“Can’t be telling you what I don’t know.” Tottie gave a brusque shake of her head, her GIM eyes going cold and worried. “Director Lane wants to see you immediately.”

There were moments when Jack wondered how he got out of bed. He knew why, however. In bed, he’d sleep. With sleep came dreams. Rather, memories. Because before—and he always thought of life in terms of Before and After the torture—Jack had not had the imagination required to think up such horrors. Early on, in those dark days of raw healing, he’d tried an opiate to sleep. Instead of giving him welcome insensibility, it made his dreams more vivid: the hands holding him down felt real, as did the sick pain. He woke screaming. And couldn’t seem to stop. Best to sleep as little as possible.

Tonight, however, there was no need to sleep. The devil’s offer lay heavy on his shoulders. Tonight, lying in wait was a list of names. Not the ones who’d merely stolen his blood. But the others. The pain and rage brought forth by seeing that bastard today had only made things worse.

In the grey shades of night, Jack wove around muck-filled puddles as he made his way down Bishop’s Bridge Road. All was quiet, still in that small slice of time when the great city slept. Such a small rest London gave itself. But when it did, the world seemed to stop. The soft hiss of rain filled the echoing void around him. Raindrops pelted his face and tasted bitter as they trickled over his lips. He walked on ghost feet, keeping to the shadows like a slinking cat.

Ahead, Paddington Station sat waiting for him, its ubiquitous Greek revival architecture giving no hint of the splendor that lay within. Jack made quick work of getting there. Once inside he stopped, rubbed a hand over his wet face, and raked his fingers through his dripping hair. The enormous space soared above him, a lofty latticework of iron and glittering glass, stretching out in three great arching spans. He felt at once tiny yet infinite, comforted yet free. So still in here. So very still. The steady tap of rain upon the vaulted glass roof merely highlighted the quiet. A man could let go of his tension in such a space.

Slowly he walked, the vastness surrounding him. Jack loved rail stations. Cathedrals to transit, they offered a chance for escape. Stopping before tracks that pointed the way out of London, Jack took a deep breath, tasting the coal and the metallic bite of brake dust.

In a few hours, trains would arrive. He could go. Leave everything and everyone. He let himself imagine it, climbing into a car, the gentle rock and sway of the carriage as it sped out of the city. No one would know who he was, what had happened to him.

Heat and pressure prickled behind his lids, and he swallowed convulsively. A man could run, but he couldn’t hide from himself.

With a heavy tread, he found the advert panel, promising smooth and youthful skin. A plump, rosy-cheeked tot having a bath smiled down at him as he slid his hand along the wood frame and lifted the hidden latch. The smooth coolness of paper touched his fingertips, and he grasped it, even as his entire body recoiled at the idea. A year ago, even a few nights ago, he would not have hesitated, so great was his rage, his need. Now luminous brown eyes, the precise color of topaz backlit by the sun, hovered in his mind’s eye.

Chase’s condemnation would be the swiftest, the most foul. Others, the ones who loved him, would be more hurt, but the mere thought of facing her disappointment sent a wave of disgust through his flesh. Shame was a sticky tar that coated and burned. Jack gritted his teeth against the sensation and closed his eyes against the sight of the small square of paper he held between his fingertips. He kept his eyes closed as he pocketed the missive. And he squeezed them tighter still as he reached inside his greatcoat and pulled out the vial of blood within.

His hand shook, his shame growing thicker, hotter. Do not do this. Regret and despair rolled down his throat like slime. His hand shook harder, sweat pebbling his brow. Hissing a breath out between his teeth, he shoved the vial into the hidden compartment. Another two breaths and he was staggering to the nearest rubbish bin. His evening meal came up in a violent wave. Empty and battered, he slid to the floor, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand.

The flutter of the doves among the iron rafters and a distant whistle told him it was time to go. But he stayed a moment longer, pulling out the paper. The first name leapt from the page: Mercer Dawn.

Mercer. A shudder went though Jack. He remembered. “Mercer, finish off, will you? There’s others who have need.” “Just one more taste.” Gleaming yellow eyes looking him over, cold hands on his fevered skin. “Such tasty blood, he has.”

Relief and despair mingled. Jack now had the means to kill those who had hurt him. But deep in his heart, he feared that was not what would heal him.

Chapter Fourteen

Mary had been the assistant to Poppy Lane for quite some time. Certainly long enough to be well acquainted with being called into Poppy’s office at odd hours on a moment’s notice. This was what Mary told herself as she gave a nod to Poppy’s secretary, Mr. Smythe, who sat just before the large iron-and-brass office door. But Mary had her doubts.

Outwardly she gave the impression of calm. Mary was known for her unflappable demeanor. She’d overhead enough SOS gossip to know that she and Poppy were often called the Stone and the Icicle. They’d had a laugh over that, fostered the image even, for theirs was a hard life and having a formidable facade was yet another layer of protection.

What worried Mary now was that inwardly she was an utter mess. Instinct told her that this meeting was not to be a friendly chat to see how Mary was getting along in her first case. Worse, Poppy Lane knew Mary well enough to see past Mary’s well-crafted social mask.

Slowly Mary turned the doorknob and went inside.

Poppy smiled when Mary entered. More trouble, Mary thought grimly. Poppy only smiled when she was about to pounce.

“Mistress Chase. Sit.” She gestured to the empty chair placed before the nice little heat stove.

Mary settled in, and Poppy moved to pour the tea. “You look a little worse for wear.”

Mary hadn’t had time to change her gown or re-coil her hair before coming to see Poppy, and she was dusty and unkempt. “I work alongside Jack Talent,” she said wryly. “We thought we’d found a suspect today, but we lost him in the train yard.”

“Pity.” Poppy handed her a cup. “Speaking of Talent. What is your impression of him?”

Calling on every bit of training she’d amassed, Mary held Poppy’s piercing gaze without flinching. “He is cagey, suspicious, quick to anger, and quite arrogant.”

“Well, yes,” said Poppy with a touch of asperity, “but we all know that much already.” She cleared her throat. “I ought to have been more specific. How do you find his handling of the case?”

Just the question Mary had feared, for suspicion lurked in Poppy’s dark eyes.

Mary’s heart worked so fast now it hurt. The compulsion to tell all was thick on her tongue. Poppy Lane was not merely her employer. She was her mentor, her friend. And what did she owe Jack Talent? He lied, perhaps murdered, he… She swallowed down a sigh. He suffered. She knew that with a bone-deep conviction.

“Mistress Chase?” Poppy prompted. “Has the cat got your tongue?”

“He has little patience for questioning.” Best to stick as close to the truth as possible. “But he is also quite perceptive. And quite determined to catch this killer.”

Sweat trickled down her spine as Poppy studied her. “You haven’t noticed anything… unusual?”

Mary allowed herself a smile, as if her insides weren’t quaking. “I have never before had a partner, Mrs. Lane. If you want me to speak ill of him, perhaps you’d better tell me why.”

Poppy did not move, but it seemed as though her narrow frame leaned closer. “All right then. Let us cut through the muck. Jack Talent has had control of this case for far too long without his usual results. In agreeing to assign you to the case, I had hoped you might give us insight into this anomaly.”

The cold shaking within Mary grew. Poppy had wanted her to keep watch over Jack. Yet again, Mary had been maneuvered. “If you had intended for me to spy on my partner, you might have said when I began.”

“Come now, Mary,” Poppy snapped. “You and I both know you had reasons for picking this particular case. I did not bother to ask, because I trust you. But surely now you can confide in me as to what those reasons were?”

Good God, what did Poppy know? It had to be damning for her to turn against Talent. “Forgive me, mum, but Jack Talent has been more than loyal to you and yours. According to the Ranulf, he is your family.”

“Of course he is!” Poppy’s slim shoulders slumped, and she pressed her fingers to her eyes. “Last night, about an hour before Lord Darby’s ball, Mistress Evernight was abducted in front of the SOS offices.”

Mary’s hands clenched convulsively. “What can I do? How can I help?”

Grimly, Poppy bent to retrieve a strip of vellum pressed between two sheets of paraffin paper. “This was found near the spot where Mistress Evernight was taken. I do not know if it pertains to Evernight or not, but we kept it regardless. Mr. Lane is going to have a look at it under a microscope to see if it yields any clues to its origin.”

Taking care not to damage or over-handle the note, Mary put on her gloves and peeled back the paraffin paper. “ ‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.’ ” Mary glanced up at Poppy. “My mother used to quote that verse to me.” Unfortunately, those whom Maman considered angels were not quite benevolent, winged beings.

“Bible verses,” Poppy muttered. “I do hate it when they resort to using quotes. It smacks of an overdeveloped sense of one’s own cleverness.”

Mary fought a smile. Many a criminal liked to taunt, and Poppy Lane hated taunts. Mary handed Poppy the papers. “While most attribute the quote to a basic Christian duty to be hospitable, given that we know angels are real, I wonder if this message is trying to tell us something more.”

“Mmm.” Poppy tapped her fingers upon her lap. “Do you suppose someone has entertained angels unawares?”

“Perhaps so. Or perhaps it is all nonsense. I can tell you that, to my knowledge, the Bishop of Charing Cross has never before left a message behind. Perhaps this incident is not linked to the case.”

“Perhaps.” Poppy smiled vaguely. “A bit too much ‘perhaps’ for my liking, Mistress Chase.”

“Mum, forgive me, I do not see how this involves Talent.”

But Poppy’s pale lips pursed in negation. “A witness has come forward,” she said. “She claims she saw a man greatly resembling Jack Talent grab Mistress Evernight.”

Bloody hell. The precise time Mary had been getting ready for Darby’s ball. She’d assumed Talent had been doing the same. Now she could not be sure.

Poppy took a slow sip of tea, and her hand shook. The porcelain cup landed on the saucer with a delicate clink. “No one knows of this but you and me.”

“And his accuser. Who is it, if I may ask?”

“Tottie.” Poppy tapped her nails upon her thigh. “As she is my assistant now, she came directly to me.” Poppy frowned a bit, and her tone became almost sorrowful. “Jack is not the same. Not after…” She took a bracing breath. “You must understand how it would grieve me were it true, but I cannot ignore this. So I am asking you, do you have any suspicions that Jack Talent has turned against the SOS?”

For years Mary had entertained herself with little fantasies of being the one to bring Talent down. She’d imagined herself in this very office, telling Poppy that she had finally found proof of his perfidy. Now Poppy stared at her, those keen brown eyes searching. The perfect opening. And yet Mary paused.

Despite the iron-hard will and resolve in Poppy’s countenance, there was a plea in her voice. It was well hidden and slight, but there just the same. Jack’s downfall would do more than grieve Poppy; it would devastate her and her family.

For that alone, Mary could only pray that Talent was innocent. Even though she feared he was far from it.

“I need to know,” Poppy said in a low voice. “Is Jack the Bishop of Charing Cross?”

Mary stared straight at Poppy as she consigned her honor to the devil. “I do not know, mum. But I shall find out who it is.”

He whispered through the night, black ink spilling over ebony wood. Unnoticed, unheard. But alive, so alive and waiting for the moment. The moment when he could breathe without that sick, choking feeling taking hold. His prey slithered in the darkness as well, comfortably ensconced in a stolen coach and not quite as silent, for he was too sure of himself and his role as predator, never realizing that there was a bigger predator in town now.

Jack followed along, leaping with ease from rooftop to rooftop, watching, waiting. And listening.

The woman’s laugh drifted up first, a high, tittering sound, designed, he supposed, to entice a man to continue with his attentions. “I shouldn’t, my lord.” There was a breathy little catch to her voice.

“You really should, my love. Just give me a little taste. Yes, like that.”

A moan, then grunting. Far above the rocking coach, Jack’s innards rolled. Memories threatened. Hands upon him, the laughter, the jeers. That voice: just a little taste. Teeth sinking in deep, and the slick tongue sliding over his flesh, sucking. Jack’s skin crawled, leaving him with the desire to rip it from his bones. Disgust, humiliation, shame. And hate. So powerful that he shook with it. Hate transmuted into rage. He held on to it, channeled it into power and control. Moving along the edges of the Pall Mall, the coach finally turned onto a smaller lane, the rider sitting straight as if he couldn’t hear the slapping of flesh against flesh. Perhaps he couldn’t, perhaps he’d grown immune.