man leaned in, blocking Mary’s view of Talent’s face. But not enough for her to miss the way Talent’s body seized, or how his head fell to the side, his fist clenched and bone-white against his black topcoat.
Or the way the man embraced him, pulling him closer. Like a lover.
The Nex had held him, used and stolen that which ought to be his right to give. Why would he give more? Because he would do anything to get revenge.
The pain in Mary’s heart grew unbearable as she watched the men separate. The stranger staggered back, his eyes glassy with gluttonous satisfaction. Then he glanced down at his hands and grinned. Words were exchanged, the man’s delivered with a satisfied smile and Jack’s with an angry scowl. And then Jack walked away, his head bent as he lurched out of the square. Both men soon faded from sight. An icy wind swept over her a second later, so cutting it burned her eyes.
“Poor girl, how you shiver.” A gentle hand stroked the back of her head and warm breasts pushed against Mary’s arm. “And for a man so undeserving.”
Moore’s breath limned her skin, her taunt burning as she whispered into Mary’s ear. “No better than a whore, really.” A soft laugh left her. “Not that I can truly condemn our man for taking what is offered. Talent’s blood is so very delicious.” Cool lips brushed Mary’s temple. “Hot from his flesh.”
Tears gathered in Mary’s eyes, distorting the shapes of the square. Later she would let them fall. But not now. “And did you take it?” She turned, and Moore’s lips were so close to her that she breathed in each exhalation. Mary did not back away. “Fresh from his flesh?”
The woman’s lashes lowered as she studied Mary’s lips. “Oh, yes. Many times.” Her mouth curled into a smile, and their bottom lips touched. “In many ways—”
Mary’s move was swift. A strangled gurgle left Moore’s lips as she jerked and lashed like a fish on a hook. Mary held her close, not letting her get away, clutching tight to the wooden stake she’d thrust under the woman’s chin. Blood bubbled from Moore’s mouth, hot splashes hitting Mary’s face. She did not let go but stared into Moore’s eyes as the light in them began to fade.
“It is too bad, really,” Mary whispered against Moore’s cheek, “that you will not be able to tell them how I shall do the same to anyone else who has touched him.” And then she punched the stake straight through the woman’s brain and let the body fall. Because Jack could not live in a world where they existed, and now, neither could she.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mary was still shaking as she made her way across the square. The National Gallery held the closest secret entrance to SOS headquarters that her muddled brain could remember.
She’d killed. And though she’d do it again, her soul quaked from the recoil of that violent act.
The rain died, leaving only bitter cold and an icy road beneath her feet as the gallery building loomed over her. Mary trudged onward, barely feeling her limbs move. Vengeance. She understood it. She’d craved it once too. As for his? The image of him crucified to the wall of that hellish room, his blood running in crimson rivers down his body to be collected and used. His broken and bruised body. She been the one to hold him up, desperate to relieve the strain on those iron spikes they’d driven through his flesh. She’d been the one to see his eyes, haunted and agonized, when he’d roused, when he’d realized someone was there with him. In that moment she’d known what they’d done to him, for his eyes reflected the same fear and horror that she’d felt one dark summer night when her innocence was robbed.